Chapter Text
It was Rude’s birthday.
He was stood at his stove, stirring the coq-au-vin. It was simmering nicely, filling the kitchen with the rich savoury smell of broth and thyme.
There were two other pans on the stove, both covered. On the counter was a loaf of brioche; fluffy and golden. Next to that was a floury baguette with a crisp crust. A sourdough bread bowl, filled with a wheel of soft cheese that was a Kalm speciality, was keeping warm in the bottom oven.
Reno was late. He was late, and it gave Rude anxiety. He didn’t know what he would do if Reno didn’t show up for dinner. He didn’t want to lose this. Not now.
Not today.
It had been four months since Reno had arrived in the Turk office. Bright-red hair, a Wall Market swagger, and a sneer on his face. A skinny loudmouth with face tattoos and a slovenly uniform. Claiming to be twenty-one, but Rude was certain that was a lie; he looked no older than eighteen. Could’ve been any street kid yanked out of the slums, but Rude had enough faith in Veld to know there would be something more.
The doorbell rang.
Rude took the tea towel off his shoulder and hung it back on the hook. He’d dressed for the occasion. A mulberry shirt, tailored to showcase his broad shoulders and tapered build. Black leather waistcoat with silver chains. Dark slacks, more casual than his dress pants.
He opened the door. Reno was still in his uniform. Rumpled. Shirt half-buttoned. Thumbs hooked in his pockets. Shadows under his eyes. Rude wondered, had he struggled with himself before ringing the doorbell? Had he paced up and down, walked away and then back again?
Reno was hard to read. Rude told himself Reno enjoyed this whole fucked-up thing, but truthfully he had no clue what Reno really felt about it.
*
Rude had started it. He’d hacked into Reno’s confidential personnel files, like he did with every new recruit. It was Rude’s job, after all, to collect information. Anything and everything. He was the observer, the analyst, the collector of details. He doubted Veld or Tseng knew he was accessing the Turks’ personnel files, but Rude considered it part of his remit.
Reno’s file had not held many surprises. Photographs of him in a mesh shirt, near skeletal, hair with dark roots. Homeless at eleven—or eight, if Rude’s estimation of his actual age was correct. Picked up by a gang. For a few years he’d engaged in petty theft, armed robberies, and running drugs. Until he lost control of his own habit, at which point he’d slipped into prostitution. He’d stayed sharp enough to gather and sell information that his clients—including the odd Shinra employee—let slip. It was that, along with rumours of two well-executed murders on behalf of the Don, that had brought him to Veld’s attention.
What brought him to Rude’s attention was in the mental health evaluation. Reno had been open about the various substances he’d been using—he could hardly keep it a secret, given the track marks down both his arms. And he’d been open about everything else. Self-harm, alcohol abuse, risky sex. But it was a single line that had captured Rude’s imagination.
History of disordered eating; probable anorexia nervosa, binge/purge subtype.
A small detail, compared to everything else.
And Reno had tackled everything else. It was clear that he’d seen the Turks as his salvation. By the time he’d turned up for his first official day he’d already sweated his way through rehab. Had stopped cutting himself. Had obediently taken all the prescribed antibiotics to clear up the consequences of dirty needles and unprotected sex. His drug tests came back clean every week. He was a model of recovery.
Except for one tiny blip. He claimed to be complying with the diet plan the trainer gave him. And he had indeed put on a bit of lean muscle. But the clinical notes said his weight gain had plateaued, despite still being below target.
Destruction, control, punishment, escape. Rude was not a psych, he wouldn’t guess what demons drove Reno’s cravings. But he was certain they were still there.
And he was certain he could use them.
For the first month, all he had done was watch Reno. Noted that he still smoked. When he was in the office he’d dart out every hour or so to find a stairwell to light up in.
Noted the way he ate—or didn’t eat. He’d have a normal lunch in the cafeteria, followed by a day of apparently eating nothing. Once, on one of the eat nothing days, he’d followed Reno to the stairwell and observed him from the floor above. Instead of smoking, Reno had sat on one of the steps and eaten his way through a sharing-size bag of candy. Handful by handful. Unaware of Rude above him, watching.
He had noted that Reno continued to not gain weight.
*
“You cookin’?” Reno raised an eyebrow at Rude, still standing in the doorway.
“Yep.” Rude moved just enough out of the way that Reno could push past. Close enough that he could smell him, the cigarette smoke that clung to him, the pungent aftershave he used, the faint animal scent below that was just Reno.
“If it sucks, I’m leavin’,” Reno said, as he headed towards the kitchen.
Rude hadn’t cooked for him before. This was only the fifth time, and previously he’d relied on take-out and junk food.
The first time he’d fed Reno, he’d done it by bringing a party-size box of 48-donuts into the office. Ostensibly for everyone, but he’d picked a quiet day, when most of the Turks were out on assignment. Rude had not taken any of the donuts. He’d stopped eating sugar and refined carbs a long time ago.
He’d left the box on a cabinet near Reno’s desk, and had sat with his back to him, observing discreetly in a small mirror propped near his monitor. Had counted the number of trips Reno made past the box, each time grabbing two donuts. After the eleventh trip, he’d got up and gone over to Reno’s desk. I’m gonna make a coffee run, you want anything? An excuse to look down at Reno’s uniform, worn with its usual lack of care. Did the waistline look a little tighter than normal, or was it his imagination? Rude’s eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, no sign of his quick once over. Nah, Reno said. I’m good. He was fidgeting, leg bouncing anxiously. Crumbs on his desk, a shiny smear of glaze on his lips. 4,290 calories of doughnuts inside him.
Nothing imaginary about what happened next. Reno got up and left the office. Rude waited two minutes, and then went to the nearest bathroom. Opened the door very quietly, and listened to the sound of vomiting.
As he listened, he thought about kneeling over Reno, and feeding him twenty-two donuts, one after the other. Reno’s face as he did it, eyes hazy, throat bobbing as he swallowed.
Imagined the sugary gleam on Reno’s lips.
Imagined licking them clean.
Imagined undoing the button of his trousers.
*
Rude followed Reno into the kitchen. Took a can of cola out of the fridge and put it on the table. Poured himself a glass of sparkling mineral water. He had played with the idea of spiking Reno’s soft drinks with something. He desperately wanted to get Reno drunk, to see him truly out-of-control. But he also knew if one of Reno’s tests came back positive for alcohol, it would be the end of Reno as a Turk, and the end of these sessions.
“You made all that?” Reno yanked out a kitchen chair and flopped into it. Arm dangling over the back, knees wide. All angles. “Lotta effort. What the fuck’s wrong with pizza, yo?”
“I wanted to do something special,” Rude said. He went to the oven and removed the sourdough bowl. The cheese turned molten and gooey. Before baking, he’d rubbed the cheese with garlic, ladled on a tablespoon of vermouth—cooking with alcohol was as close as he could get to feeding Reno booze—and sprinkled it with sea-salt and rosemary.
1,070 calories in the wheel of cheese. Another 440 in the sourdough.
“A starter,” he said.
“Looks fancy,” Reno said. There was a sharpness about him. A hard angry edge that Rude intended to smother with food. “Kinda wasted on me, don’cha think?”
*
The second time Rude had fed Reno, it had been under the pretext of inviting him over to watch a TV show that Reno was a fan of. Rude wasn’t, but he’d pretended. Sat down and caught up with all previous episodes so he could talk about it in a way that suggested he was familiar with the characters and storyline.
Reno had jumped at the chance. Rude thought he was probably lonely. He was younger than most of the other Turks, and his brash below-plate posturing didn’t always land well.
Rude ate his normal dinner before Reno showed up; organic chicken breast, quinoa with black beans, and broccoli. No salt. A dash of anti-inflammatory turmeric and black pepper. A cup of decaffeinated green tea.
He’d logged the meal in his spreadsheet. He had slightly shifted his macros again, increasing the amount of protein he consumed each day.
Then he had ordered delivery.
Two family-sized buckets of fried chicken. Reno had raised an eyebrow when he’d arrived and seen the amount of food on the coffee table. I think they got my order confused with someone else’s, Rude had said. Reno had shrugged and accepted it.
It was still one of Rude’s favourite memories. Reno sprawled on the couch, relaxed, laughing at the show, and mindlessly eating. That was before he’d realised what Rude was up to. His defences had been down.
Whenever he went to the bathroom, Rude had put a few extra pieces of chicken in Reno’s bucket. Refilled his bag of fries. Made it look like Rude had eaten something, and that Reno had eaten less than he had.
By the end of the evening, Reno had unknowingly consumed everything from his bucket and half from Rude’s. 6,420 calories. He was a mess. Everything Rude wanted. Face flushed, with a faint sheen of sweat, eyes unfocused. Trying to stifle burps. Grease stains on his sleeve where he’d wiped his mouth. Shirt tight across his stomach, a sliver of skin tantalisingly visible between two buttons. He hadn’t loosened his trousers, even though they must have become painfully tight. It had taken all the willpower Rude had not to reach over and release him, pop his bloated belly into view and stroke his hand over it. But that would have definitely given the game away.
When Reno had finally dragged himself to his feet and looked at what little remained of the food, the flush on his face had deepened. Rude had savoured that too. Reno’s embarrassment was beautiful.
Sorry, he’d muttered. Kinda made a pig of myself.
Rude had waved his hand. Don’t worry about it.
He had longed to invite Reno to stay, to offer him his bathroom to purge. Instead, he’d let himself feast on the way Reno moved. Slower than normal, trying to hide his discomfort. When he lifted his arm to pull his jacket on, his shirt had pulled against the roundness of his belly. So different from the skinny waist he normally had.
After he had left, Rude had tossed the trash and wiped everything clean, then taken himself to bed. Had jerked off once to the memory of Reno slouched on his couch, cramming a greasy chicken thigh into his mouth.
Had jerked off a second time to his fantasy of Reno at home, retching miserably into a toilet, trying to undo the damage.
*
“It’s not for you,” Rude said. “It’s for me.”
Reno looked at him, eyes dark. Then reached out and ripped a chunk of the sourdough bread free. Dunked it into the cheese and brought it to his mouth. Strings of melted cheese stretching obscenely from his lips to the bread as he ate. Pink tongue darting out to lick his fingers clean, before he reached for another chunk of bread.
“It’s my birthday,” Rude said. Eyes fastened on the bread, dripping cheese, a string of it landing on the table.
“Happy birthday,” Reno said. Voice flat.
“After you’ve had dinner,” Rude said. “I’m going to fuck you.”
Reno didn’t react. His face was unreadable.
But he kept eating.
*
The third time Rude had tried to feed Reno had destroyed any nascent friendship. Rude had been unable to get the memory of him, disheveled and overfed, out of his head. He’d invited him over again the following week. Had been smart enough not to pull the same trick with delivery. Instead, he’d ordered a pizza to split between them. A normal amount of food for two people. He had put one slice on his own plate, and hoped Reno would eat the rest.
Reno had stayed animated throughout the evening, and, to Rude’s disappointment, had stopped eating after his third slice of pizza. Apparently, he had no desire to repeat his previous performance.
Rude had gotten desperate. He kept trying to nudge Reno into having more. Had not noticed the way Reno started to close up. Until the fatal move.
Do you like ice-cream? he’d asked, on impulse.
Doesn’t everyone? Reno said. Rude ignored the faint edge of sarcasm in his voice. Instead, he went into his kitchen and brought out a tub of ice cream.
I realised I don’t like this flavour, he said, diffidently. So you’d be doing me a favour if you finished it.
Reno had looked at the ice cream. Back at Rude. You don’t like chocolate? And you just now figured that out?
Rude had groped for a reply. He had never been quick at responding on the fly.
What the fuck is this?
Rude should have stayed silent. Instead, he blurted, I want to watch you eat.
Reno’s eyes went wide. Rude had the sense of something fragile slipping between his fingers.
You can use my bathroom, afterwards, he’d said.
A soap-bubble, bursting.
Reno had walked out.
*
After he’d watched Reno work his way through half the cheese and bread, Rude went back to the stove. He gave the coq-au-vin a quick stir and turned his attention to the frying pan.
Earlier in the day, he’d fried diced shallots and garlic in oil and butter, then added handfuls of chopped cremini mushrooms. Cooked until golden brown, at which point a glass of white wine had gone in—nearly everything he’d cooked today had alcohol in it. Was he flirting with disaster? Would Reno notice? Would it show on the tests?—and he’d turned up the heat to help the wine reduce. Finally, he’d poured in a carton of heavy cream, along with chopped parsley and thyme. Let it bubble away until the sauce thickened. 690 calories for the pan. It just needed to be warmed back through.
He glanced over his shoulder, saw Reno pick up the bottom of the bread bowl and cram it and the remaining cheese into his mouth. Reno didn’t try to put on a show, but he was naturally a messy eater.
Naturally a glutton, Rude thought, as Reno swallowed down the bread, barely bothering to chew. Rude was doing him a favour. Funding his binge eating. Giving him an outlet. Reno had said himself he was a pig. A greedy pig. Rude felt the heat building in his groin as he watched, and forced himself to tear his gaze away.
Rude gave the mushrooms a final stir, and then decanted them into a shallow bowl, using a spatula to make sure he scraped every last drop of creamy sauce out of the pan. He picked up the loaf of brioche. The whole loaf was just shy of 900 calories. Rude hadn’t sliced it.
*
After the disastrous third attempt, Reno had stopped talking to him almost entirely. He conveyed what was necessary to do his job—because Reno cared about his job—and nothing more.
And he was either eating less, or purging more. Rude, reviewing Reno’s file again, discovered that his weight, which had hovered at around 130 lbs, was starting to drop.
Rude had been beside himself. He’d ruined it before he’d even got to properly enjoy it. Hadn’t even been able to touch Reno. Hadn’t been able to undo so much as a single button.
After three weeks of the silent treatment, he put a meeting in Reno’s calendar. Official.
Reno had turned up. He couldn’t not. Rude was his superior. And Rude had calmly told him that if he didn’t turn up at his house next Friday evening he’d start putting performance concerns about Reno in his reports. Reno had stared at him, stony-faced, as Rude explained that Reno was still on probation, and Rude’s word carried weight. If Reno made an effort to get along with him, Rude would help his career. If he didn’t…
Reno was an eighteen year old slum kid. He didn’t know how to work the corporate system. Rude knew from his file that he’d already had a handful of complaints lodged against him. Inappropriate language in the office. Improperly dressed when reporting to a Director. Impolitically written, and occasionally incomprehensible, mission reports. His saving grace was that he was an excellent field operative. If Rude started calling that into question—
Why me? Reno had asked. Looking past Rude, not meeting his eyes. Why not find some fat fuck who’s into that feeder shit?
Rude didn’t know why Reno. Only that there was something about him. His skeletal form in the medical files. Those addict-bright eyes. The way he walked. The fact he only half-wore his uniform, but never rolled up his sleeves to expose the scars on his arms.
The ghost of the abandoned child that only Rude could see, that Reno had painted over with that cocksure exterior.
He wanted to save him.
He wanted to destroy him.
*
Rude put the bowl of garlic mushrooms and the brioche down in front of Reno, and stepped back.
He’d gotten up early to make the bread. Broken out his stand mixer. For the brioche: flour, butter, sugar and yeast, balling up around the dough hook as it pulsed. A pan of milk, gently warmed, then slowly, patiently, added into the mix. Four eggs, yolks turning the dough golden. And an entire stick of butter, softened, to add a glorious richness to the loaf.
He’d set the dough aside for two hours to rest and rise. While he waited, he completed his morning workout, and ate his normal breakfast; a spinach omelette made with egg whites and nutritional yeast.
When he returned, the dough had puffed up beautifully, doubling in size. He’d turned it out into a loaf pan, put it into the oven to bake, and then started to peel and chop potatoes.
When the brioche came out, it looked so good he was almost tempted to try a piece. But his macros wouldn’t allow for it, so he ate a carefully measured portion of almonds instead.
Now he watched Reno tear a chunk out of the brioche—fluffy and golden—spoon creamy mushrooms onto it, and stuff it into his mouth. Reno’s eyes closed briefly as he did, and Rude knew that he was enjoying it, even if he pretended not to.
Eventually, his brittle anger would give way.
Eventually, he would go into that trance-like state where all he cared about was the food. Making noises as he did, little sighs and mms.
*
The fourth time, after the meeting, had been a re-run of the failed third. Reno had arrived late. Rude pacing the living room, waiting for him. He didn’t want to get Reno terminated, he wanted Reno to give in. The sound of the doorbell had been an electric shock down his spine.
Reno in the doorway, eyes hard. Rude chose to ignore that. Reno wanted this, he knew he did. Reno wanted to eat. He wanted to binge until he was sick. If Rude wasn’t there, he’d be doing it anyway, in secret.
He’d gone ahead and ordered three extra-large pizzas. Stuffed crust. Pepperoni leaking crimson oil onto a thick layer of gooey cheese. He wouldn’t need to make a pretence of eating a slice. He didn’t have to hide what he wanted now. Reno had slouched into the living room, darting side-glances at Rude and then at the stack of pizza boxes. His mouth a flat line of resentment.
You want me to put the show on? Rude had asked. Reno had rolled his eyes and thrown himself down on the couch. That ain’t why I’m here, is it?
So Rude had pulled the coffee table closer to the couch, and had watched Reno eat the pizza.
He’d thought Reno might be self-conscious, but he wasn’t. Instead, it was like he went somewhere else in his head. His face blank as he worked his way methodically through the twelve slices in the first box.
He’d become more frantic as he got into the second box. Cramming each slice into his mouth, like he was scared it would disappear if he didn’t gobble it down as fast as possible. Practically inhaling each mouthful. Pizza sauce dribbling onto his shirt. Grease on his fingers.
Rude drinking it all in. Every detail.
At the end of the second box he’d paused, breathing hard. Rude had pushed the empty box away and opened the third one. Had watched Reno’s face carefully as he did. Had seen the longing and the defeat.
Let me help you, he’d said. Boldly reaching out and unbuttoning the rest of Reno’s shirt, undoing his trousers, unzipping the fly. Freeing Reno’s belly. Beautifully swollen, flushed pink, an angry red line marking where the waistband of his trousers had been pressing into his flesh. He was so bloated already. Rude placed his hand reverently on it. It was hard. Skin stretched tight.
Reno had remained silent while Rude had undone his clothes. Hadn’t even sighed, though it must have been a relief to have the pressure off his stomach.
But when Rude started gently massaging his belly, he’d groaned, then belched. Wiped his sleeve across his mouth. Given Rude a strange, slanted, look. This really what does it for ya?
Rude had looked down at his own trousers, tented over his erection. There seemed no point in responding, so instead he picked up a slice of pizza and brought it to Reno’s mouth. Reno’s eyes half-closed. Whatever he was thinking hidden away. But he’d eaten the slice out of Rude’s hand. Had let Rude push his fingers into his mouth, had licked them clean. Then reached for the next slice himself.
He had been slower at working his way through the third pizza. Pausing to breathe between each slice. Sweating. Intent. Rude kept his hand on Reno’s belly. Felt the ripples and gurgles as Reno stuffed more food into himself. It had to be painful.
He used his other hand to unzip his own fly and release his cock. Worked his hand slowly up-and-down it. He wasn’t sure if Reno was aware of him doing it, his attention was so focused on the food.
It took Reno a long time to eat the final slice. When the last mouthful disappeared he slumped back against the couch, panting, and closed his eyes. 10,200 calories. Rude pressed his hand firmly into Reno’s bloated belly, eliciting another groan.
Rude pumped his cock a few more times, and then straddled Reno, rubbing himself against the skin of his exposed belly. Reno’s mouth was slightly open, grease shining on his lips. Rude leaned down and kissed him. Tasting the faint remains of pepperoni and, below that, the cigarette he must have smoked before arriving. Reno didn’t kiss back, but he didn’t push him away, either. He was passive. Accepting.
Rude pushed the head of his cock into Reno’s stretched navel. Moving his hand up-and-down, faster now.
He’d come all over Reno’s belly. Striping it in white. Fluid running down the bulge and dripping onto Reno’s trousers. Rude kneeling there, holding his cock, trembling with the aftershocks. Staring at the mess in awe.
You got what ya wanted? Reno hadn’t opened his eyes. Can I go now?
And Rude, still trembling, had been stupid enough to say yeah.
And so he’d missed the purge. Had to fantasise about it later. Wondering, had Reno ever eaten that much before? Did he think about Rude, as he threw up all that half-digested pizza? Did he cry? Did he get the shakes?
Did he get hard? Was he into it, the way Rude was into it?
*
The brioche and mushrooms went down fast, Reno wiping out the bowl with the last bit of bread. That hazy look had come into his eyes. Rude placed the baguette—all 600 calories of it—on a bread board and cut it into rounds. Each one he slathered with a thick coating of salted butter. Then he took a large bowl from the cupboard, and poured the contents of the saucepan into it.
Leek and potato soup. He’d fried leeks, bacon, and onion in butter, then added chopped potatoes, and let it all sweat. A good slosh of white wine, a pint of vegetable stock, lots of salt and pepper. He’d let it cook until the potatoes were falling apart, poured in a carton of heavy cream, and blended it all together, until it was silky smooth.
Now he garnished the bowl of soup with bacon bits, and a handful of chopped chives. Drizzled some cream over it, to make a pretty pattern of lines and dots. 948 calories for the bowl.
Reno didn’t stop to admire the skilful presentation. He dug in immediately, dunking the bread into the hot soup so that the butter started to melt. Crunching through the crisp outer crust and swallowing it down. He slurped as he ate the soup, ladling it into himself as fast as he could, pausing occasionally to grab and dunk another piece of the baguette. Intense. Focused. Rude wondered what it felt like, to be in that trance-like state where all you cared about was eating.
When he finished the soup, he was flushed. He pushed the empty bowl away and leaned back in the chair, not bothering to cover his mouth as he burped. Then he looked towards Rude to see what was next.
“A break,” Rude said. “Come into the bedroom.”
Reno shoved the chair back and stood up. By Rude’s reckoning, he’d consumed almost 5,000 calories already, most of it in the form of bread, cream, and butter. He moved like he was in a stupor, stumbling a little as he followed Rude.
Rude’s bedroom was clean, dark and minimalist. Everything in shades of grey. A dark dresser to one side, a large wardrobe with a double mirror set into the doors to the other. Reno looked at the mirror, and then away, a flash of discomfort passing across his face.
“Face me,” Rude said. Reno obeyed, standing beside the bed and waiting. Waiting for whatever came next.
Rude started by removing Reno’s hair tie. Combed his fingers through the long red strands, pulling them over Reno’s shoulders. He was standing close enough that he could feel Reno’s breath, the warmth coming off him. He looked down into Reno’s eyes, but Reno was looking past him. Rude ran his thumb along Reno’s mouth, felt the softness of his lips, then bent and kissed him slowly while he undid Reno’s shirt.
It was the closest they’d been yet. The most intimate. Reno’s head only came to Rude’s shoulder, he had to lean down to kiss him. He was so small. Slender neck, sharp collar bones, pink nipples.
His belly had pooched out a little more than Rude had expected. Perhaps from all the bread. Rude fondled it. There would be a lot more give in it yet. It was a strange truism that skinny people could consume more food in one sitting. With no belt of fat across the abdomen to restrict the stomach, the organ was free to expand to its maximum capacity.
He’d tried to make food that was calorie-dense, rather than high volume. Reno probably didn’t even realise how many calories he’d eaten. People always underestimated how much was in sauces and dressings. They’d eat a salad, thinking they were being healthy, not realising how much fat was in the ranch or thousand island dressing they’d slosh over it. Eat a bread roll, and forget to account for the butter. It was so easy to mess up. Rude had stopped eating salad dressing two years ago. Now, he put a teaspoon of olive oil and some apple-cider vinegar on his salads.
Rude pushed his thumb into Reno’s belly-button, and then drew it down the bulge towards his trousers. He undid them, pulled them down so that they fell to the floor. Reno’s boxers followed.
Reno’s cock was soft. Rude had hoped he’d have the start of an erection.
“Turn around and bend over,” Rude said.
If he fed Reno as much as he was planning, then fucking him would become exponentially more difficult. Rude intended to reserve some space in Reno’s body for himself.
Reno obeyed, putting his hands on Rude’s bed. Still that passive acceptance. Rude wondered how many times he’d done something like this. How many times he’d heard turn around and bend over.
He was narrow hipped. A nice ass, small and firm. Rude ran his hand over his smooth skin, and then went to his dresser and opened the top drawer.
The anal plug was large—thicker and longer than Rude. Black silicone. He took it and a bottle of lubricant over to where Reno waited. Smeared lubricant over the plug, and then rubbed the tip against the pink pucker of Reno’s asshole. Reno hissed, but Rude ignored him. Pushed slowly but firmly past the resistance.
“Fuck,” Reno muttered. “Coulda warmed me up first.” He shifted his weight, trying to relax into it. Grunted as Rude kept pushing, inexorably forcing the plug into place, until finally the base was pressed up against Reno’s skin.
“Back into the kitchen,” Rude said.
*
When Reno sat back down at the table, he was naked apart from his shirt. Loose hair falling over his shoulders.
Rude went to the top oven and pulled out the bowl of tagliatelle carbonara that had been keeping warm. A simple but rich dish.
He’d made the pasta himself yesterday, after work. Eggs and flour. The kneading a meditative act.
The sauce he’d made from four of the leftover egg yolks from his omelette that morning. Mixing them with single cream and grated parmesan. He’d fried pancetta, watching the way the fat crisped and darkened as it rendered, while the pasta boiled. Drained it, keeping back a cup of the starchy pasta water, then tossed the pasta through the pancetta. Taken it off the heat and slowly poured on the sauce, until the eggs were just cooked. Then stirred through the pasta water to create a smooth and glossy sauce. 2,100 calories.
Now he put the bowl down in front of Reno, who regarded the pile of pasta with heavy-lidded eyes, before picking up the fork.
Another messy dish. Reno spinning the fork through the thick strands of tagliatelle to make a bundle and lifting it to his mouth. Slurping up the long ribbons of pasta. Dripping sauce back into the bowl, over his chin. Every now and then a little noise, almost a moan. Rude poured himself another glass of sparkling water and leaned against the counter to watch.
Reno ate the entire bowl without stopping, then leaned both his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands.
“Stand up,” Rude said. “Let me see.”
Reno didn’t move for a long moment, and Rude wondered if he’d heard. But then he took his head out of his hands, and came to his feet.
His belly came into view. Larger now than when he’d eaten the pizza. Skin darkening under the strain. Rude bit his lip as he looked him over. There was something about the way it looked on Reno’s skinny frame. Like dragging a knife through a priceless painting, or smashing a thousand year old vase. Profane. Thrilling.
Rude wasn’t done with him.
He removed the empty bowl, tossing it on top of the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and took a clean one out of the cupboard.
The mashed potatoes were fully loaded. Butter, cheddar, and sour cream, along with garlic powder, salt and pepper. He piled them onto the bowl—900 calories—and turned to the coq-au-vin.
It had been braising for hours. Pearl onions, chicken thighs and mushrooms. Sauce made with a bottle of red wine, along with three cups of rich beef broth. Now he ladled it over the mound of mashed potatoes, filling the bowl. He breathed in the savoury smell. Another 750 calories.
Rude carried the food over to the table and put it down. Dragged Reno’s chair out so he could sit in it, and then pulled Reno down into his lap.
“Eat,” he said.
Reno stared at the food. His shirt was soaked with sweat. And he was trembling, ever-so-slightly. Now that Rude had him in his lap he could feel it.
But he hadn’t said no. Not said a single word of protest.
Rude knew he would treasure the memory of that dish. Reno leaning forward slightly to eat, his weight on Rude’s thighs. His narrow back, sweat-soaked shirt sticking to his sharp shoulder blades. And his belly in Rude’s hands. Rude could feel every gurgle and tremor as he ate. Felt the heaviness of it, the warmth. The way it got harder and harder as Reno forced down mashed potato and chicken.
“You can do it, baby, I know you can.” Rude murmured as he ate, massaging his fingers gently across Reno’s skin.
He was trembling harder when he’d finished the last piece of chicken. He slumped back against Rude. Belched. Rude felt it ripple through his gut when he did.
“Fuck,” Reno muttered. “Fuck.”
“You did so good,” Rude murmured. Over 8,000 calories consumed. He put his mouth on Reno’s neck, nibbling little bites down it. “Ready for dessert?”
Reno turned his head, gave Rude that strange, slanted look, then closed his eyes.
He avoided looking at himself, Rude had noticed. Either kept his eyes closed, or on the food. He never looked down at his stomach. Didn’t touch himself. Never cradled or rubbed his own belly, though he seemed happy enough to let Rude do it for him.
“Stand up, baby.”
Reno moved sluggishly, using the table to lever himself up. He stood there, leaning forward slightly, hands pressing into the table, eyes still closed.
The first dessert was a tiramisu. Mascarpone, double cream, and golden caster sugar, whisked together until fluffy. Lady fingers soaked in coffee liqueur and espresso. All layered together, with dark chocolate grated over the top.
It was a deceptive dessert. 4,020 calories for the entire thing, but airy. Light. Easier to eat if you were already stuffed full.
This time, when Rude pulled Reno back onto his lap, he allowed his hands to wander further. Started to fondle Reno’s balls, stroke his cock.
“You tryin’ to Pavlov me?” Reno’s voice was low.
“I want you to enjoy it too.” Rude could feel Reno’s cock hardening as he touched him. He brought his other hand up to trace light circles around Reno’s belly button. “Eat.”
At the first spoonful of tiramisu, Reno made a little involuntary noise. A moan that was nearly a sob. It sent a rush of blood to Rude’s own cock. He almost lost control right there. Instead, he took his hand off Reno’s stomach and moved it up to his chest. Stroked his pecs, pinched his nipples. Those little noises kept slipping out, making Rude’s heart pound. Rude couldn’t tell if it was in reaction to the spoonfuls of coffee flavoured sponge and sweet cream he was eating, or the way Rude was touching him.
Rude kept one hand stroking Reno’s cock, now fully erect. He alternated the other between playing with Reno’s nipples and gently rubbing around his navel, listening to the noises his stomach made as it tried to cope with the ongoing onslaught of food.
When the spoon clattered into the empty dish, Reno’s cock was slippery with pre-cum. The expression on his face somewhere between pain and vacancy.
“Only one more,” Rude said. “You’ll like it.”
The second dessert had been his mother’s recipe. A chocolate truffle cake that she had made only for special occasions. A favourite at family gatherings and bake sales. Rude had stopped eating it when he was 12, the same time he’d picked up Muscle Magazine for the first time.
It was not light.
Two layers of sponge made with real chocolate and ground almonds. Buttercream made with melted chocolate, a slug of brandy, cocoa powder, icing sugar, butter and cream, spread generously between the layers and around the outside. Dark chocolate ganache drizzled over the top, running in decorative drips down the sides. Topped with shaved chocolate, and a handful of chocolate truffles.
He’d taken pity on Reno. He’d used 6-inch cake pans instead of 8-inch. 6,190 calories. If Reno ate it all, it would take him to 18,000 calories for the whole meal. Over a week’s worth of food in one sitting.
Rude stopped stroking Reno’s cock. He didn’t actually want him to come over his kitchen floor. But he kept his hands moving over Reno’s body, whispered encouragement into the skin of his neck, nibbled on his ear. Dragged his fingers through the long strands of Reno’s hair.
About halfway through the cake, he realised Reno’s cheeks were wet. Tears leaking out of his eyes. He didn’t stop eating. Rude wondered if he could stop at this point. Binge eaters were like that. The feedback loop between the stomach and the brain broken. Out-of-control, they’d eat until they threw up. And some wouldn’t stop even then.
Reno’s belly was rock hard. No give left at all. He was choking the cake down, spoonful-by-spoonful, making desperate whines that made Rude feel crazy. He was going to do it. He was going to eat the whole thing. Some part of Rude had thought he wouldn’t be able to do it. That he would stop, yell, puke, something.
When the last bite disappeared, Reno simply stopped moving, eyes empty. Rude took his chin, turned his face towards him. Ran his tongue up Reno’s cheek, tasting the salty wetness.
“Lick the plate,” he said.
Again the long pause, as if Reno hadn’t heard him. But then he pulled his face away, lifted the plate and licked up the crumbs and smears of buttercream. Pink tongue darting out to lap the china clean.
“Fuck,” Rude gritted out. “You greedy pig.” He hooked his arm under Reno’s legs and kicked the chair back as he lifted him up, Reno making a brief noise of pain at the change in position, before burying his face into Rude’s neck.
“Rude,” he whispered.
A hot dangerous flutter swept through Rude’s bloodstream at the sound of his name. He carried Reno to the bedroom, laid him down onto the blankets. Reno stared up at him. He looked drugged. Soft, slow, soporific. Drunk on food. Tear-stained. Still wearing his shirt. His exposed stomach obscenely distended, the skin an angry red.
How many people had screwed him while he was semi-conscious? Why did it make Rude feel so wild to think about it? Why did it make him want to shoot Reno up and then fuck him?
There were drugs that wouldn’t show on his tox screens. Ket. Psychedelics. White Dove.
Rude put his hand on the lewd flesh of Reno’s belly. “You ever eat this much before?”
A minute shake of Reno’s head.
“How does it feel?”
“Hurts.”
“I like that it hurts,” Rude said.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Seen a lotta weird kinks,” Reno said. He sounded resigned. “Always comes down to wantin’ t’hurt me.”
Rude could understand that. There was something about Reno that invited it. He was a maze of fracture lines, imperfectly hidden. It made you want to dig your fingers into the cracks and see how far you could pry him apart.
“I’m going to take care of you too,” Rude said. A bargaining chip, set down carefully.
Reno closed his eyes. “Uh huh.”
“No,” Rude said. “No. I am.”
Reno didn’t reply.
Rude undid his trousers, and dropped them and his boxers onto the floor. His dick thick and heavy, head flushed. He lubed himself up carefully; he was already so close to the edge. His other hand played with Reno’s balls, then slid down to where the base of the anal plug sat snug against his ass. He started to slide it out. Nice and slow, watching Reno’s face as he did. Mouth parted, breath hitching as the plug worked free.
When the last bit popped out, Reno’s asshole was left gaping. Rude caught his breath at the sight. Put his hands under Reno’s hips to slide himself into place.
That fluttery dangerous heat hummed through him. Rude started to thrust. Gently, so gentle to start with. Savouring the way he sank into Reno, burying himself completely, pressing himself up against Reno’s swollen flesh. Savouring the way he looked in his bed, fed into submission, all his crackling energy buried. Arms bent up, almost in a position of surrender. His chin tilted back, exposing the long pale line of his throat. Rude could see the pulse twitching in his neck. Tempting Rude to reach out and put his hand around it.
He started moving faster. Harder. Reno making a twisted sob each time he slammed into him. It had to hurt. He must feel like he was about to burst. All his squeezed organs shifting painfully with each jolt. Skin stretched dangerously thin across the shuddering weight in his stomach. His cock hard, pressed against the underside of his abdomen.
“You like this,” Rude said, thrusting into him. “You greedy slut. Pig.”
Reno came with a strangled noise, his cock spasming. It was the sight of jizz dripping down his bulging gut that carried Rude over the edge. Fast and brutal, a hot rush erupting into Reno’s ass. Aftershocks running through him like electricity.
He collapsed forward. Let his full weight land on Reno, forcing another pained sob out of him. His hands coming down to hold Reno’s wrists, his cock still buried in Reno. His teeth finding Reno’s parted lips and biting. Hard enough to draw blood.
“Fuck,” he said, panting. The taste of chocolate and iron on his mouth. “Look at you. You look pregnant. Like a bloated slug.”
“What—” And then Reno was kissing back with a desperate supplication that made Rude feel heady. “No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“You’re disgusting. No self-control. No discipline.”
It was too easy to find the words. The shame was right there, a red-hot wire connecting them.
Rude pulled himself out of reach of Reno’s mouth. His cock sliding free as he did, cum leaking out of Reno’s asshole. “Gorging yourself like an animal. And you think you can be a Turk? You’d better fix this.”
Raw pain in Reno’s eyes. Rude had his fingers in the cracks, and he was pulling, pulling, pulling.
He grabbed Reno, all gentleness gone. A fist in his hair, the other gripping his arm hard enough to bruise. Yanked him off the bed, staggering, to the mirror.
“Look at what you’ve done to yourself,” he commanded.
Reno tried to squirm away, but Rude held him in place. Forced him to face his reflection. Cum on his thighs and bloated stomach. Shirt stained and stuck to him. Blood on his mouth. He was convulsing. Coming apart in Rude’s arms.
“You think there aren’t consequences?” Rude continued, merciless. “Do you even know how many calories you ate? How much weight you’re going to gain because you couldn’t control yourself?” He slapped Reno’s stomach. Hard. Leaving a white handprint standing out against the flushed skin. “This is what you are. Nothing but a greedy pig with a giant belly.” The words were spilling out of him. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to stop. Reno’s despair was going straight to his head. Intoxicating. Addictive. “You know what saturated fat does to your liver? Your heart? You treat your body like garbage. You are garbage.”
“Stop,” Reno sobbed. “Let me go.”
“You’re weak,” Rude said. “But we’re going to fix this. I’m going to help you.”
*
The purging was everything Rude wanted.
It was obvious Reno didn’t want him there, but Rude left him no choice. It was violent. Miserable. His body quaking and shuddering as he vomited up everything he had eaten. Rude with one hand on his shoulder, gripping him firmly. The other holding back his hair, murmuring that’s it, and make sure you get it all up.
At the end, Reno laid his head down on the toilet. Shaking and pale.
Good boy,” Rude said. “Take your shirt off.”
He’d had the bath tub specially installed. It was the final part of the ritual. He would put Reno in the tub. Soothe the shakes with slow strokes. Clean away the sweat, dried cum, and puke. He had special soap, that smelled of bergamot and sandalwood. He would wash Reno’s hair, carefully, gently.
Cleanliness and order would be restored.
There was a rush, he knew, following the vomiting. A sense of lightness and relief. Rude would give Reno a soft finish to the night. Something intimate. Rewarding.
Except Reno didn’t move. His eyes were dark. Shuttered. Rude could feel the distance between them re-asserting itself. Rude didn’t want that. He wanted Reno to stay with him.
“Reno,” he said.
Reno lifted his head and looked at him. “No,” he said. “No, I think you’re done.”
It occurred to Rude that perhaps Reno didn’t want to take his shirt off. Didn’t want him to see the damage on his arms.
Well, Rude would just have to take the shirt off him. It was ruined anyway, stained beyond saving, it would have to be thrown away. Reno would thank him later, when he was clean and tranquil.
Rude reached towards Reno's shirt.
He didn’t even see Reno’s hand move. Faster than he could track. Only time to recognise the little twist of paper, the gust of sparkling powder that hit him in the face.
Dream Powder, he thought.
And then, as he fell backwards, everything blurring into smeary colours—
Why didn’t he use that earlier?