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Emil had never been much for revenge, but there were always exceptions to the rule. In his case, that exception came in the form of the nameless, faceless nemesis he'd come to think of as The Lunch Thief.
He'd known how new hires were treated when he'd started at the company six months ago, so he hadn't been shocked the first time his sandwich was taken from the fridge, despite how clearly-labeled the brown paper bag had been. He hadn't truly been angry that first time, either, or the few that followed; it had been somewhat frustrating, but it gave Emil a chance to check out the downstairs cafeteria, which turned out to be about on par for an office lunch spot, and some of the other restaurants nearby, which ranged from marginally better to quite good. But as time went on the stolen lunches piled up, and though his means meant the money wasn't an issue, the little irritations began to chip away at Emil's patience.
The worst part was the sheer inconsistency of it all. If it had happened every day he would have stopped bringing in his cooking, and if it had stopped early on there would never have been a problem. Instead there would be quiet days—even quiet weeks—where the food he put into the fridge only left in his hands. He'd get complacent. He'd let his guard down. And then, without warning, he would lose a series of lunches one after another, disappearing from the fridge without leaving a trace. The thief didn't seem picky; they took everything from basic sandwiches to penne alla vodka to leftover braised lamb, though at least they didn't seem keen on taking his Tupperware along with the food inside it. That they left in the sink, without bothering to wash it.
Emil had never been a social butterfly, but the suspicion had made him cold, forcing him ever-further away from his coworkers. Objectively, this was a minor problem, easily solved. It should have been beneath his notice. He should have been able to let it go. But there was something about the constant insult that fueled his rage, tempering it into something hard and sharp.
It was, to be frank, getting on his fucking nerves.
And soon it was going to stop.
I'm never doing this again, Valerian thought, grimacing as the anxiety and guilt twisted his stomach into a knot. Never. From now on, I'm biting the bullet and buying lunch.
Then, with a quick and surreptitious glance around the break room, he snatched Emil's lunch from the fridge and stuffed it into his laptop bag, heading to his cubicle as quickly as he could manage without looking suspicious.
He didn't have to. With the exception of Sherry from sales, who gave him a quick nod and smile when he passed by her desk, no one looked at him twice; they were too absorbed in their own work to notice his guilt, or the odd lump distorting the fabric of his bag. Still, Val let out a sigh of relief when he reached the limited privacy of his cubicle, his body slumping as he slid into his desk chair. His back twinged as he did, and he twisted, trying to relieve the ache. After one more quick scan of his surroundings, he reached into his bag and pulled out the contents of Emil's lunch, setting them on his desk one by one: dumplings, fried rice, a can of soda already beading with condensation, all lined up in a row on his desk. The soda was odd— Emil usually defaulted to coffee, as far as he knew— but the rest looked delicious, probably homemade. His stomach growled, and he swallowed hard.
It wasn't that Val didn't feel bad about the stealing. Sneaking around, lying, hiding secrets—he'd never liked that kind of thing, and he'd especially never been good at it. But the morning commute was long, and he was always three-quarters of the way through it by the time he realized that he'd left his lunch on the counter, forgotten and forlorn. And... well, sometimes money was tight, and Emil seemed like one of the few coworkers who wouldn’t miss it too much.
But Val had gotten a raise recently, and this behavior had moved from an almost-necessary evil to a completely unnecessary dick move. No matter how good it tasted—and it tasted amazing, leagues better than his own dry sandwiches and greasy spaghetti—it was wrong, and it had to stop.
Val sighed, regretting his decision already, and leaned down, setting his laptop bag on the floor. Maybe, if he was quick, he'd be able to return the food before Emil noticed it was gone; maybe he could finally beat this insane sunk-cost fallacy that he'd forced on himself, take a step towards being less like whoever he was.
His thought process was interrupted by the click of something undeniably plastic in his bag. Frowning, Val reached inside, feeling the smooth edges of a Tupperware container he must have missed, and began to pull it out.
The scent reached him before he'd even gotten the container into the open, heady and sweet and—the only word Val could think of was decadent, something that went straight to the pleasure centers of his brain and sent them into overdrive so fast that he almost gasped. His hunger skyrocketed, his already empty stomach suddenly feeling like a black hole. Any guilt he'd felt about stealing Emil's lunch evaporated, disappearing instantly as he pried the lid of the container open, the sound of it dropping to the floor barely registering. His mouth was watering so much that he was almost drooling as he stared at the contents: a single, perfect slice of three-layer chocolate cake, topped with a smooth, thick layer of dark frosting, a shiny glaze, and curls of white, milk, and dark chocolate.
Any warning that his brain might have sounded was silenced before it could register—Val barely managed to grab a fork before he began to eat, shoveling cake into his mouth. At the first bite his body and brain lit up, every nerve singing. Dimly he felt his hips shift in a slight, involuntary motion, and the only thing that suppressed his moan of ecstasy was the cake stuffed into his mouth. It tasted of chocolate, rich and delectable, but there were hints of other flavors—coffee, orange, a heat that might have been alcohol—all of which enhanced it, deepening the flavor until Val felt like he was drowning in it. What he'd initially assumed to be buttercream separating the layers turned out to be chocolate mousse, creamy and sweet, both cutting through and enhancing the almost overwhelming taste. It was, in that moment, the most delicious thing Val had ever tasted—
—and then it was gone.
Val stared dumbly at the empty container in front of him, his eyes wide. It was gone. It was gone, and his hunger roared impossibly higher, digging sharp claws into his abdomen. He grabbed the container of dumplings and began tearing into them like a starving animal, scarfing them down as quickly as he possibly could. It did barely anything, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he finished the last of the dumplings, the razor edge of the hunger only slightly dulled. The soda was next, chugged so quickly that he could feel his stomach stretching with the carbonation, followed by the fried rice. Everything was forgotten, left behind in a haze of stuffing himself, until slowly his ravenous appetite began to lessen, becoming less overwhelming. The world began to come back into focus, and his tense muscles began to relax, his heavy breathing starting to slow. He sat back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded, one hand rubbing his gut absently.
Behind him, someone cleared their throat.
Val's head snapped around, his eyes wide in horror, and froze at the sight of Emil, standing with his arms crossed at the entrance to his cubicle.
Oh, shit.
Val swallowed hard as Emil gave him the slow once-over, his dark eyes taking in every detail of Val’s compromised position. He was suddenly very aware of the scattered containers around him, of the way his distended stomach strained the buttons of his shirt, of how obviously he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"I believe those are mine," Emil said, his deep voice cold and flat, and Val's face was on fire, burning with mortification. He opened his mouth to—to say something, anything—but all that came out was a quiet burp, smothering any excuse he could have come up with. He wished, more than anything, for a hole to crawl into and die in.
The worst part of it all was that despite his abject humiliation the hunger still smoldered in his belly, satiated only barely. It hadn't been enough.
" Excuse me." Val's eyes, shamefully averted, jerked back to Emil, who was holding out his hand and looking expectant. "The containers. They don't grow on trees, you know." He was bigger than Val, taller and wider both, with shoulders broad enough to have played college football and thick, tree-trunk thighs, his firm ball of a belly protruding over his waistband. In that moment Emil looked as solid as a brick wall, and Val discarded his half-formed, dumbass idea of somehow running away.
Slowly he collected the containers and their lids, handing them over to Emil. "Are you going to—?"
"Report you to HR? No." Emil shook his head. "After all, you must have been famished if you've resorted to this." On cue, Val's stomach growled, and a thin smile touched Emil's lips. "I'll tell you what," he said, velvet-smooth, "how about you leave early for the day? I'll cover for you." Val opened his mouth to protest, but Emil cut him off again. There was something strange in his eyes, something that Val couldn’t quite pinpoint. "There's a three-day weekend coming up,” he said. “Take some time to relax. Indulge, even." He turned to leave, glancing back over his shoulder at Val. "I hear there's a very good buffet down the street."
Buffet.
Val barely managed to wait until Emil's footsteps had faded before he headed for the door, making a beeline for all the food he could eat.
The shitty desk chair felt more comfortable than usual, which was something that couldn't be said for Val's work clothes. He shifted, trying unsuccessfully to alleviate the pressure of his pants digging into his waist. It had been a struggle to even get dressed this morning; his clothes were tighter than they had been, so much tighter that he'd almost started sweating when he'd tried to pack his thighs and ass into work pants that felt like they were about to split at the seams, tugging so hard that he'd feared briefly that they might rip. He'd jiggled when he did, parts of him that he'd never given much thought to wobbling as he forced them into their cloth prison. When he'd finally gotten them on the button would barely close, and he'd had to give up on wearing his belt entirely. And those weren't the only problems; diamonds of skin showed in-between the buttons on Val's work shirt no matter how he tried to adjust it, but when he'd thrown on his only blazer to hide it he found that it still strained around his waist and chest, so tight that he could barely move. It was like everything had shrunk overnight, but the layer of softness covering his body said otherwise.
His clothes weren’t getting smaller. It was him getting bigger.
He almost wanted to pass his problems off as a consequence of the three days he'd spent alternating between stuffing himself stupid, sleeping off the food coma on his couch, and pleasuring himself, but that was wishful thinking. It had become undeniable: Val was fat, and it was happening faster than he'd ever thought possible.
And despite everything, his stomach still growled.
Something is seriously wrong.
The thought was sobering, but not enough to stop him from reaching for the box of donuts balanced precariously on top of his files, rooting around inside for one of the pastries that he'd purchased during the last few minutes of his lunch hour. Walking in with it had been an ordeal; the poor woman behind the counter at the shop had struggled to even close the box when he was done with his order, and he had to keep both hands on it to keep it shut as he made his way towards the office. At least no one had noticed that he'd taken it directly to his desk instead of to the break room—or, if they had, they'd been polite enough not to mention it.
He pulled out one of the last donuts, chocolate-covered and filled with a thick, sweet vanilla cream—how had they been depleted so quickly?—and devoured it as quickly and soundlessly as he could. It didn't give him the stretched full sensation that he craved, didn't even come close, but it dulled the hunger enough to keep him mostly focused on his work. Mostly.
Val glanced at the clock on his computer, displaying the time in crisp white numbers, and couldn't suppress a groan.
3:32 p.m.
5 o’clock had never approached so slowly. By 4:15 the box of donuts was long-emptied, and he'd resorted to raiding the vending machine as furtively as he could, watching impatiently as candy bars and chips formed a small mound at the bottom of the pick-up box before scooping them up in his arms and bringing them back to his desk. It wasn't enough. His stomach cramped, desperate for something more substantial, something to fill it completely, to weigh him down, to finally, finally satiate him.
4:59 ticked over to 5, and Val shot up from his desk fast enough that he heard a popping sound coming from one of his seams. It didn't matter; he hustled to the exit so fast that he almost forgot his wallet, his mind set solely on getting home as fast as possible and glutting himself until he could barely move—
—that was, until a large, warm hand landed on his shoulder, holding him fast.
"I'm so glad I caught you," the voice behind him said, and Val's heart twisted, his breathing speeding up as Emil maneuvered his way around to look him in the eye, never losing his grip. The blush rising to Val's face made even the tips of his ears burn.
"Let me take you to dinner," Emil said, his voice cordial. He smiled, and in it Val caught a glimpse of his own hunger. "My treat."
The Italian place was both small and a short drive away, which meant that, despite the quality of its food, it was relatively unpopular among Emil's coworkers for meals during and after work. He'd never seen another soul he recognized there, on the few times he'd had cause to go. Never until now, that was.
Val, across from him in the booth, squirmed under his gaze, his mouth twisted into an awkward scribble, thick dark hair plastered to his forehead. Despite the air conditioning he was sweating, his skin glistening slightly as Emil's eyes trailed over his body.
His clothes were noticeably more ill-fitting than they'd been the week prior, stretched tight across a belly that was mere inches from resting on his thickened thighs, which spread out wide on the leather of the seat. He'd removed his blazer, and Emil could see the buttons spreading apart, revealing glimpses of soft, tan flesh beneath. Val's chest had softened too, pushing against the white fabric hard enough that his nipples were clearly visible underneath, and he'd had to unbutton the collar of his shirt to make room for his widened neck and burgeoning double chin.
It was a good look on him.
Val's eyes met his for a fraction of a second before he glanced away, his eyes looking anywhere but at Emil. He swallowed visibly, fidgeting with his fork. "What did you do to me?" His voice was quiet, hesitant. It was the first time he'd spoken since Emil had waylaid him.
Emil sighed, sitting back and spreading his napkin over his lap. He thought for a second before he spoke.
"Did I ever tell you that I have a cousin who happens to be an esteemed biochemical engineer?"
"No," Val said. He looked up at Emil, frowning with consternation as some of the humiliation dissipated. "You never said anything personal to me at all, actually. Or to anyone else."
Emil nodded in assent. "I suppose that's true. I've been fairly anti-social." He tilted his head, regarding Val some more. "Regardless," he said, "it's true. I went to him when I'd had enough, asking for some help. He's very... eccentric, shall we say, and he responded by providing me with a concoction that would, to put it frankly, increase the culprit's appetite and stomach capacity significantly and make them incredibly efficient at processing food into fat." He raised his water to his lips, taking a sip, then set it down and patted his mouth dry. "So last Friday I spiked my lunch with it. Then it was simply a matter of waiting."
"You spiked your own lunch," Val repeated slowly, sounding stunned. "And you—what? You did all this over me stealing your food?" His eyes narrowed, glaring at Emil. "Has anybody ever told you that you're crazy? What kind of twisted fucking... revenge... fantasy..."
His voice trailed off as his face went slack, his eyes scanning the room before landing on their waitress, who was rapidly approaching their table, carrying two dishes in her hands: ravioli, topped with a creamy, buttery sauce, and a bowl of thick vegetable soup dotted with gnocchi. Emil had ordered both before Val had even spoken, flipping briskly through the menu to find his own favorites.
Val licked his lips, and Emil could practically see him drooling.
"Here you go!" The waitress set both dishes down in front of Val, whose focus was entirely trained on them. He started digging in as soon as the first plate hit the table, gripping his fork and knife so tightly that his knuckles were white as he shoveled food into his mouth like he hadn't eaten in weeks. The waitress stared at him for a moment, looking slightly shocked, before turning to Emil. "Um. Are you sure you don't want anything, sir?"
Emil shook his head, smiling at her. "No, thank you. It's all for him." He nodded to Val, who was so absorbed in eating that he had ceased to listen, blind and deaf to the world around him. "But I appreciate the offer."
The waitress nodded, then left, leaving them alone as Val worked his way through the food.
There was something primal to the way he ate, something that made Emil lean forward without really thinking about it, unable to take his eyes off the other man. He felt oddly hot, his heart pounding harder in his ears.
Val let out a muffled moan, and Emil's cock twitched, his body responding unexpectedly to the sound.
Val finished the ravioli in what must have been record time, then sat back for a moment, breathing heavily and staring off into space. His shirt was straining even more now, stretched so tightly across him that Emil almost expected one of the buttons to pop off. After a second he raised his head, looking at Emil with a slightly dazed look in his eye, and spoke, sounding vaguely dreamy. "Why did you..." Val huffed out a breath, his stomach pushing out ever so slightly more, though he didn't seem to realize it. "Why did you do it like this?"
It was a question Emil didn't know how to answer, so he shrugged. "More than anything I wanted something obvious, so that I would know who it was without a shadow of a doubt. But I do also believe this method gives a certain symmetry to the crime and punishment. If you want to eat, then you’ll eat as much as you can handle.” He toyed with the handle of his pristine fork. “It’s… elegant, in a way. That appeals to me."
It was partially true, at least. But when he had first seen Val, lying helpless under the weight of his own gluttony, it had become more than that. The image of him had been haunting, almost intoxicating. It was like he couldn't resist.
I want him to be bigger.
Perhaps, deep down, he agrees with me.
Emil got up and moved, walking around to Val's side of the booth. "May I?" he asked, gesturing to the bench, and Val moved over seemingly without thought, his heavy body dragging along the seat. Emil sat next to him, close enough that their legs brushed together. He could feel Val's warmth through his clothes, see the side seams on his pants straining.
Val, for his part, didn't seem to notice; he was staring at the soup, desire written across his face. With a Herculean effort he pulled back and shook his head, clearly trying to snap out of the state he was in. Despite his attempts there was still a hint of lethargy to his tone, his eyes drifting away from Emil and towards his meal. "Why... why does it feel so good? Was that... one of the effects?"
"No," Emil said, his mouth dry. His eyes darted to Val's lap, taking in the tenting of fabric, the way it brushed the bottom of his belly. "No," he repeated. "That's all you." He looked at Val's face again, then gestured. "What are you waiting for? Eat up."
Val didn't need more encouragement.
The plates were stacked high by the time dessert came, and Val was leaning back against the weight of his own gut. He'd undone the button on his pants, but whatever relief that had offered hadn't stopped the side seams from failing with a series of sharp popping noises, ripping apart to let flesh bulge through the openings. His shirt, too, was even more compromised, the buttons hanging on by what seemed to be mere threads, the fabric stretched so tight that it looked painted on. More of him was pressed against Emil now— was it because he'd moved closer without realizing, or had Val simply grown so much in such a short time?
Val huffed, his hands resting on the distended mound of his belly, and Emil's cock throbbed, pressing hard against the fabric of his underwear.
The waitress, looking like a deer caught in headlights, set down the plate of tiramisu in front of Val and practically fled, without removing the other dishes. It didn't matter; Val was focused on the food, and Emil was focused on him, on the ecstasy written across his face, the pure and undiluted hedonism on display. Nothing else mattered.
Too soon, Val's fork scraped against a clean plate, and he sat back, breathing heavily, staring into the distance. He looked drowsy, contented—and full, his belly taut and round under the layer of fat.
Emil's resolve failed, and he reached over and placed a hand on it, rubbing his palm in slow circles over Val's stomach. Val let out a quiet moan in response, his eyes fluttering closed, head tipping back as he arched against the touch. Whereas before he'd been warm, now his body seemed deliciously cool to the touch.
"I have a proposal for you," Emil said, quietly.
Slowly, Val opened his eyes, focusing on Emil through the fog of his post-meal stupor. "Hmm?"
"This state of affairs is clearly unsustainable," Emil said, " despite how... enjoyable... it may be. But I have an arrangement in mind that will appease us both."
"What things?" Val mumbled. He sat up slightly, his face contorting with the effort it took. "God," he muttered, "my sides hurt. I didn't even know that could happen." His eyes flicked to Emil, then down, taking him in, and it was all Emil could do to stop himself from tearing those inadequate garments off of Val in the middle of the restaurant, bending him over and—
Emil cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure. "First," he said, "I will acquire an antidote for your current state." Val blinked, looking surprised, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but Emil held up a finger, cutting him off. "But there is a condition."
"Yeah?" Val asked. His spell-bound tone had dissipated slightly, but he hadn't pulled away from Emil's hand. "What's the catch?"
"From now on, I arrange your meals. I cook for you, and you eat what I give you. Everything I give you."
Val blinked in surprise, his head tilting to the side. "...Why," he asked, slowly, "would I ever agree to that?" His tone didn't match the skepticism of his words; he looked as if any moment he might start salivating with desire.
Emil felt the corners of his mouth turn up as he looked at Val, at his disheveled, beautiful state, at the depth of the appetite burning in his eyes. "Simple," he said, quietly. He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed Val's ear, and whispered to him.
"You'll never go hungry again."