#stuffing fic

"Do you have any questions about the menu?" I asked. I'm supposed to ask this rather than 'what'll you have.' To get the conversation flowing, and to make sure my table feels cared for.

"Oh, a few." The one in the suit said. "What do you recommend for a special occasion?"

"What's the occasion?"

"It's my big Five-Oh." The one in the dress' eyes darted from me to across the table, going even pinker. "We thought we'd celebrate."

"Wow, happy birthday! You look great." The lighting in here is flattering to all, but she didn't look a day over thirty-five. A joke seemed to flash between them.

"Thank you," The one in the dress said, "This place has amazing reviews, so we're pretty excited we could snag a reservation."

"You definitely came to the right place. Any other plans tonight?" No reason to stuff them with carbs and cream sauce if they're taking in a show next — they could doze off in the dark.

"Just this." The one in the suit replied, but her smile across the table promised far more. "So, what do you think? We want the best."

I leaned over to trace my path down the menu of the one in the suit. "Sounds like you're aware that our menu changes often, since it's seasonal. I'll tell you now that you want the tarte tatin — it's like a crown of apple slices submerged in their juice, caramelizing all the way through your meal. So we have to let the kitchen know you want it when I put in your order."

"It's a la mode, bunny. Do you want a scoop of ice cream to finish?" The one in the suit grinned across the table, showing the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth in a tease. So not a first date, then. I moved my finger back to the top of the menu.

"The radishes and smoked cod's roe is worth your bravery — salty, creamy, smoky, with the crisp zing of the radish. But if you want to start off in familiar territory, the panisse is exactly what fritte should be, with a crunchy exterior and a silky middle." I could feel the eyes of the one in the suit following my nail's scrape along the page. I moved to second.

"You really can't go wrong for the second course. The trout gravlax is fresh trout cured with salt, sugar, juniper and pink peppercorn. It's compressed while it cures, then we slice it thin so it dissolves in your mouth in a silken sheet. If you want something more substantial, I'm obsessed with what the kitchen can do with tagliatelle, wild mushrooms, and parsley. Savory, tender mushrooms clinging to fresh pasta and brightness from the parsley. It may be simple but it's done right.

"For your third course, I enjoy the duck. It plays with so many aspects of flavor — the richness of the duck, the sweet and sour of the honeynut squash and pomegranate, the mild bitterness of the trevise greens. It's a dish that develops and echoes back on itself as you combine the elements, like Thanksgiving. I also recommend the pork belly. It's rolled and stuffed with fennel seeds, lemon zest, and marinated spinach. The green herb sauce makes every bite soar."

The one in the suit set her menu on the table and said, "Well, bunny? What sounds good?"

The one in the dress propped her chin in her hand. "It all sounds good to me, vix."

"I agree. We'll take it all, please. Ah, and a glass of…" The one in the suit scanned over the wine list but settled on the cocktail list with an amused noise in the back of her throat, "…the Strega Nona would be perfect. Thank you."

It's pretty old school for one person to order for the table, so as I wrote down my selections on the ticket, I found myself angling toward the one in the dress. "Is there anything else?" I asked.

"We'll see." Bunny replied, "Thank you."

When I returned with the Strega Nona, Vix claimed it. It was the last thing I set in front of her for the night, other than the check.

🍽 🍽 🍽

I didn't understand at first. When I brought out the first course plates, I set them in the center of the table. I told them to enjoy and retreated. From a distance I watched Vix lean over and pluck one of the panisse from their stack and, with a fluid tilt of her wrist, offer its tip to Bunny's parted lips.

I've eaten the food here enough times to almost consider it mundane, because it's always accessible and convenient to me. Like hot food at the bodega. I've had the panisse more times than I can count — our menu changes, but there are staples that are made from ingredients that are pretty much always sourceable. But I watched Bunny's tongue touch the stinging spot where a chunk of kosher salt dissolved on her lip and felt like something different was happening. As servers we're meant to return to the table to check in, but there's a balance to it. We don't want our table to feel like they're being rushed or scrutinized. But I found my legs carrying me to their table sooner than I'd normally wait.

"How is everything?" I asked. Bunny was nibbling down her third stick of panisse and Vix had sat back in her chair, rolling the stem of her cocktail glass in her fingers. The two of them looked up at me.

"It's exactly what you promised." Bunny answered, then finished the panisse in three wolfed bites. "Crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside. Like if a frenchy fry and hummus lived in harmony." She selected her next piece and bit down. I was a little surprised by her tenacity. The frothy rosiness of her hid quite the appetite, as focused as Vix's eyes under luxuriating lids. Vix, who did not reach for either of the final two pieces of panisse and twirled her cocktail.

I asked if they needed anything and left the table again. As I waited my other tables I saw Bunny finish the plate alone, feeding the final bite into her mouth with a lifted pinkie. I saw her suck the salt from her fingertips. Then I saw Vix push the plate of radishes and smoked cod's roe closer to Bunny.

Bunny dragged a slice of orchid-bright radish through the cod's roe and laid it on her tongue. Her eyebrows went up. The guy at the table I stood in front of said, "Can I get the salade verte without any dressing?"

My pen skidded across my pad. I blinked. "That's just a plate of lettuce. Is that okay?"

He huffed. Like I said, it's my job to make my table feel cared for, and I wasn't succeeding. My hands took down orders, my mouth shaped around 'how are you doing tonight' and 'that's our hangar steak from last week's menu,' and my eyes kept returning to the table where Bunny finished the first course. I didn't understand. Was she a food critic who needed to know how everything tasted personally to describe her experience? It's hard to tell, but I've had one or two at my table before. Someone who gets first bite of each dish like droit de signeur. But Bunny ate everything.

When I set the trout gravlax and tagliatelle plates down, I put them on Bunny's side of the table. Vix smiled up at me with teeth that flashed like sparks. "Thank you," she said, and for a moment I was a part of whatever it was, and whatever it was was delicious. My toes clenched to keep me from shifting my weight.

"Enjoy," I said. It was my role.

🍽 🍽 🍽

Being a waiter is being a voyeur. And even so, unless we stand there and let you talk to us, we only get part of the joke that makes everyone break into laughter. Sometimes I just get the laughter. It's not a problem — a lot of the things that happen at a table in New York are not interesting to me. But leaving Bunny and Vix's table behind, knowing that what was happening there interested me, was hard. It meant I would only get snapshots from afar.

The horseradish cream dripping from Bunny's fork, caught with a scoop of that tongue. How I knew that tongue felt the slick of oil, the mouth salivated to meet the grate of salt and sugar, how the juniper bloomed up through her nose. The first bite of the tagliatelle, wrapped demurely around the fork. The last bite of the tagliatelle, speared pasta dangling wild over the tines. How I knew what Bunny was tasting, and Vix didn't. How I'd picked those plates to contrast each other, because I thought they would share. Instead my choices made sure, far past the point where Bunny must have felt full, that there would be something new to freshen her appetite. That was me. And Vix toyed with her cocktail and watched, understanding it all. Understanding me.

When I brought the third course, Bunny's face was shining. Given the choice of duck and pork belly, her fork drifted over both uncertainly. In the beginning she was leaned forward to reach the table with her fluffy skirt and the belly beneath it. Now her back rested against the banquette and she breathed shallowly. The quick, light breaths of a bunny. Vix slid her cocktail to the side and said in a low voice, "Go on. It's all good, right?"

Bunny nodded without looking up from the weave of her fork. Vix's body had bent forward as Bunny relaxed, as if that connection between them was pulled taut. Now she rested her hands on the table, gripping furrows into the tablecloth. Her eyes devoured the motion of Bunny's hand.

"Don't you want it?" Vix said, "You can have everything you want, Bunny, and more."

I should've moved on, but the spotlight of Vix's gaze, the urgency in her voice, kept me in my place. Bunny raked her lip with her teeth. "It's so much." She admitted slowly, as if it took effort to speak, "I want it but it's so much."

Vix shifted in her seat. "Do you want my help?" She asked.

"…No, not yet. I feel good." Bunny drew a purposeful breath, preparing herself.

"Go for the duck." The two of them looked up at me, as surprised to find me there as I was to have said anything. My throat clicked. "The pork belly should be last — the herb sauce and lemon zest will refresh the — unless you want to sweet notes from the duck to segue into your dessert. But apple pairs well with pork."

Vix raised her brows and looked to Bunny. She said, "Well, you heard the expert. Go for the duck."

With a sigh of release, Bunny gathered her first bite of the duck. I was far away for the second course. Now I was there on the sidelines as the light shone like gold dust on Bunny's cheeks, as she exhaled through her nose so deeply a sound ruffled in her throat, as her chewing slowed to a deliberate grind, and her eyes went velvet soft. No wonder it was all Vix needed to be satiated, to watch Bunny eat.

My throat clicked again. "Enjoy," I said automatically. Again. As if I didn't already know.

Vix lifted her hand to stop me from leaving their table. She propped her chin on her other hand. "What next, do you think?" She asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"You said the duck builds like Thanksgiving. What should she have next?" Vix's lips curled at Bunny, once again hovering her fork over the plate.

"Oh," I said. Then I said, "The squash, then the potatoes, then the greens, then back to the duck. Savory and sour to sweet to crispy to bitter and earthy, to savory again. That's the perfect bite. But —" Vix looked up at my pause. " — it's the kind of balance where the order doesn't matter. She can —" I turned back to Bunny. "— you can eat it in any order. So long as you're combining it all together, bit by bit."

Bunny nodded and, after a glance at Vix, skimmed her fork through the other elements of the plate until her next bite was a bacchanalia of flavors. It was a big bite to fit everything, and even though Bunny ducked her head to catch it, the tower of squash, potato, greens, and duck toppled into her mouth. The pomegranate aril that had glistened in the light like a ruby burst as her teeth came down. Maybe that tart punch made her breath a gasp rather than a sigh, but still that indulgent lingering took over as Bunny chewed. All the while, her head slowly tipped back until she looked up at me with those plush eyes and pomegranate lips. I watched her stretched throat pulse when she swallowed.

I clenched my fists only to feel the edge of the table bite my palms. I didn't know I'd touched their table in the first place. From a distance, it would've looked like Bunny and I were about to kiss. I let go and straightened up so abruptly the silverware shifted on the table. "Oh, pardon me." I said.

Vix hummed that amused noise she'd made at the Strega Nona. "It's no trouble. I think you were right." She said to me, "It's such a treat to have someone who knows their work. Thank you."

"Of course," I answered, checking that my pen hadn't slipped free from its pocket in my half apron. My fingers found it and shoved it down until I felt its blunt end dig into my thigh. "I'll check where the kitchen is with the tarte tatin. Anything else I can do for you right now?"

Bunny shook her head, already onto her next bites. Vix's triumphant grin was all for me. "We'll let you know." She said.

🍽 🍽 🍽

The melting warmth of the tarte tatin stayed in my hands after I set it on the table. Bunny's drooping, fuzzy eyes widened at the size of it — enough for four people. Her hand paused over the remnants of the pork belly like a deer captivated by headlights. She made to move the pork belly to the side to make space for the tarte tatin, but stopped, blinking, when Vix's hand shot forward.

Vix lifted Bunny's fork from her fingers and collected the last of the pork belly with it. She offered it to Bunny's lips with smouldering eyes.

"Our waiter says pork pairs well with apple." She coaxed. Compelled, Bunny's mouth closed over the fork to savor to the sweet end.

As Bunny's mouth must've filled with the succulent pork, the attention of the table returned to the tarte tatin. I won't act like it's an unremarkable dish, the way I felt about the panisse after my time at the restaurant. The tarte tatin is inarguably a showstopper: a 10-inch round of flaky, bubbled pastry acting as pedestal to the promised crown of apple slices, whose perfect, soft flesh lay glossy beneath a thick caramelized syrup of their own juices, so plentiful that they seeped onto the plate beneath. Three scoops of vanilla ice cream nestled together and puddled exquisitely in the center, slow to melt due to their creamy content.

"What do you think, Bunny? Do you want it?" Vix asked.

Bunny nodded and tried to draw a deeper breath in preparation. She picked up the spoon I brought for dessert and sank it into the tarte tatin like the first step on the moon. I felt myself take the deep breath her stuffed stomach had forbidden her. Her movements were even slower, methodical and exhausted.

Vix said again, forcing my eyes away from Bunny, "Do you want my help?"

Bunny nodded again and produced, after a moment, a throaty: "Yes, please."

Vix gave a satisfied purr as Bunny laid the spoon, handle facing Vix, on the tarte tatin plate. Vix met my eyes and asked, "Will you need the table? This might take some time."

Maybe I did. But I didn't care. "No, take all the time you need. It's a special night." I replied, "Would you like your check?"

"Yes, thank you." Vix dismissed me, her attention fixed on delivering a bite to Bunny's open, waiting mouth.

Eating a dinner for two and a dessert for four was impossible. Bunny had only so much space inside of her. It became clear over the next half hour that Vix's goal was to pursue the quaking edge of that boundary. Piece by golden piece, the tarte tatin went — warm, sweet, crisp, tender, dripping cool ice cream — into Bunny, until she shook her head and raised a languid hand for mercy.

The last time I went to their table, Vix had abandoned her place to sit at Bunny's side. One of her arms crossed Bunny's shoulders, giving a bolster for her lolling head. The other arm disappeared under the tablecloth. Vix turned her face to me.

"You were as exceptional as the food, thank you." She said, "You said the menu changes seasonally?"

Bunny's eyes opened and fell on mine, deep in a content dream. I said, "It changes weekly, actually. Some appetizers and desserts stay for a few weeks, and some dishes are spins on previous offerings, but there's always something new to try. And any dish you want from this week you'd need to catch while you can — it's not guaranteed in the future."

Vix's voice thrummed. "We'll need to come back again pretty soon, then, to try it all. A big undertaking, but worth it, I think." She paused to look at Bunny and, stroking her shoulder, asked, "Can we request one of your tables when we come back?"

The circus was rather dimly lit tonight, an attempt on Ca1ne's behalf to mimic a day and night cycle. It sort of worked; it was better than the constant blinding vibrancy that the players had become accustomed to. There lied an impressive pillow fort, situated not far from the large stage. Inside the fort were K1nger and Qu3enie, they had been cuddled up together. The pair lay against a pillow-cushioned corner with their gloved hands intertwined. K1nger's eyes began to droop slightly; it seemed like he was about to fall asleep at any moment. The steady soft breathing of his dear wife next to him always puts him at ease. While they technically didn't need to breathe per se, it felt nice to do so regardless. It brought the comforting yet faraway memory of their previous humanity.

guooarr...

A small gurgle emits from the king chess piece's body, interrupting his wistful thoughts. Qu3enie huffs a gentle laugh as her disembodied hand glides toward his middle, around where a stomach would normally be.

"I suppose it's about time we eat something."

Her hushed voice sounded like smooth honey, something K1nger would often compliment her on. He lets out a half chuckle while bashfully averting his gaze.

"Heh, yeah. You're probably right."

Another growl vibrates through his digital form as if agreeing with him. Qu3enie closes her eyes for a moment, her brows creased in concentration. Like a magic trick, a smorgasbord of snacks popped into existence and littered the floor of their pillow fort. There was quite a selection of pretzels, crackers, chips, and even some chocolates.

"Wow," K1nger whispers, "You're really getting the hang of this whole conjuring thing, huh?"

Qu3enie blushes and waves her hand dismissively. She then reaches for one of the numerous bags of chips, specifically choosing her favorite: honey barbecue flavor. As she brings a chip to her wooden face, it disappears into thin air with a crunch. It's strange eating without a mouth, but somehow it works. Anything is possible in this digital world after all. Noticing Qu3enie's expectant gaze, K1nger picks a snack for himself. He chooses a box of cheese crackers of some sort; the name sounds familiar, but he can't quite put his finger on it.

The two chess pieces continue cuddling, now with the inclusion of brushing crumbs off of each other. An idea comes to Qu3enie as her hand drifts down to grab another chip. She holds up to K1nger's "mouth" instead. He simply eats it from her hand without a second thought. It's a short-lived wholesome moment until he realizes what had just happened; his pale face blushes a light pink. Satisfied with the response, Qu3enie then reaches her hand into K1nger's snack box and fishes out a cracker. She lifts it towards him just like before, and K1nger obliges once more, albeit with a grain of hesitation. This pattern goes on for a while longer; a snack is presented to his nonexistent lips, and he takes it eagerly. He's never been taken care of quite like this. It isn't until Qu3enie's fingertips grasp emptiness before it dawns on them that the box has been eaten completely. They both exhale an awkward laugh as she sets the box aside.

"Are you still hungry, my love?" She looks at him with utterly love-struck eyes. Admittedly, he was feeling a little full, but it was impossible to resist when she looked at him like that.

K1nger rests a hand on his tummy. "I-I suppose I could go for more."

That was all the confirmation she needed before grabbing the bag of pretzels and popping them open. This time, she held out two pieces for him. He readily gobbles them both at once and chews tentatively, savoring the salty taste. He swallows bite after bite as a fuzzy warm feeling wraps around him like a hug.

Guuoarourr~

The sound of K1nger's stomach echoes in the fort again. It sounds pleased with the generous amount of offerings. His tummy was now pleasantly full; the weight felt nice and comfy. Qu3enie, however, continued to feed him, despite his tummy's quiet protest. She was determined to feed him until the bag had been emptied. When such a thing happened, K1nger quickly brought up a closed fist to his face. A muffled rumbling noise escaped from behind his hand. He couldn't just belch outwardly in front of her like that; it's rude. At least that's what he thought.

Qu3enie giggled under her breath. "Sweetheart, you don't need to stifle yourself. We ARE married after all, or did you forget again, sillyhead? Let yourself be comfortable, dear." Her calming tone immediately put him at ease. He lets his shoulders fall and lays back into the pillows. Qu3enie's gaze travels from the rise and fall of his chest to his now happy belly. Impulse takes over as she places a delicate hand on said belly. It gurgles contently under her palm as she roams her fingers across the area. K1nger can't contain the shuddered breath that escapes, flustered by such gentle yet intimate touch. There's a strange overwhelming feeling that makes his digital heart race in a feverish manner. Arousal—it finally clicks in his mind; he's aroused. By what exactly? He's still figuring that out. Nothing in particular occurred for this excitement to arise except...the feeding. Was he turned on by his wife hand-feeding treats to him? No, that couldn't be, could it?

Qu3enie sees the contemplative look in K1nger's eyes and slows her caresses to a stop.

"Is something wrong, dear? You look...pensive. What's in that head of yours?"

He was caught a bit off guard; he hadn't realized that his thoughts had been showing in his expression.

"Ah, um. It's just uhh…" Words failed him. How was he supposed to construct a sentence while his heart pounded so intensely? A deep inhale followed by an even deeper exhale helped to settle the rattling in his brain.

"I-I think I...like this. Um, specifically what we were doing, y'know...the...f-feeding." His voice trailed off at the end into a barely audible mumble. Qu3enie's eyebrows rise for a moment before sliding back to normal. She unconsciously traces tiny circles with her thumb, still resting on his surprisingly soft belly. There's a short period of silence as K1nger is frozen like a deer, awaiting her response to his rather embarrassing confession. He clears his throat to break the tension before it gets to be too suffocating. It seemed to snap Qu3enie out of whatever thoughts had her staring intently at nothing. Realizing that he was still expecting her feedback, she takes the time to look directly into his brilliant ocean-colored eyes. His gaze remains downcast and avoidant. A gentle hand moves to touch the side of his face.

"Look at me, dear." She says tenderly. K1nger swallows thickly before glancing at his wife. Her expression radiates immense compassion that makes it nearly impossible to look away. He can see her saccharine smile, even through her mouthless avatar. The rigid nervousness in his body melts away as his own expression softens.

"I-I'm sorry. If that's, um, too weird, I understand—" A finger quickly comes up to his face, shushing him.

"I didn't say it was."

"Huh?" K1nger flushed a bright pink.

"I don't mind it. A-Actually, if I'm being honest, I... liked it too?" She giggles awkwardly; it was always cute when she did that.

K1nger could only sputter half-baked words while his brain tried to make sense of this unexpected turn of events.

"Y-You wh- you y-you, huh? Wha—What d'you—w-what? I—UM—" Qu3enie leans forward suddenly to clunk her head against his as a makeshift kiss in order to shut him up.

"I'm ok with it, as long as you're ok with it." Her honey-like voice echoes inside K1nger's frazzled mind. There's not a hint of insincerity when observing her golden brown eyes. He leans into her affectionately. Only one question remained: what now? Qu3enie seemed to read his exact thoughts like an open book.

"If you're feeling up to it, maybe we could keep going? Of course, you don't have to if you don't want to. It's up to you, dear."

"Eheheh, yeah. What's a few more? It's not like we can gain weight in here." The very idea tingled in the back of his mind. Qu3enie notices this, of course, and can't help but tease.

"We'll see about that." She pats his tummy appraisingly. "Maybe it's only a matter of time before you start widening out. Maybe you'll even get a cute pudgy belly, all the more for me to love."

K1nger's brain practically short-circuits from the overwhelming adoration. The thought of getting fat because of his dear wife spoiling him was exhilarating. He had to suppress a deep moan. Qu3enie slides her warm hands down K1nger's shoulders and chest, all the way down to his belly, and gives it a playful squeeze. The noise that escapes his throat is utterly sinful. Her touch quickly becomes addictive as delicate fingers knead into his gut. It had gained some softness after eating all those snacks. Without him noticing, Qu3enie gently presses a chip to his "mouth".

"Come on, dear, eat up for me."

It began with a packet of Donettes. 

Six miniature donuts caked in powdered sugar—he thought that sounded indulgent enough to scratch the itch in his brain desperate for comfort. It was like what his father told him when he was small and covered in mosquito bites after an August afternoon on the lake: if you’ve got to scratch something, don’t scratch the itch. Scratch near it. Trick your brain. 

Frank thought he was very good at tricking his brain. 

Abby had made the world’s nicest breakfast that morning—indulging his sweet tooth with pancakes and whipped cream, then making sure he had more than enough real energy for his shift with bacon, eggs, and avocado—which sat heavily in his belly hours after he finished. A new box of protein bars was tucked in his bag, since he no longer had anything that was his in his locker, and he came into work as energized for his first day back as he possibly could have felt.

And yet, when he was banished to Triage Island, something panicky and cruel gnawed at him.

Remember me? It’s your sense of failure. Missed you, pal.

He inwardly sighed about a half-dozen curse words and stole away to the one quiet hallway in the E.R. It wasn’t empty, no; it was just out of the way. A few medical assistants hustled through, not seeing him. He had maybe two minutes, maybe a hundred and fifty seconds, but he wasn’t sure if that was enough to get the heavy, invisible weight off his chest. Slow breaths felt like dragging a dumbbell through wet sand. He rubbed, hard, the heel of his hand against his sternum. 

A few happy beeps and a chime caught his attention. He slowly came to a stop, head slightly turned, and listened while something crinkled and popped. A nurse rounded the corner with a tiny bag of vending machine popcorn in her hand.

She didn’t look at him.

Frank blinked.

That, then, was how he followed the unseen trail to a vending machine he—honestly—had no idea was there, hidden in the depths of not-quite-Triage with about two dozen options of colorful, processed snacks. It was tucked into an alcove that he absolutely would have overlooked ten months ago: chipped tile on the floor, tacky paint on the walls, dust and who-knew-what-else (did they ever find all of those rats last year?) behind it. The buttons themselves were a little sticky and, remarkably, not very faded; instead, they flashed in an enticing blue the moment the sensor noticed someone standing in front of it, staring at it like it was the rosetta stone.

He couldn’t and didn’t want to know what came over him in that moment, and so he didn’t give himself room to think twice before he was tapping $2.99 onto his credit card in exchange for six powdered sugar donuts.

Once it was in his hand, he laughed to himself. He used to beg his mother for these exact ones every time they went to the grocery store when he was a kid. She never relented. When he opened the packet and placed one of the donuts in his mouth, then, it felt like sweet, sweet defiance and comfort—because, hell, no one could tell him “no” anymore. 

In between actually treating the boy who’d shoved beads up his nose and charting about it, Frank tried to place why he felt as bothered as he did. He carefully determined that the twisting feeling in him wasn’t a craving—he’d had those, and they tended to present anywhere from a dull, persistent ache to a loud, echoing tunnel that made it impossible to think otherwise—but something unsettled and searching, writhing to be defined.

The words on the screen in front of him began to blur together. He breathed in, held for four, then breathed out, and held for four again. He angled himself to hide sending a text message, and sent Abby the ferris wheel emoji.

She’d said to text her so she knew he was okay.

A second later, she sent back the carousel horse.

This is random. I’m thinking of you.

I hear you. I’m reflecting it back.

He blinked hard.

“Donnie?” He swiveled left, then right, then found the nurse practitioner about three feet away from him, looking at him like he’d just flipped over a full bedpan for fun. “You want to take a couple notes? It’s good practice.”

Donnie gave him a look. “You just don’t want to take your own notes.”

Smiling, yet feeling like his skin was going to vibrate off his body, he edged around Donnie with a pat to his shoulders. “Right. It’s practice for dealing with insufferable doctors and our inflated egos.”

“You are so full of—”

Frank was already speed-walking around the corner, and his pace picked up into something bouncing once he was out of sight. His legs took him back to the secluded vending machine, and it wasn’t until he stood underneath its cheery artificial light did he sigh. 

He placed a hand on the glass and tried to take inventory of his feelings. He’d practiced that—noticing sensations—and yet what he felt most pressingly was a fuzzy, slightly electrified sensation, as if he were in the middle of a ball of dryer lint. Grimacing, he decided that something to settle his stomach was in order. 

$5 later, he had a bottle of ginger ale under one arm and a bag of pretzels in one hand. Of course, said bag really only filled his palm.

“Yeah, right,” he dryly laughed to himself, before buying a second bag. 

He slid down to the floor beside the alcove, mentally promising himself there was nothing to see here, nothing to worry about, nothing weird about a doctor crashing out in the hallway at all.

He wasn’t wrong. That was an upsetting thought for another day.

He started with drawing his thoughts in half the ginger ale. It was only half-cold, maybe just slightly above room temperature, and its sweetness coated the back of his tongue and throat in a sickly way. It should have turned his stomach.

It didn’t.

He simply muffled a returning bubble of carbonation by coughing into his fist. But that was why he bought the pretzels, too, wasn’t it? Ginger to settle his stomach. Dry carbs to absorb the sugar and bubbles. Right. Yes. Of course.

He popped open the pretzels and started with one, then sighed and ate half a fistful. He didn’t really have time for this, he rationalized to himself. His absence, even if for all of three minutes, was probably already raising questions, and god help him if Donnie called attention to the way he sprinted out of there. He ate another fistful, and heat crawled up his neck while his mouthful of heavy, bready carbs and salt inched down his throat. 

Tipping his head back, he rested one arm across his bent-upward knees. The ginger ale bottle dangled, its neck pinched between his fingers, and the two bags of pretzels sat on his pelvis while he finished the first one. 

And the second. And the soda. He felt better, he had to admit, by the time he stood up with his collection of trash; his stomach was soothed, apart from the very faint press of a snack eaten too quickly, but he’d been in worse places before.

Rooby was ignoring him, Santos was being antagonistic, and he deserved every second of it. A part of him—a cruel part that had only recently begun to redirect itself inward rather than at others—delighted in it.

Yes! Flagellate me!

He texted Abby to ask if Penny’s daycare or Tanner’s kindergarten ever sent her pictures of the kids. He got back a photo of Tanner fingerpainting and another of Penny napping. He then had to take thirty seconds to bury his face in his hands, because he didn’t deserve such adorable children, nor such a ridiculously patient wife.

That was when the afternoon started to spin off its axis.

He was back in the main E.R., and the cyberattack had sent everything to the dark ages. He wouldn’t have called it “going to shit,” if only because the more chaos there was, the more distracted he felt, and the more distracted he felt, the quieter his internal spiral got. He missed being the one people ran to, missed being the senior resident who had the privilege of guiding and instructing, imparting knowledge like he was god—but he found his step, being a worker among workers again.

And then, he spoke to Cassie.

Or, Cassie spoke to him, and he sat there feeling like his world had been flipped upside down and shaken until a few parts fell out.

That may or may not have led to him crashing out in the staff room. 

He grabbed two of his protein bars from his locker, a cup of coffee from the stale pot on the counter, and stopped at the staff room vending machine to buy a protein shake before he groaned and bought a chocolate chip muffin to go with it. He also grabbed a fistful of dark chocolate from a bag of Hershey’s mix on the table, which someone brought in for some reason he’d been too trapped-in-Triage to know. 

Surely that counted as lunch. Kind of. What time was it, even?

He dumped the protein shake into his coffee and drank half of that in one go. It went down with languid ease, so smooth and thick that it felt less like a coating—like the ginger ale—and more like a blanket. It warmed his belly yet cooled his fingers and cheeks, soothing his body in a way that gently nudged the vibrating parts of himself back to center. 

Next came the muffin, eaten in pieces broken off one by one; he tried to notice individual flavors—the chocolate, the egg, the vanilla—but they swiftly began to blur into a sweet cotton candy cloud in his head. The warm bliss of it coiled around him, and he imagined hands running through his hair, over his throat, and down his chest. Present-but-not, he unwrapped one of the chocolates, then a second one, and their richer, creamier sweetness lulled him to sink down in his chair, elbow on the table, and rest his head in his hand.

He sipped the rest of his coffee more slowly, alternating the creamy caffeine with broken-up squares of his protein bars and pieces of chocolate. Slowly, surely, his belly filled, unnoticeable to anyone but himself: he who could feel the effect of what was undeniably a sugar binge in the middle of his workday. All those carbs—simple and sweet, suspended in the one-good-thing of vanilla protein—settled above his hips, pressing forward toward his navel. It was pleasant and soft, quiet and—for the first time that day—calm. 

Feeling curious, he adjusted his hips to see how the fullness would settle. It firmly pushed against the waist of his scrubs, which made nerves squeeze in his chest. Fuck, what had he done, eating so much? He could have stopped. He should have stopped. Before, he’d have inhaled a protein bar and been done with it.

Now?

...to order the most rich and expensive stuff on the menu and having her pay for ALL of it as a form of "retribution."

Mel is the richest woman in Piltover. She's also super into the idea of feeding and pampering someone with lots of food.

This will not end as expected for Viktor.

The night of the date arrives, and Viktor, slightly less sour than before, curtly asks the waiter for the most expensive orders of food and begins to order a rather copious amount as well, which Mel notices and mentions. He quickly remarks that he was feeling particularly hungry that night.

Everything was going according to plan. "I'm sure this will really make a dent in her monetary accounts", he thought to himself smugly.

It wasn't and didn't.

Mel sees right through it, of course. She can't wait for the moment of realization from Viktor that his little stunt won't go as planned. But even more she looks forward to taking care of him during the aftermath of his dinner date where due to his own hubris he will be stuffed beyond compare with all the rich and decadent food he ordered.

Surprising even him, she orders a few extra dishes for him in the guise of "wanting to try new things." He was temporarily taken aback, but no matter. He could stomach a few extra things. She was still paying for all of it, and oh she was gonna pay.

Only when the food arrived to the table did Viktor realize the extent of his mistake.

How was he to eat all of this? It all looked delicious, but it was more than what he could possibly fit in his tiny frame...in his fervor to try and "punish" Mel for rejecting his under-developed proposal, he had forgotten he had to eat everything he ordered as well...

He felt a pit in his stomach, feeling silly for having even thought of this half baked plan. He thought of confessing, admitting his mistake and apologizing to her for wanting to get back at her, but before that moment Mel said something that kindled the fires of his determination to go through with his plan after all.

"This is quite a lot of food," she smiled coyly. "More than your usual amount. Nothing you ordered will keep the next day...You are planning on finishing it all tonight, aren't you?" She glanced at Viktor.

"Unless you had *other* intentions?"

He was caught. Mel had seen right through him the entire time. But his pride did not let him give up.

"No. I've been pretty hungry recently since working *tirelessly* on my proposal. I should make short work of this."

And so he did.

Eventually he finished everything, his breathing labored from all the food that went inside him, stomach churning noisily. Mel even offered to help feed him, rubbing his aching belly near the end which he begrudgingly accepted.

He was so unbelievably full.

His gut stuck out of his frame like a snake that swallowed an egg. He had never been this stuffed before. He felt like a holiday goose. Besides feeling positively gravid, he also felt...excited? Like a beast glutted on the kill.

He was a scholar and a person of science, but he liked the idea of feeding this...primal hunger.

And Mel was enchanted by it, too.

She helped Viktor out of the booth and into the carriage, where she spent time soothing his poor stomach, rubbing it in small, repetitive circles and giving it soft kisses. Viktor blushed.

"Had your fill, did you?" She smiled serenely at him as she patted his belly very softly. It barely had any give.

"Eeh...yes. Thank you for taking me out to dinner. I am...sorry for ordering so much." He wanted to apologize for what he'd actually done wrong, but his mixed emotions held him back. He put his hand over her's on his stomach and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

"Not a problem." She kissed him on the cheek and cuddled up to him, instructing the carriage driver to go slowly to avoid jostling Viktor's overstuffed belly.

Summary: Dabi finds himself in an alternate timeline where Hawks is a villain and Dabi is his pet…revelations ensue

Tags: READ THE TAGS! THEY ARE ON AO3!!!!!!!!!!! Mostly stuffing/feederism adjacent and petplay/puppyplay as well as explicit sexual content (belly kink, burp kink, stuffing kink, tail plugs, collars and leashes), alternate dimensions, Villain!Hawks

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One minute, Dabi’s running through the villain Underground.  In the split-second it takes for him to blink, he’s in an unfamiliar dark hallway. He stumbles forward, tripping over his own feet, like he spontaneously switched places with somebody. 

Dabi freezes, squinting as his poor eyesight takes longer to adjust. 

It was just daylight outside, wasn’t it? 

There’s a light a few feet away from him, and Dabi stumbles over to the grandiose window. His eyes widen when he sees that it opens into a dimly lit underground city of some kind. There are rows of houses and carts and people bustling beneath…

He steps away from the window, suddenly nauseous at the height. 

How high up is he? How can he be so high up when it seems like he’s underground? 

He steals a look at the floor, noting the velvet carpet that he’s probably tracked dirt on with his boots. 

Where the hell is he? 

“Puppy, what are you doing out of your cage?” 

Dabi’s head whips around at the sound of Hawks’ voice.

Two beady golden eyes shine in the darkness, and it sends a sick shiver down Dabi’s spine. He’s only met with his hero contact a handful of times, and, with everything happening between Shigaraki and Gigantomachia, Dabi hasn’t had any time to follow up in a few days. 

Wait a minute. 

Dabi processes what Hawks just said to him. 

“The fuck did you just say to me?!” Dabi snaps indignantly. 

The eyes widen in shock before narrowing to slits. 

“Dabi, you know better.” Hawks’voice is dangerously even. 

‘I know better?’ Dabi’s grimace deepens, teeth grinding as his hands ball into fists; a dull blue glow envelops his knuckles. 

Hawks clicks his tongue, and feathers zip around Dabi in the darkness. 

“The hell’re you-”

Dabi doesn’t get the chance to properly mouth off before something covers his face, and, before he can light himself up, there’s a sharp sting in his arm. 

He passes out…

…

…

Dabi groans as he opens his eyes, vision blurry and ears ringing as he wakes up in a stupor. He shivers…and that’s when he realizes his clothes are missing. 

“Whatthefuck?” Dabi slurs, sitting up to look down at the black lace thong cupping his flaccid dick. His eyes adjust to the shadows; this room is dimly lit, unlike that godawful hallway. 

Clank. 

Dabi freezes. 

Holy shit. 

Dabi’s heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest, and he can’t remember when his adrenaline rush was this potent. 

He’s locked in a cage. 

He’s in a cage. 

He grabs at the metal bars, willing his Quirk to burst forth and melt it…but nothing happens. Shit. Hawks must have doped him up with suppressants when he drugged him. 

“Puppy, what’s gotten into you today? You haven’t wanted to use your Quirk in years. Are you feeling okay?”

The hair on the back of Dabi’s neck stands up at Hawks’ voice again. Hawks sits on a throne a few feet from the cage, gazing at him like a national treasure. He’s dressed entirely in a black catsuit that shows off every striking curve of muscle. Admittedly…he looks stunning. 

There must be an explanation for this. Dabi’s dreaming. He has to be…no…that’s not it at all. Why is Hawks talking like he’s been his complacent little pet this whole time? Shit…did that dimension-hopping villain make him trade places with another Dabi? That’s gotta be it. 

Either way, Dabi’s not in any position to fight back. He doesn’t know how long the Quirk Suppressant will last. 

Hawks must be a villain…and a high-ranking one if he has his own damn city. 

Hawks looks Dabi up and down, analyzing and calculating. 

Dabi’s nearly all skin and bones, and Hawks knows he nurtures his pet. Maybe he got hit with some kind of Quirk while he was wandering the sanctum? Hawks would have to torture it out of his underlings later…which one of them did this to his beloved creature? His eyes fall on Dabi’s barren neck, marred with scars. 

“Looks like you lost your collar again, baby boy. Did you accidentally get too excited and burn it off like last time? That’s okay,” Hawks coos, and, for whatever horrid reason, the way he speaks makes Dabi’s dick twitch. 

Wait. Did he say collar?

Dabi swallows. Why is he so into this? Granted, Dabi can’t remember the last time he properly got his rocks off. His half-gone bottle of lube and toys in his backpack were mostly due to his own explorations, but he never had anyone to actually do anything with before. 

Before Dabi can open his mouth in protest, feathers whisk something inside the cage with Dabi. 

They stretch out a black velvet collar, complete with silver spikes on the outside, and wrap it around his neck. 

Oh fuck. 

He likes that. 

Dabi’s pulse flutters beneath the dog collar; the cold metal from the spike screws presses into his scars. For someone who can usually never keep his mouth shut, Dabi’s finding himself utterly speechless at the situation. If he opens his mouth, he might say something that’ll bring all of this to a screeching halt…and that’s the last thing he wants. 

“You like your collar, baby?” Hawks teases, his tone mocking and sickeningly sweet as it tickles Dabi’s ears; the feathers fasten it and float away. Dabi looks down, noting the chain leash attached to it…the end rests in Hawks’ hands. 

Dabi nods breathlessly before Hawks jerks him forward, feeling the collar dig into his scars as his head spins. 

Fuck, he’s so into this. 

“My good little guard dog. You gonna put your life on the line for me? You gonna sit when I tell you to? You gonna be my good boy? You must’ve been so scared all alone in the dark, but it’s okay now. Your master’s got you.” 

Deep inside, Dabi squirms, partially from cringe and partially from pleasure. 

This is utterly humiliating in the best way possible. 

Normally, if Hawks spoke to him like that, he’d fry him where he stood. But this Hawks…the way he carries himself…looms over Dabi…has him in his clutches… It turns the scarred villain into putty in his hands. Words won’t form at his lips as his mind numbs. 

“I can’t forget your little ears, too.”

Dabi tries not to whine when Hawks’ feathers slip the sleek headband over him, gently tapping the black, fluffy dog ears and making a noise that has Dabi blushing. 

He was ready to roast the bird alive moments ago, and now he’s folded into the villain’s little pet? Dabi prays he never goes home so no one ever finds out about this. Either that or he never wakes up.

“I got your favorite waiting for you, snowstar,” Hawks coos as feathers zip into the room, lifting a hefty, steel dog bowl out of the darkness. 

Dabi sniffs the air, and his stomach growls. 

“It’s cold soba,” Hawks grins.

How does Hawks know what his favorite food is?

Shit, Dabi can’t remember the last time he had a decent meal, and he’s salivating as his empty stomach growls. He could get used to being taken care of like this. 

He’s been surviving on scraps and stolen goods for as long as he can remember. 

Drool spills out of the side of his mouth, splattering on the cage floor. 

“Aw, is my boy hungry?” Hawks pouts before his lips contort into a devilish grin. “Don’t worry. This is all for you. Be a good boy and eat it out of the bowl. I already poured the sauce on it for you. And remember. Good boys finish their food. Eat all of it, and you’ll get a reward.”

A reward? 

What could Hawks reward him with? Dabi doesn’t give himself time to think as soon as the bowl clatters in front of him. The inside of the bowl could probably fit an entire watermelon, and it’s filled to the brim with cold soba. It makes his mouth water the longer he stares, and he looks up at Hawks. 

The winged villain nods. 

Dabi doesn’t even hesitate before he’s on all fours, shoving his face into the bowl and slurping up the noodles, pride be damned. He moans at the taste; it’s exquisite. 

Hawks hushes words of praise above him. 

“You wanna be good, don’t you?”

Dabi chokes down a thick bite.

“That’s it. Doing so well for me.”

Dabi practically smothers himself into the bowl, trying to fit as much into his mouth as he can. 

“You can take a little more.”

Dabi swallows another huge chunk that hurts on its way down. 

“Good boy.”

Dabi’s cheeks redden when he becomes conscious of the obnoxious sounds he’s making, gulping and gasping and stuffing his face. But it tastes so fucking delicious that Dabi can’t help but wolf it down. Hawks watches with contemplative amusement, leaning in like he wants to get a better look and listen. He watches Dabi’s throat flex with every swallow…the lump going down his throat until it disappears at his collarbone, only to push out his stomach when it lands in the pit. 

Dabi doesn’t notice his distending stomach, but Hawks’ eyes are as big as saucers, pupils devouring his golden irises as his pet’s belly bloats bit by bit. The winged villain is transfixed by the sight, feathers puffing as one slips just barely against the swell of his lower tummy; Hawks bites his bottom lip when the feather picks up every gurgle and growl coming from within his guts. Dabi doesn’t pay it any attention. 

He inhales the noodles until there’s nothing left but the puddle of sauce at the bottom. 

Dabi leans back against the cage as he lifts the bowl up to his lips, slurping and licking the leftover sauce ravenously until the bowl is spotless. With a groan, he tosses the empty bowl toward the other end of the cage; a hearty belch bursts from Dabi’s lips as the bowl rattles across the ground, stopping at the same time as the metal clanging. Dabi’s suddenly very aware of how heavy his gut feels.

The staples at the edges of his abdomen stretch, and Dabi whines as he looks down to see the basketball that is his stomach. Heat rushes to his cheeks in a fervent blush when his dick twitches at the sight, slowly filling out in the black lace. 

Fuck, this is the most he’s ever eaten in who knows how long…maybe ever. Why is this turning him on so much? He feels so fucking full; it’s a mixture of pain and overwhelming satisfaction that makes his head swim. 

His stomach gurgles painfully, bloated and stuffed as his whine morphs into another crude, drawn-out burp

“Nnngh~BAAAUURP!”

“Oh, poor baby,” Hawks pouts, slightly condescending, “You eat too much?”

Dabi leers at the villain, trying his hardest to ignore the throbbing between his legs that makes him wanna fold. Hawks is so lucky that Dabi’s having kink awakening after kink awakening, or he’d be putting up much more of a fight. Right now, he’s lost himself in such a subservient headspace that he’d do almost anything for Hawks…but he needs the encouragement. 

He really is a perverted freak. 

Hawks doesn’t seem to mind. 

Hawks is one, too, and it’s exhilarating. 

If the HPSC wasn’t breathing down his throat, could Dabi’s Hawks be like this? If he ever gets back to his dimension, Touya’s sure he’s going to test it and see.  

A feather presses up against his slow-growing erection, and it makes Dabi moan reflexively. 

Fuck, that contact is ethereal. 

“Why don’t you come outta the cage, and I’ll rub your belly?” Hawks grins, lightly tugging at the leash, and his smile widens when Dabi’s dick twitches under the feather. 

God, this isn’t fair. Dabi utterly loathes how his body responds to the villain’s words. They drip off his tongue and right onto Dabi’s cock, making his boner borderline unbearable. 

Dabi’s shaking. He’s never given up this much control. He’s quite literally acting like Hawks’ bitch, doing anything and everything he says, humiliating himself for the other villain’s pleasure. However, he’d be lying if he said it also wasn’t for his own. There’s a wet spot forming against the lace from the precum gushing out of his tip. This is pathetic, but Dabi can’t stop. He’s dissolved into his own depravity, eyes glazed and body wanting. 

To his own chagrin, Dabi crawls toward the cage door on all fours, breathing labored from how weighed down he feels. 

Hawks smiles wickedly as he unlatches the door, pulling it aside so Dabi can flop onto the ground at his feet, which he does effortlessly. Hawks kneels down beside him, letting Dabi lean his back up against his muscled chest. 

Hawks’ hands are heavenly against his aching stomach, easing the pulled staples and overstretched skin as he massages. 

“Fu-UUUck,” Dabi half-groans-half-belches. Dabi’s belly is so tight that it’s making him sweat. He watches the villain’s talons knead into the doughy flesh, struggling against the tense pockets of air welling up inside. 

Dabi clamps his hand over his mouth, embarrassment burning in his chest along with the building pressure. 

Fuck, he doesn’t know what was in that soba to make him so gassy. 

He muffles a stream of closed-mouth burps behind his hand, moaning as his stomach marginally shrinks from the release and eases the tug on his staples. 

“Don’t hide your cute noises from me,” Hawks coos, reaching up and grabbing Dabi’s hand. “I wanna hear how satisfied you are.” 

Reflexively, Dabi snaps at Hawks’ fingers, and the villain reels back. 

“You wanna bite? Tsk, tsk. That just won’t do,” Hawks chuckles condescendingly, and the burn between Dabi’s thighs shines brighter, pleasure pooling in his brain and his balls. Feathers swirl around him, and Dabi’s breath catches in his throat when he feels something press against the bridge of his nose and latch under his chin. 

How can Dabi complain when the leather of the muzzle feels so delightful and delicate? The clasp pulls snug against the back of his neck, locking onto the collar. 

‘Is this whole thing a matching set?’ 

Dabi hiccups when Hawks finishes adjusting the muzzle. 

“You want the tail, too, baby? You wanna be a really good boy? Got a nice little tail for you to match for me. It’ll keep you ready for me,” Hawks whispers into his ear.

‘Ready for him?’

Dabi’s face flushes when the realization hits him like a truck. 

They’re gonna fuck. 

Hawks is gonna fuck him. 

Dabi keens when Hawks runs his hands through his hair, talons gently scratching his scalp ever so softly. Hawks touches him like he’s his most prized possession, afraid that if he’s too rough, Dabi will shatter. From Dabi’s point of view, that just might be true. 

Dabi nearly gasps when he catches the glimmer of the metal plug attached to the fluffy black tail. The squelch of lube makes his body shudder as Hawks slowly presses the plug inside his pet. 

“Hawks,” Dabi moans, grunting as the plug sucks in with almost no resistance. Dabi’s so relaxed and turned on that he’d let the bird do anything to him. 

“Good boy,” Hawks sings sweetly, pressing a kiss to Dabi’s temple. 

“Ugh,” Dabi groans as his stomach burbles. Hawks’ hands massage him once more, cupping his soft underbelly and gently squeezing up the healthy flesh. 

Dabi burps so loud he can feel it in his bones, gasping for air when it finally ends after five seconds. 

“Better?” Hawks asks, that nurturing tone back in his voice. 

“Mhm-nngh-hic-aaaurrp,” Dabi whimpers with a hiccup that ends with a softer, breathy belch.

“Well, if you get sick during our fun, I’ll clean up your mess, puppy. Don’t worry about it,” Hawks whispers before lightly smacking Dabi’s stomach, forcing another rumbling burp out of him. 

Dabi whines; his throat’s starting to sting from the heartburn. 

“You did so good. Look at all this. You stuffed yourself silly,” Hawks grins, tenderly rubbing his stomach up and down. Dabi nearly lurches, swallowing the gas that tries to crawl back up. 

“My sexy boy…so perfect,” Hawks whispers in his ear before biting at his helix piercings, making Dabi’s erection throb. Hawks licks up his jawline, pressing deep, devilish kisses to his scars. 

“Gonna take good care of you, baby,” Hawks promises before he turns Dabi’s head to undo the muzzle and connect their lips. 

Kissing Hawks is better than crack, and he tastes like cinnamon and spice. Dabi groans into the kiss when Hawks’ tongue slithers into his mouth. Their tongues intertwine, savoring one another and exploring each other’s mouths, teasing molars and palates and lips before they separate. 

“Fuck, you’re so good. Such a good boy. My good boy,” 

Those words make Dabi’s cock peek out of the top of the lace, and his eyes soften as the villain grows lightheaded. Touya’s spent so long trying to prove himself, and it feels so fucking ethereal to just give control up to Hawks when he’s spewing like a fountain with praise for him. 

Dabi’s labored breathing picks up speed when Hawks takes a talon and slices the lace of the thong, letting the fabric drop and his cock spring free. 

Dabi whines when his dick rubs up against his engorged belly. He’s not too far off from being close at this rate. Who knew kinks could help him get it up so easily?

“I think it’s time I gave you your reward for eating your dinner,” Hawks chuckles, and feathers engulf the villain, stripping him down to his skin in the dim light. Dabi’s heart drops. 

Fuck, Hawks is gorgeous naked. 

His body is incomprehensibly chiseled. 

He’s going to rail him back to his original dimension. 

There’s a slick popping noise when Hawks pulls the tail plug out of Dabi’s ass that makes him squirm.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” Hawks grins as he hefts Dabi up with little to no strength, which is surprising considering he feels like he weighs fifty pounds more than he usually does right now. He scoops up the scarred villain like a blushing bride and walks with him past the cage, where Dabi hadn’t looked yet…

Dabi’s never seen a fancier bed before in his life. The black satin sheets are destined to be sullied tonight. The ornate crimson bedposts hold up a chiffon canopy that nearly conceals the king bed. 

Hawks sets Dabi down on all fours in the center, his hands rubbing up the curve of his ass as he positions himself behind him. Dabi flinches when he feels the too-hot-too-cold tip of Hawks’ lubed dick against his hole.

Hawks shushes him as he starts pressing in, and Dabi’s back arches, belly sinking into the sheets as he feels every pulsing vein in his master’s cock.

“My perfect little pet…taking me so well,” Hawks pants, stifling a moan as he watches his dick disappear between Dabi’s cheeks, hands reaching down to grip at his pet’s puffed up tummy. 

Dabi’s neglected dick rubs against the lower swell of his stomach, and he cries out softly at the stimulation. 

“Hawks,” Dabi moans, fingers turning to fists in the sheets as breath hisses through his gritted teeth. He tries not to drool at how heavenly Hawks’ hands feel on his stretched skin, and he nearly sobs when Hawks bottoms out. 

The first thrust forces a hiccup out of Dabi, and his stomach rocks back and forth, swaying with every roll of Hawks’ hips. Dabi’s so full in more ways than one, and it’s utterly intoxicating. 

The movement jostles up all of the bubbles in his stomach, shaking up its contents and making his bloat tighter. Dabi tries to hold it in, but he can’t help but belch on a particularly deep thrust.

“Awhhh fuck,” Dabi sighs, pathetic and pornographic as his tongue lolls. There’s so much drool dripping down his chin that he’s worried it’s seeping into his jaw slit. 

He feels another bubble crawling up his throat from the sloshing back and forth, and his belly rumbles. Dabi tries to keep his mouth shut from shame, gas puffing out his cheeks. 

“Let it out, sweetheart,” Hawks grunts between thrusts, leaning forward to nip at the back of Dabi’s neck. “It’s okay. I wanna hear you.”

Hawks bites his lip as he digs his fingers deeper into Dabi’s skin as it gives, forcing more of the gas out of his stomach and into his throat.  

“OOOOOOURRRP!”

The pressure release is all Dabi needs to become completely absorbed in the pleasure. 

“Fuck, that’s so much better,” Dabi moans like a pornstar. 

“God, you’re so hot,” Hawks huffs as he picks up his rhythm, pounding into Dabi like it’s his life’s purpose. 

“Harder,” Dabi stammers, tingling sensations running up and down his thighs as his cock leaks. “More.”

If there’s one thing Hawks excels at, it’s providing for his pet, and so, he obliges wordlessly. His thick cock spreads Dabi’s insides, dragging against his walls with passion and purpose. 

“Fuck, yes. I’ll be your good boy forever and ever,” Dabi wails, voice high-pitched and warped as he dissolves into the pleasure like sugar in hot water. He feels like he’s nothing but liquid, sloshing around back and forth at Hawks’ command, brainless and ever-flowing. 

“Such an obedient little thing, aren’t you?” Hawks chuckles, “Perfect little princess.”

Dabi whines at the pet name, surrendering to his overwhelming arousal, and it makes his cock jerk against his bloat. 

He’s going to come soon, and man, it’s going to be the most pent-up orgasm he’s ever had. 

“Come all over yourself…all over this bed…and I’ll clean you up afterwards, yeah?” Hawks grunts, his own climax growing closer in the small of his back. 

Dabi’s overcome with ecstasy, unable to cope with his needs being met in so many different ways. His orgasmic high comes crashing down on him like a chandelier, his body convulsing, bloody tears running down his face as he screams out in euphoria. 

“Dabi!” Hawks comes undone, and the scarred villain can feel every spurt painting his insides; Hawks rolls his hips through his climax, fucking more lewd noises out of his pet until he’s sobbing from the overstimulation. Carefully, he slows down before pulling out, and Dabi slumps forward before rolling on his back. Hawks is on top of him, connecting their lips amorously. 

“Did so well, Dabi. My beautiful boy,” Hawks murmur between deep, sloppy kisses that have Dabi shivering in an overwhelmed puddle of pleasure.