are you going to make a curiouscat? retros closing. being devoured. its code is dissolving. the milk is sour. the cereal is dry. dulce is PISSED. we're fucked. i gotta get milk but the store's all out. the midnight dark has claimed the streets and the streetlamps have all blown out. its gonna be hard to get back home like this. i turn up to a 7/11, fumbling through the vantablack and stumbling over doors until I reach light once more. there is no traffic, the night is silent with only the momentary whirr of the ice machine out front to prod at my thoughts.

Only a idiot would try to post shoddy fanfiction via Retrospring asks. I have done so three times on this account alone, so I guess that makes me a turbo idiot. Anyway, anything that wasn't established I guessed at. I <3 butchering characters. (I mean, is there anything else you CAN do???)

TITLE: DONUT SHOP, or: I was Born To Wallow in The Grass but My Boss Wants My Misery???!? VOL 22, "Close Encounter with Unknown Beast"
CHARS: SURGE (begrudgingly), ETOFFE (excitedly)
THINGS: SEX (IM SO BAD AT WRITING SEX also Surge has a dick in this one. He Doesn't Always have one of those.), TF (Surge Does That. I guess.), WG (both parties- according to the Olden Lore playing with Etoffe just kinda Does That. Has Surge even gotten fattened up before? Honestly he kinda gets bigger than Etoffe does...)

INVOLVES: Donuts, Glazing, the other kind of donuts, and a guy trying and failing to avoid Creaturing Out at his job while musing over his life. Surge is kind of depressing about it. Like, a lot. This was supposed to be kinda upbeat but Damn His Misery Has Hands. He ends the story a little happier about it, at least.

The outside world outside the glass frame sits silent, the pavement barely illuminated by what streetlights the city bothered to use it's budget to maintain. "It's almost closing time." Surge thinks optimistically, lying almost half asleep on the counter. "In but a half hour I will be able to leave to collapse unconscious at home, free from the shackles of work." It should be noted that Surge works 4 jobs, a feat as necessary for him as it is completely insane. He barely gets by with sheer strength of will, although he hates every moment of it. His self-control takes a nosedive every second he stands behind a counter. He'll probably have PTSD about these jobs if he ever gets out of them.

This is his easiest job, thankfully. During the late hours, the Klipsy Kleme only has as many workers as it wants to pay- Just him. The only things he needs to do is sell whatever pastries are still available to anyone who asks, fully clean up the back, prevent any robberies solo, inventory ALL the ingredients, and dump any food that isn't sold at the end of the day. A nice easy set of tasks for the 3 other people he doesn't have. Thankfully, he's already done almost everything on the list. Provided nobody comes in to buy anything, he'll be able to clock out soon.

This is naturally when the bell on the door jingles.

He's up in seconds, abandoning what little rest he tried to wrest from the half-hearted attempt at sleep to stare at the front. Slowly and with great effort, a... very large animal(?) pries themselves through the doorway and flops onto the floor. A canine of sorts, colored in varying shades of brown and adorned with a scarf around the neck and a bag around the waist. A moment longer and he realizes the lines around the body aren't oddly straight patches of fur at all but rather seams- he's looking a plushie of sorts! A living, breathing one. One with the tongue flopped out on the floor. Drooling.

The floor he just mopped.

Surge very calmly turns around and takes a swig from the still hot coffee pot, what remnants of it still remain anyway. He's not really sure what he's dealing with here but BY GOD he needs some energy for it. By the time he turns back around the dog(?) has gotten up and is standing against the counter, their plush body pressing against (and over) the granite surface. Embroidered onto their chest in pink with a little heart is the name 'Etoffe'. They are taller than he is. He should probably stop ogling the customer and say something.

"...What can I get you?"

It's a safe question. It's a easy one, too. If he's lucky, it'll have a easier answer, and he'll be able to get this over with nice and quick. He can feel his ability to give a shit eroding by the second, and he really doesn't want to earn a bad review. Unfortunately, on Etoffe's face is the worst thing he could imagine- the look of someone who needs to THINK. The deadly enemy of minimum wage workers everywhere. The villain of closing hour.

He's so fucked.

The plush holds a finger up and turns around to rummage through their bag. This has the small, tiny, absolutely massive side effect of flashbanging his eyes with the sight of a frankly enormous donut. Purple, wide and gaping with absolutely nothing to cover it with, a hint of fluid threatening to drip onto the floor- he really IS actually going to need to mop the tile AGAIN. He can't even imagine it being covered up with how plump it is- could they even hide it without the pressure being a problem? He tries to imagine it himself, such a sensitive zone rubbing against cloth with barely any room, dripping down the back of his work pan-

NO. He really can't. He mustn't. He turns away. He has to. This minimum wage paycheck depends on it.

Eventually Etoffe gets his attention again, a small pad of paper placed on the counter before him. It reads:
"Sorry about coming so late! I'll figure out my order :("
He sighs his defeat into the air. "It's fine. Take your time." It probably isn't really their fault. He didn't hear a car, so they probably walked all the way here, at night, across several lanes of traffic, in a city with miles between stoplights for safe pedestrian crossing. Huge and naked. Knowing that they probably went through the misery of the carless travel here soothes the irritation he feels at having to stay overtime to finish his work because he GETS that.

Without the irritation to stew in though, the plush's proximity is all the more apparent. He can't see that donut of theirs- but he's finding it doesn't matter. He can Smell it, the tang of what surely must be sweat, however that's possible, the heat of whatever internals a plush has rendering it More. A splash of fluid against the floor barely makes it to his ears. He's so tired he really is losing his grasp- he can feel the veil of his humanity slipping, something deeper coming to attention. It's a pain. It's fully aware he's at work and it doesn't care- why would it? It's Him. It's probably more him then he allows himself to be publicly- It Knows he hates this job almost just as much as he hates the others. Every day he weighs the pros and cons of quitting.

...He doesn't want to let go of work that easily though. He grasps that external layer and holds it tight as he stares back at Etoffe's face. They look indecisive and- yeah, that's just Not Going To Work. If he's having this much trouble just standing here watching them, he'll need to move things along. Before things get MORE awkward.

He looks them dead in the eyes (where they should be anyway, it's not like he can see under the hair) and says "Hold on a moment." before walking away and leaving them to stare quizzically at his back. This place is old fashioned in a few ways, one big way being a little security closet that watches the cameras. Watching it is actually his job too- it's just impossible to man the front counter and sit back here at the same time. With few shits left to give and a few clicks of the mouse, Surge shuts the video and audio off. He'll turn it back on later before he leaves. Maybe.

He slides out just enough from the back to gaze at Etoffe and says:
"Look. I want to close up. I can tell you for sure that nothing you get will be as fresh as you want. In fact, I'll be honest and say that ALL of this is going to be thrown away. If you pay me for literally ANY item, I'll just let you take what you want from the rack. Alright?"
...Etoffe looks. Honestly, the plush looks ECSTATIC at the idea. Their tail wags eagerly behind them, and even as they nod their head one-two-three they've already pulled out a fiver and thrown it on the counter, bouncing around the countertop. Surge gets out of their way- he's not sure he can handle getting squashed right now.

He can already feel something quivering down between his legs without any external pressure, after all. (He'll find out WHAT when he opens his pants)

He leads them around to the display and opens it up, exposing all the treats to the air as he hops on the countertop- he's going to be wiping down everything again anyways so it might as well get some use. He's treated to the dog going for a éclair nigh immediately, throating it down whole- Damn. They follow it with the other 4, apparently remembering to chew this time with their cute fangs making short work of the chocolate-filled treats. Crumbs dust their cheeks, leftover cream on their muzzle licked quickly away. Their paws latch on the strawberry donuts next, licking around the frosting, taking tiny bites... they let out a little moan- and jolt back, turning surprised to look at him. He averts his eyes, something that might be a tiny blush showing his cheeks. The chewing resumes.

This wasn't how he thought he would spend his night.

Something about this though... it's snagging something inside. Maybe it's the way Etoffe keeps going, despite having a witness. This kind of thing... it's embarrassing, right? It's the kind of action Surge thinks about doing for a second and then disregards, abandons to make room for 'Productive' thoughts. 'Useful' ideas. Yeah, it would be NICE to indulge and do things he wants to do- but he'll get fired. It'll effect his future. It'll change the way people see him. It'll get him evicted. Any number of negative outcomes, Always. So he doesn't get to do anything. He hates it. Never getting to do anything enjoyable, Always ruined by the weight of reality. He HATES it.

He tries to think about the last time he did something just for pleasure. Months... no, he must have passed a year by. Maybe longer. How long has it been since the baseball field nearby was turned into a parking lot? He doesn't even remember- it feels like so much has passed him by without really thinking about it. A piece of his veil comes apart and falls in the background, but his heart's not in maintaining it anymore. He's thinking about Something Else.

From behind him, a tail sprouts.

Etoffe moved onto the vanilla donuts while he was busy, slowly biting through the crowd of dough. Vanilla never sells very well, so there's usually a lot left over- they don't seem to be complaining. Their frosting sprinkled paws drift down to dig into their own stomach, panting, drooling, tail wagging up a storm. Are they filled with stuffing or is it organic? He doesn't really know. He couldn't even tell you how much of HIM is still skin, tufts of fur sprouting under his clothes. They'll eventually tear if he does nothing.

He does nothing.

He's making a effort, but it's hard not to look at the centerpiece of the dog's body. When he invited them behind the counter for donuts, he didn't think about how close it would leave him to their own... They're so big that when they bend over it almost presses against his legs, gaping open enough to where he can see their insides. If he grasped a portion of that ring with his hand he wouldn't even be able to envelop it fully. Not that he has hands anymore- his fingers JUST fused together, leaving him with little pawpads instead, fur continuing to spread up his arm. His uniform's getting tight around the bottom half. His carefully tucked in uniform untucks itself, revealing a spread of fur-dusted midriff. His pants are getting tight in the back.

He does nothing.

He takes another whiff of the air. There's sugar and a tinge of jam- they've gotten into the filled donuts. That's just normal though. There's a new aroma in the air. The smell of syrup wafts through the air, teasing his nose as it drifts through their plump hole up to him in a almost visible vapor. They moan again, sucking a donut free of it's jam. They don't even bother to look at him- maybe they've decided he's fine. Maybe this whole deal he's laid out in front of them is just too good of a opportunity to pass up.

His legs snap painlessly and compress down, bones shifting denser and compact as he goes firmly out of plantigrade and into digitigrade. His workpants feel tight and uncomfortable- but his lower half is too hefty to undo them now. He'll have to wait for them to Snap Off. His back straightens out as it extends up ever so slightly, his shirt further riding away as the peek of midriff becomes a fluffy paunch laying out over his thighs. He can feel his ass teasing at the idea of escape behind him, tasting the air as it slowly slips out from the pants. The urge to swing his tail is oh so tantalizing.

...He allows it a little wag. (The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips.)

A bassy belch pierces his thoughts, followed by a low whine. His (longer) neck swivels to catch Etoffe plop against the floor, one paw cradling a stuffed belly, almost half of the display packed into their rumbling fabric gut even as their other paw grasps at the racks, trying in vain to get a glazed doughball. They mutter something unknown- in French, perhaps? It's not a language he's acquainted with, and it comes out raspy enough that he guesses speech doesn't come easy. They look around for him, finding something vaguely similar in his place. It hardly seems to surprise them at all- maybe they already knew he wasn't fully human. They gesture at him desperately to come help.

Well, it IS his job to serve the customer. He holds up a paw and hops off the counter, stumbling his way to the front door. It takes a few steps to orientate himself to this body, plodding forth to turn the sign to 'Closed' and shut down most of the lights, casting the shop in what dim light shines from the back. Each step stretches him out slightly taller, wider.

His workshirt frees itself from the duty of covering his body, tucking high enough for it to serve no purpose at all as his gut swells unconstrained under. His pants aren't so lucky- there's nowhere for them to go! His haunches are simply too big for average lowerwear, and so the seams tear in quick pops, each failure to constrain compounding until the pants fall away all together behind him. He thinks about how much money it'll take to replace that- what a waste of a thought! Fur sprouts in patches all about him as he shakes his head to ward it away, idly aware that when fur reaches his head it'll be a LONG while before he'll be able to get the veil back on. Getting fired will pretty much be impossible to avoid if what he thinks is going to happen ends up being right.

He thinks he's coming around to the idea, honestly.

Going over the counter just seems doomed to failure right now, so he trots around the counter to stare (down) at the plush dog. With a bit of effort, he heaves Etoffe into his arms and deposits them onto the counter- bending over each time would have a complete pain, especially with how little room there is back here even now. With that, he grabs a few of the glazed balls off the display and pushes them into the canine's open mouth, watching them chew and swallow them down in almost no time at all before their mouth rolls open once more, tongue hanging out. Their tail smacks the counter behind them, a THWAP THWAP THWAP joining their panting as they look eagerly in his direction.

So he grabs the rest of them, and plops them in, one by one. A paw falls down and, with a slight hesitation, presses into their stomach. Their cheeks bulge as they respond in kind with a HWooOOourp, sugar scented air pressing kisses against his nose, their tail picking up the pace as a flush joins the crumbs on their face. Surge can't help it- he chuckles, the sound coming out strange as their mouth is currently being adjusted into a muzzle, fur sprouting from their neck. Having gotten positive confirmation, the paw remains rubbing circles into the dog's gut as Surge turns around to look for whatever is available.

Plain donuts, croissants, a loaf of banana bread... He'll just do them all in order.

The donuts make their way into the gluttonous canine, each one pressed against their lips as they chew, crumbs spilling onto their belly as they belch and whine, bliss written on their face. They feel so soft and warm to the touch, the rumble of their middle tickling at his pawpads. They puff and chatter in French, permission for the next morsel written into words he can't translate. A familiar excitement is prodding at his heart.

His muzzle finishes coming in, tufts of fur spiking off the sides of his head as he reaches for the croissants next. He absently acknowledges that he's taller than them, the extra height of the counter proving a non-obstacle as the extra length of his neck actively requires him to look down to see the plush. If there was room enough, he'd go on all fours- but there Really Isn't Any, his bulky rear requiring a dangerous shuffle to not completely clothesline all the racks to the floor as is. His stomach is constantly pressing up against the counter itself, and he can feel a little portion colliding with Etoffe's. It's... pleasant. He's going to lose a job, and he doesn't even care.

He's fine. He's free. If only for tonight, he feels unchained.

The croissants make their way into the dog as well, a actual smile coming upon him without his intention. They look so FULL... But they still gesture at the banana bread. They Want It. Who is he to deny that? He takes a slice, ready to hand it over and... he's STUCK. His hips are stuck. He can't tear himself from the back yet with how close they are to being done though, and so he tosses them dogward instead, letting Etoffe snap them out of the air, burping and huffing under his paw as he kneads and plays with the orb Etoffe's touting.

One by one, the bread disappears, the scent of banana now only present in what air leaves the canine's mouth. The display is Empty. There's no more stock to deposit. There's a moment of almost silence, aside from the panting and low moans from Etoffe as they cradle their gut. They try to take a deep breath- SNAP! Even that mild movement was enough to send their bag to the floor, spilling it's contents everywhere. He had honestly forgotten it was even there, the high of the moment overtaking him. As he starts the process of removing himself from the tight squeeze he's currently in, he chances a look at Etoffe's face.

They look downright LUSTFUL.

He shuffles to his left, his right. His stance is too wide to walk backwards, his weight too heavy to hop the counter. It's all he can do. The constant bouncing of his own fat from all this is driving him up the wall too, pressing down on what he's pretty sure is a dick (this time).

...He's not even sure why he's bothering with the pretense at this point- does it really matter if Etoffe sees his cock hanging out? THEY have been naked the Whole Time.

When he finally squeezes his way out, he flops down on his forepaws, tired of letting his hindparts do all the work- he's HEAVY, damn it. It also conveniently puts him at donut height, that delightful purple ring just as plump as before- if not quite as big relative to Surge now. He's confident he can work with this. He's also pretty confident the dog wants some action- it's hard to misinterpret holding their ass open for him. He plods on over, his gut scraping the ground as he thumps against the floor, the pre trailing across the floor as he approaches matching the puddle dripping out of their rear. It's Not His Problem anymore.

He gets right up in there and stops, frontpaws coming up to grab hold of that doughy surface. It's SO hot, steaming even, their tail spreading the humidity about them, fanning and casting their scent all over the store, something he could ignore before when he was on the other side- less so now that he's up against the source. They pant and huff and moan and squeak, saying something he doesn't grasp as he toys with their ring, wetting his pawpads on their insides. They sound like they want him to do something more. He obliges.

By biting into it.

It has a distinct flavor, surprisingly. It's sweet, not unlike the pastries they just got done pushing past their throat. A thick liquid pushes it's way past his lips, seeping through the surface of their body into his. They press their rear back against him- he guesses that answers whether they want him to go again. Surge bites and chews and plays around the hole, squeezing and drifting his paws, licking all abound. This fluid stuff isn't just good- it's Honestly Amazing. They've gotten Loud too, their moans almost like yells, enough French to construct the Eiffel Tower pouring from their lips as they squirm under his grasp, panting and writhing, belching amidst it all because They Really Can't Help It. They look like they want even more from him...

Good thing his dick is already hard.

Surge hefts himself up on his hindlegs, leaning over the dog and hefting up their gut JUST enough to lay it on top of Etoffe, sliding in as he presses himself against their back, grabbing onto their gut for support as he readies, sets, and Smacks Himself against Them. They bark LOUD, sweating pouring down their fabric from somewhere he doesn't care enough to imagine, their speech devolving into "Merci, Merci, Merci!" over and over again as he goes in, and out, pushing himself up a notch. He expected them to be loose but is Very Pleased to know they are TIGHT, their insides caressing his dick as he presses in. His balls smack against their back as his dick distends their front, pushing a already huge stomach to enormity.

His stomach feels oddly full as well, the fluid from before sitting strangely heavy as it bounces with every thrust of his hips, sloshing in his ears. He's filled out as far as he does post-shift- but he's tingling all over, his body running searing. A corner of his vision tells him his stomach is filling out but before he can do anything about it, say something- his teeth are already clamped down into their shoulder, the urge pushing his body to act before he could even consider it. He drinks from them, gulping anything he can from the gaps in the seams, desperately trying to sate the overwhelming craving he's gotten, licking all over as they whimper and bark, pressing themselves as close to base as they can get on him...

He feels skin where there wasn't any before.

He IS getting fatter. Inch by inch, his gut is creeping further in front of him, obscuring the plush dog from Surge's vision as he pants. He reels back, no longer able to claim teeth to their neck as bending over gets too difficult to continue, fluid dripping from his muzzle he can't stop himself from swallowing. His backend gets thicker, rounder, harder to ignore as it quakes and wobbles with every thrust, fat distributing itself around his body. He can't stop the belch that tumbles from his lips, the movement as odd as it is tantalizing to him, a slice of the pie the canine was taking earlier.

He commits himself to fucking Etoffe senseless- he's not sure he CAN get back in if he pulls out now. His neck feels odd enough that he goes to touch it, only to find that it too is rounding out, the fat pooling at the bottom- a neckroll, he realizes after a moment. A belch tears it's way from him again- are his cheeks larger? Yes, he thinks, trying to peer at Etoffe before realizing he can't actually see them anymore, the lower belly he's sporting draping fully over the smaller dog. His ass hits the tile behind him- the vibrations teasing as they rock through him. He puffs, the act of thrusting getting harder and harder even as his climax approaches. Sweat trickles from him, this effort pushing him harder than he thought when he started. "Plus, Plus!!" Etoffe shouts panting, their tail wagging against his underbelly.

He's so close.

Surge tries to keep his pace, pushing his muscles to their limit under all this flab. He huffs and puffs in-between growls of determination- there is NO way he's gonna get blueballed. The toy under him matches him best they can under the pressure, under the body heat getting trapped below the umbrella of flab they are coated in. He's going to blow. There's a good chance his clothes won't even fit him in human form tomorrow, and in a realization born in perfect clarity-

He realizes it doesn't bother him much at all.

He ERUPTS, coating Etoffe's insides in layer after layer of cum, mixing in with the dessert as he screeches out his victory to the area. It's too much- even as he's drinking in his success he plops backwards onto his titanic rear, disentangling from the plush. The canine strongly resembles a inflated orb of taut fabric, fluid pushing their body out, OUT, their arms and legs, neck and paws, Everything partially filled after they ran completely out of room in their stomach. He doesn't think they can move. Maybe he can roll them home?

...Oh yeah. He can't move either. His legs are completely unwilling to carry his current weight, the growth continuing even after he pulled out. He thinks he has another neckroll? It's pretty hard to tell. He might need to take a few minutes off before making the improbable attempt to throw his veil together again so he can roll Etoffe wherever they call home.

Thank GOD he doesn't have to work tomorrows evening shift.