FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

The gangbangers just had to have their personal Disneyland of clandestine commerce, and Kioga was stacking wrinkly bills while worrying about getting a contact high. They seemed to carry themselves ... fine ... for the most part--no semi-homeless zombie diorama with necrotizing extremities or sudden physical tics--but the cheetah did wonder if there was a certain wear-and-tear rubicon in which the center would indeed loose.

It was a fascinating conundrum with them; Kioga didn't know who was in their twenties and who was in their thirties; daresay the question remained if there was one or two in their forties. Due to their degenerate lifestyle, they all floated around some central, ambiguous age of appearing vigorous from afar, but a bit too worn around the edges up-close. The twenties were aged fast into an aura of defensive belligerence, whereas those old enough to know better were regressed into that of impulsive vice. Due to a myriad of attractions and short-term goals, it was less a two-dimensional Venn diagram and more of a three-dimensional orbit like an atom, with the nucleus being ...

What?

"Can't just be drugs; that's the symptom, not the injury," he mumbled to himself, scratching the moist junction between diaper and leg. "Shit; could just be a black hole, but things don't orbit those consistently. They circle the drain..."

One night when Ceylon was over, the two had decided to go so far as to sit one atop the other's shoulders and make some sort of super-dealer twice the height of a normal person. Ceylon's mood, when they were double-stacked and the skinny cheetah was on top, went from initially gleeful at the thought that it was incredibly gratifying, and a bit perverse, to have the back of one's head warmed by a squishy, swollen gel bulb, but then shifted to the realization that he was situated right underneath a precarious levee. Ceylon had never been to the Netherlands, but this felt close enough for several reasons. It was not so pleasant when the gangbangers were late and warm little droplets coursed down his back and over the base of his wings. Not to mention the smell that followed not too long afterwards. The constitution of Kioga's diaper was most often 90/10 bladder/bowel leakage.

Ceylon had argued that it might be more logical for him to be on top, since the winged being had lighter bones, but Kioga countered that they did not know him that well, even though he'd been to his apartment several times. Kioga then countered himself, saying that he was just going to do the British Cockney accent from Biohazard 4, and then Ceylon countered that Kioga had, again and with his help, modded the game to swap the main character into a cheetah form and replaced his health points for diaper condition. Therefore, Ceylon argued, he was just calling it Biohazard 4 because of the sewage puns.

"Instead of beheading, the chainsaw guy makes you violently shit yourself!"

"Is that why you've died 135 times, and the diaper pail smells a little ... masculine?"

"Yyyyes," Kioga confessed.

"And why, on days when I am over, if I hear those zombie groans, you are immediately doing a nuzzle-diaper-check when I enter the front door."

"I thought you liked those."

"I do, but now I see why there are days you are inordinately enthusiastic to get into my padding."

"So are we doing the tall merchant?"

"Yes! But you know," said Ceylon, "perhaps you could take a higher road in your porn games. It's kinda weird that a 'fail state' involves unlocking the pleasurable bits. If the fail state is sex, couldn't that imply, you know, sexual assault?"

"Not necessarily. You may just be succumbing to your libido."

"Ah, so more of a one-night stand. To improve it, maybe add bladder and bowel volume on a timer, and the enemies instead affect diaper integrity. Healing items are booster pads, diaper gel refills, maybe new diapers, and the fail state is them tearing the thing and getting, ahem, absorbent polymer and otherwise everywhere. As some sort of less gory but still unpleasant fatality. There's your Biohazard."

"But risk/reward."

"Putting orgasm as a risk puts it in the negative camp, does it not?"

"Sexy risk?"

"Mmmh. To break through shame barriers, sure, but once through to the other side I'm not sure the genie can be put back in the bottle, the diaper unwet."

"The bottom unspanked?"

"Well let's not go to extremes, now."

The reaction of the gangbangers was priceless... at least, at first. In some attempt at some sort of "tactical deployment" to ensure no one would witness the exchange, they all showed up on the street corner, two standing guard while the third approached the dark recess where their supplier waited. The shaded doorway in which Kioga and Ceylon waited used to be the entrance of the renting office for Padridge, but that was back in the day when the complex was expected to be luxury condos for rich middle-upper-class managers and executives from Puerto Panuela proper.

Now people rented a Padridge apartment through their mobile app. One would upload their driver's license, submit to a background check, and as long as they hadn't committed a felony or an Egregiously Stupid Crime in the last year, they were in. Because of this, many convicts released from Our Lady of Chastity State Prison immediately went to Padridge. And also because of this, Officers Jewel Sarasota and Praetorian Chao-Xing Chen were on speed dial.

And also because of this, the gangbangers formed their own little Neighborhood Watch Mafia (their naming) and swore that THIS was the reason they were always hanging outside in diapers. To be fair, many paroled convicts enjoyed the casual atmosphere and the ease-of-renting, and King Scatfag's Neighborhood Watch Mafia was a decent deterrent. As was Ricky's warning to anyone considering recidivist behavior: "Mother-fucker, don't ruin this for the rest of us," he had hissed to more than a couple bangers (currently without a gang) contemplating another felony.

Foreseeing a possible hive of illicit operations, the apartment complex, in cooperation with the local police, had many of their units wire-tapped and an awful lot of gang members were arrested the following year. Kioga's diaper-smuggling operation, however, remained safe ... since the diapers he sold functioned as "Leak Protection" money to his eldritch godfather. They were Pendrael's products in the first place.

Kioga and Ceylon waited in this alcove, barely lit by the bluish, flickering light of an electric bug zapper hanging out in space, snapping when an occasional insect collided with it. Kioga tried to breathe through the blue bandana as best he could; Ceylon tried to breathe in the uric humidity of their long trench coat.

"You think I'd be used to your coffee and cat pheromones," he commented, coughing as his warm, swollen neck pillow oppressed the back of his head.

Ricky sent Mort to execute their transaction. Had Mort just come to the front door, this would have been over an hour ago. But, whatever; Kioga and Ceylon got to play out their little merchant fantasy and they placated the gangbangers with this silly request.

The blue iguana came over with the exaggerated swagger of a blinged-out reptile. In his mind, the more casual he looked, the more obvious it was he was not doing anything illicit. And he wasn't doing anything illicit, but goodness gracious; what if the neighborhood knew about his ignominious little secret?

This was the ... same little secret he was blatantly displaying every time he decided to grill out or demolish a gallon of beer on the front lawn without pants. Which was quickly becoming more reliable than a good wristwatch, and in fact inspired Kioga to take notes in curiosity. Mort and the Neighborhood Watch Mafia became a little bit of a case (heh!) study in parts, because while their schedules were not regulated by any sort of steady official employment, and oftentimes not even the rising and setting of the sun, they achieved a remarkable regularity (heh!) in their outdoor activities.

It was with such regularity, in fact, that Ceylon and Kioga started charting the gangbangers' schedule as if managing a restaurant. Kioga chewed on a pencil, then took to clacking the metal eraser holder between his top and bottom teeth. "Perhaps it is based on their bathroom rhythm. I bet their toilets are squeaky clean."

"And their trash cans denser than a dying star," commented Ceylon, who busied himself with studies on circadian cycle oscillators, flipping between a thick textbook and a splayed binder with piles of notes.

"You taking that for a class?" asked his boyfriend, walking over to their own trash can and nudging the top to make it tip. Yep; heavier than a kiloton of feathers or a kiloton of lead.

"Oh, I just find it interesting," said the studious gryphon, his corked toe talons contentedly blip-blapping on the kitchenette floor.

"Don't you think it's a little ass-backwards," the cheetah whispered as they prepared, himself wearing a long cloak for the costume and nothing but a diaper underneath. As per Kioga's excretory expediency, the front was decently plush with warm, swollen gel, and the back hung a little precariously with a modest two inches of packaged dung. "That they're buying this in stressed secrecy when they wear out in the open? I mean, the snoopy neighbors down the complex are running a betting pool on who does what and how bad it's gonna get. Hah, and that wiccan magpie on the other side swears she has keskin crystals that allow her to tune into the Praetorian police scanner."

Funny note on that: a regular police scanner worked fine, but over the waves (and perhaps on purpose) there rumoredly emanated a certain frequency which directly stimulated the bowels of its listeners, and nothing but garbled syllables besides. Once this crappy-pasta got out, many people who were on constipation medicine bought police scanners instead.

Excitedly, then, they prepped themselves with their scanners and plopped themselves over the toilet or into a fresh, fluffy diaper and waited. And waited. And waited. And there was relaxation! And only minor movements, nothing delightfully fetishistic like the Praetorian guns that turn one's pants into a pigsty. The rumor evolved that one had to find the decimal point of the frequency to be repeating sixes, or repeating sixty-nines. But no one seemed to find it ... or did they?

"Hmmh," said Ceylon, blushing as the front of Kioga's diaper crackled right in his ear. "Do they not know of online delivery services?"

He was a bit muffled in Kioga's long merchant coat, but the cheetah parsed together what he said. "No, you see, the large boxes are too obvious."

"I'm failing to see their logic if they're regularly hanging out on the front lawn without pants."

Kioga paused. "Yes; I can see my own brain breaking over this. Oh!" he snapped his fingers, and Mort flinched as he got closer. "There must be a mental disconnect between wearing and buying. If you already have them, then one might as well use them. But the proactive act of purchasing, if acknowledged in the open by oneself and especially by the public, now it is a conscious decision!"

"Seems like a lot of roundabout rationalizations, oof," Ceylon said, adjusting his shoulders against Kioga's legs. He swore he could hear the light sound of urination, but at this stage of the cheetah's padding it was merely flushing into a moderately soaked, soft pillow. No; he just felt the dappling rush against the back of his neck.

"Eh," Kioga said with a shrug, then tapped his heel against the gryphon's ribs as Mort got close. The iguana chose to stop and stare at a patch of grass, because he was having just so casual a stroll at 12:23 at night. "I'm imagining it's like easing into any sort of non-publicly sanctioned hobby. My first teen diaper was a horrible moral failing on my part, and then before I started enjoying them, I gave myself the blanket excuse, 'I need them.' Which I did! But that didn't account for my excitement for getting a new case."

"That's fair," said Ceylon. "I suppose I never had the excuse for incontinence; was more of a ... hmm. Manifest destiny, I think you Americans call it? It's there for me to claim? At least, the unclaimed territory. I wouldn't steal another person's bag of diapers."

"Bismillah," Kioga laughed. "De-uwu-s Vult!"

"Oh wow!" Mort said as he got close, his "casual walk" looking more and more like a drunk's gait as he approached. "Hey man, didn't see you there; funny that I'd meet anyone out here at ..." and then the iguana's head went up to the merchant's full height. "...Kioga?"

The iguana, despite all his pretenses for coolness, still had a solid three inches of white diaper waistline sticking out the back of his pants. It also didn't help that he was doing the cool gangster thing and letting his pants sag as far as his tail would allow, meaning there was a solid sixty-four square inches of white pubic plastic shining in the front.

And bless him, but the front tapes of his diaper were no more than an inch apart each, meaning he'd bought his diapers in the same way he bought his pants: a couple sizes too large.

Kioga inwardly cringed, as did Ceylon in peeking through the coat. That brief was gonna leak because there was no leg seal. It'd just be spilling out the sides like a fountain with two pour spouts. Good thing Mort was wearing black jeans.

The cheetah and gryphon both found their noses twitching. There was already an earthy, tangy twinge of sewer mud in the air, though it was mixed with something cloyingly sweet, like cheap grape juice ... or the plasticky, synthetic approximation of grape flavoring.

Kioga tapped the side of Ceylon's head with his thigh. "Diaper-fountain-Pendrael-statue", he whispered.

"Wh-what?" the gryphon whispered, then his head went up in recognition, striking Kioga's airbag groin, thankfully preventing (light) testicular trauma. "Oh! I'll write that down. That will be great for your lobby! But wouldn't it go against the purpose, showing a stone diaper continually leaking?"

"Am I hearing things?"

"Just drugs," Kioga said.

"Ah yeah, I'm on a few of those. Cough medicine enema's got me JACKED!" he shouted, and the three of them froze as his voice bounced off the clustered townhouses and apartments of Padridge. "Anyway, why you so tall?"

"WELCOME!" shouted Kioga in his best Cockney, swinging his long coat open to reveal a side panel stacked with diapers and supplies. Ceylon was disguised by his over-long robe. The two merchants had chosen black, blue, and purple as the offered colors, as white diapers may attract the ire of the Wetness Inquisitors, the "P.P. Police."

The iguana's brow creased and he stepped back. "Da fuck, dude? Look, man; I'm not trying to start anything; you gotta be trippin'."

"Whaddya buyin'?" Kioga growled, feeling the heaves of giggles between his thighs.

"Yo, bro," the iguana said, looking left and right for the attention they were clearly attracting.

There was no one else here.

"Dude, it's from a video game," said Kioga.

"I'mma just, maybe we have a misunderstanding here," he stammered, fingers splayed and ring-blinged fingers spread, "Maybe you're looking for my cousin, because ... oh whoa, huhhhggh..."

That cough syrup must have taken effect, because two things happened. First, of course, was the expulsion of said liquid, along with certain other solids and fluids, into the back of his diaper with the expected muffled blurts and viscous squirts, with a few thicker muted plops. Ceylon and Kioga both gulped, as they knew that was going to be a wet and sticky one. Already his posture seemed weighted down by the turgid load in his briefs, for he stood with his knees spread and bent and his arms way out at his sides.

To their discomfort and predictive horror, a wet clod of dung slightly smaller than a golf ball fell out of his trouser leg with a melted ice cream splat against the side wall of his fresh white sneakers. Another flubbering, squelching attack of gushes and hard pushes painted the inside legs of his pants in hot chocolate and rolled fetid pebbles across his shoes.

That oversized diaper was less a cradle and more of a hammock.

But Mort's chaos did not stop there, and the iguana looked at the over-tall merchant with wild, panicked eyes. "S-stay back!" he shouted, pulling a folding knife from his pocket. He fumbled with the blade, then dropped it, then when he dove to get it his pants slipped right over his tail and he stood back up with them around his ankles. The diaper was bright white in the front, but the bottom was besmirched in muddy waters and the inside of his thighs were absolutely coated in thick, liquid shit.

His fingers worked like cooked sausages on the blade, and when he pulled it out it snapped right back into the handle. Mort didn't notice, and so he took a defensive stance with jeans around his ankles, a bright soiled diaper around his hips, and the handle of a weapon thrust toward them. There was damn near as much scat in the basin of his trousers as there was held in his befouled bathroom brief: he looked like he was trying to steal dirt from the hardware store.

Kioga held up his paws. "Don't do anything stupid, buddy," he warned, mentally locating a spray can of SootheBlurt Deluxe. No; that wouldn't do: he was already on enough sleepy-time meds. Next to it was a bottle of baby powder.

"G-got a witch monster right in front of me! O-or that tall dude from the village who turns into a spine-scorpion!"

"Thank you; it was a video game reference!" Kioga complained, relieved.

"We're living in a video game!" the iguana shouted, punctuating his shout with another muted, slimy jet of matter. Kioga and Ceylon watched the crotch of the diaper straighten out in real time as the bottom took that hard, internal impact. Their noses crinkled; fast food and frozen food came out pretty rank.

"Cough medicine can cause hallucinations at very, very high doses," commented Ceylon, "which, if he really used it as an enema, might make sense. Very harmful though, as you'd expect."

The analytical explanation was almost calming to Kioga.

"Who said that?!" shouted Mort, and now lights were starting to go on in the neighborhood. First the lights, then someone would dial DPR, and then guess what, Mort would be buying a case of diapers against his will.

Which, really, might solve their desires for these clandestine diaper deals.

"Think fast!" shouted the cheetah, briefly thinking it should become his superhero catchphrase because ha ha, cheetah. Kioga cracked the powder head of the bottle and slammed it down in front of him with all his might, and to its credit, the shatterproof jug did exhale a decent poof of scented particles.

"Geeeah!" Mort shouted, stumbling around in his desecrated, sagging diaper and swampy leg shackles. Kioga then dismounted from Ceylon and, with the strange glee of inspiration--perhaps they were in a video game--the cheetah tried a roundhouse kick from the game.

He wasn't quite as limber as Lion, however, and whacked Mort square in the side. The cheetah let out a shout of annoyed pain as his foot bent, and the iguana lost the rest of the air in his lungs--and waste from his bowels--as he folded sideways, tripped on his pants, then landed against Kioga who caught him.

"Ah, for oof's sake, ow ..." Kioga complained as he kept weight off that foot and rolled his ankle. Nothing was sprained, but he still gingerly set it down.

Wobbling for balance with a very heavy, very messy iguana flopped against him, he checked Mort's pulse as Ceylon, from the other side, observed him contentedly wetting himself, properly finishing his diaper off ... and the asphalt around it.

"And they say video games cause violence," commented the cheetah, laying Mort on his side and stumbling over both their oversized clothes. He looked like a child, wearing a robe and trenchcoat twice his height. Streaks of Mort's mess had gotten onto his costume; not the worst to clean but can easily tease nausea.

"Didn't this one?" said the gryphon, rolling his shoulders.

"Shh. Don't tell the parent groups," he returned with a smile.

"Should we get an ambulance?" the gryphon asked, seeing the lights in the complex go out again. Having not intended to be out in the open, the lynx-osprey wore an absorbent, quarter-used diaper under an adorable space onesie adorned in moons and stars. He shimmered in the low lamp light.

"I don't think I kicked him that hard," said Kioga, supporting Mort's head.

"No, I mean for the poison. He obviously took enough to mistake us for a monster. And yes, not to mention the kick. That was a good try, but perhaps we need a practice dummy."

The cheetah rasped his rough tongue against his teeth. "Mmmh. Let's get him back to--"

"Bro, fucking ace!" shouted Ricky, emerging from the bushes with Duke. The mongoose and deer walked over to them, similarly decked in saggy jeans and obvious bathroom garments. "You laid him out!"

"Bro," said Ceylon irritably, "is he going to be okay?"

"Meh," said Duke, pulling out a half-empty bottle of cough syrup. "Maybe a migraine in the morning. I'll be making sure to write 'don't drink' on this bottle though, haha. Screwed it right into his butthole like a lightbulb."

"Look, I've been to some crazy parties," said Kioga, "just make sure someone is looking out for him. I'm putting him in your care, okay?"

"Yeah, that's fine, that's fine. How much for the coat?" asked Duke. "Aaaaand all its contents?"

Kioga's mood was a haze of satisfaction, a crisis averted, and anger. That could have gotten ugly, fast, if Mort came at them swinging. His fur particularly prickled because his boyfriend was the torso. So he quickly added up the raw cost, put a fifteen percent upcharge, and then rounded up to the nearest ten. "Hundred eighty," he said.

Ricky took out a stack of bills, ran his claw through them, and gave Kioga two hundreds. "There's the deposit on the next one."

"Can you come to my fucking door next time?"

"Nah, this is more fun. Buy yourself another coat," Ricky said, handing him another hundred.

The cheetah snapped the bill out of the mongoose's paw, growled, then shook his head.

"You need help carrying him?"

"Yeah, he gets heavy when loaded. Heh! Now he's loaded and loaded."

"You guys get the bottom end," said Ceylon, moving to Kioga and grabbing Mort's left shoulder.

"Jesus fuck," commented Ricky. "How can a diaper appear totally used, and completely unused at the same time?"

"I've spent the last twenty years trying to figure that out," said Kioga. "That and their ISO ratings."

The gangbangers started out trying to gingerly work around the absolute bath of scat the iguana's ankles, legs, socks, shoes, and pants had taken--not to mention that tortured diaper which was hanging loosely from his hips like a plastic shopping bag--but every nook and cranny seemed to have another smear on it, so Ricky and Duke eventually just grabbed him by the ankles and occasionally wiped their paws off on their own pants.

Duke grunted. "Next time, he's gonna miss so bad he's gonna shit your pants. Like you'll just be standing in the next room and your pants are suddenly fill with shit."

"Don't threaten me with a good time," Ricky said, half-sarcastically.

It didn't take too long for the four of them to drag Mort back to the apartment, though time seemed to stretch as their ears caught the sound of dank dribbles leaving the iguana's legs, trousers, and briefs. Hopefully no one with a keen sense of smell would turn their snout in their general direction, easily sensing what would be a very bright beacon in the olfactory space.

Not all of the complex's evening lamp posts worked, and they maneuvered from dark spot to dark spot like fugitives, as in the visual realm his exposed diaper produced a bright beacon. In their subterfuge, the four did gasp when his body slumped and the soiled hump of his plastic buttocks scraped the pavement.

Last thing they wanted to do was leave a giant skidmark on the parking lot, as well as a snowstorm of soaked gel fluffies.

They got to the door and Kioga rapped on it with the back of his knuckles instead of his fist. Best not to sound like a police raid. The rabbit "Sir Shitepaw" Mark answered the door in a custom airbrushed onesie that depicted gangbangers wearing golden pacifiers hanging from gold chains and spraying graffiti designs on a wall, waving either rude gestures or pistols with their free hands. He held a plastic cup in one paw and his white muzzle was stained purple.

"Yo," he said, his eyes a bit unfocused.

"Yeah, cough medicine," Kioga said, and that was it.

"I don't want to sound angry about the situation," said Ceylon, leading the charge and somewhat dragging the other three into the apartment with the body. His feathers were ruffled and his speech was rushed. "But a weapon was pulled and--"

"Biiiiiig fuckup," said Ricky to Mark. "Our friends here got a little creative about the 'deal' and Mort freaked the fuck out."

"Yes; your friend could have stabbed me," said the gryphon.

Kioga's neck was tight; he was trying to be diplomatic in a situation where his boyfriend and his kinda-friend neighbors were at odds. He found it strange that he was the calm one here, but he supposed he just wanted everything to be optimal, a combination of a salesman and an arbitrator.

"So it's not going to happen ever again, right?" asked the cheetah. His tone wavered between heated and comedic, Kioga trying to build a bridge with levity. "Because I know you know that I like to party down, too, but I'm serious that I would be justified in bringing the wrath of God if anything happens to myself or especially Ceylon. I'd even be tempted to pull some unethical strings with my company but all in all, can we please please please not fucking have anything remotely close to this happen again? Like I dunno if I've been snorting Thomas Paine the last few weeks but I appreciate you all as living beings, but goddamn it if you cross me--"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it," said Ricky, and even Ceylon was smirking through his fury, producing a sort of Charlie Brown squiggle on his face. They lay Mort down in the living room where Beatrice had already laid out a changing mat. In seeing the iguana's green legs coated in bumpy brown slime, she ran back and grabbed a plastic tarp as well. "And hey," said the mongoose, walking up to Kioga and grabbing his paw. The cheetah joined into an automatic gangster handshake of slapping, snapping, and squeezing the other's digits. "I think that's a pretty way of saying 'Respec'' and 'Don' fucc wit me.'"

"Well yeah," said Kioga with an involuntary smile. "Respect, and don't fuck with me."

"Word."

Ricky, Duke, and Beatrice all got to work on Mort, with of course the requisite complaints of his prodigious bathroom stench saturating his lower half. As soon as his shoes and pants came off and were tossed into a garbage bag, they paused, watched and waited as his front wetness indicator steadily vanished. Despite the prodigious reeking leakage wreaking havoc to Mort's legs, the rump of the diaper was somehow very full. Then came out the supplies and Ricky the King commanded Duke to open his tapes.

"Oh, boy," said Ceylon, inching backward towards the door. "You guys need anything?" It was more rhetorical at this point, and the gryphon felt he was allowed some rudeness.

"Ah nah," said Ricky, going through the pockets of the oversized merchant coat he'd purchased from them. "Yo, again, we're sorry. I'll see if Mort here can think of some sort of compensation. Y'all need furniture moved or something?"

"Is he any good at cleaning?" asked Kioga.

"I mopped the floors just yesterday," said Ceylon.

The cheetah shrugged. "Look, if you guys want to do another clandestine diaper deal, there's gonna be a service fee. Like I said, you can buy diapers online, or direct from me because I have a warehouse full of them and we have a website as well. Let a normal deliveryman set a normal cardboard box on your stoop."

"Shipping and handling?" asked Mark.

Kioga rolled his eyes. "Four bucks for me to cross the street. Or a beer."

"Word," said the rabbit, and then they left just as Duke opened Mort's diaper and everybody groaned as, effectively, a gas grenade exploded in their living room, compounding the raw, pervading stink. Kioga and Ceylon caught a pretty impressive pile of scat piled up and down the iguana's buttocks. The entire groin-strap of the brief was coated brown.

Back out on the street in the remaining parts of their super-merchant costumes, the two shook their shoulders and heads, reveling in the cool, fresh, clean midnight air.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too," said Kioga, his paws fumbling for pockets that weren't there. "Didn't think it'd go from some silly joke to a dangerous situation."

"You cannot account for everything," said the gryphon, his cheek twitching as stress melted off of him like dirty ice off the road. He didn't yet feel like announcing he was taking care of his own bathroom needs right now, pushing a little excess pressure into the front of his diaper with a warm, spreading gush. "Mmph. Or more precisely, you cannot predict that which is unreasonably unlikely. I suppose the question is, how likely do you think it was for Mort to be so ... chemically unstable? Or rather, destabilized by chemicals?"

"Eh," growled the cheetah, "Usually they laugh at anything when intoxicated. Perhaps it was a bit stupid to startle a gangbanger."

"Do you know if they have guns?"

"I ..." started the cheetah, and his heart skipped. It was simultaneously easier and harder to handle a pistol. Mort could have fired wildly and ventilated them both, or missed all his shots, or fumbled the gun all over the place, dropped it, dropped the magazine, or even shoot himself while trying to unholster it. "I was under the impression that since this was such a casual deal, selling legal if embarrassing products, it was unlikely he'd come armed and unstable, especially because he's my neighbor and he knows me."

"But you have to admit that the clandestine setup..."

"Yeah," sighed Kioga, both wanting to touch Ceylon and feeling that the moment wasn't right. "I guess I don't know how guilty I should feel."

"Was it," Ceylon started, grabbing Kioga by the wrist and then interweaving their fingers. He didn't want to turn this into some sort of trial jury; best skip to the end. "Was it reasonable to assume that this would not happen?"

The cheetah made eye contact. "Y-yes, I feel that is safe to say. Mort's been the most insecure when it came to this fetish; kind of a binge-and-purge where he'll lay in his own mess, sucking his thumb, then the next day be the cold, hard adult. So perhaps distantly, I could have predicted that his tolerance for surprises would be lower. I'm just sorry I got you into that mess."

"Is that the first time that Mort anally ingested cough medicine?"

"To my knowledge."

"Then there you go," said Ceylon. "But I guess the question is now, should we continue to hang out with them?"

"I wouldn't say I'm bankrupt with Rick or the rest, but I think Mort's on his last dollar. Can be fun just to have a trashy party with them; I do enjoy their energy. Funny how we're all in it together because of diapers. I fuckin' avoided them for the longest time because it was that whole ecosphere of floppy male bravado. Sure, you can call a man a faggot, but it's really only insulting if it's from poor conscious decisions or education. A man who's strongly attracted to a being of the same sex is not automatically flawed because of it. Love is a connection of mind and body, which men and women both have. Anyway, effectively I was bearing insults from them from a game I wasn't even playing: that to be a rough-and-tough punk. Perhaps if I was trying to become a gangbanger, then there would be certain things I ought to be insulted for because they were poor qualities unbecoming for their ideal of a roughneck street enforcer.

"Such as being gay?"

"Such as being effeminate, which I'm not but there are many homosexuals who enjoy the feminine aesthetic. Booty is still booty under a skirt."

"Ah."

"And I do hold competition very dear, because what is competition besides a contest of discrete groups of qualities and virtues? A man that possesses and effectively utilizes more of that distinct quality and virtue will win. These contests are playful war games in which we sharpen the values we desire to use in life."

"What qualities and virtues does a gangbanger have?" asked Ceylon.

"Survival, I think," said Kioga. "Resilience. Street smarts, which is merely 'common sense' for difficult urban environments. Loyalty."

"Do you think Mort demonstrated any of those?"

"Not at all, and I guess that's why I'm so disappointed in him. The cough medicine really hampered him. I can see how partying with friends, with or without chemicals, can establish an atmosphere of brotherhood. Tonight, he obviously crossed the line of loyalty, even honor, by endangering an ally of the gang: that would be me and by extension, you."

The gryphon grinned. "And to take such a large dose, that in itself demonstrates a great degree of resilience. And equipping a knife for a questionable area demonstrates street smarts! Except for the part where he tried to attack us. He knew, by walking up to you in the first place, Who. You. Were."

"Jesus, and he pulled the knife on me."

"You did spook a hallucinating man."

"Ah, and then I morphed into a ... I wonder what he saw. Definitely good reason to talk to him once he detoxifies," the cheetah said, then gulped as his guts felt precariously empty, a prison block without prisoners ... but nothing at the rear gate, either.

Ceylon allowed himself a small smirk as he recognized Kioga's bathroom face. "Good thing we're headed back, hmm?"

"Yeah, this parking lot has enough skidmarks."

"Heh," snorted Ceylon, checking himself. His onesie was excellently stretched and smooth over a broad, protruding bulge; he'd been able to wear his diaper all day and had a few gratifying bladder voids. Very wet. Very thick. Very nice, now that he got the time to notice it. "Though here is a question; perhaps I got some nebulized cough medicine off him. Do you think that perhaps he saw the anthroid form in its full, holistic state?"

Kioga's eyes fluttered. "Excuse me?" he said, and felt his anus get rather warm.

"That's the silly and bold way to say it," said Ceylon. He sat down on a nearby bench and let his knees spread apart, totally relaxed. His pelvic cradle lowered down into a swathe of swollen padding, which supported him. "I'm thinking of those medical charts where you see an anthroid body with all its systems laid out: digestive, nervous, muscle, skeleton, so on, except it's on a metaphysical level where you also see the million highways of their memories and imagination, spreading out from their brain like a network of film strips. I don't quite have the scientific words for it because our science has not reached the end of the universe--unlike Mister Pendrael--and so do you think, maybe, that in his drugged state he saw the, um..." Ceylon counted on his fingers. "Six? Dimensions that a person could be seen as existing in."

Kioga's tail flagged and he felt his pucker stretch and grow wet. There was already a loaf in his disposable undies, and soon it was going to get friends. "Nnngh ... Run that by me again."

"This is incredibly unscientific of me but hey. Cavemen had to start with fire," the gryphon said with a shrug, pacing on the street as best he could around a robust and swollen diaper strap of his own. "Let's say there are six dimensions: X,Y,Z, then Time, Memory, and Imagination."

"Memory's localized within the brain."

"But they are recordings. And mutable ones at that."

"So a person's coordinates are not only their location, but also time and their mental state," said Kioga. "Oh!" the cheetah then interjected, snapping his fingers. "You're saying that perhaps Mort saw us, and our history, and our memories, and our aspirations."

"Logically, it's more likely he saw his own memories and aspirations, and then a few floodgates, as it were, were broken down by the cough medicine. Which of course spilled over onto us; likely some fears as well. But wouldn't it be neat?"

"To see a person's programming code? Yeah sure," Kioga said, then held up a finger. There was a muffled crackle, then a couple sputters. The cheetah frowned; he knew there were more prisoners sneaking around. This was only a tiny jailbreak through his sewers. "Ahem. So we have associations such as Memory being linked to Time Past, and Imagination is Time Future. Hold on; that means that Memory and Imagination are on the same axis. That's just one dimension; merely positive and negative."

Ceylon squinted, partly from the question and partly because that piquant stench was like pinched fingers tweaking his sinuses. "Oof, we are getting you changed immediately."

"I'm not done."

"Training potty," Ceylon countered, then continued. "And this is where I'd have to ask Pendrael, or rather, resist asking him because who knows how long that seminar would be. I can see a pocket dimension and a seven-year lecture, then I blink and five minutes have passed and my fur is more silver than gray. Anyway, five or six dimensions; whichever, it is not easier to envision anyway. Memory is a cluster of events that have happened, an analysis of sorts from the four previous dimensions, whereas Imagination is more projective. It constructs events and theories that do not currently exist. And can even modify Memories, according to biases."

"Yeah, but that's just bad memory. Or dishonest memory."

"Do you truly think there is any information storage that does not lose any fidelity along the way?"

"Well sure, but the parts that do exist still exist. When Mort tells us his story, how will we know, through which lens he saw us? If he remembers at all..."

"I would just lean on objective, perceivable reality ... as usable a gauge that is for approximating the unperceivable. If what he saw isn't consistent with us, then it's probably from his own mind. Therefore, not some magic phoropter for seeing your thought patterns."

"Reasonable," said Kioga, then nodded toward the stairs of their apartment. "Let's go ahead and wrap this up. As you said, I'm definitely in need of a change."

"Love and nose blindness can definitely patch a diaper partnership," the gryphon said with a chuckle. "Is it because I've been around you for so long, or is it because I've been around your ... odor for so long?"

The gryphon and cheetah swished up the stairs, into their apartment, and disrobed down to their onesies, then were amorous enough to give each other diaper checks while sharing a few nuzzles and smooches. Kioga was escorted briskly to a changing table set up in the corner of their gaming living room, then was laid down upon it so the proper ministrations could take place.

Having, indeed, gained at least a decent resistance and familiarity to his partner's more brash bathroom fragrances, Ceylon did not apply any menthol to his nose before he opened the crotch snaps on Kioga's onesie, helped his tail out the back, then pushed the thing above his navel.

The cheetah wore a hardy but standard AB-printed adult diaper, something with stripes on either side of the brief's absorbent center and pleasant cartoon cubs printed all over the place. These cubs were race car drivers, but half of them deigned to wear a race helmet but no suits, thus exposing their own diapers.

"You know, it's a good thing the cubs don't have printed diapers," Ceylon said, opening a nearby cabinet for the requisite cleaning supplies. "Else we would have an infinite loop of prints, with exponentially smaller cubs wearing this very diaper."

"You think we're just prints on a diaper?" asked Kioga.

The gryphon's eyes flashed and he thumped the powder down on the table, releasing a little poof. "Don't!" he said with a laugh, and then continued the changing. "But if the universe is a diaper, then what shape is it? Folded, splayed out, or taped up and used?"

"Don't!" laughed Kioga in return. "But I'm going to be thinking all night. If I have a weird dream, it's because of you."

Depending on the brand, there were perhaps three types of diaper, in total, when one was thoroughly soaked and/or soiled. It was tricky for Kioga and Ceylon to decide which was their favorite. The first type was the most professional, nearly holding its original shape aside from an increase in bulk, roundness, and smoothness in the crotch area and the rump. The second became more of a robust, hanging teardrop in the crotch, a uniform round crescent that wagged a bit when walking, the mass of gel in the back bringing inertia to every movement. The third, and perhaps the most honest, was the diaper whose gel gave it a small, repeating, bumpy texture when full. Much of this could be attributed to the thinness of the outer plastic shell, and as such the mass shifted quite drastically with every shift, and much moreso if the gel should distend and slide around its landing zone sleeve.

Kioga occasionally favored the third, even though these were the cheapest of diapers. "It's just more honest," the cheetah perkily said, even as it would all flop in a formless pile when he laid on his back.

"It is naked and I do like naked," Ceylon would say, "but it's not like the first two are not diapers. Either medically white or AB-cubby, it's all toward the same purpose of comfort and protection. So why not have a robust, form-retaining diaper instead?"

"Harder to make diaper checks if it looks normal the entire time."

"Oh, there's ways," Ceylon said with a grin and a hooked finger.

This time, Kioga wore the second type of diaper, the giant swinging pendulum pouch, and here on his back with his dirty diaper exposed, its mass formed a smooth peak from the top of his crotch, a puffy valley between the unspotted insides of his thighs, then down to form a wide, sprawling foothill down at the bottom. Ceylon ignored the party trick of slicing Kioga's tapes with his talons and instead peeled them off the diaper's front.

There was a certain, pleasant ceremony to an adult diaper change. Indeed there was intimacy and indeed there was necessity, but there was also beauty in the paraphilic sense. In this moment, Ceylon not only enjoyed opening his partner's diaper to clean his undercarriage, but also seeing how well that diaper had served him.

Kioga's onesie was as clean as fresh laundry, but the inside of that diaper was anything but. The top half of the strap was bloated and lightly yellowed, swollen like a caterpillar before its transformation. Under the cheetah's balls and up against his buttocks was a pile of mess, completely natural and biological but nonetheless radiating, pungent, and hazardous. The diaper had done its job, and what a nasty job that was.

Honorably served.

Ceylon resisted a salute and got to excavating. Disposable gloves were expensive and redundant when Kioga's immune system was ... probably stronger than COVID and polio combined at this point ... and especially so if they could resist the razor-sharp claws of beasts such as gryphons and cats with more-or-less retractable claws, depending. Kioga's were blunt by nature, aided by an occasional chewing habit. So Ceylon went in with adult-sized wipes, grabbing great clods of the bacteria-laden soil until enough of the buttocks was exposed for disposable combs, then a lovely invention called "cat wipes" which had small hooks in the cloth for deeper cleaning.

It was nice for a multitude of reasons to see his partner's genitals, though in the current state, as Ceylon lifted Kioga's scrotum to wipe some errant dung, then pulled his penis from the sheath to clean around the head and shaft, it was merely the healthful ministrations of care, especially to so sensitive and critical an area. On the whole--and wiping Kioga's hole--it was the support of another anthroid being.

Ceylon was almost sad when the area was clean, save for the mountain of wipes, combs, and cat wipes it took. It was more practical to take a shower, but then again, it was more practical to eat a calorie bar than spend a few hours cooking a lavish meal. Beauty and passion was an integral part of sentient life. A rose is useless, but it smells fantastic. It feeds the head, therefore the soul.

The gryphon smiled at his partner's face, delighted that he had to resist staring at the cheetah's provocative region. It was a very neat area, and what was a diaper but Christmas wrapping? Ceylon slid the disaster garment out, wrapped up all the soiled wipes, then tossed it in the bio-bin. The new one came out and the gryphon held it up like a bottle of wine or a fine cut of beef, and Kioga nodded.

"Very excellent choice, suh," he said in his ponciest accent, then got to work.

"Is that aaaaaall, stranger?" Kioga asked.

Ceylon smacked the cheetah's nursery-clean butt with a wipe. "You stoppit."

Putting the diaper back on, it almost as precious as the cleaning and removal of the old one. There was pleasure in using powder and dusting the other's groin and rump for protection, smell, and comfort, but all in all it was like putting a new pair of underwear on. It looked best once it was on.

He taped it up no problem and smiled. When he helped Kioga raise his hips to get his onesie back around him, Ceylon stole a nuzzle to his smooth, diapered crotch and Kioga stroked his head.

"We don't have anywhere to go for a while," the cheetah purred.

"Well yes, but I'm sure I'll be leaking by the time I've had my fill. These things are like hourglasses."

"Well there we go; analog watches!"

"Well yes," Ceylon said, laying belly-down on the changing table, his chin resting on Kioga's white, AB-printed crotch, "but you would have to ensure your fluid levels and exertion are consistent. And gel levels, and blah blah blah. Arduous mess that I would love to help you with," said the lynx-osprey with a grin. "I'll get my charts and formulas."

"Yes, you do love my arduous messes."

"Oh, it's purely scientific," he said, his chin sweeping across the soft plastic surface. "No ulterior motive."

"Interior motive, however."

He pat-patted the white printed triangle and winked, then raised his hips. Ceylon pulled the crotch straps of the cheetah's onesie and snapped them about his protective underwear. Then Kioga slipped off the table. "Depending who's on top," he said, walking to his computer with a languid flip-flop of his tail.

Kioga admired the view, but then flicked his eyes to the stout convex undercurve at the base of the gryphon's onesie.

"Heeeey!" Kioga called out. "I thought I was smelling lamb!"

The gryphon's tail jumped into an upright position and he turned his head, unwittingly letting Kioga admire the view. The cheetah sashayed over to him and from behind, squeezed him tight, blushing as his fur spiked and blood rushed to certain parts. Even through his own diaper, the back of Ceylon's was quite warm. A vigorous, earthy fragrance wafted out the rear of the gryphon's onesie collar.

"Looks like someone else needs a change, too."

But the gryphon was a few parallel universes ahead, and helped one of the paws on his chest down to the front, which was firm with gel but not yet a large bulbous pod.

"Ah-ah; so soon would be wasteful," he said with a grin, then reached back between them and tickled Kioga's stomach until they disengaged. "A couple hours of games and we'll be ready to go."

"Because you'll have gone. Don't forget a towel or changing mat! Just because it's a crappy office chair doesn't mean it literally has to be a cra--"

"Yes, yes; that's the point," Ceylon said, though it was easy to tell, by the stiffness of his facial lynx tufts, he was a bit flustered by the sultry state of his diaper. Kioga couldn't help but comment.

"So if the universe is a diaper," the cheetah said, observing the gryphon's bulged back seat, stretching out his space onesie, "then technically aren't you bending time?"

Ceylon giggled, then hesitated to sit down as he hovered his distended pouch over the chair. It spread out against the seat and spread up and around the gryphon's seat. "Well, to be honest time always flies, or seems to slow down, when I'm around you."

"Does that mean that we are--"

"No," he promptly said, "It is only a matter of perception. Just think of a world of eight billion solipsists, each one living in their own universe and yet interacting with each other without a ton of Error 404s, grinding gears, and train crashes."

"Yeah, that might be simpler."

The two gamed early into the morning, even catching Wesley, Lasmo, and Sahasrahla playing their own. There did come a time when, in the middle of a mini-raid in Clowns and Castles, Kioga heard Ceylon's wings ruffle and snap, and he turned to see a very stiff posture. Stuck in the middle of a boss battle, the cheetah tried to staple his attention back to the tasks at hand, though he noticed the gryphon was getting a little ... heavy in the rear-end.

"Leaking?" he asked.

"What? Naaaah," said Wesley over the line, "I'm ... I forgot this is a cloth diaper. Actually I'm soaked and this chair is fucked."

"Wissie, ah God damn it!" also came over his mic, Kyrie's voice echoing in the kitchen.

"Does the recklessness ever become tiring?" asked Sahasrahla. The HR skink, the most reserved of the group, one who would give a timid, "Oh, pardon me," even as she filled her diaper with distinct wet rattles, tried to get into PC gaming with the Crew, but only managed to figure out Party Chat and went back to Solitaire.

"Uhm, it can have its consequences," Ceylon said, shifting in his chair as they battled the boss. "Kinda hoping for a wipe. Oooooor several."

Kioga giggled, then went into overdrive, leading the three of them into a zen moment where their powers converged, hand-lasers and bullets and endless handkerchief ropes flew, and the boss exploded with the honk of a bicycle horn and flung presents everywhere.

The cheetah got up from his chair, his own diaper exactingly flat on the bottom from steady bladder leakage, and he sauntered over to the gryphon's chair where the atmosphere got a bit muggy.

The bottom of Ceylon's onesie was an even darker color, and all around his hips and thighs was a wide, dark patch on the towel. "How ya feeling?" the cheetah asked.

"Swampy," the gryphon gulped, "but quite warm?"

"Good?" the cheetah smirked, getting a bit dizzy as his groin bloomed in his own wet padding.

"Yeah!"

It was time for a shower and a change.