magical object · transformation · anthro · addiction · regression · feline traits · cursed item · body alteration
Pale dawn light cuts stripes across the kitchen floor. You shuffle in, mind still fogged, and freeze. There, on the worn wooden table, sits a plain brown box. No label, no tape. You lift the lid. Inside, folded with an almost ceremonial neatness, are white diapers, each one imprinted with a scatter of tiny, silver stars. The air grows thick, charged with a silent pull. You could slam the box shut and toss it out right now, you. Or you could take one, feel its strange softness, and let curiosity win. The choice hangs, heavy and final.