FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

"Thank you, ma'am. Have a nice day!"

Harold, an astonishingly small business owner, turned the 'open' sign to 'closed' as

the last customer shuffled out with a box of assorted donuts. He had a round, fluffy

body covered in golden-brown fur. A stout, furry moth with a plump, round body.

Butter had been working behind the counter, but now he leaned against it, letting out

a soft groan. He wiped a stray crumb from the corner of his mouth, leaving behind a

faint flour smudge on the soft fur of his cheek. The smallbumblebee clapped his tiny

hands together, "Great day today, Butter! Your presence really does draw them in.

Which reminds me," he gestured to the long countertop and the glass display cases

behind it, "we've got a lot of the leftovers".

Trays upon trays of pastries gleamed under the warm bakery lights. Cream puffs with

powdered sugar like morning frost, sticky cinnamon rolls spiraled into perfect golden

knots, and eclairs lined up in tidy rows, their chocolate toppings gleaming. More,

Butter could see, in the kitchen. The air in the bakery, always sweet, was practically

humming with sugar and butter.

"If you wouldn't mind disposing of all these for me, Butter," Harold said, already

gathering his satchel from under the counter. "Just take them out back, to the bin. I'd

do it myself, but my wing joint has been acting up all afternoon." He stretched a

feathery brown antenna at Butter, as if to prove his point. Butter's gaze was fixed on a

particularly luscious-looking cheesecake, its surface marbled with raspberry swirls.

"No problem, Buzzy," he said, his antennae twitching slightly. His round stomach

pressed snugly against the edge of the counter.

"Wonderful! You're a lifesaver. See you in the morning!" The little bee whizzed out

the door, the tiny bell above it jingling merrily before the lock clicked into place. The

silence that followed was sudden and total. Butter was alone. Alone with the bakery.

Alone with all the pastries. He waddled toward the backroom for some trash bags.

On his way back, he paused by the display case. A single, lone cream puff sat on a

paper doily. Its shell was a perfect sphere of delicate crispness, and through a small

slit at the top, he could just glimpse the pristine white cream inside.

"It's just... one," Butter mumbled to himself, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "One

to celebrate another great day..." Before his rational mind could form another

thought, his hands had already reached out. He popped it into his mouth whole. The

flavor exploded. Cool, sweet vanilla cream burst from its fragile pastry prison, coating

his tongue. A contented sigh escaped him as he chewed. That was it. The spark. The

moth smacked his lips.

His eyes scanned the trays again. A full rack of cookies, their chocolate chips still

semi-molten. A mountain of danishes, their centers glistening with fruit filling. A

whole croquembouche, a tower of cream-filled profiteroles glazed in a webbing of

caramel, sat majestically on a separate stand, awaiting its fate in the trash. Butter's

antennae gave an almost imperceptible tremble. "Wasting all this..." he thought, "it...

It seems wrong." He grabbed the tray of cookies. Then the danishes. Soon, he was

pulling out chairs and arranging the treats all around the large center table in the

middle of the room. He wasn't disposing of them. He was saving them. From the bin.

From the cruel, cold fate of being wasted. He was a hero.

The initial rush of pastries was a blur of powdered sugar and melted chocolate.

Butter's world narrowed to the sensory delight of taste and texture. Flaky croissants

surrendered to his eager tongue, their buttery layers melting away. He bit into a fruit

tart, the sharp tang of berry cutting through the sweetness of the custard, the

shortbread crust crumbling beneath. The croquembouche was a mountain he

conquered one profiterole at a time, the brittle caramel shattering with each

satisfying crunch, each bite a symphony of sweet, rich cream and burnt sugar. The

bakery was quiet. Only the soft pat of crumbs falling on the checkered floor, the

rhythmic chew. For a while, he was in heaven. A round, furred angelic being in a

world made of sugar. Fullness was a distant concept. Then the third tray of brownies

arrived.

A dull pressure began to build in Butter's stomach. He paused, a half-eaten brownie

still in his paw, resting on the swell of his belly. He took a breath. The air itself seemed

sweet, tasting of baked bread and vanilla extract. He surveyed the landscape of

wrappers and empty plates that surrounded him. He was an island in a sea of his own

gluttony. A groan rumbled in his chest, less one of satisfaction and more of strain.

"Okay," he breathed out, the word a puff of air. "Okay. That's... that's plenty." He

pushed the plate of brownies away. His gaze drifted and settled upon an untouched

lemon meringue pie. Its peaks were toasted to a perfect golden brown, a fluffy cloud

atop a sea of translucent yellow. "Just... one more slice," he rationalized. "To round

things out. It's citrusy. Cleansing." He didn't believe himself for a second, but he cut a

wedge that was more a third than a sixth and dove back in.

His belly was now taut, the fur stretched thin over the great sphere of it. His

movements became slower, more deliberate. Eating was no longer a joyous frenzy; it

was a labor of love. A challenge. Each swallow felt like it required more effort than

the last. He leaned back in the sturdy wooden chair, which creaked alarmingly under

his new distribution of weight. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, patting the tight

dome of his stomach. While for an observer it would look full, almost bursting, Butter

knew well it could fit more.

A lot more.

While he had some trouble with standing up, he tried his best to move one leg and

then the other. While moving slowly, he kept looking back at the kitchen, where a

single sheet pan sat on the counter. He could see the glisten of icing and the

scattering of rainbow sprinkles from across the room. A sheet of "celebration"

cupcakes, meant for a cancelled order. They had called him in on his day off for them,

too. Butter waddled across the floor, feeling the cool tiles through the flour dust on

his feet-pads. The journey to the kitchen seemed longer this time.

He stared at the cupcakes. They were his final obstacles. The last guardians of the

'Closed' sign. There must have been two dozen of them, sitting patiently in their neat

little paper liners. Butter grabbed the entire sheet pan and carried it back to the

table, his arms trembling slightly with the effort. This was it. The final push. He picked

up the first one. The icing was thick, a sugary paste that stuck to the roof of his

mouth. The cake was dense and moist. The dough itself tasted heavily of almond, a

secret ingredient that made them addictive. And it was indeed an amazing

experience for him. The second cupcake, carrot cake, was different. Tangy cream

cheese frosting, dense, spiced cake studded with bits of walnuts and shredded carrot.

He ate it in two bites, the slight spice a welcome change from the pure sugar assault.

A crimson velvet cupcake. Its cream cheese frosting was piled high, a stark white

against the deep red of the cake. When he bit into it, it was like sinking into a cloud.

The red velvet cake was incredibly tender, with just a hint of cocoa, while the frosting

was the perfect balance of tangy and sweet. It disappeared in a single, greedy gulp.

Next was a triple chocolate fudge cupcake. This one was serious business. It was dark,

rich, and intense. The cake was almost brownie-like in its density, and the ganache

frosting was so thick and glossy it was practically a chocolate pudding, dripping

slightly down the sides. With each bite, Butter’s eyes drifted shut, a soft, buzzing hum

resonating in his chest. The world beyond these twelve squares of paper simply

ceased to exist. His stomach was a taut, round drum, stretched to what felt like its

absolute limit, yet the next cupcake called to him with a siren's song of sugar and fat.

His next conquest was a simple vanilla cupcake. But it was anything but simple. The

cake was light and airy, but soaked in a subtle vanilla bean syrup that made it

exceptionally moist. The buttercream was a pale yellow, fluffy, and shot through with

tiny black specks of real vanilla. It tasted like pure, distilled childhood sweetness, the

kind of flavor that could make you forget everything else. For a moment, he felt a

pang of guilt. The sugar high was wearing off, leaving behind a leaden fullness. He felt

sick. He was uncomfortably, almost painfully, full. "This is... the last one," he

mumbled to himself, even though six more remained. "I can't... I can't eat another

bite."

But then, his eyes fell upon the next one. Key Lime. The pale green frosting beckoned

him. He knew what was inside. A burst of tart citrus, a perfect counterpoint to all the

richness he'd just consumed. Maybe... maybe just one more to balance it out. The

theory was flimsy, a desperate attempt by his addled brain to justify continuing. He

picked it up. The frosting was tangy and light, and the cake had pockets of a sweet

lime curd filling inside. The zesty flavor cut through the cloying sweetness that had

coated his tongue, offering a small merciful reprieve. He ate it faster than the others,

almost defensively, as if the tartness was a challenge he had to conquer.

The next one was peanut butter. The chocolate cake was good, but it was a mere

vehicle for the towering swirl of peanut butter buttercream that crowned it. It was

salty, nutty, and dense, an entire jar of peanut butter whipped into a frosting. As he

ate it, Butter's movements grew sluggish. He had to prop his belly up with one arm to

keep it from pressing too heavily on the table. Each swallow was a conscious effort.

His antennae drooped, framing a face smeared with the detritus of a hundred

different icings. He looked like a painting of pure indulgence, rendered in frosting and

flour.

The seventh was a maple bacon cupcake. The savory, smoky crunch of the candied

bacon on top cut through the sweet maple cream cheese frosting and the dense,

spiced cake beneath. He barely tasted it. His jaw ached with chewing. His stomach

felt like a stretched water balloon, filled to the very brim and then some. He felt

bloated, hot, and unbelievably stuffed. He thought of home, of his small bed, of how

nice it would feel to lie down. He put the final cupcakes aside, a wave of nausea

washing over him. He was done. He'd finally lost the battle to his own insatiable

appetite.

But then he saw them. One with glittery rainbow sprinkles. One with shimmering

silver pearls. One with a mound of coconut flakes, toasted to a perfect golden brown.

They looked untouched. Pristine. Like little works of art, he couldn't bring himself to

discard. It was... disrespectful. He grabbed the one with the rainbow sprinkles. The

rainbow sprinkles had a slight crunch, offering a textural counterpoint to the softness

of the buttercream. The glittering silver pearls tasted faintly of honey and crackled

between his teeth. The toasted coconut cupcake was nutty and sweet, the shreds of

coconut offering a final, pleasant chew. He ate them all.

A final, agonizing groan escaped Butter's lips as he forced down the last swallow of

that last cupcake, a simple butterscotch creation. The entire sheet pan was now a

battlefield of empty paper liners. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe. His

stomach was a rock-hard sphere, pressing into the wooden table, threatening to

splinter it. His fur was matted with sugar, chocolate, and who knows what else. He

leaned back in the chair, which shrieked in protest. He let his head loll back, antennae

brushing against the wall. Every fiber of his being screamed with fullness. His eyes

drifted shut, a soft, buzzing hum resonating in his chest. The world beyond this single

room simply ceased to exist.

But then, there it was. A final piece de resistance, standing forgotten by the kitchen

door on a pedestal, draped in a cloth to keep it fresh. Buzzy's masterpiece of the

week, the one he'd been practicing for a competition: a two-layer opera cake, its

surface as dark and glossy as a midnight pond, trimmed with perfect lines of

shimmering gold leaf. Butter whimpered. He couldn't. He absolutely, positively

couldn't. He felt like he was about to burst at the seams, a furry, over-ripe fruit ready

to pop. Yet… he was supposed to dispose of it. Leaving it felt like a failure. He heaved

himself upright, the chair scraping loudly on the floor. The short journey to the

pedestal was an agonizing waddle. He looked at the cake. It was beautiful. A tragic

waste to throw it away. With a shaking paw, he peeled back the cloth. The rich aroma

of dark chocolate and coffee hit him. "Just... one bite," he whispered, the words

scraping his throat. "To taste it for Buzzy. For quality control." He plunged a finger into

the corner, scooping up a perfect cross-section of chocolate ganache, coffee

buttercream, and almond sponge. The flavor was divine—intense, complex,

luxurious.

He continued to chip away at the cake one tiny, agonizing bite at a time. It was a slow,

painful process. His jaw ached with the effort of chewing, and with each swallow, he

was certain this would be the one. The one that would send him over the edge. But it

never came. He just kept getting fuller and fuller, until he felt his entire midsection

was a single, solid orb of compressed pastry and sugar. He collapsed back into the

chair, gasping for air. The pedestal was now bare, save for a few stray crumbs and a

single flake of gold leaf. He had done it. He had eaten everything. A wave of dizzying

sickness and overwhelming triumph washed over him. He closed his eyes, letting the

darkness take him. He had fallen into a sugar coma, with dreams of rivers of

chocolate frosting and mountains of whipped cream. A soft jingle, distant and

metallic, pierced the fog. The lock is turning in the front door. The light, cheerful

footsteps of his employer.

"Goodness me! Butter!" Buzzy's high-pitched voice cut through the haze like a knife

through butter. "What in the world happened here?" The little bumblebee buzzed

around the room, his eyes wide with what Butter, in his dazed state, mistook for

shock. "And... you're still here?" He fluttered up to Butter's face, hovering just inches

from his frosting-smeared muzzle.

Butter tried to answer, to explain, but all that came out was a pained moan. His

stomach was a taut, protesting drum under the thin layer of his fur. He gestured

feebly at the carnage of wrappers, plates, and crumbs. "I... I took care of the...

leftovers, Buzzy," he managed to mumble, each word an effort. "I don't think... I can...

eat another bite... Ever."

A knowing smile twitched at the corner of Buzzy's mouth before vanishing. "Oh, my

dear boy! That's a terrible pity." The bee zipped over to the kitchen door, returning

with a cloth-covered tray. He set it down on the table with a delicate click. "Because

it's our fifth-anniversary special week! I've just finished baking these brand-new

Tiramisu Swirl Croissants. They need testing immediately for quality control before

we open." He whipped the cloth off the tray with a flourish, revealing a dozen flaky

croissants, their spiral layers visible on the outside, generously dusted with cocoa

powder and giving off an intoxicating aroma of coffee, mascarpone, and sweet

liqueur.

A soft, involuntary hum instantly replaced butter's moans of pain. His antennae,

which had been drooping pathetically, perked straight up, twitching rapidly. His eyes,

previously glazed over with discomfort, now shone with a renewed, single-minded

focus. The agonizing pressure in his stomach seemed to vanish, replaced by a

cavernous emptiness that only a tiramisu-swirl croissant could fill. Another agonizing

groan escaped his lips, but this one was not of pain, but of pure, desperate want. He

looked at Buzzy, then back at the croissants, a single word rumbling from deep within

his chest. "...Maybe... just one?"