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Kurt knows exactly when this bar became his watering hole. A dozen blocks from his apartment, in the University neighborhood? Yeah, sure. Overpriced PBR marketed to a crowd too detached from the money they spend to discern any quality beyond the forced ambiance of a dive bar? No doubt, yep. But nobody has trough pissers anymore, everybody wants their privacy and these stalls aren't engineered to fit his frame. The portly raccoon might have settled for the first one he found with urinal stalls that fit his girth, but when the third place didn't ban him after desperately trying to squeeze into a urinal stall and causing a privacy wall to burst off its hinges, creating a Couples Corner next to the hand drier, the manager practically thanked Kurt for adding to their authenticity. A free pitcher for "our lack of accommodations." And that's why as much money on the cab as it costs to get a pitcher of shitty domestic makes all the sense in the world. That pitcher's gotta go somewhere.

Nobody seems to mind that he drinks alone, or that he does it in one of the few booths toward the back of the long bar, so far he could hardly hear or see the tumult of Old Main Avenue or the whining glow of the streetlights watching over drunken frat guys stumbling into traffic. Everybody else here seems to be a college kid, with the odd professor thrown here or there, none of them seeming the least bit natural in the space, every one of them looking about as comfortable among the youthful crowd as an early adopter millennial can. That one dude must be like fifty. Still-- anyone asks... "Kinesthesiology."

From his table abutting the grey brick wall, Kurt watches the projection TV casting another Big Game in another university town maybe a thousand miles away onto a whitewashed wall, the ticker indecipherable among the colorful array of liquor bottles. The closed captions are always terrible on ESPN.

It'd be easier to watch it on his phone, if he wanted to, and he's so deep inside the throng he's passed through the dead zone and returned to the promised land of 4G. But it's prestige TV recap podcasts and video game news for him. Yeah, he likes sports... but how can he enjoy a game with nobody to share it with? Still-- anyone asks... the radio call.

Time to time, it's gotten just so throbbing with the mass of people somebody actually sits across- but never a somebody, always some persons, a group taking refuge from the pulsing mob of revelers. Buried in their phones as they rediscover connections and refresh timelines, pointedly and politely not staring at the sweating, heaving mess of racc sitting across from them. All the while Kurt struggling to cope with the flood of body heat, imagining the gauntlet of his wide, burning mass through the roiling clutch of frailer beings hot and sticky in their own fervors that would be necessary to escape it all like a baptism by fire. Tonight might be a big game, but at least for now it's early.

As the beasts of burden slug it out on the field, the Philosophy and Artistic Design double majors mingle in the empty spaces left behind. Kurt always notices the bookish type in the crowd, so it's hard to miss how many of them seem to be out just now.

It was only about five years ago these would have been his cadre on his campus. The jocks in requisite purple and gold jerseys were always a great sight, but the lithe, softer fellas that came out in their most plaid of button-ups and skinny jeans to silently nod at a conversation for about a half hour before disappearing into the mists were something special all their own. Kurt could recall any number of good memories with friends of his back in college. And the raccoon had to give them one thing- they're gentle. When he brings his bulk to berth, it's always the jocks that want to assert their own size- as if a bump of his belly like a siege engine won't knock any 210 lacrosse kid on their ass. It's the twinky fellows that earn his admiration when they actually catch his eyes, move aside, time to time blush and time to time steal a squeeze of his bulk like he'd be too big to feel it and notice. A crowd like this the racc almost wouldn't mind blustering through, his ringed tail swaying behind as he bows twink after twink aside like cornstalks.

He leaves his jacket and pitcher to stand up, but there'll be no reaping of wheat right now. He can lean and fall into the men's room if he wants to, and all he needs for the moment is to drain the snake.

There's a lock on the door, and he could, and on some of his sloppier nights he has, but because Kurt wished upon the eclipse, fate guides him to not use it. He pulls down his athletic shorts in the doublewide stall he created for himself and has one chubby paw steadying himself on the wall when the door opens, the door closes, and the lock clicks.

Kurt twists his neck conspicuously to face the intruder, spying the bright orange figure through the corner of his eye. For a flash within a second, he would write an affidavit the Car Fox came into the bathroom to watch him piss. Obviously it can't be the Car Fox- he's been dead for months. But this guy couldn't be any less generic, any less assuming, or radiate in his smile any less the self-confident salesmanship that Car Fox turned iconic before sending his McLaren into a river.

"Hi," he says curtly as he stands in front of the door. "My name is... actually, this might be easier without introductions. Have- have you ever been in a fraternity?"

Kurt thinks about his answer for a moment, collecting his thoughts and sights. The fox doesn't necessarily look too old to be a freshman, just a little spent, like his high school days were a little rough. Typical fox aside, sporting a white v-neck just to nail the designer store mannequin look. But it's the atypical bulge in the fox's skinny jeans that draw's the raccoon's stare, a gift atypical of foxes- or honestly, of anybody you'd find with a frame that slender and short. Kurt has to shake the thoughts of Dodger Dogs and kielbasa from his mind to actually answer to question.

"I really enjoyed my time at Alpha Beta Omega..." Kurt focuses himself just long enough to answer. "But that was a different University, I don't think they have a chapter here. I won't be able to-"

"No- no, whatever you think I need-" He watches his toes and the smile on his face twists toward a nervous grimace for once. "I mean- you've pledged, right? You know the- the kinds of things these guys think are funny, right?"

It takes a bit of effort for a person Kurt's size to turn, and for it all he really just wants to hit the head, so he's still turned to the wall as this Dollar Store Swiper pads up to him- all 120 lbs of orange fluff stuffed into as tight a tee shirt one size too tight. If he was 120, that'd make him- a third Kurt's size.

"Can you pull those shorts down and show me what your ass looks like?"

"WH-" Kurt chokes on the question, face flushing with hot blood under fur not quite brown enough to obscure the rose in his cheeks. The raccoon's lips sit parted for a moment as he strains to ask a question, but in the end lets his shorts drop to the floor and a vibrant shock of exposure flood the plains of his body before asking "W- Why? Why do you want to see my ass?"

The fox silently admires the sight set before him. Kurt wants to turn, see if he's sneaking a picture on his phone- but the thought of that only makes him want to keep both hands on the wall and make the picture a good one.

"I don't want to make this any stranger than it is. They want me to fuck the fattest guy in this bar. They wanna get to the game by halftime and hasn't anybody bigger walked in. Soooo... would you... like... to... ... fuck?"

Kurt might have spent long enough thinking about it to look like a fool, or at least uncomfortable, but the same reflex in the base of your spine that drops a hot pan spits out a fevered "Yes" before the matter ever really reaches his brain. By the time the question is a part of his grey matter, the enthusiastic yelp is an echo off tile and the only lucid thought it brings to his mind is how badly he misses fraternity life.

The check signed, the fox drops his zipper and huffs as he struggles out of the denim clinging to his legs, drops his lime briefs to the floor and softly pads up behind Kurt. His cock aims between but centimeters from the racc's two great globes.

"You can turn around, right?" He let himself miss a beat. "They call that a rotation for space objects, right?"

Straightening his back, the raccoon rotates to face the smaller man. A head shorter than Kurt and a fraction his weight, this understudy Nick Wilde looks like he carries about half his weight in the counterbalance swinging between his legs. Not impossibly long but this cowboy must walk bowlegged to keep that thick cock and blackjack ballsack from chafing against the fur of his thighs.

"This part should come natural to you: put it in your mouth."

The walls shake as Kurt drops to his knees. He'd swear it, the lights flickered. Looking up at the fox he can only muster a faint apology before using his tongue to lift the apple head of the fox's uncut dick onto his lips. The paw to the back of the raccon's head only rustles clawtips behind his ears at first, but as the stout tool grows stiff in Kurt's maw, the grip becomes tighter and the force more concerted. This fox gets his kicks tugging the scruffy blonde hair in his paw so that Kurt can only tickle the hooded dome with the tip of his tongue, and the racc gets his kicks from just the same, not caring that he drools on the floor as he tries to lap the savory flavor leaking from the man's tip.

For a guy going through an initiation ritual, Franchise Reboot Robin Hood carries himself like a legacy pledge. He keeps his directions short but not curt and makes little small talk aside from low moans through chewed lips until the raccoon needs a note on style.

"Easy- easy, there... You suck it like the first ice cream cone you've seen in a week. You gotta go easy. Feels a lot better on my end if you savor it." However cool he wants to play it, he's leaking like a faulty dam and no number of spillways down the raccoon's throat can prevent a puddle of their collective juices from collecting on the tiles floor, slowly creeping toward the drain.

Kurt thinks maybe this can be over sooner rather than later. The freshman's advice isn't bad, and as Kurt slowly laps along the broad cock and coaxes it into the back of his throat, he feels a heartbeat on his tongue.

Unlicensed Swiper slowly sheathes his gargantuan tool in Kurt's maw, stretching his throat and stopping off a solitary gag like a plug. The coarse white fuzz at the base of the fox's cock tickles the raccoon's nose. A slender paw strains to bridge the back of Kurt's head, holding him still as the pledge gently rocks his hips, pulling the length of his pride to the raccoon's lips before slowly burrowing again. The pattern quickens, and before long he's forgotten all about letting anybody savor anything as he humps Kurt's face like he's trying to break the raccoon's nose.

"I... gotta cum... " the fox huffs with dejection in his voice as his rhythm slows. "This just isn't doing it." The girth pops like a sucker from Kurt's lips as he gets a friendly pat on the cheek and an arm under his armpit.

"Let me help you up so you don't fall over and actually bring the place down this time." Kurt could have crushed him like a tin can as he braced against the slender frame to lift himself, but somehow the fox survives the ordeal.

"Lean over this, sweet cheeks, I want to see something."

Kurt being asked to present his wide ass and essentially watch himself do so in the landscape mirror proves no barrier to his obliging the fox's command. The racc acquiesces all the same when ordered to lift his long, slender tail- the only part of his that couldn't grow no matter how much he ate, an almost comical ringed rat tail now behind his wide load. Inadequate paws grip at opposite sides of the racc, squeezing and struggling to get anything close to a real hold on the mass.

"Let me see this," he says before bringing his right paw crashing against Kurt's ass, a bassy slap bouncing off the tile. Kurt chokes off a startled yelp to avoid drawing attention to the locked bathroom as the ringleader behind him chuckles and delivers another spank.

"They'll hear!"

"They won't hear me spanking your fat ass, that's all bass. Sounds too much like the music. They'll hear your muzzle though if you don't just grit your teeth for a minute here. Don't worry. The door's locked so they'll just think someone's in here fucking."

Public Domain Fantastic Mr. Fox lifts his paw high and spanks again, his laughter a little louder each time. "I don't think you've ever seen how your ass jiggles when you slap it like someone threw a rock in a lake"

"I- I've never seen- seen what?" Kurt stammers.

The racc bites off a cry as his cheek is slapped again. The pledge sidles up to the raccoon's back, his fat dick hotdogging the chubby cheeks as he forces his phone screen in front of Kurt's face. On it he sees himself as a paw bright as safety orange comes crashing down on a hide of tan fur and sending it undulating in perfect waves that reverberate and criss-cross through each other.

"Wait."

Once more Kurt bites off a yelp, his cock hard as a pillar underneath the rolls. Not that he's saying anything, but Kurt hasn't been this stiff in years. Persevering through all odds, if one were more more able to see than the racc and more curious to look than the fox, one would see the slightest tip of a fountainhead for pre escaping from the fuzzy brown crotch. The fox presses up once more against Kurt's back, the leaky fireplug cock under his tail, and shoves in front of his chubby face a 4K slo-mo macro shot digital rendition of the raccoon's ass, wide and glorious as a landscape, sent into a ballet of cosmic forces realized in pinkening fur. "Physics department is missing out here, I think," the fox quips as he put his phone aside, fishes a tube of lubricant from his jeans, and begins working his digits into the hole at the center of Kurt's big ass. First one, then two, the fox a little impatient to get his quarry ready.

"Watch yourself," is all the warning the fox gives as the brutish head of his cock splits Kurt's cheeks and burrows inside. A shrill cry sounds from his throat only to be cut off by a paw around his muzzle.

"I get it, I get it, I get-" he says as he tries again, the head of his cock poised against the raccoon's hole and inexorably plunging as if as the gravity of the planetary ass were pulling it in.

The thing really is almost too big to handle, this little cream puff of a guy in hipster frames with a dick he should probably register as a lethal weapon. Kurt struggles well enough to hold his cries as he relaxes his tight ass around the girthy mast, a paw over his stout muzzle to keep him honest.

It's a thing of beauty when Guest Artist Spy Fox hits his form. Using his free paw to squeeze and slap all the fat he can get his hands on, he finds his stroke and buries his foxhood again and again, plumbing the raccoon's depths and feeling for the spots that made him have to clamp down on the raccoon's nose.

"C'mon big boy," the pledge mutters mostly to himself, "it's a lot of ass but it can't take you that long to get it going..." his thrusts begin to take on a defiant flair, forceful, making the raccoon's thighs jiggle with each one. "I know you've got a dick somewhere in there, blow your wad and we can get out of here before somebody sees us." Maybe he's getting a little eager, but the more eager he gets, the more the head of his cock rings the bell deep inside Kurt time and time again.

"Fuck- fuck-" Kurt stammers through his digits, feeling every nerve along his body light up with an electric sensation shooting out from the base of his spine. The words foreshadow it all, erupting all at once with the fervor of months of denial: "Fuck my fat ass you fucking fox stud, fuck my fucking fat ass, fuck me, fuck fuck fuck-" His cock begins to quake and the poor fox near has his claws bit off as the raccoon's dick erupts, the sticky wads dripping from his crotch and pooling on the tile below, the countertop groaning and sinking under the weight as his knees quiver and buckle.

The fox pulls his cock from the gaping ass and Kurt loses all structural support, like his skeleton went with it, daring the sagging countertop beneath him to crumble. The fox grabs him by the scruff and huffs as he pulls him back, and this time everyone knows the lights flicker as Kurt lands on his wrecked ass with a yelp. The fox straddles the wide body, taking a seat on the heaving chest as he strokes his cock in front of the raccoon's nose.

"Just a moment.." he pants to himself, squeezing his cock almost in a death grip as it pulses and drips a solid stream of precum onto Kurt's chest. "Hold on..."

Emulator Star Fox's cock erupts over Kurt face, splattering against his right cheek first before blinding his left eye with the second jet. The next few spatter the floor, but everything else seems to hit him square on his broad muzzle, the heavy fox with the heavy balls having spurt after spurt left well after one would think the pipes had drained. Holding his spent dick in his hands and huffing to catch his breath, he reaches for his phone to snap one more proof before rolling off and rising to his feet.

He doesn't say much as he squeezes his dick back into his underwear and skinny jeans, other than to ask Kurt if he needs help up. Kurt accepts his hand and wants to ask him if the spanking and teasing was part of the initiation but has a better idea and asks if he can send himself the pictures.