Adult Toddler Puppy Sailors

Be who you want to be it’s diaper king toddler and I accept you for who you are never give up on yourself and always be you just a little boy living in a big world being whoever he wants and wants to be never give up on yourself and I won’t either because your life matters Black Lives Matter Asian lives matter Australian lives matter white lives matter Japanese lives matter African lives matter everyone matters never give up people and always be yourself and help others and please stop all the violence because we are who we are and that doesn’t define us to just be mad all the time

[dippersaurus]

Vol. 4 Always Little

The world expects everyone to grow up, get tough, and leave childhood behind.

Like childhood is a room you walk out of one day, shut the door, and never go back.

But for me?

I don’t think the door ever locked.

I don’t even think I properly left.

For as long as I can remember, there has always been this little part of me. A softer part. A younger feeling part. A part that looks at the world and thinks, “this is too big, too loud, too heavy, and I dunno how everyone else is doing it so easy.”

Not because I’m stupid.

Not because I can’t do grown up things.

I can work. I can pay bills. I can drive my car. I can make decisions when I really have to. I can put on the grown up mask and pretend I know what I’m doing.

But underneath all that, I think my normal setting has always been the same.

Small.

Soft.

Young.

A bit wobbly.

A bit more fragile than everyone else seems to be.

Like everyone else got given a grown up instruction book and I got given a blankie, a plushie, and a confused little brain going, “umm… help?”

And I think some of that is just how I’m built too. My brain gets overloaded easy. Too much noise, too much pressure, too many things at once, too many feelings, too many steps, too much having to be a proper person. Sometimes it feels like everything in my head is buffering at the same time and someone has opened 47 tabs and one of them is playing music but I can’t find which one.

My body can be a bit wobbly too. A bit clumsy. A bit awkward with fiddly things sometimes. Especially when I’m tired or stressed or already all used up. So the world can feel big in more than one way.

For a long time, I hated that about myself.

I felt out of place around all the heavy adult stuff. Serious voices, pressure, big decisions, scary phone calls, work things, money things, life things, all the sharp grown up edges.

i always felt more easily overwhelmed by it than I thought I was meant to be.

I felt younger than people around me, even when I wasn’t.

More anxious.

More soft.

More easily scared.

More needing gentleness, reassurance, help, and care.

And I didn’t have the words for it.

I just knew there was something in me that didn’t seem to grow out of needing softness.

Something that still wanted to be spoken to gently.

Something that still wanted to be comforted like a little one.

Something that still reached for plushies, cartoons, blankets, bottles, nappies, cosy routines, nursery feelings, and safe make believe worlds when everything got too much.

I know some people call that being a permakid, or permalittle, or always being connected to a younger part of yourself.

I don’t know if every label fits me perfect.

But when I read stuff like that, something in me goes really quiet and really loud at the same time.

Like…

Oh.

That’s me.

That’s what I’ve been trying to say.

Because I don’t just “act little” sometimes.

I don’t just like cute things.

I don’t just like plushies and cartoons and soft pyjamas and babyish comfort things because they’re cute, even though they are very very cute.

It’s deeper than that.

It feels like part of who I am.

Part of my brain.

Part of my body too.

Part of how I cope.

Part of how I love.

Part of how I feel safe.

Part of how I understand myself.

Sometimes my regression is not really a choice. Sometimes I don’t sit there and decide to feel little. It just happens.

My thoughts get smaller.

My words get harder.

My feelings get bigger.

The world gets louder.

The grown up mask slips off.

And suddenly I’m not a sensible adult doing life properly. I’m just a tired, scared, overwhelmed little feeling thing who wants safety, softness, cuddles, and someone kind to say, “you’re okay, I’ve got you, you don’t have to be so big right now.”

Sometimes I regress because I’m anxious.

Sometimes because I’m sad.

Sometimes because I feel lonely.

Sometimes because I feel unsafe, rejected, embarrassed, or ashamed.

Sometimes because my brain and body are worn out from pretending I’m fine.

Sometimes because I get so overstimulated or scrambled that being big just stops working properly for me.

And sometimes it happens because something soft finally lets me stop fighting.

A blankie.

A plushie.

A cartoon.

A bottle.

A dummy.

A nappy.

A kind voice.

A gentle “come here, baby.”

A moment where I don’t have to explain myself perfect to be loved.

That’s the bit people don’t always understand.

Regression, for me, isn’t just play.

It’s coping.

It’s comfort.

It’s healing.

It’s my brain finding the safest little corner it knows and curling up there.

It’s the part of me that didn’t always feel safe trying to build a tiny nursery inside my own heart.

And yes, nappies are part of that for me too.

Not as a joke.

Not as a silly costume.

Not as some random seperate thing that has nothing to do with the rest of me.

They are part of my comfort language.

Part of my little language.

Part of the way my body and brain understand care.

There is something about being padded that makes me feel held in a way I can’t really explain properly. The softness. The bulk. The crinkle. The way it hugs me. The babyish routine of it. The feeling of being protected and ready and allowed to need looking after.

And if I’m honest, when my body feels tired, awkward, achey, tense, or not fully on my side, that feeling of being protected means even more.

It tells a very deep part of me:

You’re safe.

You’re allowed to be small.

You’re allowed to need care.

You don’t have to be embarrassed about being vulnerable.

That doesn’t mean ABDL is simple for me. It isn’t. There can be grown up feelings around it too, and I’m not gonna pretend it all fits into neat little boxes.

But deep down?

Nappies connect to the same place as regression does.

The same place as plushies.

The same place as bottles.

The same place as being tucked in.

The same place as being checked on.

The same place as someone noticing I’m wobbly before I have to ask for help.

The same place as someone understanding that sometimes I need more patience, more softness, and simpler gentler things.

It’s all part of the same soft map.

A map that points toward comfort.

Which is probably why Plushveria exists.

Plushveria isn’t just a silly fantasy kingdom I made up because I like cute things.

Although, yes, I do like cute things and I will defend plushie goverment as a very serious and valid system. The council has badges. There are forms. Probably written in crayon, but still.

Plushveria is what my inside world looks like on the outside.

It is what my heart looks like when it’s trying to feel safe.

Castle Cuddlekeep is the part of me that wants somewhere warm to come home to.

The Plushie Council is the part of me that wants to be watched over by soft loyal little creatures who take my wellbeing very seriously.

Meltdown Marsh is the part of me that needs a protected place where big feelings are allowed and nobody gets cross just because I can’t cope.

And honestly, it makes sense my brain made somewhere like that. A place with softer rules. A place where being overwhelmed isn’t treated like being difficult. A place where needing extra help, extra rest, or extra gentleness doesn’t make you a problem.

Bottle Brook, Milk River, blanket nests, tiny royal decrees, comfort quests, sleepy missions, and emergency cuddle rules are all silly, yes.

But they’re also real in the way feelings are real.

They are how my brain turns overwhelm into something softer.

How loneliness becomes a kingdom.

How shame becomes a story I can survive.

How a tired little prince can be wrapped in blankets instead of being told off for not being big enough.

That’s why all of this matters so much to me.

Because my little side isn’t just an aesthetic.

It isn’t just cute posts.

It isn’t just crinkles and bottles and sleepy faces and nursery dreams.

It’s the part of me that still wants to be loved gently.

The part that wants to be picked.

The part that wants someone to see all the softness and not decide it’s too much.

The part that wants to be cared for without being made to feel broken.

The part that wants to hear, “you’re not wrong for needing this.”

I think some people imagine age regression as something neat and occasional. Like you put on cute pyjamas, watch cartoons for a bit, maybe cuddle a plushie, then pack it away.

And sometimes, yes, it can look like that.

But for me, it goes much deeper.

I can be adult and little at the same time.

Capable and needy.

Funny and fragile.

Clever and crinkly.

Silly and very emotional.

A grown man who can talk about work, money, family, scary life things, and the future… but who also has a very real little boy living close to the surface, clutching a plushie and hoping someone gentle won’t leave.

A person who can seem fine on the outside, while inside my brain is buzzing, my body is tired, my hands are fumbling, my feelings are too big, and all I really want is to be somewhere soft and safe.

For a long time, I thought that made me strange.

Now I think maybe it just makes me me.

I don’t want to spend my whole life fighting the little part anymore.

I don’t want to keep treating him like an embarrassing secret shoved in a cupboard.

He’s been trying to keep me safe for years.

He’s the part of me that still reaches for comfort when things hurt.

The part that still believes softness matters.

The part that can turn a bad day into a blanket nest, a Plushie Council meeting, or a tiny royal decree from a kingdom made of cushions and hope.

He deserves kindness.

He deserves care.

He deserves to exist without being laughed at.

And maybe I do too.

So maybe I am a permakid in some ways.

Maybe I’m perma little.

Maybe I’m age regressed sometimes, age dreaming sometimes, ABDL always somewhere in the background, and naturally soft and childlike in a way that has followed me my whole life.

Maybe I don’t need one perfect label.

Maybe I just need honesty.

And the honest truth is this:

I have always felt little inside.

I have always been drawn to care, softness, babyish comfort, plushies, nappies, cartoons, safe routines, silly worlds, and the idea of being lovingly looked after.

I have always needed more gentleness than I knew how to ask for.

And I am trying, slowly, to stop being ashamed of that.

Because this isn’t me trying to become someone else.

This is me finally understanding the little boy who was there all along

[toddler69r]

I can so relate to this

[toddlerdiapersailors]

I can relate to this this is my words too

[dippersaurus]

Vol. 4 Always Little

The world expects everyone to grow up, get tough, and leave childhood behind.

Like childhood is a room you walk out of one day, shut the door, and never go back.

But for me?

I don’t think the door ever locked.

I don’t even think I properly left.

For as long as I can remember, there has always been this little part of me. A softer part. A younger feeling part. A part that looks at the world and thinks, “this is too big, too loud, too heavy, and I dunno how everyone else is doing it so easy.”

Not because I’m stupid.

Not because I can’t do grown up things.

I can work. I can pay bills. I can drive my car. I can make decisions when I really have to. I can put on the grown up mask and pretend I know what I’m doing.

But underneath all that, I think my normal setting has always been the same.

Small.

Soft.

Young.

A bit wobbly.

A bit more fragile than everyone else seems to be.

Like everyone else got given a grown up instruction book and I got given a blankie, a plushie, and a confused little brain going, “umm… help?”

And I think some of that is just how I’m built too. My brain gets overloaded easy. Too much noise, too much pressure, too many things at once, too many feelings, too many steps, too much having to be a proper person. Sometimes it feels like everything in my head is buffering at the same time and someone has opened 47 tabs and one of them is playing music but I can’t find which one.

My body can be a bit wobbly too. A bit clumsy. A bit awkward with fiddly things sometimes. Especially when I’m tired or stressed or already all used up. So the world can feel big in more than one way.

For a long time, I hated that about myself.

I felt out of place around all the heavy adult stuff. Serious voices, pressure, big decisions, scary phone calls, work things, money things, life things, all the sharp grown up edges.

i always felt more easily overwhelmed by it than I thought I was meant to be.

I felt younger than people around me, even when I wasn’t.

More anxious.

More soft.

More easily scared.

More needing gentleness, reassurance, help, and care.

And I didn’t have the words for it.

I just knew there was something in me that didn’t seem to grow out of needing softness.

Something that still wanted to be spoken to gently.

Something that still wanted to be comforted like a little one.

Something that still reached for plushies, cartoons, blankets, bottles, nappies, cosy routines, nursery feelings, and safe make believe worlds when everything got too much.

I know some people call that being a permakid, or permalittle, or always being connected to a younger part of yourself.

I don’t know if every label fits me perfect.

But when I read stuff like that, something in me goes really quiet and really loud at the same time.

Like…

Oh.

That’s me.

That’s what I’ve been trying to say.

Because I don’t just “act little” sometimes.

I don’t just like cute things.

I don’t just like plushies and cartoons and soft pyjamas and babyish comfort things because they’re cute, even though they are very very cute.

It’s deeper than that.

It feels like part of who I am.

Part of my brain.

Part of my body too.

Part of how I cope.

Part of how I love.

Part of how I feel safe.

Part of how I understand myself.

Sometimes my regression is not really a choice. Sometimes I don’t sit there and decide to feel little. It just happens.

My thoughts get smaller.

My words get harder.

My feelings get bigger.

The world gets louder.

The grown up mask slips off.

And suddenly I’m not a sensible adult doing life properly. I’m just a tired, scared, overwhelmed little feeling thing who wants safety, softness, cuddles, and someone kind to say, “you’re okay, I’ve got you, you don’t have to be so big right now.”

Sometimes I regress because I’m anxious.

Sometimes because I’m sad.

Sometimes because I feel lonely.

Sometimes because I feel unsafe, rejected, embarrassed, or ashamed.

Sometimes because my brain and body are worn out from pretending I’m fine.

Sometimes because I get so overstimulated or scrambled that being big just stops working properly for me.

And sometimes it happens because something soft finally lets me stop fighting.

A blankie.

A plushie.

A cartoon.

A bottle.

A dummy.

A nappy.

A kind voice.

A gentle “come here, baby.”

A moment where I don’t have to explain myself perfect to be loved.

That’s the bit people don’t always understand.

Regression, for me, isn’t just play.

It’s coping.

It’s comfort.

It’s healing.

It’s my brain finding the safest little corner it knows and curling up there.

It’s the part of me that didn’t always feel safe trying to build a tiny nursery inside my own heart.

And yes, nappies are part of that for me too.

Not as a joke.

Not as a silly costume.

Not as some random seperate thing that has nothing to do with the rest of me.

They are part of my comfort language.

Part of my little language.

Part of the way my body and brain understand care.

There is something about being padded that makes me feel held in a way I can’t really explain properly. The softness. The bulk. The crinkle. The way it hugs me. The babyish routine of it. The feeling of being protected and ready and allowed to need looking after.

And if I’m honest, when my body feels tired, awkward, achey, tense, or not fully on my side, that feeling of being protected means even more.

It tells a very deep part of me:

You’re safe.

You’re allowed to be small.

You’re allowed to need care.

You don’t have to be embarrassed about being vulnerable.

That doesn’t mean ABDL is simple for me. It isn’t. There can be grown up feelings around it too, and I’m not gonna pretend it all fits into neat little boxes.

But deep down?

Nappies connect to the same place as regression does.

The same place as plushies.

The same place as bottles.

The same place as being tucked in.

The same place as being checked on.

The same place as someone noticing I’m wobbly before I have to ask for help.

The same place as someone understanding that sometimes I need more patience, more softness, and simpler gentler things.

It’s all part of the same soft map.

A map that points toward comfort.

Which is probably why Plushveria exists.

Plushveria isn’t just a silly fantasy kingdom I made up because I like cute things.

Although, yes, I do like cute things and I will defend plushie goverment as a very serious and valid system. The council has badges. There are forms. Probably written in crayon, but still.

Plushveria is what my inside world looks like on the outside.

It is what my heart looks like when it’s trying to feel safe.

Castle Cuddlekeep is the part of me that wants somewhere warm to come home to.

The Plushie Council is the part of me that wants to be watched over by soft loyal little creatures who take my wellbeing very seriously.

Meltdown Marsh is the part of me that needs a protected place where big feelings are allowed and nobody gets cross just because I can’t cope.

And honestly, it makes sense my brain made somewhere like that. A place with softer rules. A place where being overwhelmed isn’t treated like being difficult. A place where needing extra help, extra rest, or extra gentleness doesn’t make you a problem.

Bottle Brook, Milk River, blanket nests, tiny royal decrees, comfort quests, sleepy missions, and emergency cuddle rules are all silly, yes.

But they’re also real in the way feelings are real.

They are how my brain turns overwhelm into something softer.

How loneliness becomes a kingdom.

How shame becomes a story I can survive.

How a tired little prince can be wrapped in blankets instead of being told off for not being big enough.

That’s why all of this matters so much to me.

Because my little side isn’t just an aesthetic.

It isn’t just cute posts.

It isn’t just crinkles and bottles and sleepy faces and nursery dreams.

It’s the part of me that still wants to be loved gently.

The part that wants to be picked.

The part that wants someone to see all the softness and not decide it’s too much.

The part that wants to be cared for without being made to feel broken.

The part that wants to hear, “you’re not wrong for needing this.”

I think some people imagine age regression as something neat and occasional. Like you put on cute pyjamas, watch cartoons for a bit, maybe cuddle a plushie, then pack it away.

And sometimes, yes, it can look like that.

But for me, it goes much deeper.

I can be adult and little at the same time.

Capable and needy.

Funny and fragile.

Clever and crinkly.

Silly and very emotional.

A grown man who can talk about work, money, family, scary life things, and the future… but who also has a very real little boy living close to the surface, clutching a plushie and hoping someone gentle won’t leave.

A person who can seem fine on the outside, while inside my brain is buzzing, my body is tired, my hands are fumbling, my feelings are too big, and all I really want is to be somewhere soft and safe.

For a long time, I thought that made me strange.

Now I think maybe it just makes me me.

I don’t want to spend my whole life fighting the little part anymore.

I don’t want to keep treating him like an embarrassing secret shoved in a cupboard.

He’s been trying to keep me safe for years.

He’s the part of me that still reaches for comfort when things hurt.

The part that still believes softness matters.

The part that can turn a bad day into a blanket nest, a Plushie Council meeting, or a tiny royal decree from a kingdom made of cushions and hope.

He deserves kindness.

He deserves care.

He deserves to exist without being laughed at.

And maybe I do too.

So maybe I am a permakid in some ways.

Maybe I’m perma little.

Maybe I’m age regressed sometimes, age dreaming sometimes, ABDL always somewhere in the background, and naturally soft and childlike in a way that has followed me my whole life.

Maybe I don’t need one perfect label.

Maybe I just need honesty.

And the honest truth is this:

I have always felt little inside.

I have always been drawn to care, softness, babyish comfort, plushies, nappies, cartoons, safe routines, silly worlds, and the idea of being lovingly looked after.

I have always needed more gentleness than I knew how to ask for.

And I am trying, slowly, to stop being ashamed of that.

Because this isn’t me trying to become someone else.

This is me finally understanding the little boy who was there all along

[toddler69r]

I can so relate to this

[dippersaurus]

Vol. 4 Always Little

The world expects everyone to grow up, get tough, and leave childhood behind.

Like childhood is a room you walk out of one day, shut the door, and never go back.

But for me?

I don’t think the door ever locked.

I don’t even think I properly left.

For as long as I can remember, there has always been this little part of me. A softer part. A younger feeling part. A part that looks at the world and thinks, “this is too big, too loud, too heavy, and I dunno how everyone else is doing it so easy.”

Not because I’m stupid.

Not because I can’t do grown up things.

I can work. I can pay bills. I can drive my car. I can make decisions when I really have to. I can put on the grown up mask and pretend I know what I’m doing.

But underneath all that, I think my normal setting has always been the same.

Small.

Soft.

Young.

A bit wobbly.

A bit more fragile than everyone else seems to be.

Like everyone else got given a grown up instruction book and I got given a blankie, a plushie, and a confused little brain going, “umm… help?”

And I think some of that is just how I’m built too. My brain gets overloaded easy. Too much noise, too much pressure, too many things at once, too many feelings, too many steps, too much having to be a proper person. Sometimes it feels like everything in my head is buffering at the same time and someone has opened 47 tabs and one of them is playing music but I can’t find which one.

My body can be a bit wobbly too. A bit clumsy. A bit awkward with fiddly things sometimes. Especially when I’m tired or stressed or already all used up. So the world can feel big in more than one way.

For a long time, I hated that about myself.

I felt out of place around all the heavy adult stuff. Serious voices, pressure, big decisions, scary phone calls, work things, money things, life things, all the sharp grown up edges.

i always felt more easily overwhelmed by it than I thought I was meant to be.

I felt younger than people around me, even when I wasn’t.

More anxious.

More soft.

More easily scared.

More needing gentleness, reassurance, help, and care.

And I didn’t have the words for it.

I just knew there was something in me that didn’t seem to grow out of needing softness.

Something that still wanted to be spoken to gently.

Something that still wanted to be comforted like a little one.

Something that still reached for plushies, cartoons, blankets, bottles, nappies, cosy routines, nursery feelings, and safe make believe worlds when everything got too much.

I know some people call that being a permakid, or permalittle, or always being connected to a younger part of yourself.

I don’t know if every label fits me perfect.

But when I read stuff like that, something in me goes really quiet and really loud at the same time.

Like…

Oh.

That’s me.

That’s what I’ve been trying to say.

Because I don’t just “act little” sometimes.

I don’t just like cute things.

I don’t just like plushies and cartoons and soft pyjamas and babyish comfort things because they’re cute, even though they are very very cute.

It’s deeper than that.

It feels like part of who I am.

Part of my brain.

Part of my body too.

Part of how I cope.

Part of how I love.

Part of how I feel safe.

Part of how I understand myself.

Sometimes my regression is not really a choice. Sometimes I don’t sit there and decide to feel little. It just happens.

My thoughts get smaller.

My words get harder.

My feelings get bigger.

The world gets louder.

The grown up mask slips off.

And suddenly I’m not a sensible adult doing life properly. I’m just a tired, scared, overwhelmed little feeling thing who wants safety, softness, cuddles, and someone kind to say, “you’re okay, I’ve got you, you don’t have to be so big right now.”

Sometimes I regress because I’m anxious.

Sometimes because I’m sad.

Sometimes because I feel lonely.

Sometimes because I feel unsafe, rejected, embarrassed, or ashamed.

Sometimes because my brain and body are worn out from pretending I’m fine.

Sometimes because I get so overstimulated or scrambled that being big just stops working properly for me.

And sometimes it happens because something soft finally lets me stop fighting.

A blankie.

A plushie.

A cartoon.

A bottle.

A dummy.

A nappy.

A kind voice.

A gentle “come here, baby.”

A moment where I don’t have to explain myself perfect to be loved.

That’s the bit people don’t always understand.

Regression, for me, isn’t just play.

It’s coping.

It’s comfort.

It’s healing.

It’s my brain finding the safest little corner it knows and curling up there.

It’s the part of me that didn’t always feel safe trying to build a tiny nursery inside my own heart.

And yes, nappies are part of that for me too.

Not as a joke.

Not as a silly costume.

Not as some random seperate thing that has nothing to do with the rest of me.

They are part of my comfort language.

Part of my little language.

Part of the way my body and brain understand care.

There is something about being padded that makes me feel held in a way I can’t really explain properly. The softness. The bulk. The crinkle. The way it hugs me. The babyish routine of it. The feeling of being protected and ready and allowed to need looking after.

And if I’m honest, when my body feels tired, awkward, achey, tense, or not fully on my side, that feeling of being protected means even more.

It tells a very deep part of me:

You’re safe.

You’re allowed to be small.

You’re allowed to need care.

You don’t have to be embarrassed about being vulnerable.

That doesn’t mean ABDL is simple for me. It isn’t. There can be grown up feelings around it too, and I’m not gonna pretend it all fits into neat little boxes.

But deep down?

Nappies connect to the same place as regression does.

The same place as plushies.

The same place as bottles.

The same place as being tucked in.

The same place as being checked on.

The same place as someone noticing I’m wobbly before I have to ask for help.

The same place as someone understanding that sometimes I need more patience, more softness, and simpler gentler things.

It’s all part of the same soft map.

A map that points toward comfort.

Which is probably why Plushveria exists.

Plushveria isn’t just a silly fantasy kingdom I made up because I like cute things.

Although, yes, I do like cute things and I will defend plushie goverment as a very serious and valid system. The council has badges. There are forms. Probably written in crayon, but still.

Plushveria is what my inside world looks like on the outside.

It is what my heart looks like when it’s trying to feel safe.

Castle Cuddlekeep is the part of me that wants somewhere warm to come home to.

The Plushie Council is the part of me that wants to be watched over by soft loyal little creatures who take my wellbeing very seriously.

Meltdown Marsh is the part of me that needs a protected place where big feelings are allowed and nobody gets cross just because I can’t cope.

And honestly, it makes sense my brain made somewhere like that. A place with softer rules. A place where being overwhelmed isn’t treated like being difficult. A place where needing extra help, extra rest, or extra gentleness doesn’t make you a problem.

Bottle Brook, Milk River, blanket nests, tiny royal decrees, comfort quests, sleepy missions, and emergency cuddle rules are all silly, yes.

But they’re also real in the way feelings are real.

They are how my brain turns overwhelm into something softer.

How loneliness becomes a kingdom.

How shame becomes a story I can survive.

How a tired little prince can be wrapped in blankets instead of being told off for not being big enough.

That’s why all of this matters so much to me.

Because my little side isn’t just an aesthetic.

It isn’t just cute posts.

It isn’t just crinkles and bottles and sleepy faces and nursery dreams.

It’s the part of me that still wants to be loved gently.

The part that wants to be picked.

The part that wants someone to see all the softness and not decide it’s too much.

The part that wants to be cared for without being made to feel broken.

The part that wants to hear, “you’re not wrong for needing this.”

I think some people imagine age regression as something neat and occasional. Like you put on cute pyjamas, watch cartoons for a bit, maybe cuddle a plushie, then pack it away.

And sometimes, yes, it can look like that.

But for me, it goes much deeper.

I can be adult and little at the same time.

Capable and needy.

Funny and fragile.

Clever and crinkly.

Silly and very emotional.

A grown man who can talk about work, money, family, scary life things, and the future… but who also has a very real little boy living close to the surface, clutching a plushie and hoping someone gentle won’t leave.

A person who can seem fine on the outside, while inside my brain is buzzing, my body is tired, my hands are fumbling, my feelings are too big, and all I really want is to be somewhere soft and safe.

For a long time, I thought that made me strange.

Now I think maybe it just makes me me.

I don’t want to spend my whole life fighting the little part anymore.

I don’t want to keep treating him like an embarrassing secret shoved in a cupboard.

He’s been trying to keep me safe for years.

He’s the part of me that still reaches for comfort when things hurt.

The part that still believes softness matters.

The part that can turn a bad day into a blanket nest, a Plushie Council meeting, or a tiny royal decree from a kingdom made of cushions and hope.

He deserves kindness.

He deserves care.

He deserves to exist without being laughed at.

And maybe I do too.

So maybe I am a permakid in some ways.

Maybe I’m perma little.

Maybe I’m age regressed sometimes, age dreaming sometimes, ABDL always somewhere in the background, and naturally soft and childlike in a way that has followed me my whole life.

Maybe I don’t need one perfect label.

Maybe I just need honesty.

And the honest truth is this:

I have always felt little inside.

I have always been drawn to care, softness, babyish comfort, plushies, nappies, cartoons, safe routines, silly worlds, and the idea of being lovingly looked after.

I have always needed more gentleness than I knew how to ask for.

And I am trying, slowly, to stop being ashamed of that.

Because this isn’t me trying to become someone else.

This is me finally understanding the little boy who was there all along

[toddler69r]

I can so relate to this

[adultbabystories]

“Wait, you succeeded in catching another big baby again?” one guy said to the other, as they both entered the living room.

“Yes. Please keep your voice down, he’s having his nap,” the other said, lowering his voice as he talked, “Now sit”.

Both sat on the couches in front of the diapered grown man. He looked so peaceful, sucking on a giant pacifier, wearing a cozy dino onesie.

“He looks familiar. Isn’t it the guy we all met at the bar about a month ago?” the surprised man said. “Yes, this is him.” said the man. “And in a month you turned him into your baby?”

“Is it slow or fast?” the man said and laughed.

The baby was so calm, that his bladder released, making his crouch warm and soothing.

“It’s fast! Did he roll with it or resisted?” The guy asked. “First of all, no real man would agree to wear a baby-printed diaper and suck on a paci. Even after a month, he could probably take it off by himself, but he wouldn’t. Do you want to know why?” the man asked, wanting to be questioned.

“Why?”

“Because he met mister wooden paddle over my knees. What started as an erotic game for him, turned into my wantings. I wanted a baby, and Mister Paddle made it happen. After a few swats, he dribbled all over my knees, making my wantings into his new reality. He needed diapers. I told him ‘Would a real man pee all over someone’s knees while crying?’ “ the man said and nodded.

The big baby woke up moments before but stayed quiet and motionless. He wanted to listen.

“And now my boy knows I was right. Look at him, look how docile he is, how in peace. When he’ll wake up, you will see him playing under his play gym like the real baby that he is.”

Your Daddy was right. You remember Mister Paddle, you remember how much it was difficult to learn your true place. But now you know, you know your place is next to Daddy’s feet and even his friends. You find comfort in diapers and baby stuff, you can relax and be your true self.

Your diaper felt so good, you pressed the front into the matt, and the sensation was incredible. You kept on going, back and forth, slowly, thinking it was unnoticeable while keeping your eyes closed, still listening to the talking men. Unconsciously, making small baby grants.

“I think your baby woke up,” the guy said.

“Shhhh, if he keeps his eyes closed, he thinks we won’t see him. By the sound he’s making, I already know he enjoys his little pecker in his diaper. Let him have it, he’ll squirt into his padding then I’ll change him.” said Daddy, knowing his new son already. 

---------------------------------

Did it take @alittlerobotkid a month to turn into a baby, or was he always one?

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[toddlerdiapersailors]

[qipice-blog]

[ab-mikey]

Share your love of wearing nappies 😍😍😍

[babyfire07]

[mind-wiper]

Brandon had worked hard to become a Daddy. It wasn’t like he could just take in any little boy, he had to find just the right one. It took months, chatting with ABs on the forum, looking for a boy with the right look, the right personality and the willingness to totally submit to Daddy. 

Brandon wanted to be totally in charge, to have absolute control over his little one. The idea of so totally dominating a grown man, rendering him absolutely helpless, was what excited him most of all. Of course that would require more than just roleplaying. No, he needed his little boy to really be helpless, mentally infantile.  

To that end he also chatted with some other Daddies. These were men like him, who wanted to take charge. One of them, a man the screen-name MasterDaddy24, had developed a programme to help him reduce his baby boy to true little tot mentality. He sold it to him in the form of a phone app. He only needed to show it to his special little guy and he’d be putty in his hands. 

A couple weeks later he made contact with a Little named Rob, a twenty-something who’s pictures were perfect and who had exactly the attitude and desires Brandon was looking for. Rob wanted to be a one-year old baby boy, totally dependent on his Daddy for his every need.  They chatted for hours at a time for a couple weeks, then Brandon made his move, asking for a meet up. Rob was hesitant at first, but eventually agreed. 

Two weeks later Brandon drove over to Rob’s house, trembling with anticipation. Rob answered the door looking just as nervous as Brandon felt. 

“Hi there,” he mumbled meekly. 

“Hey there buddy,” Brandon answered, putting on his best daddy voice. “How you doing?” 

“A little nervous,” Rob admitted. 

Brandon reached out and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “There’s noting to be afraid about. Daddy’s here now,” he said confidently. 

Rob looked like he might cry for a second, then lurched forward and embraced Brandon in a tight hug right there on the front steps. Brandon was surprised but equally delighted and quickly embraced Rob right back.  

“You’re a cuddly boy, huh?” he cooed. 

“Yes Daddy,” Rob whispered. 

“Good boy. Let’s go inside now,” Brandon suggested. 

Rob nodded and let go, leading Brandon into the house. It was clear he’d already set it up for what he expected to be a quick play date. There were toys on the carpet, a changing pad laid out with a diaper bag next to it.  

“You want to get padded right now?” Brandon asked. 

Rob bit his lip nervously, clearly not quite ready to be stripped naked and diapered quite yet. So Brandon changed tack and said, “Maybe we should sit down and talk a bit first.”  

Rob nodded eagerly now. “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

They sat on his couch and Brandon decided that there was no point dragging this out. Either the app would work and this was going to be a life-changing day, or it didn’t and he would have a nice play date and head home.  The suspense was killing him too much to wait longer. He got out his phone. 

“I have something that might help you get into character a bit,” he suggested. “Can I show it to you?” 

Rob looked a little nervous but nodded. “Um, okay I guess.” 

Brandon smiled and tapped the icon on his phone, careful not to look himself as it opened. He had never tested it before of course. It wasn’t like he could try it out on himself. He could only cross his fingers and hope.  

“Just look at the screen and let yourself relax,” he urged Rob. “I promise it will feel very nice.” 

Rob nodded and looked carefully at the phone as Brandon held it facing him. Rob blinked and Brandon looked closely at the man’s face, looking for his eyes to get all glassy and distant, or for his facial muscles to relax, maybe for his shoulders to slump. 

But nothing happened. Shit, he thought, it was a dud. And sure enough Rob shrugged and looked back up, eyes still focused. “What’s it supposed to do?” he asked. 

“Nothing, I guess,” Brandon sighed, turning the phone around and looking at the screen himself. 

It was a scramble of colours, like a kaleidoscope. And as he looked at them, very, very quickly he felt drawn in, felt the colours becoming his whole world. His mouth dropped open, his shoulders slumped and he forgot where he even was until he felt a hand settle on his shoulder. 

“That’s a good boy,” said a kind, gentle voice. “Just watch the colours, look so deep into them. You’re doing a wonderful job.” 

Brandon did as he was told, he had to. He felt more and more relaxed. All that worry and tension just floated away. He smiled lazily, his eyes going empty and glazed over.  

“I’m sorry about the trick,” Rob’s voice reached him, sounding distant.  “I’m afraid the programme doesn’t work on me since I designed it. I’m MasterDaddy24 you see.” 

Deep inside Brandon registered that he’d been tricked, that he was in very deep trouble. But he didn’t move, he couldn’t. It was like his mind and body were disconnected. 

“We’re very alike, you and I. I realised that early on in our chats. You wanted the same things in a baby boy that I did, with one exception. I didn’t want a willing Adult Baby to volunteer for it. That’s no fun at all. No, this, this is what I’ve always dreamed of. And I must thank you for making it possible.” 

Brandon wanted to scream, to panic, to fight back. But his heart-rate stayed low, his body calm, eyes glassy and focused only on the phone. He knew what Rob was saying though, he wanted a permanent, mentally regressed baby-man. He was going to wipe his brain of adult intellect, turn his mind to mush. And there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it. 

“Well, there’s no reason to delay any longer,” Rob whispered, reaching out and taking the phone from Brandon’s hand. 

The colours slipped away and Brandon found the will to at least blink, to look up and see Rob smiling at him. He was coming back to himself, he was going to be able to move in a second and then he’d run. 

“Deep sleep,” Rob ordered. 

The world went black and the last thing Brandon was aware of was all his muscles relaxing, his body crumpling to the floor like a rag doll. 

**

Brandon awoke lying on a soft bed. His adult clothes were long gone, his jeans and t-shirt stripped away, his shoes and socks likely packed away in a box, not to be needed again. Instead he was dressed only in a simple baby’s onesie, a truck design on the front, a bulge around his groin where the onesie just fit over the very thick diapers he was wearing. 

Brandon blinked and gazed around the room, taking in the crib on the other side, the big mobile dangling above it. He bit down on the rubber teat in his mouth, looking cross-eyed at the adult-sized pacifier between his lips. 

He smiled. The binkie bobbed back and forth as he began to suckle on it. It felt nice, it felt natural, normal. His body squirmed on the bed, his long bare legs wagging back and forth. He caught sight of his bare feet. He gazed at them with curiosity, grabbing at them, pulling at his toes. He was enraptured by them, amazed by how they wiggled. If he didn’t have his lovely bink to suck on he’d surely try to taste those tootsies. 

The door opened and Brandon instantly recognised Daddy walking into the room. He beamed up at his beloved caregiver, yanking at his toes and cooing pleasantly around his pacifier. He had no words in his head, nothing but pleasant images, no ability to communicate except by smiles and coos. But he was ever so happy.  And he just knew Daddy would keep him that way forever and ever. 

[mommyadeline]

Always remember 🥱

[toddlerdiapersailors]