Chapter 2: Shameful Release
The air in Rigby’s apartment had thickened. It wasn’t just the smell anymore—that sweet, sour funk of unnatural metabolism—it was the palpable weight of stalled time. Days had bled into a week since the pants ripped. Since the floorboards groaned. Since Rigby became a prisoner in his own bloating skin.
He hadn’t left. Couldn’t leave. The doorway was an impassable geometry problem. Mordecai had become a delivery boy, a nurse, a witness. He brought groceries: salads, lean proteins, bottled water. They sat uneaten on the counter while the single, original Ultra Meat Burrito sat in the fridge, humming with a low, persistent warmth against the back of Mordecai’s hand every time he reached for the milk.
Rigby mostly stayed on the reinforced couch Mordecai had cobbled together from plywood and old cushions. His world had shrunk to the ten-foot journey between the couch and the bathroom, a journey that took minutes and left him panting, his huge hands braced on the wall. His body was a landscape of surrenders. His gut, a pale, hairy dome, rested on his thighs even when he sat upright. His chest had swelled into soft, rounded pectorals that jiggled with every rasping breath. His face was a full moon, his features pushed into a perpetually puffy expression.
He was watching infomercials. A gratingly cheerful voice promised a better life with a miracle vegetable slicer. Rigby’s claw traced the remote’s buttons, his eyes dull.
The door clicked open. Mordecai entered, arms laden with bags. “Got the stuff. And the, uh, the special order.” He held up a bag from a plus-size store, the plastic rustling loudly in the quiet room.
Rigby didn’t look away from the TV. “Just leave it.”
“You need to try them on, man. I had to guess the size.” Mordecai’s voice was strained, a thin wire of patience about to snap. “It’s not easy finding XXXXXL sweatpants that aren’t, like, tent-sized.”
“I said leave it!” Rigby’s roar was phlegmy, muffled by the flesh of his throat. He finally turned his head, his eyes wet with a fury that was really just fear. “I don’t want your charity, Mordecai! I don’t want any of this!”
“Well, you’ve got it!” Mordecai snapped, dropping the bags. “You’ve got this!” He gestured at Rigby’s immense form, at the room that smelled of despair and sickly sweetness. “And I’m stuck cleaning it up! Again! You ate a fucking demon burrito and now I’m buying you pants because you’re too big to leave!”
The words hung in the air, cruel and true. Rigby flinched as if struck. He looked away, back at the screen where gleaming knives sliced through perfect tomatoes. His lower lip trembled. “Get out.”
Mordecai stared at him for a long moment, his chest heaving. Then he turned and left, the door shutting with a soft, final click.
Silence flooded back in, deeper now. The cheerful infomercial was a torture. Rigby switched it off. The quiet was worse. It was a physical pressure on his eardrums, thrumming with the hum of the fridge—the fridge that held the source.
He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.
But the loneliness was a hole inside him, a void even his new mass couldn’t fill. And there was another feeling, a familiar, stubborn itch that persisted beneath the layers of fat and shame. An animal need. His body was a prison, but parts of it still worked. Parts of it still promised a fleeting, dirty escape.
With a grunt, he shifted his weight. The couch screamed. He fumbled with the waistband of the vast, tent-like sweats Mordecai had found days ago. They were already tight, cutting into the soft shelf of his lower belly. He shoved them down, past the formidable curve of his gut.
His cock lay half-buried in a thick thatch of fur at the base of his swollen abdomen. It looked small, ridiculous, a shrunken thing nestled against the monumental scale of his body. A hot flush of shame warmed his face. He was a fucking joke. A bloated carnival sideshow.
But his hand moved anyway. It was an act of rebellion, a claim to a self that was disappearing. He wrapped his fingers around himself. He was already half-hard, a pathetic, eager response to his own touch. He gave a tentative stroke.
A spark. A cheap, tawdry thrill in the darkness.
He closed his eyes, trying to conjure an image, any image, from before. A girl from the arcade. A cartoon on late-night TV. Nothing stuck.
Nothing stuck. He was too aware of the flesh, his own grasping hand, the stark impossibility of anyone wanting this. His strokes grew harder, faster, a frantic rhythm against the silence. He pictured faceless bodies, mouths, hands, anything to get there, to escape the crushing reality of the couch, the apartment, himself.
Pre-cum beaded at his tip, slicking his rough strokes. He hissed, his back arching as much as it could, a shudder running through the blubber of his sides. His other hand slid over the hot, tight curve of his stomach, fingers digging into the pelt of fur, a disgusting mimicry of a caress.
He came with a choked-off cry, his orgasm a shallow, disappointing spasm. Semium shot onto the hairless dome of his belly, pooling in the deep crease where his gut met his chest. He lay there, panting, staring at the ceiling as the wetness cooled on his skin. The shame was a colder, stickier substance. He didn’t clean it up.
Weeks bled together in a fog of expanding misery.
Mordecai stopped coming by as often. The excuses were thin but constant—work, errands, a vague, pressing elsewhere. The silence between them had hardened into a wall. Rigby’s world shrank to the dimensions of his living room, a space he was steadily outgrowing. The special-order sweats split along the seams. He stopped wearing anything but a stained, stretched-out towel draped over his lap, a pathetic fig leaf for a mountain.
The gain was relentless. The original burrito sat in the fridge, its warmth a constant, accusing hum. He started ordering more—Ultra Meat Burritos, triple orders of chili cheese fries, entire pizzas he’d devour in a single sitting, the grease softening the sharp edges of his isolation. The delivery drivers’ eyes would widen at the door crack, seeing only a sliver of the immense, shadowy figure within. He paid in crumpled cash left on the floor for them to pick up.
He was a sweating mess of blubber. Five hundred pounds of desperate, lonely animal. Moving was a coordinated labor of groans and shifts. The floorboards sagged permanently beneath his resting places. The sweet-sour smell had cemented itself into the walls.
One night, drunk on cheap beer and a bottomless self-loathing, he fumbled for his laptop. The glow illuminated his round, puffy face. He found a site, a hookup forum for locals. It was a cesspool of blurred photos and fragmented grammar. His profile was a lie he typed with thick, clumsy fingers: ‘Fun, active raccoon, 20s, looking for a good time.’ He used a picture from a year ago, when his body was a thing of angles and motion.
The reply came a few days later from a user named ‘ShyBunny24’. A rabbit girl. Her messages were hesitant, dotted with ellipses and nervous emojis. She was chubby, she admitted, self-conscious. She liked his smile in the old picture. They typed late into the night, the blue light his only company. She was named Riley. She lived across town. She thought he was thin. He let her think it.
“Can I come over?” she typed. “I feel like I can talk to you.”
His heart hammered against the confines of his vast chest. This was a terrible idea. It was a cruelty. But the loneliness was a louder voice. “Yeah,” he typed back, the letters mocking him. “Come over tonight.”
He spent hours attempting to clean. It was a futile, sweat-drenched pantomime. He couldn’t reach the floor. The smells were ingrained. He just shoved the worst of the trash into a corner and hoped the dim light would hide the rest. He put on the least torn pair of sweatpants, an act that left him breathless and dizzy.
The doorbell rang, a shrill sound that electrocuted the stale air. Rigby heaved himself upright, the couch emitting a sound of structural agony. He waddled to the door, each step a negotiation with gravity. He paused, his ear against the wood. He could hear her light breathing on the other side.
He opened the door.
Riley was plump, soft-looking, with long rabbit ears that drooped slightly. She had a shy, hopeful smile that died the second she saw him. Her eyes traveled upward, and upward, taking in the sheer, staggering mass of him. The doorframe was filled by his body. The smell rolled out over her.
“You’re…,” she whispered, her nose twitching. “Your picture…”
“I used an old one,” Rigby mumbled, the words thick in his mouth. “Sorry. You can… you can go if you want.” He expected her to run. He prayed she would.
She hesitated, her instincts warring with her politeness. She peered past his bulk into the dim, messy apartment. “I… I already took the bus over,” she said weakly. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a statement of sunk cost.
“Oh. Okay. Come in, then,” he said, shuffling backwards with a series of labored steps to make a space for her to slip through. She entered, her body tense, her eyes darting everywhere but at him.
An awful silence filled the room. She stood near the door, a visitor in a condemned building. He stood by the couch, a monument to his own deceit.
“So…,” she said, her voice barely there.
“You wanna… sit down?” he asked, gesturing to the ravaged couch.
She nodded, perching carefully on the very edge of a cushion, as far from the deep, worn impression of his body as possible. He lowered himself down beside her, the structure screaming, the whole piece of furniture slanting violently towards his side. She had to grab the armrest to keep from sliding into him.
More silence. The hum of the fridge was deafening.
“You wanna… watch something?” he tried, clawing for the remote.
“Rigby,” she said, her voice firmer now. She was looking at her hands. “I’m not stupid. I know why I’m here. You know why I’m here. Can we just… can we just get this over with?” The shame in her voice mirrored his own. It was the saddest proposition he’d ever heard.
He just nodded, a barely perceptible movement of his chins.
She stood up, her movements robotic. She didn’t look at him as she pulled her shirt over her head, revealing a simple bra over a soft, rounded stomach. She unhooked it, her small breasts falling free. She pushed her leggings and panties down in one clumsy motion, stepping out of them. She stood there, naked, shivering slightly in the foul air, staring at a water stain on the wall.
“How… how do you want to do this?” she asked flatly.
He was painfully, shamefully hard, his cock jutting from the forest of fur at his base. “I can’t… I can’t really get on top,” he admitted, his face burning.
“Okay.” She walked over to him, the floor creaking under her light steps. She looked at the colossal spread of his legs, at his massive gut resting between them. “How do I…?”
“You’ll have to… here,” he grunted, using his hands to try and lift his stomach. The sheer mass of it was overwhelming. He could only hoist it a few inches, creating a sweaty, dark tunnel. “You’ll have to sort of… climb on. From the front.”
She swallowed, a visible tremor in her throat. She positioned herself between his knees, her expression one of pure concentration, like someone solving a difficult physical puzzle. She placed her hands on his enormous, hairy thighs for balance, her fingers sinking into the soft flesh. She tried to lower herself onto him.
His gut was in the way. It was always in the way.
Her knees bent, she shuffled closer, trying to align herself. The head of his cock bumped against her inner thigh, then her hip. She reached down with one hand, fumbling, trying to guide him in. Her other hand slipped on his sweaty leg. She stumbled, falling forward against the sheer cliff face of his belly with a soft oomph.
“Sorry,” she gasped, pushing back.
“S’okay,” he breathed, his own hands now clutching the cushions, useless.
She tried again, her face flushed with effort and embarrassment. This time, she managed to get a hand between his body and hers, guiding him. She sank down slowly, a tight, hot wetness enveloping him. He groaned, the sensation almost foreign after so long alone.
She was seated, but it was all wrong. His gut pressed against her torso, flattening her soft breasts. Her face was buried in the sweaty fur of his chest. She could barely move, pinned in place by his bulk. She tried to rock her hips, but there was no room. It was like being trapped in a fleshy armchair.
“I can’t…,” she whispered, her voice muffled against him. “I can’t move.”
“Try,” he pleaded, desperation clawing at him. He bucked his own hips upwards, a weak, pathetic thrust that barely shifted her.
She tried again, a grinding, awkward motion that did little for either of them. He could feel her discomfort, the tension in her small body. This wasn’t pleasure. It was a mechanical transaction, a failed experiment.
“Forget it,” she said suddenly, pushing against his stomach to extract herself. She climbed off, his cock slipping out with a soft, wet sound. She stood there, breathing heavily, not looking at him. “I can’t.”
She turned, her body a tight coil of retreat, and took a single step towards her discarded clothes.
“Wait, just—” Rigby’s voice cracked. A frantic, shaming need overrode the humiliation. He couldn’t let her leave. Not like this. Not with him stuck here, alone with the proof of his own impossibility. He planted his palms on the couch arms, his great bulk tensing.
He tried to heave himself up.
It was a colossal, uncoordinated effort. His legs, buried under the immense weight of his own body, pistoned weakly. His arms, slick with sweat, slipped on the greasy fabric. He lurched forward, a seismic unbalancing, rather than up. The shelf of his stomach, a solid wall of blubber, swung outward.
It connected with Riley’s side with a soft, heavy thump.
The impact wasn’t violent, but it was undeniable. A wave of solid fat. She let out a sharp gasp, her feet skidding on a discarded pizza box. She fell backwards, hitting the filthy floor with a jolt, the breath knocked out of her. Before she could move, the overwhelming mass of him followed, pinning her legs and lower torso beneath the oppressive, warm bulk of his belly.
“Oh, fuck—Rigby—” she wheezed, her hands coming up to push at the mound of flesh covering her.
He was stuck, a beached whale atop her, panic flooding his system. “Shit, sorry, I’m sorry, I just—” He braced his arms to try and lift himself, the strain making the veins in his neck stand out. The effort only settled him more firmly onto her. His cock, still slick from her, dragged through the sweat-matted fur of his lower belly and pressed against her inner thigh.
And then he felt it.
The geometry had shifted. With her on her back and him slumped over her, his immense gut was pressed down onto her abdomen and chest, but his hips had sagged between her splayed legs. There was no stomach in the way now. It was pinned beneath him, smothering her, but his pelvis was aligned. The head of his cock nudged against her, finding the wet heat he’d just left.
A dark, shocking clarity cut through the panic.
He went very still. Above her, his ragged breathing was the loudest sound in the room. He could feel her trembling underneath him. Her pushing hands had stilled.
“Don’t,” she whispered, but it was thin, devoid of real force.
He adjusted his weight, a slight roll of his hips. The tip of him pushed against her entrance. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a testing of a terrible, available truth. She was already open, already wet from their sad attempt. His own desperate need was a throbbing, animal pulse.
“Just… stay still,” he grunted, the command more plea than order.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed forward.
He slid into her more easily this time, a deep, full penetration made possible by the crushing angle. She was tight, unyielding, but he was sheathed completely inside her. A guttural groan ripped from his throat, half-pain, half-profound relief. The sensation was obscenely good, a raw friction that burned away the shame, the loneliness, everything.
“Oh God,” Riley gasped beneath him, her voice muffled by the pressure on her ribs.
He fucked her in short, frantic thrusts, his massive body jiggling with each movement. His gut slapped wetly against her with every drive forward. There was no grace, no technique, just a pounding, mechanical rhythm. He was a machine of need, and she was the soft, trapped receptacle beneath him.
“Take it, fuck, just take it,” he panted, his claws digging into the grimy carpet on either side of her head. Sweat dripped from his muzzle onto her face. He was lost in the slick, hot clutch of her, the world narrowed to this single, grinding point of connection.
Her sounds were choked, forced out by the weight compressing her lungs. Little uh-uh-uh noises that coincided with his thrusts. Her hands, which had been pushing, now clutched at the hairy sides of his stomach, her fingers sinking into the soft flesh as if holding on for stability.
It was brutal. It was efficient. It was the only thing that made sense in his ruined world. He fucked her with a concentrated fury, chasing the release that would temporarily seal the void. The couch springs groaned in sympathy beneath his knees. The room smelled of sex and old grease and their mingled sweat.
He came with a raw, strangled shout, his body convulsing atop hers, driving her deeper into the floor. He emptied himself inside her in deep, pulsing waves, his vision blurring at the edges. For a few seconds, there was only the pounding of his heart and the overwhelming rush of it.
For a few seconds, there was only the pounding of his heart and the overwhelming rush of it.
Then the world rushed back in, harsh and clinical. The stink of the room. The ache in his knees. The crushing weight of his own body on hers. Riley was utterly still beneath him. Her breathing was a shallow, ragged whistle, compressed by his bulk.
He went limp, the awful clarity flooding back in, cold and septic. He scrambled to roll off her, a clumsy, graceless flop that shook the floor.“Shit. Riley. I’m—”
She was already moving, a frantic scramble of limbs. She didn’t look at him. She grabbed her clothes, clutching them to her chest, her back turned. Her skin was blotched red where his weight had pressed, already bruising. “Don’t,” she choked out, cutting off his stammered apology. “Don’t say anything. Just don’t.”
She dressed with frantic, jerking motions, her eyes fixed on the door. She didn’t bother with her bra, just yanked her shirt down. Her leggings were on inside out. She was a blur of panic and disgust.
“The bus,” she muttered to herself, a frantic incantation. “I just need to get to the bus.”
“Let me… I can call you a cab or something,” Rigby wheezed, still on his back like an upturned turtle, his softening cock already shrinking back into its nest of fur.
She finally looked at him then, her rabbit eyes wide and glistening. It wasn’t anger he saw. It was a pure, clean horror. “I never want to see you again,” she said, her voice terrifyingly clear. “You’re a monster.”
The door slammed. The sound was a gunshot in the stagnant air.
Silence poured into the space she left behind, heavier than before. He lay there, the tacky wetness of his own release cooling on his belly and thighs. Her words echoed. Monster. The floor felt greasy against his fur. He felt a familiar, dark ache in his gut, a cavernous emptiness that had nothing to do with hunger.
It was a different kind of hollow. It needed filling.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, a Herculean effort that made his vision swim. The apartment was a wreck, a mirror of his insides. His eyes drifted, inevitably, to the kitchen. The fridge hummed its low, inviting song.
He knew what was in there. The source. The first one. It was still waiting.
Waddling to the kitchen was a pilgrimage. Each step was a seismic event. He yanked the fridge door open, the light bathing his massive, heaving form in a hellish white glow. There it sat, on the middle shelf. The original Ultra Meat Burrito. The foil wrapper was pristine, unnaturally so. It radiated a gentle, persistent warmth.
He took it. The weight of it in his paw was comforting. He didn’t return to the couch. He just slid down the front of the fridge, his back against its shuddering frame, and sat on the filthy linoleum. He tore the foil.
The smell was exactly as he remembered: heaven and hell and chemical perfection. He took a massive, unthinking bite. Grease, hot and infinite, coated his tongue.He swallowed.
It hit his system like a spark in a gas leak.
A deep, internal gurgle rolled through him, a subterranean shifting. It wasn’t indigestion. It was activation. He devoured the rest in three huge, tearing bites, barely chewing, the flavors obliterated by his need to fill the hole.
For a moment, nothing. Then a prickling heat started in his core. It bloomed outward, a slow, inexorable wave. He dropped the empty foil, his paws going to his stomach. It was tight. It was always tight. But now it… thrummed.
A low creak, like a rope under immense strain, echoed in the quiet kitchen. It came from him.
He looked down. The curve of his gut, already a planetoid, seemed to be… softening at the edges. Not deflating. Relaxing. As if the skin itself was sighing, preparing to accept more. A new, sharp cramp twisted his intestines, followed by a rush of overwhelming, dizzying fullness.
“Oh, god,” he groaned, not in pain, but in a strange, bloated euphoria.
The fat at his sides, great soft shelves of it, began to quiver. It wasn’t a jiggle from movement. It was a growth spurt. He could feel it, feel the cells distending, multiplying, soaking up the infinite grease now pumping through his system. The soft roll of belly resting on his thighs became heavier, denser. It began to push his legs apart wider where he sat.
He watched, hypnotized, as the hair on his stomach seemed to grow sparse, stretched apart by the expanding canvas of pale flesh beneath. A new stretch mark, a lurid purple fissure, silently ripped its way across the hemisphere of his gut. Another cramp seized him, deeper this time, and he felt his ass, anchored to the floor, spread and flatten under a sudden, weighty accumulation.
It was happening faster than before. The burrito was restarting the engine.His chest tightened. The soft pectorals hardened into vast, jutting slabs of blubber, their weight pulling at his shoulders. His arms, resting on his sloping sides, thickened, the fat pooling at his triceps and biceps until his elbows vanished into gentle, doughy curves. His neck swelled, squeezing his throat, his breaths becoming wet, wheezing pulls.
“More,” he slurred, the word thick in his newly fleshy mouth.He was terrified. He was ravenous. He was home.
He tried to push himself up, to get another burrito from the stack he’d ordered. His arms sank into the soft, ballooning flesh of his sides. He couldn’t get leverage. He was pinned, his back against the fridge, his ass and legs spreading across the cold linoleum. The very weight he was creating imprisoned him.
The expansion didn’t stop. It accelerated. His gut, now truly monumental, pushed forward until it touched the opposite counter. The pressure was immense, a hot, packed solidity. He felt the front button of his XXXXXL sweatpants, long since strained, finally surrender with a ping. The zipper teeth ripped apart. The tough fabric split up the seam with a sound like a scream.
He was trapped in the kitchen, a growing, breathing landmass of fat. The fridge hummed against his back. His own body hummed with a perverse, greasy life. He couldn’t move. He could only feel—feel the relentless surge outward, the press of countertops on either side, the cool floor beneath his ever-broadening ass.
He looked towards the front door, a distant, impossible rectangle of light. Riley’s horrified face flashed in his mind.Monster.
The warmth in his core pulsed, agreeing. He let his head loll back against the fridge door, a strange, resigned peace settling over him as his body continued its silent, infinite feast. The apartment wasn't his home anymore. He was his own habitat, and he was still under construction.