Aeonis/Shiro

The author's openly demonstrated fetish.

It's also harder, in general, to get traction compared to the eye-catching quality and easy digestibility of art. That goes for both gallery sites and social media.

I don't think that's a reason to give up, though! I'd love to see more people join our little niche of the community.

Shiro, my Zorua kiddo, is very shy when it comes to people seeing his mouth, which is why it usually stays tucked behind his thick neck-fluff.

His diapers, on the other hand? Of course he'll show you those if you ask. They're just what big kids wear. No shame in that!

All of my creative energy is being funneled into one place right now.

Sounds like a good time to resume reposting my greatest hits from the former-birdsite-turned-fascist-spawning-ground.

This story oscillates rapidly between "Haha, sexy vixen pees herself :3" and "Being a mercenary is dangerous work, and it's sobering how much and how easily life is wasted in war and survival".

Not exactly what I thought I was making when I started out. But hey, I'll take it.

#tmi #messy #gross: Teen baby kit waddling into the school's medical office, head low, cheeks pink, seat sagging underneath his slacks. There, the nurse's familiar smile greets him—a pleasantry he exchanges with an awkward, half-hearted wave, wordless and bashful.

Then, through the thin stream of students, he spots the only person whose steps align with the dying noise: a fox just like him, an elegant girl his age, with a long skirt reaching below her knees—and the subtlest outline of something thick and puffy behind it.

Was she...?

But as he stands languishing in his misery, his ears suddenly catch a curious noise—the most faint, most familiar of bulky crinkles growing louder, passing by him, trailing into the distance.

His head snaps. All around him, he peers at his peers. He couldn't have imagined it.

Out in the hall, at least, with the bustle of lunchtime around, he can breathe easier. He stares behind him, checks the seat of his pants, to see how obvious the droop now is. A calm sigh escapes his nose.

Today is going to be a long day. He'll be lucky if he's clean before bed.

The nurse smiles at him with the usual cordiality of a job well done; he simpers back—timid, begrudging politeness. He leaves the office, intimately aware of how much more slosh to his step there is. To his trained ears, the sound is utterly, mortifyingly loud.

His loose-fit slacks are finally pulled back on, letting him sit up, helped to the edge and back to solid ground by the nurse. His seat bounces with gross, awful weight as his shoes hit the floor. A shudder runs his spine—not enjoyed, but not...wholly unpleasant either.

With that, like magic, the odor surrounding him seems to all but vanish, save a few lingering wisps fading like foul perfume. That scent—his mysterious classmate's scent—now belongs to him and him alone, same as the warmth cradling his rear like a distant hug.

The nurse moves to finish. Up again come his plastic pants, fitted over the puffy, mushy underwear he's been forced to don. Once more, they retrieve their key, slot it into the lock, and, with a twist and a tug, secure him inescapably in his new, very warm, very dirty diaper.

It's humiliating every time, wearing another's messy diaper. And just as the nurse claimed, everything is indeed fresh, from the mulch hugging his contours and moving through his legs, to the hot spot puddled and soaked beneath his sack. A girl's diaper, indeed.

The diaper's secondhand, still-warm contents quickly envelop him once the front comes up, retaped snugly by deft paws working swift. Fingers probe his inner thighs, fixing the fit. The teen fox simply keeps quiet, his face flush with color as though he were burning alive.

His muffled moans, his soft whines are less out of disgust or displeasure, and more resignation. He knows better than to argue; as experience has taught him, struggling only makes it worse.

Last week, this used to be an occasional punishment. Now, it's every day.

Out slides his old diaper, rolled and taped and tossed; in slides his "new" diaper, unpackaged, laid out, heavy atop his tail. Powder and rash cream can only do so much to prepare him for the sensation of being swaddled in filth, as his rump touches down and sinks in the muck.

It's nothing new to him—a routine, really, as his bottom is raised, his legs lifted above his head, his pants untaped, his hind cleaned with countless wipes. The pink parcel—a girl's diaper, most likely—disappears from his periphery soon after. His cheeks glow crimson.

It's even worse for wear than his own—yellowed all over revealing stained spots under the surface, with its leg-cuffs bulging, smeared a light brown. It practically radiates heat, and odor, while sitting next to his cheek.

"Don't worry. It's fresh," the nurse comforts him. As if that's any better.

Shortly, the nurse returns with something in their mitts, gently placed atop the mat beside the fox's head. A sickly-sweet, foul aroma drowns his nostrils. His eyes glance from ceiling to side, spying the object: a large, balled-up, pastel pink youth diaper.

For a moment, vexed but seemingly unbothered, the nurse ponders. Then, they snap their fingers and depart to the side of the table—to where the diaper pail is.

The teen doesn't even watch; he simply listens, hearing the lid pop off, rummaging hands, rustling plastic. He knows.

Immediately, an acrid scent, as if magically released from its prison, fills the room. His powder blue diaper has seen better days, its shell bloated and mottled yellow. His backend fairs no better, though the leak-guards, despite their brown staining, hold firm against the tide.

A closer inspection proves necessary. From their hip, the nurse retrieves a ring, brandishes a small copper key—a copy of the one the kit's parents have. Into the lock around his waistline it goes, loosening the chain with a twist. Down his legs, inch by inch, comes his cover.

Soon, the nurse is by his side with face masked and paws gloved, reaching through his wedged legs to push against the translucent blue layer of his locking plastic pants—checking, or perhaps admiring, the damage beneath. His diaper is squidgy and warm, swollen front to back.

They ask no questions, waste no time beckoning him in, patting the large mat of the diaper changing station against the wall—his invitation. He knows the drill by now: hop up, shimmy around, lay back on the pillow, pants to his ankles, await judgment.

#tmi #messy #gross: Teen baby kit waddling into the school's medical office, head low, cheeks pink, seat sagging underneath his slacks. There, the nurse's familiar smile greets him—a pleasantry he exchanges with an awkward, half-hearted wave, wordless and bashful.

I love you guys, but I wish I could turn off some of your reposts.

Sometimes, all I get done for the day is writing a few lines of dialogue.

And that's okay. Incremental progress is still progress.

The very fact we're still here, living in this world, growing, changing, thriving—all this, despite adversity—is one great big success. And I think that's beautiful.

Sometimes, I think I get a little too indulgent describing things. I'm like the Tolkien of diaper literature—except Tolkien was actually good.