Victory tastes like sweat and cheap lime. It sticks to the back of the throat.
Barret McKean hates it.
The shark sat heavy in the booth, a monolith of grey cartilage and muscle amidst the frenetic energy of the bar. The air was thick, recycled — scents of spilled lager, damp fur, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone drifting off the neon signs. He wanted a whiteboard. He wanted game tape. He wanted to dissect the third-quarter defensive breakdown, not drown the memory of it in alcohol.
But the team is a hydra of peer pressure. They don’t want a captain right now; they want a drinking buddy.
So he sat. He stared at the glass in front of him. A Spiced Pear Old Fashioned. The ice cube was melting, diluting the amber liquid, swirling with the condensation sliding down the glass. He took a sip. Gingerly. It burns, then sweetens. A distraction.
His mind drifted to the bartender.
A Labrador. Yellow, golden-hued under the warm pendant lights. He had a smile that wasn’t just service-industry polite; it was a hook. A playful, knowing grin that pulled at something behind Barret’s ribs. A spark. Uncertainty. The shark had wanted to hold that gaze, to let the noise of the bar fade into a tunnel with just the two of them at either end, to see if the tension was real or just the adrenaline of the win.
But the moment snapped. The drink arrived. The Lab turned away to slice lemons. The connection severed, leaving a phantom itch.
“And he was talking so much shit when I faked him out on the screen,” Wes Irwin sayed. The crocodile is all teeth and snapping jaws, his tail thumping a rhythm against the floorboards. “Like, ‘Bitch, try that again. Nope! Try that again! Oh wait, what’s this? Try that again!’ And I psyched him the fuck out for the rest of the quarter.”
Josh Caine leaned in, the badger’s eyes glittering with malice and mirth. “You think he’s going to cry on social media about it? I bet he will. He’ll tag you and try to act like a holier-than-thou white knight protecting the ‘love of the game.'”
Josh mimicked a typing motion, claws clicking against the tabletop. “And when he gets his punk-ass checked, he cries foul against the ‘haters’ for not respecting. If you’re going to roll like that, retire. Get out of the game. Let the new generation in.”
“For real,” Wes says, swirling his drink. “Everyone knows his bullshit, though. Even his fans can’t wait for him to dust off like the Thanos snap.”
A low sound rumbled in Barret’s chest. A chuckle, involuntary. “That’s ice cold, but funny. That’s a prison shank of a joke.”
Josh pivoted, pointing a claw at Barret. “Triple-double. You fucking killed it, bro. You were crazy. I don’t know if anyone slipped something extra in your Gatorade, but that was something, man.” He laughed with a sharp, barking sound. “But pass the ball, bro. Give us some love, will you?”
He’s a wall. A literal wall. But damn if he doesn’t carry us.
Barret nodded, the motion stiff. “Yeah, yeah. I should have, but I was in the zone.”
“That’s why we ain’t mad at you,” Wes interjected, slapping a scaled hand onto Barret’s shoulder. The impact is solid, grounding. “I mean, we won. The Bandits usually nail us to the cross on the clutch, but you created a good buffer for us with the spread at the end of the fourth. I’m grateful.”
Wes grinned, showing too many teeth. “You double-dicked their whole squad.”
Barret laughed again, louder this time, the alcohol finally loosening the knot in his chest. “Not all sharks have two dicks.”
Josh smirked. “Wes likes guys with twins.”
The table went quiet for a microsecond. The air shifted.
“Oh my God,” Barret muttered.
The door to the bar didn’t just open; it was shoved, a violent intrusion of cold night air that cut through the stagnant warmth of the room. Barret felt the draft hit the back of his neck first, a sudden chill that made his gills flare instinctively beneath his shirt.
The shift in the room was immediate. The ambient chatter — a low hum of complaints about referees and the wet slap of beer mugs on wood — died down, replaced by a ripple of hushed, urgent whispers.
“Oh shit,” someone muttered near the entrance. “It’s Brad.”
Barret’s spine locked. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The scent hit him a second later —not the usual musk of damp fur and spilled lager, but something sharper. Expensive. Sandalwood and ozone, with a faint, underlying note of something sweet, like burnt sugar. It was an arrogant and undeniable smell that announced itself.
“Hathaway?” Barret said, the name tasting like ash in his mouth.
He turned slowly, the leather of the booth creaking under his weight. And there he was.
Brad Hathaway. The Bandits’ star shooting guard. A grey husky who wore his arrogance like a second skin. He stood framed by the doorway, the neon Budweiser sign above him casting a halo of electric red over his fur. He wasn’t in a jersey tonight. Instead, he wore a tropical shirt that was an assault on the senses —bright teal and canary yellow palms against a black background — unbuttoned low enough to show a expanse of grey chest fur and a heavy silver chain that caught the light with every breath. His pants were a tight, alarming shade of crimson that rocked his thighs, and rose-tinted aviators hid his eyes, though Barret could feel the weight of his gaze even through the lenses.
He was beautiful. It was an objective fact, like gravity or the final buzzer. Barret had spent three seasons trying to convince himself that his appreciation for Brad was purely aesthetic, a professional acknowledgment of a well-maintained physique. But as Brad sauntered into the room, hips rolling with a loose, somewhat predatory grace, that lie crumbled. It wasn’t just appreciation. It was a hunger that sat heavy in Barret’s gut, right next to the Spiced Pear Old Fashioned.
Brad didn’t look around for a table. He walked straight toward them, cutting a path through the crowd like a ship breaking ice. He stopped right at the edge of their booth, close enough that Barret could see the individual droplets of condensation on his sunglasses.
“Lucky,” Brad said. His voice was a low rasp. He smirked, a flash of white teeth against grey muzzle. “Lucky we had an off-night. Y’all are one and three with us.”
Wes bristled instantly, his tail thumping an angry rhythm against the floorboards. “Oh, okay,” the crocodile growled, leaning forward until his snout was inches from Brad’s midsection. “And swept in the fucking playoffs last year. Your ass ate paint on the paint. You shot blanks and bricks, bro.”
Brad didn’t even flinch. He just chuckled, a sound that was more breath than humor. He leaned down, resting one hand on the back of the empty chair next to Barret. His fingers were long, manicured, the claws blunt but heavy.
“And after that, what happened then? Tell me, man, what happened?” Brad’s voice dropped an octave, turning silky and cruel. He tilted his head, the rose-tinted glasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal ice-blue eyes that locked onto Wes but flickered, for a split second, to Barret. “Oh, that’s right. Your dome went foggy after losing from my faders in the corner. Your boy forgot to jump ’cause he was busy rockin’ the kneepads on the hardwood like, ‘Give me more, daddy ’cause my girl left me, and you’re all I got.'”
The gross insult hung in the air.
Barret snorted. It started as a scoff and erupted into a loud, ungraceful guffaw. He couldn’t help it. The sheer audacity of it, the theatricality — it was fucking ridiculous.
Brad’s head snapped toward him. The smirk vanished, replaced by a look of sharp, focused interest. He took a step closer, invading Barret’s personal space. The scent of sandalwood and burnt sugar intensified.
“What’s so funny, McKean?” Brad asked softly.
Barret looked up, meeting that gaze head-on. He took a slow sip of his drink, letting the silence stretch, letting the tension pull tight between them.
“I think,” Barret said, keeping his voice steady, “that being outflanked by a team of rookies and getting blocked by our shortest boy off the bench is pretty damn funny.”
The table erupted in laughter, a release of nervous energy. But Brad didn’t look away. He didn’t get angry. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He leaned in further, until his muzzle was almost brushing Barret’s ear. Barret could feel the heat radiating off him, could hear the soft intake of his breath.
“Oh, the nepo baby baller has something to say,” Brad murmured, the words a caress rather than a jab. “That’s adorable. Someone get that boy a pacifier.”
I wonder if he tastes as expensive as he smells.
Barret waved Brad away dismissively. Brad left the table and tilted his snout up at the team as if to indicate he was above their existence.
“Are you going to take that shit?” Josh said to Barret, poking him playfully in the ribs. “C’mon, Barret.”
“We’ll play him again,” Barret said. “We got his number. We know what he’s about.”
Wes laughed and took a hearty swig of his pint. “Yeah, but I’d low-key love to see you kick his bougie ass in the back alley.”
Barret shook his head. “Nah. Next time in court, we’ll dominate. Count on it.”
***
The Bandits played against The Hawks one month later and lost, thanks to a buzzer-beater from Brad Hathaway.
This time, the game took place in the Hawks’ home turf. The team sat at a table in a local restaurant, feeling more subdued this time around. Barret felt the sting of the loss, but he experienced his share of losses before. It was a hard-fought game, and Barret couldn’t find much fault in the way his team played. However, he scored slightly over ten points, and shot poorly from the start at five and twenty-two. He realized he was trying to show off against Brad with his sharpshooting three-pointers, but Brad managed to get him rolling onto the floor a few times with a few strategic fouls that took Barret out of the game. The shark lost his footing and Brad successfully took Barret’s mind out of the game, taking out all of his momentum leading into the fourth quarter.
Barret appeared more visibly upset at the outcome than the others. He chased perfection, but he felt that he failed to pull his weight on the team, despite having a solid amount of assists and defensive stops. He sat in the booth, staring at the ceiling, fixating on the ceiling fan slowly cycling the air above him. He wanted to go over the game with the team. But once again, his teammates were more interested in talking about anything else.
“Don’t get all mopey,” Wes said to Barret. “We’ll bounce back. We always do.”
“This wasn’t playoff material,” Barret said morosely. “I’m sorry, but it wasn’t.”
His teammates tried to console Barret, opting to crack jokes instead of revisiting issues with their playing in the game. After feeling like he wasn’t getting anywhere with the team, Barret excused himself and headed to the restroom. “Going to hit the john. Don’t wait up for me,” Barret said as he walked away from the table.
“Oh, that bad, huh?” Wes said to Barret. “We’ll send a search party and a plumber if you’re not back at the hotel after an hour, alright?”
Barret didn’t respond. He kept walking to the restroom.
The restroom door swings shut behind Barret, cutting off the murmur of the restaurant and the clatter of silverware. The silence there was heavy, punctuated only by the low, electric hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the dripping of a faucet somewhere in the distance. It smelled of industrial lemon cleaner and stale water.
Barret moved to the urinal, his steps heavy on the tile. He felt drained, not just from the game, but from the weight of the loss, the way it sits in his gut like a stone. He unzipped, staring blankly at the white porcelain, his mind still replaying the fourth quarter — the missed shots, the fouls, the way Brad had looked at him with that smug, untouchable grin.
Then he heard it.
A shuffle of feet from the stall next to him. A frantic, wet sound. And then the unmistakable splash of liquid hitting the floor.
“No, no, no!”
The voice was a hiss, tight with panic. It’s familiar, but wrong. Stripped of its usual cadence, its usual arrogance.
Barret paused, his hand freezing on his zipper. He looked down. Dark liquid is spreading out from under the stall door, pooling in the grout lines of the beige tile. It’s moving fast, a silent, creeping accusation.
Curiosity, that dangerous thing, took over. He zipped his fly. He stepped back, turning toward the stall. The door is ajar, just a crack, the latch evidently broken or not fully engaged.
He pushed it open with two fingers.
The sight that greets him is so incongruous, so utterly at odds with reality, that his brain refused to process it for a full second.
Brad Hathaway stood there. The Bandit. The buzzer-beater. The husky who had just ended their night with a flick of his wrist.
He was pantless. His shorts are pooled around his ankles, tangled with his underwear. And around his waist was a thick, white disposable diaper.
It was not a prop. It was not a joke. It was functional, and it failed. The back of it was sagging, heavy and dark with saturation. The plastic backing crinkled as Brad shifted his weight, a sound that seemed deafened in the small space. He was gripping the waistband, knuckles white, trying to peel the tapes loose, but his paws were shaking. Urine leaked down his legs, soaking into the fur of his thighs, dripping onto the floor where it joins the expanding puddle.
Brad froze as the door swung open. He looked up, his eyes wide, the pupils blown. The rose-tinted glasses are gone, leaving nothing to hide the sheer, naked panic in his gaze.
For a moment, neither of them breathes. The only sound is the drip, drip, drip of the leak.
Barret stared. He took in the thick padding between Brad’s legs, the way it bulged, the wet, dark patch spreading up the back. He took in the trembling of Brad’s hands, the way his ears are pinned back against his skull. This is the dog who called him a nepo baby. This is the canine who strutted into the bar like he owned the air they breathed.
“What in the ever-loving fuck?” Barret whispered, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
Brad flinched as if struck. He made a desperate, futile attempt to cover himself, his paws fluttering uselessly over the bulk of the diaper.
“Get out,” Brad snarled, but there’s no bite in it. His voice cracks, high and thin. “Get the fuck out, McKean!”
He looks like a kicked puppy. A kicked puppy in a wet diaper.
Barret didn’t move, though. He couldn’t. The shock rooted him to the spot. He looked from Brad’s face down to the mess on the floor, then back up. The smell of fresh urine was strong now, mixing with the lemon cleaner, creating a nauseating cocktail.
“Oh my fucking God. You…” Barret started, but his voice trailed off. There are no words for this. There is no playbook for finding your rival half-naked and wetting himself in a public restroom.
Brad closed his eyes, a shudder running through his frame. “Just — just go,” he whispered, the arrogance completely dissolved, leaving only a raw, jagged shame. “Please.”
But Barret was still looking. He looked at the way the diaper cut into Brad’s hips, the way the wetness made the fur dark and matted. And somewhere, beneath the shock and the confusion, a different kind of spark ignited. Not the anger of the game. Not the annoyance of the bar. Something darker. Something heavier.
He took a step forward.
The silence that stretched between them was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the tiled walls. It smelled of ammonia, cheap lemon cleaner, and the sharp, undeniable scent of fresh urine.
Barret didn’t move. The alcohol in his system, usually a dulling agent, now sharpened his senses to a razor’s edge. He watched Brad, really watched him, and the shock that had initially paralyzed him began to curdle into something darker. Here was the arrogance of the Bandits, the husky who had just ended their night with a smirk and a flick of the wrist, reduced to a trembling mess in a public restroom in a sopping wet diaper.
Brad was frozen. His paw hovered uselessly over the sodden bulk of the diaper, but he didn’t pull his pants up. He didn’t run. He just stood there, breathing heavily through his maw, his eyes locked on Barret’s face. He was waiting. Waiting for the laugh, the phone camera, the shout that would bring the rest of the team running.
But Barret didn’t laugh.
Instead, he took a slow step forward. The sound of his shoe on the tile was like a gunshot.
Brad flinched, a full-body shudder that made the wet plastic between his legs crinkle audibly. His gaze dropped, unable to hold the shark’s stare, but it didn’t hit the floor. It landed on Barret’s belt buckle.
And then, slowly, agonizingly, Brad’s hand moved. It wasn’t to cover himself. His fingers, trembling and manicured, drifted to the front of the diaper. He pressed his palm against the thick, wet padding, rubbing it in a slow, circular motion. It was a gesture of pure, abject humiliation. But there was a heat behind it, a desperate, pathetic need that radiated off him in waves.
Barret felt a jolt go straight to his groin. The sight of it — the powerful athlete, the rival, standing there in a soaked diaper, touching himself in front of the man who could ruin his life — was intoxicating. It was better than winning. It was total domination.
The power Barret held in that moment was absolute. He could destroy Brad with a single text. He could end his career. But that potential energy didn’t go into his phone. It went straight to his paws.
Barret reached down. The sound of his belt unbuckling was slow, deliberate. Click. Slide. He held Brad’s gaze now, forcing the husky to look up, to see exactly what was happening. He unzipped his fly, the metal teeth parting with a rasp, and pulled his cock free. It was already hard, heavy and aching with a sudden, violent lust. He wrapped his paw around the shaft, stroking it slowly, rhythmically.
Brad let out a whimper, a broken sound that got caught in his throat. His eyes widened, the pupils blown so wide they swallowed the blue. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. His paw on his diaper moved faster, matching the rhythm of Barret’s strokes, the wet plastic squelching softly with every movement.
“You like it, don’t you?” Barret growled. It wasn’t a question. “You like being a big baby.”
Brad gasped. Sweat was beading on his forehead, matting the grey fur there. He nodded, a jerky, frantic motion. “Y-yes,” he whispered.
“You like being seen,” Barret continued, stepping closer until he towered over the husky. He could smell the musk of arousal mixing with the scent of the accident. “You like being seen by someone who knows exactly what you are. A little piss-pants brat who can’t even make it through a game.”
He stroked himself faster, his eyes boring into Brad’s humiliated soul. “You clearly need a bigger man to change you since you can’t change yourself.”
Brad’s knees buckled slightly. He leaned back against the stall partition for support, his hips bucking involuntarily against his own hand. “Please,” he huffed. “I just… I need…”
Barret stopped. The sudden stillness was more jarring than the movement. He adjusted himself, tucking his hardness back into his pants, but he didn’t zip up immediately. He let Brad look for a second longer.
“Room 214 at the Hyatt,” Barret said sharply.
He’s going to show up. I know he is.
***
The air on the balcony tasted of salt and cold fog. Barret paced the small concrete slab, his claws clicking softly against the rough surface. Four steps to the railing, turn, four steps back to the sliding glass door. Inside, the room was a cave of shadows, the only light coming from the digital clock on the nightstand—11:45 PM — and the faint, amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the sheer curtains.
His heart was a trapped bird in his chest, battering against his ribs. The adrenaline from the game had curdled into something sharper, more volatile. He looked down at his hands. They were steady now, but ten minutes ago, in that restroom, they had been wrapped around his own cock, stroking it in front of a weeping, diapered rival.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
He wasn’t like this. On the court, sure. He was a shark. He smelled blood in the water and he struck. But this? This was different. This was intimate. This was predatory and exploitative in a way that made his stomach twist with a mixture of guilt and electric arousal. He had always been the observer, the quiet one in the corner of the locker room, dodging the towel snaps and the crude jokes. He didn’t initiate. He didn’t dominate.
And yet.
The image of Brad — arrogant, untouchable asshole Brad — rubbing his wet diaper while staring at Barret’s erection burned behind his eyelids. It was pathetic. It was disgusting. It was the hottest thing he had ever seen.
Did this make him gay? The question felt childish, reductive. He didn’t know. He didn’t care about labels right now. He cared about the power. He cared about the way Brad had looked at him, like Barret was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely.
A soft knock at the door cut through his spiral.
Barret froze. He wiped his palms on his sweatpants, took a breath that rattled in his lungs, and crossed the room. He didn’t turn on the light. He didn’t want to see this clearly. He wanted the blur.
He opened the door.
Brad stood in the hallway, looking smaller than Barret had ever seen him. He was wearing a hoodie now, pulled up to hide his face, and a duffel bag was slung over one shoulder. But below the waist, it was the same red shorts. Darker now. Heavier.
Barret ushered him in and shut the door, throwing the deadbolt with a loud clack.
“Did anyone see you?” Barret asked tightly.
“No,” Brad said. His voice was dry, brittle as dead leaves.
“Tell me the truth. No bullshit. Did anyone see you come up to my room?”
Brad shook his head, the motion jerky. “I took the stairs. The service ones.”
Barret looked down. In the dim light, the stain on Brad’s shorts was a black void spreading from his crotch down his inner thighs. The smell hit him then — urine, stale and sharp, mixing with the scent of rain and nervous sweat.
“You came here wearing the same diaper?” Barret grimaced, the disgust warring with that dark, curling heat in his gut. “Jesus, you probably leaked everywhere. You probably left a fucking trail up to my door. If no one saw you, they could definitely follow you here.”
“I wasn’t thinking about—”
Barret didn’t let him finish. He surged forward, slamming Brad back against the wall next to the closet. The impact knocked the breath out of the husky. Before Brad could react, Barret crushed his mouth against his.
It wasn’t a romantic kiss. It was a collision. Teeth clashed. Brad shoved at Barret’s chest, a reflex, a panic response. But Barret didn’t pull back. He pressed harder, one hand tangling in the fur at the back of Brad’s neck, forcing him to stay.
And then, Brad broke.
He made a small, desperate sound in his throat and melted. His paws, which had been pushing Barret away, grabbed handfuls of Barret’s shirt, pulling him closer. He opened his mouth, inviting the invasion, his tongue meeting Barret’s in a frantic, wet slide.
They broke apart, chests heaving. The room was silent except for their ragged breathing.
“I’ll do anything,” Brad whispered, looking up at Barret with eyes that were wide and wrecked.
“Anything to keep your secret?” Barret asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Anything to keep my secret.”
“Maybe you should—”
Brad didn’t wait for the command. He dropped to his knees. The sound of his wet knees hitting the carpet was a dull thud. His paws were shaking as he reached for Barret’s belt. The buckle jingled, a bright sound in the dark. Then the zipper.
Barret looked down. From this angle, Brad looked like a devotee at an altar. The husky fumbled, his fingers clumsy with haste, until he freed Barret’s cock. It sprang out hard and heavy, twitching in the cool air.
Brad hesitated. He leaned forward, sniffing. He inhaled the scent of Barret’s musk — salt, skin, and the faint, lingering smell of a man who passionately ran the court. Then, he opened his mouth.
He didn’t know what he was doing. That was obvious. He tried to take too much at once, and Barret felt teeth scrape against the sensitive head. Brad gagged, pulling back, coughing.
“Easy,” Barret murmured. But he didn’t sound gentle. He sounded hungry.
Brad tried again. Slower this time. He licked the tip, his tongue rough and wet, before sliding his lips down the shaft. He could only take half of it, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked.
Barret groaned, his head falling back. The sensation was incredible. The warmth of Brad’s mouth, the friction of his tongue, the sheer wrongness of it all — it was overwhelming. He looked down. Brad’s eyes were squeezed shut, his lashes wet. He was making small, wet noises, trying so hard to please the man who held his life in his hands.
Barret reached down, tangling his fingers in the fur between Brad’s ears. He didn’t pet him. He gripped him. He pushed his hips forward, forcing himself deeper into Brad’s throat.
Brad choked, his hands scrabbling at Barret’s thighs, but he didn’t pull away. He took it. He let Barret use his mouth like a sleeve.
He hates this. He hates this and he’s doing it anyway. God.
“You’ve pissed your pants a lot today,” Barret muttered, staring down at the top of Brad’s head. “So pathetic.”
Brad whimpered around the cock in his mouth, but he started to find a rhythm. Bobbing his head. Swallowing.
“You act so fucking tough,” Barret sneered, the cruelty spilling out of him like poison. “But you were pissing your pants in front of my team the whole time. While you were talking shit. While you were bragging.”
Brad quickened his pace, the suction tightening.
“I bet you can’t wait to wet your diaper again,” Barret whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed Brad’s ear. “Because you can’t stop yourself. Can you?”
Brad shook his head frantically, saliva spilling from the corner of his mouth, running down his chin.
The room smelled of sex and just the right amount of stale piss — a thick, cloying scent that hung heavy in the stillness. The only sound was the rough breathing of two men coming down from a high that had been equal parts adrenaline and filth.
Barret pulled back, his chest heaving. The frenzy had frightened him — the sheer, animalistic need to dominate, to use Brad’s mouth like a tool. It was too much, too fast. He needed a second to remember he was a person, not just a predator. He pressed a hand to Brad’s muzzle, a gentle, firm pressure that said stop.
Brad complied instantly. He slumped back on his heels, gasping, saliva stringing from his lips. His eyes were blown wide, glazed with a mix of shame and a terrifying, abject gratitude.
A few minutes later, the dynamic had shifted again. They were in the bed now, the sheets tangled around their legs. Barret lay on his back, fully naked, the cool air of the hotel room drying the sweat on his grey skin. Beside him, Brad was curled on his side, still wearing the hoodie, but below the waist, he was a mess. The diaper was heavy, ripe, and sodden bulk between his legs. The tapes straining against his hips, holding on for dear life.
Brad nuzzled into Barret’s side, seeking warmth, seeking contact. He smelled of expensive cologne that had turned sour with sweat, and beneath that, the sharp tang of urine. It was gross. It was intimate. Barret didn’t pull away.
Instead, he reached out, his hand tracing the line of Brad’s jaw, feeling the rough fur under his fingertips.
“What are we doing?” Barret asked. The question hung in the air, stripped of judgment, just pure, baffled incredulity.
Brad let out a short, humorless huff against Barret’s shoulder. “You tell me,” he murmured, a ghost of his usual smirk touching his lips before fading.
“You’re an exhibitionist?” Barret pressed, his thumb brushing over Brad’s cheekbone.
Brad went rigid for a second, then sighed, a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to deflate him. “I’m incontinent,” he said, the words tumbling out fast, like he wanted to get rid of them. “Been that way for a good chunk of my adult life. Started with wetting the bed occasionally at night. Then I’d feel the urge to go during the day, and before I could even move, I was soaking myself. Doctors told me their best guess was I was born with weak bladder muscles. So I wore ‘protection.'”
He shifted, the diaper squelching wetly. “And to get my mind off the ‘protection’ I was wearing, I played basketball. I poured everything into it. If I was the best, if I was untouchable on the court, then the… the other stuff didn’t matter. I got really good at basketball because I had to be.”
Barret looked at him, really looked at him. The arrogance was gone, peeled away to reveal something scared and exhausted.
“That’s debatable,” Barret said, the joke soft, lacking any real bite. “And by the way, it’s diapers, not ‘protection.’ Stop trying to make yourself cool with that corporate euphemism bullshit.”
Brad laughed. It wasn’t his media laugh, or his mocking laugh. It was genuine, a cracked, jagged sound that shook his shoulders. “Shut the fuck up, Barret,” he cackled, burying his face in the pillow.
He’s actually laughing. With me. In a wet diaper.
Barret felt a strange warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with lust. “So,” he said, his hand drifting down to rest on the thick, padded waistband of the diaper. “You gonna stay in this thing all night, or do you have a spare in that bag of yours?”
Brad flinched, then looked up, his eyes searching Barret’s face for mockery. Finding none, he swallowed. “I have spares. But… I can’t change myself right now. My paws are shaking too bad.”
Barret sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He looked at the bag on the floor, then back at Brad. The power dynamic was still there, but it had softened. It wasn’t about humiliation anymore. It was about care.
“Get the bag,” Barret said quietly. “I’ll do it.”
“Really?” Brad blinked, his ears twitching back in genuine surprise. The arrogance that usually armored him was gone, stripped away like the jersey he wasn’t wearing. He looked soft.
“I’m in it this far,” Barret said, his voice rough like gravel sliding down a chute. He ran a hand over his own scalp, feeling the familiar ridge of his dorsal fin beneath the skin. “I don’t think there’s any turning back, so yeah. Let’s do it.”
Brad didn’t argue. He scrambled off the bed, the heavy, sodden weight between his legs making him waddle slightly. He dug into his shoulder bag, the zipper hissing in the quiet room. Out came a thick, white diaper — clinical, functional — followed by a bottle of baby powder and a pack of wipes. He laid them out at the foot of the bed like surgical instruments.
“I have to say, though,” Barret started, watching the husky’s movements. “I’ve never changed anyone’s diaper before. Never in a million years would I imagine that I would but—”
“Here we are,” Brad interjected, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. “But if you’re willing to learn, I can show you. And take your time.”
Brad crawled back onto the bed. He shed the hoodie, tossing it onto the floor, leaving him completely bare except for the swollen, leaking diaper. He lay back, folding his arms behind his head, the muscles of his chest flexing as he settled. He looked up at Barret, a challenge sparking in his blue eyes. “Let’s see what you’re capable of, McKean.”
Barret paced for a moment, the carpet rough under his bare feet. “Take my time, huh?”
Brad nodded, his gaze dropping to Barret’s crotch, then back up.
Barret took a deep breath, the air tasting of stale hotel room and arousal. He stopped pacing. He stared at the diaper. It was a massive thing, the wetness turning the white material a translucent grey in the center.
Instead of reaching for the tapes, Barret crawled onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He moved slowly, deliberately, until he was looming over Brad’s hips. He lowered his head, hovering just inches from the bulge.
Brad’s eyes went wide. “What are you planning?”
Barret didn’t answer. He lowered his snout and pressed it directly into the front of the diaper.
It was warm. Hot, even. The plastic was slick against his nose, and beneath it, the padding was squishy, heavy with hours of urine. The smell hit him instantly — a pungent, ammonia-rich wave that should have been repulsive but instead sent a jolt of dark, twisted heat straight to his groin.
“So filthy,” Barret muttered, his voice muffled against the wet plastic. He pressed harder, burying his nose in the scent.
Brad’s back arched off the mattress. His toes curled, claws digging into the sheets. “Ohhhhhhh fuck!”
“Disgusting,” Barret groaned, inhaling deeply. He could smell the musk of the husky’s skin mixing with the sharp tang of piss. It was intoxicating. He moved his head, nuzzling into the warmth, feeling the heavy gel shift beneath the surface.
Brad let out a broken, high-pitched moan. Inside the diaper, his cock twitched, hardening rapidly. It pushed up against the wet padding, a distinct ridge forming under the plastic, grazing against the pressure of Barret’s snout. “Oh! Oh fuck!”
Barret felt it. The sudden hardness pressing back against him. He pulled back just enough to look at the tenting plastic, the way it throbbed with Brad’s pulse.
“You like this, don’t you?” Barret growled, his voice dropping to a lustful, predatory register. He ran his tongue over the front of the diaper, tasting the salt on the plastic.
Brad threw his arms back, his chest heaving. “Yes,” he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. “Yes, god, yes.”
He’s actually getting off on this. On me smelling his piss. Freak.
Barret smiled, a slow, predatory curling of his lip that showed just the edges of his serrated teeth. He pulled back from the plastic-wrapped bulge, the heat of it still ghosting against his snout. His hands, large and rough-skinned, moved to the tapes at Brad’s hips.
Rrrrip.
The sound was loud in the quiet room, a harsh tear of adhesive against plastic. He undid the left side, then the right. The front of the diaper fell forward, heavy and sodden, peeling away from Brad’s skin with a wet, sticky sound.
The smell hit them both instantly — a thick, humid wave of ammonia and stale musk, rising from the core of the padding. The inner lining, once stark white, was now a deep, heavy yellow, the absorbent gel swollen to capacity, glistening under the dim hotel lights. It displayed hours of loss of control, a physical map of Brad’s humiliation.
For the first time in his adult life, Brad felt completely, utterly flayed open. He was naked, his hoodie discarded, his legs spread on a stranger’s bed. He was trembling, the shivers starting in his calves and rattling up his spine. He yearned for it — the touch, the degradation, the release — but the exposure was blinding. His shaft, red and irritated from the friction of the wet diaper, stood hard and weeping against his stomach, the tip pointing vaguely in the shark’s direction.
“Oh wow,” Brad mumbled, his voice cracking. He tried to cover his face with an arm, but his body betrayed him, hips twitching upward.
“Let me try something,” Barret said in a low tone.
He didn’t move away. Instead, he lowered his head again, hovering over the exposed, messy reality of Brad’s crotch. He ignored the diaper for a moment and focused on the husky’s cock. He sniffed gingerly at first, inhaling the complex scent of the shaft — the sour tang of urine that had soaked into the fur, the salty sweat of the game, and the underlying, iron-rich scent of arousal.
“Oh, are you going to—” Brad started.
“Devour,” Barret interrupted.
He didn’t wait. He didn’t tease. He opened his jaws, the hinges of his jaw clicking softly, and descended.
He took nearly the entire length of the shaft in one fell swoop. It was a wet, hot invasion. Barret’s mouth was cavernous, slick, and incredibly warm. He didn’t have the soft, fleshy resistance of a human or a canine; his throat opened up, swallowing Brad whole. He let his tongue, thick and rough like wet sandpaper, swirl around the head, exploring the ridge, the slit, the sensitive underside.
Brad gasped, his head falling back against the mattress. “Oh my—”
Barret was new to this. He didn’t know the technique, the rhythm, the tricks. But he had hunger. He had a lust that had been sharpened by the night’s events into a physical need. He loved the taste — the pungent, undeniable musk that coated the shaft. It tasted like ownership. It tasted like he was consuming the very thing that made Brad Brad.
He bobbed his head, the friction of his throat tight around the husky’s cock. Gluck. Gluck. The sound was wet and obscene.
Brad was panting softly, his paws scrabbling at the sheets, bunching the fabric in his fists. He tilted his head up, eyes rolling back, relishing the suction that felt like it was pulling his soul out through his dick.
“I’m gonna… I’m gonna—” Brad stammered, his hips bucking wildly, losing the rhythm, driven purely by the overwhelming sensation.
Barret pulled back just an inch, the head of Brad’s cock popping out of his lips with a wet pop. He looked up, his black eyes locking onto Brad’s. There was no kindness there, only a dark, demanding intensity. He didn’t speak, but the message was loud, projected through the heat of his stare:
Cum in my mouth like the way you piss in your diaper. Give me everything. I dare you.
Brad saw it. He understood it. And it broke him.
He covered his forehead with his right paw, a low whine escaping his throat. His body seized, every muscle pulling tight, and then he erupted.
It wasn’t a trickle. It was a deluge. One heavy, thick rope of semen after another jetted into Barret’s open maw. It hit the back of his throat, hot. Bitter. Barret didn’t gag. He swallowed eagerly, his throat working, taking the thick liquid down without hesitation. He was surprised by the volume, by how quickly Brad had gone from edge to ruin, but he didn’t stop. He licked the stray drops from the tip, cleaning him, draining him dry.
Brad lay there, chest heaving, his heart rattling like it wanted out. The silence returned, heavier now.
“I’m so sorry,” Brad whispered breathlessly, his voice wrecked. “I didn’t mean to… to go so fast.”
Barret slowly pulled away, a final string of saliva breaking between them. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression unreadable for a moment before softening into something satisfied.
“It’s fine,” Barret said, his voice rougher than before. “Really.”
He tastes like the right kind of desperation.
Feeling emboldened by the way Brad had shattered under his touch, Barret slowly retreated. He stood up, his legs slightly shaky but his adrenaline spiking. He circled the bed, the carpet rough against his bare feet. His own cock was hard, aching, a rod of grey flesh that twitched with every heartbeat. He was pent up. The sight of Brad — wrecked, panting, his muzzle stained with Barret’s own fluids — had wound him tight. He needed release. He needed to mark this moment.
He walked around the foot of the bed, his hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking in a steady, rhythmic motion. Schlick. Schlick. The sound was wet and loud in the quiet room. He looked at Brad with a curiosity that was entirely predatory.
Brad, who was still basking in the hazy, endorphin-soaked afterglow, blinked his eyes open. He saw the shark looming over him, silhouetted against the dim light from the bathroom. The realization hit him slowly: Barret wasn’t finished.
Barret felt the coil in his gut tighten. He gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles bunching. He stroked himself faster, his hand a blur, his breath coming in short, sharp hisses through his teeth. He watched the way Brad’s chest heaved, the way his half-erect cock lay against his stomach, the sopping wet diaper stark yellow against his grey fur.
He froze. His hips bucked forward involuntarily.
With a deep groan, Barret ejaculated. The first rope of hot, thick semen hit Brad’s chest. The second landed on his stomach. The rest splattered over his half-hard cock and the front of the open diaper, coating the plastic and the fur in a sticky, translucent mess.
Brad flinched, his eyes widening. He wanted to protest — to say something about the mess, about the audacity of it — but the words died in his throat. The act was gratuitous. It was dominant. It was a claim. Another man had just cum on him without a second thought, marking him like territory.
“Oh,” was the only word that escaped Brad’s lips, a soft exhale of shock and submission.
Barret didn’t apologize. He didn’t offer a towel. Instead, he playfully leaped onto the bed, the mattress springs groaning under his weight. He landed beside Brad, immediately curling his large frame around the smaller husky, snuggling into the warmth and the mess. He pressed a kiss to Brad’s lips — hard, passionate, tasting of salt and surrender.
Brad chuckled, a wet, breathless sound, and moaned happily into the kiss. He wrapped his arms around Barret’s neck, pulling him closer, not caring about the sticky fluid between them.
“Admit it was fucking hot,” Barret murmured against Brad’s mouth, his hand sliding down to rest possessively on the husky’s hip.
“Yes,” Brad acknowledged, his voice a wreck. “Yes, it was fucking hot.”
“Good,” Barret said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. His gaze was dark, intense. “Because I’m going to think of this moment every time I dunk over your face.”
“Fuck you,” Brad laughed, grabbing a pillow and tossing it weakly at Barret’s head.
Barret caught it easily, tossing it aside. “That’s not the attitude of someone who desperately needs a diaper change,” he joked, his voice dropping to a low, commanding rumble. “Call me daddy.”
Brad froze. The air in the room seemed to thin. “Daddy?”
“Yes, daddy,” Barret said, his grip on Brad’s hip tightening just enough to be felt. “And say ‘please.'”
He’s going to say it. I own him.
“Daddy, will you please change me?”
The words hung in the air.
“Yes, baby.”
For Brad, the word “baby” felt like an arrow through the chest. It was sharp, piercing through layers of carefully constructed bravado. Baby. How dare he? He was Brad Hathaway. He was an all-star shooting guard. He was a killer on the court. But as the word settled, it didn’t just sting — it anchored him. It signified his role in this new, terrifying power dynamic, and he found himself accepting it, albeit with a grit of his teeth. His instinct to deploy his signature toxic masculinity — to sneer, to posture, to bite back— could barely be suppressed, bubbling just beneath the surface like magma.
Barret moved to the task, his large hands surprisingly gentle but clumsy. He did a passable job cleaning Brad, wiping away the evidence of their earlier frenzy, but it was clear he was operating without a manual. Brad had to instruct him, guiding the shark through the specific order of operations he needed to feel clean again.
“You’re taking forever,” Barret complained, his dorsal fin twitching slightly with impatience. “I’d rather be cuddling. This feels like a pit stop.”
“It’s not a pit stop, it’s maintenance,” Brad corrected gently, shifting his hips to give Barret better access. “And it’ll be quicker once you get used to it. You just need practice.”
Barret snorted. “I lack the attention span to even prepare meals. I live on takeout and protein shakes. You think I’m going to master the art of whatever this fucking bullshit is?”
Brad laughed, a genuine sound that softened the tension in his shoulders. “Get used to it. If you want the goods, you gotta handle the packaging.”
When Barret finally reached for the fresh diaper, the mood shifted. The shark felt his heart skip a beat — a singular, heavy thud. He recognized the significance of this moment. It wasn’t just about hygiene anymore; it was a ritual. He decided to slow down, to be methodical. He retrieved the wipes again, not for cleaning, but to ensure everything was perfect. He rubbed Brad’s crotch diligently, his dark eyes locking onto the husky’s.
Brad looked back at him with pure, raw vulnerability. The rose-tinted glasses were long gone, and with them, the shield. He was just a man, naked and exposed, trusting his rival with his most shameful secret. Barret paused a few times, just staring, a small smile playing on his lips as he processed the sheer absurdity of it all.
I am changing Brad Hathaway’s diaper. Life comes at you fast.
Once he was satisfied, Barret reached for the baby powder. He gave the bottle a squeeze, perhaps a bit too enthusiastic, and a puffy white cloud erupted over Brad’s groin, dusting his grey fur and the sheets in a fine mist.
Barret coughed, waving a hand through the haze. “I meant to do that.”
“Sure you did,” Brad said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, though his tail gave a traitorous little thump against the mattress.
Barret ignored him, spreading the powder evenly around Brad’s groin with broad, sweeping strokes. His hands were warm, the powder making his skin feel impossibly smooth against Brad’s fur. “I can see you’re smitten,” Barret teased, noting the way Brad leaned into the touch.
Brad smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re bad at this,” he joked softly.
“I feel this is going to be a constant thing,” Barret said with a playful snicker, dusting off his hands. “Because I’ll clean you up, and you’ll be filthy as soon as I put a diaper on you. It’s a cycle of doom.”
“You’ll like it,” Brad said, his voice dropping an octave. “Trust me.”
Barret laughed. “I don’t trust you at all.”
Brad guided him through the final steps. “Lift up the legs,” he instructed. Barret obeyed, hoisting Brad’s ankles. “Slide it under. Good. Now the back wings.”
Brad preferred the bottom tapes first — it gave him a sense of mobility, however slight. Barret treated the taping process with surgical precision, his brow furrowed in concentration as he aligned the adhesive tabs. He wanted to make this moment special, to prove he could handle it, but beneath the cool exterior, his hands were trembling. He felt out of his depth, like a rookie in the finals, but he refused to fumble.
Just get the symmetry right. Don’t make it too tight. Don’t make it too loose.
Finally, the last tape was secured. Barret smoothed the front panel.
“Done,” Barret announced, sitting back.
Brad didn’t inspect the work. Instead, he sat upright and threw his arms around Barret’s neck, hugging him with an enthusiasm that knocked the wind out of the shark. Barret froze for a split second, surprised by the sudden affection, but then he melted. He wrapped his arms around Brad’s waist, feeling the crinkle of the fresh diaper against his chest, and held him.
It was a moment of tenderness that had no place in their rivalry, no place in the locker rooms or the stat sheets. But here, in the dim light of Room 214, it made every awkward fumble and spilled ounce of powder worthwhile.
“This is a fever dream,” Barret said. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the carpet where a stray dusting of baby powder had settled like snow.
“It is,” Brad replied, his voice muffled as he pulled his hoodie back on. “But I assure you, it’s all quite real.”
The husky stood by the nightstand, the soft yellow light casting long shadows across his face. He looked different with his clothes back on — smaller, somehow. The armor was returning, piece by piece. He reached for his red shorts. As he pulled them up, there was a distinct crinkle — the sound of the thick plastic diaper shifting underneath. He paused for a fraction of a second, a flinch of shame, before yanking the waistband up and adjusting it to hide the bulk.
Barret watched him, his black eyes tracking every movement. The way Brad checked his silhouette in the mirror, smoothing the fabric over his hips, checking for lines. The way he avoided looking directly at Barret while he did it. It was a routine. A practiced, lonely routine that Barret had just been invited into.
Brad sat on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and shoes. The mattress dipped under his weight, bringing with it a waft of the baby powder Barret had applied — a clean, innocent scent that felt jarringly out of place in the musk-heavy room.
“I feel like I know a lot more about you now,” Barret said, the words tasting heavy on his tongue. He wasn’t just talking about the incontinence. He was talking about the submission. The need. The way Brad had looked at him when he was on his knees.
Brad tied his laces with quick, jerky movements. “More than I want other people to know,” he muttered, not looking up. “Despite you being a total asshole, I’m glad you know.”
Barret chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. “This will definitely be stored up here every time we cross paths,” he said, tapping his temple with a clawed finger. “I can’t shake the thought. The great Brad Hathaway needing a powdering.”
Brad finished tying his shoe and sat up straight, finally meeting Barret’s gaze. His blue eyes were clear now, the haze of arousal gone, replaced by a sharp, terrified lucidness.
“Despite that,” Brad said, his voice dropping, “we need to keep up appearances. If this gets out… if anyone finds out…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to. The media would eat him alive. The endorsements would vanish. The fans who worshiped his arrogance would turn on him in a second. He would be a joke. A meme.
“I know,” Barret said coldly. The playfulness vanished from his tone, replaced by the steel that made him a captain. “I know. This stays in this room. It stays between us.”
Brad let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since he walked in the door. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry I’ve burdened you with all of this. It’s a lot to put on someone you hate.”
Barret shook his head slowly. He looked at Brad — really looked at him — and realized that the hate had evaporated somewhere between the first kiss and the diaper change. It had been replaced by something far more complicated. Something possessive.
“No,” Barret said, leaning back on his hands, the rough skin of his palms pressing into the sheets. “I don’t see it as a burden. If anything, I learned a few new things about myself tonight.”
He let his gaze drift down to Brad’s crotch, where the outline of the diaper was faintly visible if you knew what to look for.
“Like what?” Brad asked, his voice wary.
“Like the fact that I enjoy taking care of you,” Barret murmured, a dark smile touching his lips. “Especially things that think they don’t need taking care of.”
He thinks he’s a burden. He has no idea he’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in years.
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