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  1. Hey-lo, and welcome to another new story of mine! Yes, I have a lot of them, seemingly, but this one stuck in my mind. Imagine a place where elves and dwarves exist alongside humanity, but in two separate cities for each kind, all across the countries of the world. Naturally, business and legal machinations and such play a huge role in this story, as do specific irl problems (gangs, poverty, etc.), so I will warn you on that front. Everything else comes secondary. 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: Ocean Slalom - Remus Solarastarr was in the zone of the U.S. Olympic ocean slalom qualifier race. The twenty-one-year-old non-binary person had drowned out all noise, tensed at the sound of a firing gun to begin the race, the sport being a profession that they had been exceptional at for a long time. Ocean slalom was like a combination of swimming, track, and ski-slalom: hit all of the targets in the ocean area, all while competing against fellow athletes who were quite allowed to jostle for position and do everything except kill a fellow competitor. They loved it, especially since they were the only human who could potentially qualify to be on the Olympic team; the rest were mostly elves with a scattering of dwarves. Yeah, about that. Elves and dwarves lived in an area known as the “Two Cities”, just outside of Portland, Oregon. Two cities - Dawningshire for the elves and Duskenstoning for the dwarves - with their own laws and their own magical properties keeping the areas in perpetual morning and twilight, respectively. Remus had been born in Dawningshire to a human mother; their father was completely absent from their life. Due to…circumstances beyond their control, their mother was no longer allowed in either city, and they had been adopted by an elvish family. The same family - the powerful Equinox family, namely their adoptive mother, father, and siblings - was in the stands; they had seen them before the race. Quin was at the end of the finish line, hoping to see them. They owed their best friend everything; it was she who begged her family to take them in when they needed it instead of letting them go to an orphanage or - worse still - under the control of their mother. Cal, a dwarven friend, had managed to find the legal documents necessary for the adoption to happen. Quin. Cal. The best friends a human from the Two Cities could ask for. The gun fired, and the thirty competitors immediately leapt into the water, their forms changing into various animals, by using a powerful bit of magic native only to the Two Cities and others like them: a “familiar”, it was called. Of course, Remus, being born in Dawningshire, was the rare human with access to one themself: a hammerhead shark familiar. They felt the form absorb their clothes, muscularity increasing as their limbs twisted, their bones morphed into cartilage, and, most important of all, the fins and the tail. They thrashed their tail, feeling the water and oxygen surge through them, as they dodged a blow to the gills from a mako shark. Instantly, they knew who the mako was: Trix, from the famed Bellatrix family, and a hated rival to both Remus and the Equinox siblings. Trix had been a thorn in their side from elementary school on, a typical rich bitch who would gladly use the words, “Do you know who my parents are?!” to get her way - and she usually did get it; having both parents as the District Attorneys of West and East Dawningshire made her heiress to one of the most powerful positions in the elvish city. They ignored Trix, setting their keen underwater vision on the first gate - two poles that one had to pass through and hit to prove their time - as the rest of the competitors jockeyed for position, clearly in the back. They hit the pole with their tail at the same time as Trix, who immediately sped off for the second pole. They remained calm, even though Trix was ahead of them by a bit, even as a few other competitors came closer, including a dwarven sea dragon. They knew that the race was a testament to not just speed, but endurance, that Trix’s mako shark was blazing fast…but easily tired in her familiar; they had raced against her long enough, being from the same college, to know as much. Remus sped off towards the second gate that Trix had already hit, slapping it with their tail. Seventy-three left. The sea dragon had come a bit closer, trying to knock them out of the way of the third pole, but they hugged the dragon, nudging them ever so slightly, as they passed through the gate, barely managing to hit the right pole with their tail. Seventy-two. Now to put some distance ahead. Remus sped up, feeling the oxygen pass through their gills, as their muscles started to burn, seeing Trix ahead getting the next gate. The enby person felt a crash behind them vibrate through the water, as the sea dragon and a great white shark collided with each other, as they hit the next gate. Seventy-one. Gate after gate managed to go by in the blink of an eye until they reached the final ten, and they were tiring, their muscles screaming in pain, as they forced themselves forward. But Trix was clearly tiring as well, as they caught up to her. She snapped at Remus’s left fin with her fangs, and blood sprayed from the appendage as they stunned her with a simultaneous tail slap to her gills, not having any more time for her petty bullshit as they passed the first of the final ten - the longest gates. They ignored the blood pouring from their screaming fin, forcing their fins to maneuver towards the second of the ten, slapping the pole with their tail. Come on, just a bit more, just a bit more, and then it’ll be over. They forced their muscles, their gills, everything about them to get to the next pole, slapping it with their tail. Seven more, just seven more… Everything hurt, oh, God, it hurt like a bitch! But they would not be deterred, even as Trix came back, having recovered enough to regain second, although a tiger shark competitor (the races were magically fixed so that wildlife couldn’t come on the course by accident) was on them as well, driven by the scent of blood, as they passed the next gate at the same time as Trix. Six more. Fucking come at me! Trix tried to bite at their gills this time, and filled with a surge of anger - yes, let the fucking anger flow through you, and your journey towards the finish line will be complete! …Or something like that. - they slowed a touch as she missed, rammed into her with their head, knocking one of her fangs loose, and slapping her gills twice again as they passed her for good measure, as they hit the fifth-to-last gate. Half. Way. There… The action had caused the tiger shark to come close as they bit at Remus’s tail, but they flicked it aside for the tiger shark’s attack to miss, burning more and more energy than they felt they had ever burned before, feeling their blood pumping precious oxygen to their brain as they quickly sped away, hitting the fourth-to-last gate. Four. More. Gates… Trix, to her credit, had recovered, and Remus heard the tiger shark hiss in pain, as the Bellatrix heiress bit down on the tail before moving on to Remus again, as they both passed the gate with Remus ahead. Three. Just...three… Trix succeeded in biting down on Remus’s tail, and they let out a snarl, flicking the smaller shark aside, but otherwise ignoring her: if she wanted to attack the competitors more than complete the race, that was fine by them. Blood sprayed from their tail, but they ignored it, to pass through the next gate. Two…more… Trix finally seemed to get it through her stupid, bitchy head that she needed to finish the race, but Remus positioned themself to knock her away from the gate as they passed through it - which would cause the mako to lose precious seconds to the hammerhead. Finish line… The giant gate was there, and even though every muscle in Remus’s body was screaming for them to stop, they wouldn’t. No, they would not stop, not when they were so close. They put on a final burst of speed, the competitors flying behind them…as they passed the finish line first. They swam a bit in a lazy victory lap…before Trix bit them on the gills, obviously furious that they had caused her to come in second. They snarled angrily, shaking her off and turning to human form, bleeding from their chest, legs, and hand, their feminine swimsuit covering most of their body, as medical personnel quickly went over to Remus and used the various medicine supplies - invented by the elves - to clot the blood. “Racer One!” an elvish judge snapped, his pale skin gleaming in the sunlight, directing his anger towards the now-elf-formed Trix, who was giving Remus a horrible death-glare. “The race is over, so no more attacks are allowed on others! Five seconds will be docked from your time!” “But-” “Five seconds docked from Racer One’s time,” a dwarven judge - ironically not being short like the stereotyped dwarf, although his darkened, hardened skin showed himself as truly a dwarf - said calmly. Remus crawled onto the platform, feeling their wounds heal quickly, hearing the words, “Racer Twenty-seven, Mx. Remus Solarastarr of Dawningshire National Academy, is the winner of the competition! Coming in second place…” They barely heard the next few words, as Quin Equinox flung themselves into their 5’10” body in a giant hug, her pale green eyes literally glowing (as was custom with elves) with happiness and her long, white-blonde hair touching their damp tanned skin. “OHMYSPIRITS, I KNEW YOU’D DO IT, REMY!” she squealed like a giddy schoolgirl. “I’mma tell Cal everything, I watched the whole thing as much as I could-” “Easy, Quin,” Remus said with a blush, knowing that their best friend since childhood was the type who would be happy for them no matter what…only for them to blush further as they realized that only one thing that could happen to make the moment not-as-happy had happened. Their swim diaper had leaked, and Quin had noticed. “Hey, it’s all right. They’ll probably just want pictures, but we can get those later, you know?” she said, her eyes sympathetic to her friend’s plight. “Whatever, you fucking baby.” Trix’s voice came next. “I can’t believe anyone even wanted a baby like you, you fucking soulless piece of shit.” Quin let out a hiss, and Remus couldn’t blame her: not only did their families loathe each other on rivalry principle, but “soulless” was the biggest slur that could possibly be used in the elvish language, given their immense pride of spirits. “Hey, ignore her,” Remus said quickly, before they turned their hazel eyes on Trix, their damp, long curly-brown hair plastered to their body. “She’s just upset that a little human baby beat her, is all.” Trix couldn’t even sputter out an angry comeback, only settling for a grumble as she walked over to her family’s maid, an old, yet still tall and muscular African woman with graying hair, in angry silence. “Miss Equinox, Mx. Solarastarr, are you quite all right?” a posh Irish accent echoed. Remus sighed, knowing the Equinox family butler, Finbarr O’Mooney had come into the picture, as the old man looked at the African woman for just a moment before his calm light-gray eyes the same color as his hair appraised the situation. “I suppose a bit of privacy would be necessary?” “That would be lovely, thank you, Fin,” Quin said politely, as she and Remus got away from the situation. They walked over to the restroom door, the elf discreetly handing over a bag containing their normal clothes and a diaper for Remus to change into. “I’m sorry about Trix,” she said with a facade of calm before her anger spilled out. “She really is…ugh! I can’t stand that bitch…” “She’s just pissy because she hates the idea of a human beating her at anything,” Remus said, before gently closing the door for privacy. They sighed. Even since their…injuries, they had been unable to control anything about their bladder or bowels. It was a curse, but…well, that was life, right? They quickly got changed into the fresh clothes: a black T-shirt, a long, white pleated skirt, socks, sneakers, and - of course - the fresh diaper, while putting the dirty clothes in the bag, zipping it up. They exited the bathroom and prepared to meet the media. - Hope y'all enjoyed~
  2. 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~
  3. Okay, I know I should be working on many other stories...but I love Helluva Boss, and after someone already did a Loona de-aging fanfic (that sadly had very few canon things there, but it was still a very good story despite that), I had to get on mine, since Loona's my favorite. For those paying attention to Helluva Boss, a fair warning: this story occurs a bit after Loona gets her Hellbies shot, so some of the other things that have happened aren't going to happen in this story. I've taken a few liberties with some of the Sins that haven't appeared and Loona's past as well (as we don't know exactly what happened), so take that into account as well. Anyway, as a warning, this is Hell, so there's going to be a lot of complicated content warnings for this story that I urge you to take heed of in the tags. I promise to warn you when they come, but I do want to warn you ahead of time. Anyway, on with the show! - Chapter One: Expectations. - Octavia was tired of hearing her parents fighting, especially when it involved her. Stolas and Stella - her father and mother - were screeching at each other like homicidal demonic barn owls (don’t ask her how she knew that; some things weren’t meant for living human minds), barely paying attention to her, and yet…custody. Fucking custody. Over her. Just…why? It wasn’t fair. Yes, Loona had said that families were complicated, but this right after she had run away the last time… The owl-like Goetia heiress froze. Loona. The hellhound was definitely a bit rough around the edges, definitely sarcastic and rude, but she could talk to her, maybe? The last time, when she was lost on Earth, looking for a meteor shower she had waited years to see, it had been Loona who found her…and unlocked a side of her she thought was missing. Octavia felt like - in Loona - she had a sister, an elder sister she could confide in, someone braver than she was, someone whom she could…look up to, maybe? Her fucking emotions were getting the best of her, maybe, but hell with it. Lucifer, what if I’m being…no, time to be brave, Via, show Father and Mother what a mistake they’re making. She was going to go to I.M.P., maybe read from the Grimoire, maybe find a way to placate her parents, somehow, maybe talk to Loona, see what she thought. She had no idea Loona was already having a bad day. - Loona was pissed at Moxxie. Fucking fatass (he wasn’t really fat, she admitted to herself, but she needed another reason to hate the smug little prick.) imp was beyond late to work along with Millie, his wife. Bad enough she had five fucking years worth of her yearly Hellbies shot (She hated shots. Shots in the pound usually meant…euthanization for the hellhounds who aged out…like she had nearly been before Blitzo - known to all as “Blitz”; the “o” was silent - had adopted her. Blitz had lied to her twice, by the way: it was not “one little prick”, and her ass was still sore from it, so he lied about not feeling it as well. Thank Lucifer the cone was off, at least.) a week ago, but now he was pacing the halls, trying to figure out where they were. “Goddammit, if you could be any later, Moxxie, I’d need a fucking stopwatch to fucking time you…” Blitz muttered. If his voice didn’t clearly show his annoyance, the tic of him scratching the white and black, curved horns on his bald head certainly did. Loona knew that if the imp paced any more, he was going to wear out the floorboards - and they had survived a fire from hellectric eels (don’t ask), so she personally knew how tough they were to destroy and/or wear out. She flicked her bluish-gray hair fur to one side, her red eyes firmly focused on her most prized possession: her H-Phone 666 LX, a gift to her from Blitz for her twenty-first birthday a year ago. Then Moxxie and Millie broke down the door - quite literally. “You know that’s coming out of your paycheck, fatass,” Loona said, not even looking up from her phone as it played VoxTube videos. No response. She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t like Moxxie to not defend himself from her taunts. “Okay, why are you two fucking hours late?” Blitz demanded. “We were supposed to be using the Grimoire for our target, and-“ “Sorry, Sir, but…” Moxxie twirled a strand of his white hair nervously (not that Loona was paying any attention or cared what Moxxie thought; it was clearly phone time). “We’re expecting!” Millie finished excitedly in her Wrathian drawl, her yellow eyes gleaming as Moxxie brushed her glistening black hair. “What, like a prize for being late?” Loona snarked, not even looking up from her phone. “No, silly: a baby!” Millie giggled. Blitz’s eyes went as wide as full moons, as he looked at them, doing a double-take at them. “Wha-WHAT?!” he stammered. “So, you were-“ “Well, I took the test, showed red, then went to the doctor who confirmed it!” the female imp gushed with excitement, as Moxxie wrapped his small, gentle arms protectively around his wife’s stomach. “Oh, that’s, uh, congrats!” the head of Immediate Murder Professionals (hence the name “I.M.P.”) said, his eyes gaining a semblance of…warmth? An unfamiliar emotion was growing in the pit of Loona’s stomach. She didn’t know what to call it, but she didn’t like it one bit. “So, Sir, we all have a lot of back pay from our jobs, so…” Moxxie began. “First kid’s always worth a break,” Blitz said with a jovial laugh. “Loony-Toony might have to join us later on while Millie handles the Grimoire, but-“ Loona barely heard the excited imp talking because she recognized a different, yet all-too familiar emotion bubbling up to the surface: anger. The hellhound had a nice job as the secretary of I.M.P. Yeah, going out in the human world for occasional work was fun and all, but her job was simple: open a portal to the human world, listen for when the three imps needed to get back, reopen a portal back. She had a routine. She had time to go on her phone, go to the latest Sinstagram pics and VoxTube videos, get a cup of coffee, and wait by herself, with no one’s problems but her own bugging her. And now this…this was threatening the entirety of that safe routine. And she was realizing the unfamiliar emotion was very familiar, after all: envy. A fucking imp baby with Millie replacing her job, and judging by Blitz’s expression, replace his affection for her. That’s all she was, when it came down to it: replaceable. Even after she told Blitz that she’d be there with him, she was still replaceable. The next words tumbled out of her mouth before she could take them back. “How do you know that they’re telling the truth? I mean, are you sure Moxxie can even have kids?” Loona immediately realized she had said something wrong with the immensely hurt look in Millie’s eyes, a pulsing vein throbbing dangerously in Moxxie’s temple as he drew his pistol, pointed it at her and shouted furiously, “YOU TAKE THAT BACK, YOU BITCH!” But the worst was Blitz looking…disappointed, as he said, “Now, Loony, you need to apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” “How about he apologizes for calling me the b-slur?” Loona snarled at Blitz without even thinking, her rising anger taking over. “LOONA, you will apologize to Moxxie and Millie.” Blitz’s voice was surprisingly stern, even a bit angry - a tone that, to her knowledge, he had almost never taken with her. “Oh, so you can replace me with the little brat, huh, Blitz, be a real dad as you stalk them in their private lives like you usually do? Well, guess what, Blitz: you aren’t a fucking real dad! You aren’t their kid’s dad, and you aren’t my fucking dad either!” She felt a vile concoction of satisfaction and guilt course through her as Blitz looked as if she had hit him. It almost would’ve felt better to her if he had hit her back, if he said anything at all. Even Moxxie was stunned into lowering his gun. “I-is this a bad time?” a new voice asked. Octavia Goetia had made her appearance, all four of them looking at her in simultaneous shock, the same look the demoness had on her face. Loona took the Grimoire from the safe, and Blitz didn’t even protest, the hurt look in his eyes saying all that needed to be said. “C’mon, Via, we’re crashing at my place,” Loona said darkly, as she held the Goetia heiress’s clawed hand to the demoness’s shock, leaving the job, the silent absence of a protest echoing in her heart. - Hope y'all enjoyed~ I don't know if I'll have a regular schedule for uploading; I never do, but I'll do my best every week, I think.
  4. Well, this is a new story (I swear, I'm not abandoning any of my older stories! I just have bipolar mania, and when I'm manic my mind flits to other ideas, and I can't control where it goes.) set in Hong Kong in 1995 for...political reasons. This is about a granddaughter of the head of the Sun Yee On Triad who is a Red Pole (basically, a commander in the organization) who goes undercover in a high school to root out drug dealers. Things don't turn out well, even though she makes six new friends. As such, there's going to be heavy topics that I promise to warn you about. About critique, feel absolutely free to tell me what I'm doing wrong; in fact, I encourage it with all my heart! I want to publish this under my pseudo penname in books for AR/AB stuff, and in order to publish without mistakes and errors, I absolutely need to know what I've done wrong. If you can't find anything wrong, then tell me what you liked, please! These things make me a better writer. I'm not soft when it comes to critique, and I'll always listen to it. Now, without further ado, let's get into the story (and I apologize in advance for the first chapter being shorter than others I've done): - Prologue: Lockpicks are a Girl's Best Friend - The early summer moon was beginning to rise in the sky over the Kowloon District of Hong Kong. It was the first day and night of St. Joan’s Secondary School, and Mandi Jiang couldn’t sleep in her dorm room - although, technically, she wasn’t supposed to be there because she was a year older than the oldest students at nineteen years of age, lying that she was two years younger. She was undercover for the Sun Yee On, one of the Triads of Hong Kong. The Mountain Master - her grandfather - had tasked the Red Pole commander with a mission that only she could do: infiltrate a school where opioids were being illicitly sold to teenagers, something that he absolutely refused to tolerate. To her grandfather, white collar crime - harmless vices - was the way of the future. Counterfeiting, money laundering, insurance fraud, stuff like that was acceptable. But a fair few of the Red Poles - the people in charge of the day-to-day parts of the Triad - still thought that the old ways of prostitution, drugs, and even human trafficking was quicker, cheaper, more lucrative. Even then he was lenient…so long as the victims were adults. He refused to allow children to be harmed by the Triads that were supposed to be quietly in the life of Hong Kong. Mandi stretched her tiny 121.92 cm. frame. Small though she may be, young though she may have been, she was respected and feared amongst the Red Poles, and not because of who her grandfather was; she was cunning, pragmatic, and ruthless toward her enemies. She was not known to police and the underworld as “Little Dragon” for nothing. Ironically, the police didn’t know her English name, and that was the saving grace of her being undercover. The school insisted on silly English names to differentiate the various girls who came from all over Hong Kong, from many different country backgrounds to this school. Not that she was a part of any school for very long, she mused as she curled a strand of wavy black hair away from eyes as dark as teak; she had dropped out at a young age…to be closer to her grandfather. He had probably secretly desired for her to be educated, to not be forced into crime like he was, but school bored her. What use was mathematics when she knew how to disassemble and reassemble mechanical devices as easy as breathing? What use was history to a woman who already had a body count of opposing Triads when she turned fifteen? Why should she care about making friends at school when none of them knew her for who she was? Of course, the typical male response was this: woman = housework. She sucked at housework. She could burn a simple seafood soup, she was more interested in taking the vacuum cleaner apart than actually vacuuming, and the only thing she bothered cleaning in a house was herself. And raising children? HAHA, no. But her grandfather never showed any disappointment towards her for the life she chose, so long as she was willing to accept it for everything it was. He loved her unconditionally, and she loved him with the same fervor, ever since… No, that’s in the past. Never look to the past when the present moment is there to be seized. Mandi looked out the window in boredom, and something immediately grabbed her attention: six silhouettes in the rock garden, clearly not supposed to be there. Well, looks like my job got a lot easier. I was supposed to just find out who the dealers are and report back to the Mountain Master, but if they’re right there, and I can catch them, easy. She snuck out of the dorm room with a gentle use of her trusty lockpick (never leave home without one…even if you’re undercover at a secondary school) unlocking the various doors in her way. Soon enough, she was in the rock garden, as well, close enough to see…six girls, all of whom were at the same school she was infiltrating, given the uniforms they were all wearing: an emerald-green blazer with ties signifying their ages (they were in the seventeen age-range, judging by the ties), white blouse, knee length black skirt, black dress shoes, and black tights. She could also tell that while they weren’t drug dealers (dealers wouldn’t be bitching about the day and which girls were acting like what bitches to each other): just clearly looking like they were troublemakers at heart…like herself. “Hey, you!” Mandi swore under her breath as one of the girls - clearly Chinese Uyghur - saw her, causing the other five to turn around and take in their breath. They all looked to be from different ethnicities, and she could tell from her first glance that their families had been as broken as hers was…before her grandfather stepped in. “I’m not here to bust you or whatever,” Mandi said calmly, stepping into the girls' sight. “Unless you happen to be dealers.” “What? Those assholes?” A Vietnamese girl was the speaker as she snorted contemptuously. “Nah, I wouldn’t touch what they’re selling with a twenty-meter pole - and you shouldn’t either.” “Fair enough. What are you doing here?” Mandi asked. “First, your name,” a Thai girl - one Mandi nailed down to be the leader of the group - snapped. “Mandi Jiang.” “Oh, the new girl!” a Cambodian girl said excitedly. “Hey, we don’t know anything about her!” the Thai girl protested. “If she’s out here, she’s liable to get in trouble like us,” a Hmong girl said. “How did you get out of the room?” a Burmese girl asked. “You’d need a-” “Lockpick?” Mandi finished, holding out her lockpick. “Come on, I’m not going to out you girls. I may be new, but I know when people are on the margins…like I was.” The Thai girl sighed. “Fine. I guess you could hang out here. Not much we do anyway aside from talking freely.” “Can I have your names, now that you have mine?” “Not the stupid English names,” the Vietnamese girl groaned. “I hate when they make us-” “Not that bullshit,” Mandi said bluntly. “Schools like this, they just want to get rid of culture. Personally, I prefer the English name I was given by my grandfather, but I won’t use the English names given by the school when you clearly prefer your own.” The Thai girl gave Mandi a smirk. “In that case, I’m Achara. Achara Noi. Call me ‘Angel’.” “Phượng Hà,” the Vietnamese girl said calmly. “Known to my friends as ‘Phoenix’.” “Veasna Keo, or, ‘Destiny’, if you’d prefer,” The Cambodian girl nodded her head. “Duabntxoo Fang,” the Hmong girl said quietly. “Shadow.” “Thang,” The Burmese girl shook Mandi’s hand. "These girls call me ‘Storm’.” “Aynur Cebrail, or rather, ‘Moonlight’,” the Uyghur girl introduced herself last. “Well, if we’re going by nicknames already…Dragon.” Mandi knew she was taking a risk revealing a bit of her identity…but she felt a kinship with these girls, as she forgot all about what she was going to ask and just…talking to them about the school, the other girls, everything except what she was here for. These girls are like me. Broken homes, awful parents, cast aside like they were nothing. Snap out of it, Mandi, an inner voice chided. You’ll forget them as soon as you’re done with this assignment. They’re younger than you, minors, kids. So was I when I joined. They’re…me. Me at a younger age. She knew that she shouldn’t think that way. She was ruthless to all, pragmatic, not prone to sentimentality with anyone but a few. So, why them all of a sudden? Why them? - Hope y'all enjoyed~
  5. 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.
  6. Welcome to yet another new story of mine~ This one takes a bit of similarity from other stories on here where stuffies come to life as protectors, but aside from that, it's very much different from them. Also, unlike some of my other stories, there's going to be a first person narrator on this story, and she's...an interesting character, if I do say so myself. This also focuses on the sector of private military companies - in this case, the company the MC and her friends worked for. As such a thing can and has been used for good or evil (look no further than the PMCs that have committed serious war crimes), I will not shirk away from the violence that comes with them, so consider this and the content warnings above as your only warnings in this story as well. Also, yes, the stuffy mentioned is a bat stuffy, so if you're scared of bats, I don't recommend this story to you, even if he's as wholesome as a sweet pecan pie. 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: Living Nightmare - I woke up in a panic, my sea-green eyes flitting around the dark room with terror, before immediately recognizing my room, my safe place. I breathed, slowly at first, always take things slowly, my heartbeat slowly, slowly returning to normal. My strawberry-blonde hair was all over the place. I wanted to keep it long, the only thing the company I now worked for allowed me - not that I wanted any of it. I breathed, a familiar, affronting smell in my nose. Angry tears leapt unbidden to me, and I screamed out each rage-filled-word (thank holy God that my room was private as all get out and that I lived alone - the one good thing about security for an oil company heiress was that the pay was good enough for it) as I punched my pillow. Fuck Belarus and everything about the country. Fuck Mythic Company and everything about them. Fuck my treacherous ex-coworkers. Fuck my jerkass current coworkers. Fuck the heiress I was protecting, all of her condescension. Fuck the heiress’s father for being a typical rich bastard. Fuck my therapists - all of the many I had gone through. Fuck my medical condition depriving me a chance at a normal life. Fuck everyone. Fuck everything. Every “fuck” was accented by a punch, the pillow worn down by plenty of nights like this - worn by every night I woke up with night terrors and a piss and shit-filled diaper. At least this time, I didn’t vomit, even though I really wanted to. I balled my now-badly-stained badge of shame, threw it into the trash can. Before I could put on another one, get it over with like I wanted to, I knew I had to take a shower. Sometimes I didn’t even want to get out of bed, the thoughts were so crushing. But I had a job to do. Another fucking security job to do. After everything with the now-disavowed private military company I was a part of, after Belarus, I never wanted to do security ever again, especially since I hated the company I was currently working for. But I was good at it, and the heiress’s father wanted me to protect his daughter. And I owed him. I owed him and her everything. The water was warm. It couldn’t be too hot nor too cold, or my PTSD would strike again. I felt the drying shit from my ass pool into the drain, knew a few bits must’ve fallen on the floor on my way to the shower, but I didn’t care to clean it up. I didn’t care about anything; caring was just too much at this point. I noticed myself peeing in the shower like a young toddler, but I had grown all too used to that as well. I scrubbed every part of my vaginal area with soap twice over, just to make sure the heiress wouldn’t make a “motherly” comment about the smell. Not that it even mattered in the end; given my medical condition, I had the exact same ability to hold in both number one and two as an infant, and I’d end up shitting and pissing in my new diaper no matter what I did. At least I didn’t cry like one when I was confronted with it. I finished my shower, shivering from the cold of the air on my body, drying myself off with a towel, getting back into the room. I lay down, put the new diaper on myself with disgust on my face. The time on the clock was 1:51 AM. I sighed, knowing I wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, not caring about covering my small breasts, as I lay down on the bed, looking at the bland white ceiling, at the bland white walls, at the hardwood floor. My room. My gilded cage. I had no idea how long I stared at the ceiling, left alone with my thoughts, only interrupted by the blare of the alarm clock. 5:15 AM. I sighed before changing my now-soaked diaper with a fresh one. My work clothes were laid out on the dresser to the side and simple enough: a blouse, a knee-length skirt, and work boots, along with a bra. Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in any girlish clothing (I had always been a tomboy), but company policy - enacted by the heiress, no less - insisted that all women working for the company had to wear at least a skirt. At least I didn’t have to wear heels or flats. And a skirt this long would hide my diaper well enough - unless Wharton decided that the five broken fingers on his right hand wasn’t a sufficient enough deterrent trying to grope me again. I put on all of the clothes, now sufficiently dressed up (with a SIG Sauer pistol in a holster attached to my right thigh) and ready to go with my two bags. One of them was my medium-sized purse with ammunition, work ID, wallet with cash and driver’s license, my iPhone, car keys to my beat-up Hyundai Santa Fe, a 135-ounce stainless-steel water bottle filled with water (a true necessity where I lived), and various other things a young woman might need. The other was a tote bag, a glorified diaper bag filled to the brim with diapers (as I learned early on, there was absolutely no such thing as too many diapers for an outing) and baby wipes. I sighed and walked out of the bedroom and out of the bland, boring one-story house to the stupid-hot summer of Taos, New Mexico, my lips drying up immediately after I stepped outside. To say I much preferred Copenhagen’s weather would be a massive understatement. But hey, Taos was where I was born, where I lived more than half of my life, and where I was going to die, so I had to make the best of things. Fortunately, the Santa Fe had air conditioning and was in the garage. The bad news was that it took a while to come on, and it was still stupid fucking hot when I entered the driver’s seat, and turned on the ignition, blasting on the air conditioner (which was still mostly hot air). I waited for the temperature to cool down as I got out my stainless steel bottle and drank deeply before the AC kicked into gear.. Time for another sucky day at work… I pulled the Santa Fe into gear, backed out of the garage (making sure to close the garage door electronically), and drove out of the cul-de-sac I called home. Traffic was surprisingly lax today; normally, it was a bitch and a half to get from my home to the company. Soon enough, Blades Oil's large building had appeared in the distance, and I had gotten to the security gate in seeming record time. The security guard behind the booth looked serious as I rolled down the window and gave him my ID. He gazed at my tote bag, and I thanked whatever god existed that there was a zipper to hide what was in it…before cursing whatever god existed when his next words were, “Can I see what’s in the tote bag?” My face flushed, as I felt myself wet my already-soaked diaper a little bit more. “No, you may not,” I replied bluntly. “The only people who need to know are the COO and myself.” “Ma’am, while I appreciate your wish for privacy, you don’t have to lie about the COO,” the security guard said with a sigh. “I’m the COO’s security guard,” I interjected. “You can ask her yourself.” “Ma’am, I don’t want to turn you away, but-” A call echoed from his radio, and he answered, “Yes?” I saw his face pale. “O-of course, ma’am, I’ll get right on it.” He waved me onward, saying, “My apologies, Ms. Bjornsen. Private parking, row one.” Must be the COO. Even now, she can’t stop looking after me like I’m a child… I drove my Santa Fe towards the private parking section in an indoor parking space. I saw the older woman immediately, her long, curly red hair perfectly resting on her large breasts, her eyes warm like the morning Taos air, as she drank from a stainless-steel water bottle like mine, her red nails immaculately manicured. I turned off the ignition and took out my bags when I got out of the car, as Beryl Blades gave me a quick hug. “Bree-Bree, you brought your diaper bag, just like I asked! Such a good girl!” she cooed. My face flushed like a bed of roses. Yes, my name was “Breezee Bjornsen”. I hated my first name, and somehow, this woman had made it a million times worse. “It’s just a tote bag…” I muttered, looking down at the ground. “Before we go anywhere, do you need a quick change?” A sudden, horrible smell caught my nose’s attention, and my eyes filled with tears as I realized that I was definitely more than just wet, realized that I hadn’t even known about it until now. “Of course you do. It’s okay, you can’t help it, Bree,” Beryl said sympathetically. “The private restroom is available. We’ll go there.” She led me by the hand like I was a toddler, as I silently cursed myself for my life getting so fucked, wondering just how bad the day was going to get. Had I known just how bad, I would’ve stayed in bed. - Hope y'all enjoyed!
  7. 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~
  8. 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~
  9. 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).
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