Chapter 3: Forced Latte
Three days passed in a gelatinous blur for Rigby, a slow digestion of time measured only by the creeping sunlight across the kitchen floor. He hadn’t moved from his spot against the fridge. He couldn’t. His body had settled around him like warm cement, sealing him to the linoleum. His gut was a continent, its shore now resting against the lower cabinets of the opposite counter. His arms lay atop the blubbery shelves of his sides, palms up like beached sea creatures. He could feel every pulse, every heartbeat, as a sluggish tide through his immense bulk.
The silence was a physical presence, broken only by his own wet breathing and the endless hum of the fridge cooling the very thing that had made him.
He slept in fits, his chin sinking into the soft roll of his chest. He woke to cramps—deep, internal shifts as his body, still humming with the burrito’s unnatural fuel, continued its slow, relentless expansion.
The cramps were tectonic, a grinding rearrangement of his inner geography. They subsided, leaving behind a strange, oily vitality. He tried to shift, expecting the familiar, immovable prison of his own flesh. His side slid against the fridge door with a wet, peeling sound. He paused, breathing hard. He pushed again, exerting pressure with the vast, doughy mass of his shoulder and back. His body, slick with days of accumulated sweat, budged. It wasn't a lift. It was a roll.
A low groan escaped him, part effort, part disbelief. He rocked his weight, a monumental undertaking. His immense bulk, a greasy globe of fat, slowly pivoted. He flopped onto his side, then with another grunting heave, onto his belly. The impact shook the floor, his gut spreading out around him like a rising yeasty dough. He lay there, panting, his face pressed into the grimy linoleum. He could move. Not walk. Not stand. But he could roll.
The knowledge ignited a dark, desperate circuitry in his brain. His stomach, a hollow cavern despite its physical enormity, clenched with a need that was no longer just for food. It was for completion. For more. The fridge behind him was empty save for condiments. His phone was on the counter, a world away across an ocean of his own body.
He began to roll. It was a slow, undulating crawl, a walrus hauling itself across ice. His sweat lubricated the path, his fat compressing and bulging with each rotation. He crushed a forgotten pizza box, flattened an empty chip bag. The journey took minutes, a humiliating, exhausting pilgrimage. He reached the cabinet where the counter met the floor, wedged his back against it, and used the leverage to rock himself upward, his torso coming to a semi-sitting position against the wooden face. His paw, trembling, stretched up. His claws scraped the phone's edge, dragged it clattering down.
The screen lit up. Missed calls from Mordecai. Texts he didn't read. He opened the delivery app, his breath fogging the screen. His order was history: three Ultra Meat Burritos Extra Grandes, two large chili cheese fries, a two-liter of soda. He confirmed it with a tap. Payment was automatic. He dropped the phone, letting it clatter onto his expansive thigh.
He waited. The sun moved. His body processed its own endless fuel, the fat cells distending infinitesimally, a constant, silent growth. When the doorbell rang, it was a shock to the stale air.
"Delivery for Rigby!" a young, bored voice called through the door.
Rigby took a deep, wet breath. "It's open!" he shouted, his voice raspy from disuse. "Just... leave it inside. Money's on the floor."
He heard the hesitant turn of the knob. The door swung inward, revealing a lanky, teenage duck in a red shirt, holding a bulky paper bag. The duck's eyes adjusted to the dim light, then widened in profound, silent horror as they landed on the vast, pale form propped against the cabinet. Rigby watched the understanding fail to compute. This wasn't a fat guy. This was something else.
"Uh," the duck said, frozen in the doorway.
"Just set it down," Rigby repeated, trying to sound normal, forcing a smile that felt grotesque on his puffy face. His heart hammered, a frantic drum against the prison of his ribs.
The duck took a cautious step inside, his gaze darting from the money on the floor to the impossible creature before him. He bent quickly, placing the bag down and snatching the cash. He turned to flee.
Rigby moved. It wasn't fast, but it was shockingly fluid. He threw his weight forward, rolling with a sudden, grunting lunge. His momentum carried him across the short distance like a gelatinous tide. His outstretched paw, thick as a ham, wrapped around the duck's slender ankle.
The kid yelped, stumbling forward, crashing down onto the greasy floor beside the food bag. "What the hell, man! Let go!"
Rigby didn't answer. The need was a white noise in his skull. He pulled, his immense strength surprising even himself. The duck scrambled, claws scratching against linoleum, his free leg kicking out. A foot connected with Rigby's soft gut, sinking deep but causing no pain, only a muffled whump. Rigby dragged him closer, the kid's protests turning to screams.
He got on top of him. Not like with Riley. There was no pretense, no sad attempt at sex. This was consumption. He used his weight to pin the flailing body, his bulk smothering the kicks and shouts into muted thumps. The duck's face was pressed into the floor, his terrified screams muffled. Rigby's maw opened, wider than seemed possible. He didn't think. He bit down.
There was a crunch, a terrible, wet giving way. A final, gurgled cry. Rigby tore and swallowed, a primordial rhythm taking over. It was messy, violent, and brutally efficient. He fed, his jaw working mechanically, his throat convulsing to accept each chunk. The coppery taste of blood mixed with the familiar, addictive grease of the burritos waiting mere feet away. He ate until there was nothing left to consume but the red-stained shirt.
He lay there afterward, his face bloody, his belly gorged to an impossible new tautness. The cramps returned almost immediately, deep, wrenching spasms that made him cry out. He could feel it happening, faster this time. The digestion was instantaneous, supernatural. The raw biomass converted, not to waste, but to pure, slick fat.
He watched, stunned, as the pale dome of his stomach swelled outward, pushing the empty delivery bag across the floor. His sides bulged, pressing against the lower cabinets on either side with a creak of protesting wood. His thighs, already colossal, thickened further, merging with his hips into a single, seamless slope of blubber. He felt his back widen, new fat rolling over his shoulders. The sweats, already shredded, were now nothing but damp threads swallowed by the expanding flesh.
He was bigger. Heavier. More massive. The room felt smaller. He let out a wet, bubbling sigh, a mixture of revulsion and deep, ungodly satisfaction. The hollow ache was gone, replaced by a packed, dizzying fullness.
He reached for the delivery bag, his arm now a pudgy log that barely extended past the new cliff-face of his chest. He fumbled it open. The scent of the burritos hit him, and his stomach, though stretched to its limit, growled. He ate them one after the other, not tasting, just fueling. The fries followed, shoved into his maw by the handful. He drank the soda in long, glugging pulls.
Then he waited. He didn't have to wait long. The second wave of expansion hit him as he finished the last fry. It was a surge, not a creep. His fat rippled, new layers inflating beneath the old like rising bread. He groaned, a sound of both pain and pleasure, as his body consumed the meal and the driver, adding their substance to his own. He could barely see his own paws anymore, they were so buried in the soft slope of his front.
He rolled onto his back, a beached leviathan, his breathing labored. The ceiling was closer. The room was a closet. A thought, clear and cold, cut through the grease-fog of his mind.
He could do it again.
His phone was still there, perched on the shelf of his stomach. With a clumsy, sweating paw, he pulled up the app once more. He ordered everything. Every menu item, from every place that would deliver. He maxed out his card, then started on Mordecai’s saved one. He didn't think about tomorrow. He thought only about the next cramp, the next glorious, swelling push outward.
The next delivery person would be here soon.
The doorbell’s chime was a distant, tinny sound, barely piercing the dense hum of his own body. Rigby listened to the footsteps on the porch, lighter than the duck’s had been.A pause. The knock.“Hello? Delivery for Rigby?”
A female voice.Young. A robin, maybe. He swallowed, his throat a slick, narrow passage through the fat of his neck. “It’s open,” he called out, the words syrupy and thick. “Cash on the floor.”
The knob turned. The door, its frame already groaning from his earlier expansion, swung inward. Margaret stood silhouetted in the afternoon light, a paper bag in one hand, her car keys in the other. Her cheerful, customer-service smile froze. Then it cracked. It dissolved completely as her eyes swept the scene: the shredded, blood-stained red shirt, the scattered bones picked clean, the mountainous, pale form of Rigby wedged between the counter and the fridge, his fur matted with grime and old grease, his body a landscape of obscene, soft curves.
Her gaze traveled from the carnage to him. She saw the knowing in his small, dark eyes. The hunger.
“Rigby?” Her voice was a whisper. The bag slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The smell of fresh, warm burritos bloomed in the fetid air.
He moved. The roll was faster this time, practiced. A colossal, seismic shift of blubber that carried him across the short distance. She didn’t scream. She backpedaled, but her wings clipped the doorframe.She stumbled.
His paw, a fleshy slab, closed around her slender ankle. The bones felt like twigs.
“No, no, no, Rigby, please—” Her words were a frantic, breathy stream. She kicked, her free foot connecting with his wrist. It was like kicking a sack of wet cement. He pulled.
She fell hard, the air rushing from her lungs. He was on her in an instant, not with violence, but with overwhelming, smothering mass. His gut, a hot, sweaty planet, settled onto her legs and lower torso, pinning her utterly. The pressure was immense, breath-stealing. She writhed underneath him, a panicked, fluttering thing.
“Get off! You’re crushing me!” she gasped, her claws scraping uselessly against the linoleum.
He looked down at her, his expression one of detached, desperate need. The smell of her fear was sharp, acrid. It mixed with the warm, feminine scent of her feathers, the hint of coffee and vanilla from her work apron. It was different from the duck. It was better.
“Just hold still,” he grunted, his voice a wet rumble from deep within his chest.
“Mordecai!” she shrieked, the name a talisman. “He knows I came here! He’s coming!”
Rigby flinched, a ripple passing through his fat. The name was a spike of cold in the hot fog of his hunger. It didn’t stop him. It hurried him. His other paw fumbled at her jeans, thick fingers popping the button, dragging the zipper down. She bucked wildly, a sob cracking her voice.
“Stop it! Don’t you fucking dare! Rigby, look at yourself!”
He wasn’t looking. He was doing. He yanked her jeans and panties down to her knees, exposing her. She was pretty there, a neat thatch of feathers. He was already painfully hard, his cock jutting from the furred valley below his gut, thick and flushed. He didn’t try to lift his stomach. He just pressed forward, the blubbery wall of his lower belly mashing against her thighs, forcing them apart. The head of his dick bumped against her, slippery with his own pre-cum.
“Please,” she wept, turning her face away. “Please don’t.”
He found her entrance. He pushed.
It was a tight, burning fit. She was dry with terror. He didn’t care. He shoved himself inside with one blunt, brutal thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt in her tight, unyielding heat. A sharp, pained cry tore from her throat.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, the sensation obliterating every other thought. It was raw, brutal friction. He began to rut, a short, jackhammering motion made possible by the sheer, crushing weight pinning her. His massive gut slapped against her pelvis with each drive, a wet, rhythmic smack that echoed in the tiny, ruined room. Her body jolted underneath him with every impact, her protests reduced to choked, airless grunts.
“Take it, take it, you fucking bird,” he panted, lost in the miserable, perfect feeling of being inside something living, of claiming this scrap of warmth and resistance. His claws dug into the floor by her shoulders. Her tightness was a vise, a punishing, glorious squeeze on his cock. He fucked her with a single-minded, grinding pace, his world narrowed to the slick, hot tunnel of her body and the slap of his own flesh.
Tears streamed from Margaret’s eyes, cutting tracks through the dust on her cheeks. Her hands stopped pushing. They lay limp at her sides, her fingers twitching. She was a broken thing beneath a landslide.
His climax built, a furious tide in his bloated core. “Gonna cum, gonna fill you up,” he slurred, his thrusts becoming jerky, desperate. He slammed into her one last, deep time, burying himself as far as he could go, and emptied himself with a guttural roar. His cum flooded her, hot and copious, a claiming. He collapsed atop her, spent, his full weight driving the breath from her lungs in a final, defeated wheeze.
Silence, but for his ragged breathing and her shallow, hitched sobs. He softened inside her. The reality of the sticky floor, the blood, the smell of sex and fear, crashed back. He rolled off, a slick, separating sound as he pulled out.
Margaret didn’t move. She lay there, exposed, staring at the ceiling where a single fly buzzed. A trickle of white fluid leaked onto her thigh.
Rigby’s stomach growled, a deep, echoing gurgle. The cramps started almost immediately, sharp and insistent. His gaze, full of a shame he could no longer afford, slid from her broken form to the forgotten delivery bag by the door. The scent of the burritos was irresistible, a siren call that drowned out her quiet weeping.
He began to roll towards it, his body already vibrating with the promise of new growth. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. The food was warm.The transformation was waiting. The door behind him, still slightly ajar, let in a sliver of suburban afternoon light.
It illuminated the waiting curb, where Mordecai’s beat-up car was now screeching to a halt.