"Hngh! These fit last week. What the hell is going on?" Claire's fingers dug into the waistband of her pants with a frustrated growl, the fabric straining audibly under the pressure of her thickened waist. "This is ridiculous," she muttered, tail flicking irritably as she abandoned the futile attempt. Her reflection in the full-length mirror glared back at her, a version of herself she barely recognized: puffy cheeks, soft curves where sharp angles used to be, thicker thighs and that damn belly—round and heavy—resting atop the unbuttoned pants like a spoiled dessert.

She prodded her stomach experimentally, wincing at the way it jiggled under her touch, a faint sloshing sound rising from deep within. Her turquoise cropped tank-top did nothing to hide the pillowy curve there. The white pants hung open, the dark green trim straining against the soft swell of her hips, the button gaping like a broken promise. "Ugh, great. Now I have to buy new clothes. Again."

A week. One measly week since the conveyor belt incident, and her body had decided to betray her entirely. The memory of cream flooding her throat, her—other places—flashed unbidden in her mind, followed by the phantom sensation of being stretched obscenely full. Claire's ears twitched, heat rising to her cheeks. She should have been horrified. So why did her tail curl with something uncomfortably close to... anticipation?

With a huff, she snatched a half-eaten Twinkie off her dresser and shoved it into her mouth. It wasn't the same. Nothing was as good as the industrial-grade filling that had ruined her. The thought made her pause mid-chew. Ruined? Or... upgraded? Her belly gurgled loudly, as if in agreement.

"Shut up," she hissed, tossing the empty wrapper aside. It joined the growing pile on the floor—a monument to her newfound inability to stop eating. She'd told herself it was just temporary. A weird, bloated fluke. But then the cravings hit. Twinkies. Cupcakes. Anything stuffed with that same thick, sugary filling. Every convenience store run, every guilty midnight fridge raid, all chasing that same impossible high. She'd torn through boxes of sweets, licking cream from her fingers with an urgency that bordered on desperation. And now? Now her favorite pants were a lost cause.

Her phone buzzed on the bed. Another text from her roommate, Honey G. Savage: "You gonna help with rent or just keep stress-eating my snacks?" Claire's ears flattened. Right. Money. Which meant... job hunting. In these pants.

Sinking onto the bed, she buried her face into the pillow. This was her life now. A walking, talking cream-filled catastrophe. And yet... her fingers trailed down to her belly again, pressing into the softness. A weird, traitorous part of her liked the way it yielded under her touch. Liked the weight. The fullness. The—

Her phone buzzed again. "Also," Honey's text read, "we need to talk about the 'incident' at the bakery downtown. They’re asking about the catgirl who looted their cream supply."

Claire's belly dropped. Then growled.