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welcome to my page! i'm emma, 24, a writer who... hasn't been getting much writing done recently. i've started this blog to get back into it. i'm currently in grad school; i'm a bookworm, and love to bake! (even though no one else in my house likes sweet treats, so i usually end up having to eat them all by myself!)
my interests include :
stuffing
burping
overeating
bloating
intox
female pregnancy
mild / moderate weight gain
nausea / vomiting
whump / sickfics or injury
caretaking
i love historical and fantasy settings!
stuff i'm not into, and likely won't write :
extreme / unrealistic weight gain
vore
scat
farting
periods
mpreg
furries
i have a lot of OCs who just... exist in my head, and i plan to write about them. if you're interested in anyone and would like to learn more... feel free to send an ask!
i’m currently open for fic prompts for any of my OCs!
here's a masterlist of every kink fic i've written!
and here's a doc featuring all my original characters!
thank you for reading!!
I love the thought of, like, men who are super shy and sweet but absolute gluttons. Like, absolute beasts when it comes to devouring food.
Men who are all quiet at social gatherings but will haul themselves right over to where the food is and will start loading their plates with food. Men who will belch and fart and will be immediately flustered and red in the face all like "excuse me!" but will do it again and again because they shoved so much food into their huge, rounded guts and now it needs to deal with the consequences. Men who will be like "excuse me" and reach past you when you're at the dinner table, putting half of the contents on the table onto his plate.
The image makes my heart skip so I thought I'd share it lol
Between Theo, Lothridge, and that guy from the holiday story... I'm starting to think you enjoy taking powerful assholes apart into little disheveled pieces.
oooh, i fear you've got my number... there's just something about powerful, composed men falling apart. all it takes are a few glasses of wine, a few bottles of beer ( which they usually don't drink, because they're so sophisticated, but oh, this once... and of course, it goes straight to their bellies... )
they'll start to feel lightheaded, warm all over... maybe they get a little sloppy. hiccupping, their crisp words beginning to slur... they'll try, of course, but they just can't keep their composure. they can't help themselves from descending into a mess. and oh, isn't it glorious??
While a pair of travelers are making their way through a large, living garden, Alfred gets scratched by a thorn. It’s fine, really… until it isn’t. Suddenly, he’s starving, unable to eat enough — and he’s putting on weight in a way he never has before. At this rate, he’s going to burst out of his trousers… but is it truly hunger, or is something more insidious going on?
content warnings: stuffing, weight gain (via otherworldly gluttony disease) ; 5.3k words
They’ve been in this world for ten minutes — not even enough time to look around! — and already, Alfred’s managed to hurt himself.
“Bloody— ow!”
The reality jumper lets out a howl as a large bramble is extracted from his arm. Dinah glances up at him, pulling a sour face. She’s doing her best here, working with care; the thorns have pierced the skin of his forearm, but they’re not deep. She just has to pull it out…
“Gods, who died and made you nurse? Give me names. I’m going to sue.”
Dinah yanks the final thorn out with more roughness than necessary; she relishes his sharp yelp. Alfred is always a pain in the ass, but ever since they survived that encounter with the bridge troll — the one who called him ugly, which, from a troll, is downright brutal — he’s been unbearable. Cranky as an old barn cat… or like Dinah’s brothers on Monday morning. She tried her best to tease him out of his bad mood. When that didn’t work, she played nice, soothing his hurt ego. When that was a bust, she told him he was being an idiot, and will you get over it already? For some reason, he didn’t take that well.
So, they’re already not speaking. Now she has to play nurse while her companion is being as whiny as possible. Fantastic.
“I’m bleeding,” Alfred hisses, gazing down at his arm in disgust. Now that the bramble is out, it doesn’t even hurt; that’s odd, but he’s more concerned about the puncture wounds. The thorns pierced his flesh in at least three places; now, the skin blossoms crimson. Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat, Alfred dabs at the cuts…
And frowns. His blood doesn’t look normal. It has an odd, oily sheen. Cautiously, he presses down harder on the cuts, determined to stop the bleeding. The handkerchief is stained, too — with bright red blood, but also a darker substance. Sticky, like sap, with a cloyingly sweet odor.
“Is there something—“ He starts — and Dinah looks up sharply, like a startled rabbit. She’s already tossed the bramble away. Of course, why would she keep it? It belongs to nature, and back to nature it goes.
“Nevermind,” he sighs, and goes back to tending his wound.
Must be part of the plant, Alfred muses. He wipes the substance off his arm with care, trying to avoid the wounds… but whatever it is, it’s contaminated his arm already. Alfred can only guess what that will lead to. He’s flirted with infection plenty of times during his world-hopping adventures — that time he got stabbed by a gorgon, that time he cut his leg and it started turning bright blue, the time he accidentally landed in the middle of a universe-wide plague…
Yet somehow, he’s still alive. If Alfred has a shred of talent (besides the ability to create portals into other worlds) it’s his resilience. It takes a lot to kill him. He bounces back quickly.
Should his wounds get infected, and should it become a problem… the reality-jumper purses his lips, considering. He’ll just… create a portal to a super-advanced, futuristic society where they’ll have the medical skills to treat him. Sure! That works.
(Of course, he’d prefer to tough out a nasty infection than go to the doctor. Medical help is only a last resort. Alfred’s idea of a problem is “spewing blood, organs falling out, may be actually, enthusiastically dying”.)
So, he tucks his handkerchief away, and just… doesn’t give it another thought. His arm doesn’t hurt. The bleeding’s stopped. A faint sense of stickiness lingers from the sap, but that will wash away eventually. Alfred glances back at Dinah, and rolls his eyes at the sight of her, stroking a tree as though it’s an old friend. She’s a strange one. Too trusting, too caring, too… sincere. Dinah is always authentically herself.
(He doesn’t know what to do with how much he cares about her.)
“Oi,” he barks, and lobs a pinecone at her. It bounces off her shoulder, and Dinah rounds on him like a pissed-off squirrel.
“The hell?”
“Don’t pet the trees, love. Have a little dignity,” Alfred retorts… and grins, dodging as Dinah begins lobbing projectiles back. Sticks, stones, a large beetle that’s just scuttling by… he can’t say the girl isn’t resourceful.
By the time they settle down for the night, they’ve gotten the lay of this land. It’s a dense, overgrown forest; luminescent pink wisteria tangles along the ground, and the leathery, thick-trunked trees seem to breathe in the night air. It unnerves Alfred to his core. He’s been wary of flowers since their nasty encounter with the poppy grove — which looked so idyllic at first glance, coaxing its victims into a sleepy stupor they’d never wake from. Turns out, the blossoms were growing over rotting corpses; that soft facade was just an illusion, obscuring the monster underneath. If it weren’t for Dinah, he’d have been fertilizer.
Now, she giggles as he eyes the vibrant forest distrustfully. “Nothing’s going to pop out and bite you.”
“Don’t know that.”
“I do,” she retorts, leaning back against the plush ground. The dirt is softer than a feather bed; this, too, is unnerving, but Alfred’s slept in so many unpleasant places, he’s not going to complain. For once. The next time he conjures a portal, they’re going to a damned spa resort, and staying there a while.
(Alfred wishes it were that easy. He rarely knows which world he’s stepping into. He tends to just… have an idea. A desert planet, or a universe where the moon is cheese. He doesn’t always get it right — but if trying for someplace in particular, he’s bound to get it wrong. World-jumping is a guessing game, not a science.)
Maybe it’s the soft ground and humid atmosphere. Maybe it’s the faint ache in his limbs, seeming to radiate from his injured arm. Whatever the case, he settles into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Fatigue lingers over him throughout the next day. They walk a little; Alfred grouses a lot. By the time they’ve traversed another mile, he’s come to the conclusion that this world is all forest. He sure knows how to pick ‘em.
“That’s enough,” he finally mutters, and slumps down on a fallen log. Digging through his pack, he emerges with three futuristic meal bars — and devours them. One after the other, down to the last crumb. A single bar is enough to support someone all day, rich and calorie-dense, designed to fill your stomach… but Alfred’s appetite is suddenly louder than his common sense. Galloping gods, he’s hungry.
When he sets the last wrapper aside, Dinah is staring at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Are… you good?”
Alfred hums in agreement — then unleashes a cavernous belch. Hastily, he presses a fist to his mouth; he needs some dignity. “Just fine, love,” he manages, though he’s breathing heavily. “Hungry. All this walking works up an appetite.”
Except Dinah isn’t scrambling for her meal bars like a ravenous cavewoman. Somehow, this is an insult to Alfred’s pride. Narrowing his eyes, he visibly challenges her… and, after a moment, his friend huffs.
“Sure, I guess.” Reaching into her own bag, she pulls out a water flask and takes a long sip. She doesn’t reach for any food, though, and Alfred is… more aware of it than he’d like to be.
He slumps back against the log, nursing his overfed stomach. Within moments, he has to unbutton his trousers… and then every last button on his waistcoat, because when he breathes, he feels like they’ll pop. Soft burps rumble out of him unbidden; he has to pretend Dinah can’t hear them, or his ego will shrivel up and die.
Too much, he thinks groggily. Much too much. Won’t be doing this again.
That night, he eats another two meal bars.
The next day, it’s more meal bars, plus the fat, vivid pink figs growing on the leather trees. As they walk, Alfred snacks… and he must consume a dozen gooey fruits before finally feeling satiated. He chugs three flasks of water, finds some stale raisin cake in his bag, and gobbles that up too.
“Seriously,” Dinah blurts out, “do you have a tapeworm?”
“Nope,” Alfred responds, voice thick around his too-full stomach. “A leech. Clinging to my back, following me around and — ruUUurp — making obnoxious noises. It wears pigtails, like a toddler. Seen it anywhere?”
Dinah raises a hand to her hair, as if cringing from a scissor-wielding villain. “They’re braids,” she snaps, “and it’s a protective hairstyle, asshole! If you can portal us to an alien forest, I’m sure you could find a black hair salon—“
“Have anywhere in mind?”
“Lots of places, but your aim sucks!”
“My aim?” Sputtering with fury, he whips an ornate golden pocket watch from his waistcoat and tosses it to her. “Well, if it’s so easy—“
Dinah fumbles. She doesn’t catch it. The watch goes rolling off into the underbrush, and Alfred yelps. His first reflex is to leap to his feet — but a cramp ripples through his overfull stomach, sending him sprawling back with a groan. He can barely move, let alone go chasing after the watch.
His watch. That treasured dying gift from his father. The key to his powers — without the watch, he can’t conjure portals. Alfred’s treasured the old device for over a century, keeping it tucked close to his chest. He only ever parts from it when someone pisses him off.
Someone like— “Dinah!”
She's already on it, scrambling after the trinket deep into the foliage. It takes a moment but… the girl emerges, fuschia leaves tangled in her curls, brandishing the watch in triumph.
“Oh, thank gods.” Alfred buries his head in his hands. His heart is pounding in his throat, a nauseating rhythm.
“Don’t throw it at me next time.”
There’s a long silence. Too long. Alfred doesn’t look up, even when he feels the girl shuffle up beside him. Even when the watch is slipped into his pocket. Dinah knows exactly where he stores it, dipping her hand into the collar of his vest to reach the interior pocket. As she withdraws, she brushes the bare skin of his collarbone… and pauses.
“Alfred, you’re hot.”
She picks a strange time for flattery. “I’m ravishing.”
“No, you’re…” And suddenly, there’s another pair of hands on his face. Dinah’s tiny ones, smoothing the hair back from his brow, feeling him with the back of her hand like a fretful nanny. She lingers there for a moment, her touch so gentle… it leaves Alfred dizzy. He doesn’t realize his head is lolling until she makes a tiny, soothing noise.
Christ, she’s treating him like one of her hurt animals — a wounded thing, in need of care. “I’m alright,” he murmurs. “Just ate too much.”
“You have a fever,” she counters.
That… doesn’t make sense. By Jupiter, why would he be ill? Alfred never gets sick. His first instinct is to argue…
But Dinah’s voice has gone soft, and he doesn’t have the heart. Alfred’s had enough arguing today — he just wants to rest.
They end up sprawled in a dry patch of forest, curled up on moss as cushy as any mattress. The stars are brilliant tonight — an entire sky full of them, twinkling in shades of bright lavender. Alfred’s visited countless worlds, but he’s never seen pink trees and purple stars before. There are still surprises out there, even for him.
“What’s that thing Shakespeare said?” he murmurs. His head is pillowed against Dinah’s soft chest. She’s got her arms wrapped around him while Alfred idly strokes his stomach. His trousers hang open; his belly is so full, it’s grown taut, a swollen dome on his lean frame. Every so often, he hiccups. Dinah just shushes him.
“He said a lot of things. Lots of plays.”
“No. The famous one.” He has to think hard, fumbling around in the dark for the quote. It only comes to him in fragments. “More things in heaven and earth… than your philosophy can dream of.”
Though she doesn’t reply, he can feel Dinah’s gaze resting heavily upon him. She’s worried, and doesn’t bother hiding it. After a moment, she sighs; her hand trails down his hip until settling upon his tummy. She begins to rub in slow, steady circles.
Alfred can’t help a groan. “Ohh… that’s the stuff, love. Right there.”
“Shush,” she retorts, but there’s fondness in her low tone. Alfred’s like a beached whale, weighed down by his own stomach. He ate four more protein bars tonight; they’re rapidly running out of food rations. Dinah doesn’t want to say anything, but… his stomach feels strange beneath her palm. There’s a density to its swell, a new layer of softness that wasn’t there before.
That’s not possible, though. It’s only been a few days. There’s no way he’s gained weight in days.
When she presses into the tender spot just below his belly-button, a deep gurgle ripples through him. Alfred gasps, pressing up into her palm. Undeterred, Dinah continues to rub.
“You want to know… the really strange thing?” He swallows hard, then chuckles, blinking shadowed eyes up at her. “I’m still hungry.”
Dinah swallows too, and ignores her sinking stomach.
Sure enough… come morning, Alfred is unsteady on his feet. He slept the whole night through, but still looks exhausted; his eyes are hooded and dull, skin overheating. As he tries to button up his trousers, they simply refuse. He can’t get them closed over the rotund swell of his tummy.
“Blasted— things!” Alfred hops up and down, trying to bully the pants into submission. All he manages to do is dislodge a thick belch. “Damn it!”
Dinah watches from the other side of the campground. Her brown eyes are calm, unsurprised… though tension betrays itself in the subtle clenching of her fists.
“Alfie,” she says — and, when that fails to get his attention, “Alfred! Hey!”
The boy’s head jerks up. His brown hair is wilder than usual, eyes too bright. Are his pupils blown, or is that her imagination? Does he look paler than he should, or is it a trick of the light?
“What?” he snaps, then glowers down at his own middle. “Cripes, these won’t close. They’ve shrunk somehow. Must’ve gotten damp on the ground... I’m starving, damn it.” Even as he speaks, his stomach gives a noisy grumble. Alfred tries fruitlessly to suck it in. “Dinah, will you mix a package of that instant oatmeal? We could mix some of these figs in, really make ourselves a treat…”
How can he be talking about food when he’s literally outgrown his clothes? To see Alfred, always so neat and meticulous with his wardrobe — aside from that tatty old coat, which she begs him daily to burn — fighting to fit in his closely-tailored garments… it’s jarring. Why isn’t he losing his shit over this?
“Alfred, this isn’t normal,” Dinah insists, gripping his elbow. It takes too long to draw his gaze back to her, to snare his attention. Her expression is soft, intent. “You shouldn’t be eating this much! And your body’s getting softer, that doesn’t just happen—“
“Softer?” He looks scandalized. “The hell do you mean?”
“Your pants don’t fit, moron!”
“They got smaller!”
“That’s your excuse?”
Even through the fabric of his shirt, he’s radiating heat. Alfred tries to jerk away from her, and nearly topples like a block tower. He has to brace himself against the nearest tree, one arm wrapped around his belly.
“‘M fine,” he mutters, breathing hard. “Just… it’s not… I don’t know. Just need to fill my stomach.” He swallows hard, a pained expression on his face. “Can’t think straight when I’m this hungry.”
“How can you be—“
Dinah cuts herself, swallowing her words with painful effort. Arguing with Alfred is always the easy option… but she knows from experience, it’s not helpful. Like trying to convince a dog to go to the vet when it’s sick — all the common sense in the world isn’t going to make a difference. As she watches him rummage in his bag for the instant oatmeal, Dinah’s own stomach boils. There’s only one thing to do. The sane, sensible thing.
“Alfred,” she says, “you need to make a portal.”
Her companion blinks up at her, feverish and uncomprehending.
“We need to go,” she insists, kneeling by his side. When she lays a hand on his shoulder, Alfred shivers. “Leave this world behind, and let’s jump to another. Someplace with— with medicine, and doctors.” Whatever’s going on with Alfred, Dinah’s sure he needs one.
The stubborn bastard doesn’t agree. Of course not. He recoils like she’s just puked on his shoes. “Like hell!”
Dinah hisses through her teeth. Why does he have to be so goddamn stubborn?
“Alfie, you’re sick, you—“
“I’m not!” he snaps — and, in his vehemence to get the oatmeal warmed up, nearly elbows her in the stomach. Alfred doesn’t even notice. His mind is on food, food, food. No space for anything else… or anyone.
Shrinking back, Dinah settles down in the grass and waits. There’s nothing more to do. That’s the one big downside to traveling with Alfred; sure, they’re having all sorts of adventures, but it’s at his discretion. Dinah can’t make the portals; she doesn’t get to say where they go, or when. Alfred’s the driver, she’s just along for the ride.
Her fear is he’s going to eat himself into such a stupor, he won’t be able to make a portal. If he’s too sick, or too swollen — to the point he can’t even stand on his own, lost in a haze of his own gluttony —
No. Dinah swallows the anxiety down and resolves to wait. Something’s got to give.
Just to hurry that breaking point alone, she eats the last of their meal bars. Like hell is she going to let Mr. Bottomless Pit hog all their food.
Their rations are deteriorating quickly, and it’s only a matter of time before Alfred notices. He spends the day shoveling thick oatmeal into his mouth, barely stopping to chew before gulping it down. They don’t wander, don’t stray more than a few feet from their campsite. Alfred simply isn’t able. He’s obsessed with the food. The more he eats, the more he swells; Dinah watches on, wide-eyed, mute in her awe and horror. By mid-afternoon, his belly is a packed dome, resting heavily in his lap. He slumps against a broad-based tree, unable to move an inch. His head lolls; periodic hiccups jolt him. Sometimes, he opens his mouth and a high-pitched gurgle slips out — a sure sign of a stomach taxed to its limit.
Still, the blissed-out expression on his face never wavers. All he wants to do is eat.
The friend Dinah knows is constantly in motion; Alfred hates staying in one place for too long. He’s terrified of putting down roots, as though the second he cares about a place, he’ll be bound there for good. It seems like… an exhausting existence. Fun for a while, but how long has Alfred been wandering? Dinah’s only known him for six months… and despite his youthful appearance, Alfred speaks sometimes as if he’s lived centuries.
He slips into an overfed doze. Dinah glances up from her journal occasionally to see him breathing heavily, hand resting on his stomach. A sheen of sweat lingers on his face, glistening like oil in the dim light. The seams of his waistcoat have begun to strain. His face is fuller, his trousers long past the point of protest. In twenty-four hours, the boy has gained… thirty pounds. And that number keeps ticking up.
A thunderous rumble resounds through his stomach, loud enough to awaken him. He rouses with a snort, and then a groan. As he curls in on himself, one arm wraps around his belly. The other stretches out for food.
“Cripes, Dinah, I’m starved.” A whine bleeds into his voice. As soon as he grasps one of the juicy pink figs, he slumps in relief.
“You’re not,” she insists. There’s no anger in her tone now, only sympathy. Alfred scarfs down the fruit before she can stop him; as she crawls over, her friend glances up with pathetic hope.
“Bring me those peanuts? We had the whole bag...”
“Not anymore. You ate them.”
Alfred’s face falls. “Wh-what?” He glances between his companion and their depleted food rations, helpless, like he’s hoping a new bag will materialize out of the ether. “No. I— I couldn’t have. I feel so empty.” He clutches his taut belly, so full it looks like he swallowed a watermelon. Definitely not empty.
Dinah lays a hand on his arm, and grimaces at the heat radiating from him. The sheen of sweat has him feeling sticky. Alfred’s brows furrow. He’s not in the mood to argue now, or even grouse at her; this hunger is all-consuming, exhausting. It feels like it’s eating him up.
“Get me some food,” he beseeches. “Please, Di. Whatever we’ve got.”
“We have nothing.”
“No, that’s not…” Alfred inhales a shaky breath. “Don’t say that.”
When he reaches for another fig, Dinah bats his hand aside. Alfred whines again, trying to squirm out of her grip… but he’s too heavy, too sluggish. Moving just makes him cramp up.
“Please,” he gasps. After a great deal of effort, he manages to get onto his hands and knees. Now he can crawl, at least… but his stomach. His stomach is killing him. It hangs heavily on his middle, and he can barely move in these clothes. His trousers risk tearing every second… by Jupiter, did they shrink more overnight?
He manages to crawl far enough to get another fig. He shoves it in his mouth… but it does nothing to soothe the roaring hunger in his stomach. He’s being consumed by a beast that won’t rest until it’s full… and there’s nothing to give it, no offering left that will truly sate it. The fig’s juices run down his chin, staining his collar bright pink… but Alfred doesn’t care. He’s breathing hard, clutching his tummy. Every breath comes out like a sob.
When he looks up at Dinah… for the first time, he actually looks afraid. “Di,” he rasps, “what’s wrong with me?”
Dinah looks like her heart is breaking. Without hesitation, she kneels down beside Alfred… and pulls him into a hug.
One thing about Dinah — her embraces are legendary. When she hugs you, it’s so easy to give in… to forget all your problems and just soak in the relief of having her close. A tiny sob slips past Alfred’s lips; he buries his face in her dense curls, trembling from the force of his hunger. He feels dizzy from it, itching in his own skin… except his body doesn’t feel like his own at all. He feels too… soft. Too heavy.
Dinah doesn’t draw back from her friend, even as his sticky, sick-sweet perspiration drenches her shirt. Alfred’s sweating buckets, and breathing way too hard. She can feel his heart, running like a race car engine. Or maybe that’s just his stomach; when she presses close, it lets out a fierce grumble, and Alfred groans with it.
“Hurts,” he whines. “I can’t bear it, Di…”
“Shh.” She massages circles into his back, rocking him like a child. Deep down, Dinah’s mind is in a whirl. They can’t stay here any longer; she can’t just watch as Alfred gets sicker and sicker, hardly even aware of what’s happening to him. They need to go.
“Alfred,” she says gently. “Do you think you can make a portal?”
He pulls back, blinking at her blearily. There’s no hint of comprehension in his eyes. “A whuh?”
Reaching down, into the pocket of his waistcoat, Dinah withdraws the old pocket watch. The moment his gaze lands on the timepiece, remembrance flares in Alfred’s eyes. It works like matchstick, his powers sparking to life from the ashes. As greedy as if she were holding out a sirloin, Alfred reaches for his watch.
“A portal out of here,” Dinah insists. “Somewhere with a hospital.”
The sick boy shakes his head. “No, I’m not—“
“Alfred.”
The note in her voice startles him — it’s rare to hear Dinah beg. When he looks up, he’s momentarily struck dumb by her expression. Those big doe eyes have gone soft, watery; she’s squaring her jaw like she’s trying not to cry. Cronos’s balls, has he upset her? No, no— Alfred didn’t want that, he didn’t mean it. The pair of them bicker, they gripe and tease each other… but she’s still his Dinah. His favorite person. The only person he’s been able to tolerate in a long while, actually, and… the girl who makes every day worthwhile.
He never meant to make her cry.
“Di,” he exhales, reaching out to her. Suddenly, everything else is forgotten. His hunger, his fever, his fear of hospitals… none of it matters. All he can focus on is her. “Please. Please don’t. I’m sorry I’m sick.”
Dinah gives a huff, her gaze going from teary to incredulous. “What?” She sniffles miserably. “You think I’m upset because— no. No, Alfie. That’s not your fault.”
Alfred goes quiet, biting his lip. Suddenly, he’s not sure what his fault is — only that he isn’t well. Surely he’s doing something wrong.
“I’m scared,” Dinah says, and his heart plummets. Crying from fear is way worse than crying from sorrow. His girl should never feel like this.
And it’s all because… of him?
Alfred blinks down at himself. That swollen belly, these rolls bulging underneath his shirt… dear gods, when did he get all this? His hand grazes over his new gut, incredulous. Another shiver runs through him. In some echoing cavern deep in the back of his mind, Alfred’s pride is screaming. Fat. The extra weight is literally spilling off him, and he has no idea where he picked it up. When the hell did he get so fat?
“Fuck,” he blurts out — and Dinah’s startled into a laugh.
“Hospital. Okay? Doctor.”
For once, Alfred doesn’t argue. Seeing himself clearly for the first time in days has him rattled enough to do anything. As always, Alfred’s first instinct when spooked is to escape — jumping from one world to the next, as easily as moving through a house.
The pocket watch opens with a sharp clink. Alfred’s fingers move briskly, with so much skill, Dinah can’t hope to keep up. He spins and adjusts the dials until the watch is whirring, responding to his touch like a magnetic force. No one else can use the watch — only Alfred.
“Take me to a bloody doctor!” he blurts out — and a shimmering blue portal materializes in front of him. It’s about as tall as he is, wide enough to be a threshold. Though the image within is flickering and blurry, they can still make it out — hexagon-panelled walls, a metal interior, a room lit with red-orange light with a large central console in the middle.
Alfred begins to step through; Dinah snags his arm. “You need a doctor, not the Doctor!”
“Who?” asks Alfred.
“Exactly!” She gives him a little shake — which isn’t helping the disorientation, thank you. “Try again! Think hospital, medical care… maybe a world where healthcare is free?”
“Not sure that one exists, love.” Nonetheless, the world-jumper gives his watch another shake… and, with a shudder, Alfred conjures another portal. Through this one, they can clearly see the interior of a high-tech hospital — bustling halls, doctors in sleek scrubs passing from room to room. Dinah heaves a gusty sigh.
“Finally,” she mutters. “Let’s leave this place behind.” She’ll be happy to never see the color pink again. All these vibrant fruits and blossoms, the sticky sap and branches that reach out to snare you… not her idea of an adventure.
Apparently disagreeing, Alfred reaches out to snag another dig. Dinah has to drag him through the portal, using the football scrimmage tactics she learned from her older brothers. Catch him around the waist, get him off his feet… don’t mind how much he’s yelling, or how soft he is…
They make a hand landing in the middle of the hospital hallway, sprawled on the floor like a pair of fools. Alfred grunts underneath her; Dinah sits up, giving his stomach a pat. He grunts, then belches.
“Sorry,” she declares.
“No, you’re not,” Alfred grunts.
It takes the hospital five hours and countless rounds of tests to figure out what’s wrong with him — where this endless hunger is coming from, why he’s swelling up and sweating sickly-sweet sap. Turns out, the answer is obvious — his arm. Those tiny puncture marks from that bramble seemed so innocuous, at first. Alfred didn’t even remember them the next day. He had no idea there was venom coursing through his system, stimulating his hunger horomones like no tomorrow.
“A very interesting ailment!” the perky resident chirps, twining a sterile bandage around Alfred’s arm. “Think of it this way: in a forest, there are natural predators, and then there’s prey. Maybe where you were, tiny organisms existed which depended on larger organisms to survive. Some larger animal gets scratched by this bramble bush… and suddenly, it’s hungry. The animal is driven to eat and eat, filling its stomach until it can’t move. Maybe it makes itself sick… or maybe it just lies there, rapidly piling on the pounds. It would eat itself to death — either through a ruptured stomach, or gaining so much weight the body simply couldn’t support itself.”
“Oh my god,” Dinah murmured, hugging herself.
“And then,” chirps the resident, “the animal would die! And those smaller organisms could feed on the body.”
“You mean,” Alfred says — very calmly, considering everything. “I caught the ‘eat yourself to death’ disease, and nearly became fertilizer?”
Finishing her work, the resident claps her hands brightly. “Yep, that sums it up!”
Alfred sinks back onto his pillows with a groan.
Once he’s comfortable in bed, the IV in his arm feeding him a copious amount of drugs — including fever-reducers, antibiotics, and anti-venom designed for foreign pathogens — Dinah leans in, pressing the back of her hand to his brow.
“Quit fussing,” he mutters, swatting her away. “I’m fine.”
“You will be,” she agrees mildly. Resting her elbows on the edge of the bed, she surveys him. “Are you still hungry?”
Alfred swallows, actually having to think about the question. The faint ghost of hunger is still there, nagging at him whenever his mind wanders to it, but… for the first time in days, his stomach feels blissfully calm.
“No,” he says softly. “Don’t believe I am.”
He’s still fat, and that’s not going away any time soon. (Jupiter’s balls, he’ll have to make a workout regimen. Probably start dieting. And visit a tailor for new clothes…)
He’s alive, though. That’s all he can ask for.
Perhaps the young man is incapable of saying thanks — but he meets Dinah’s gaze, and reaches out to squeeze her hand. It’s the most he’s capable of. His companion doesn’t mind; she knows exactly what he means.
Is Theo a private equity type? If so... he absolutely deserved to have a Bad Time down in the winecellar.
oh yeah, he’s a very Bad Man abdjdkkdk… working for a very, very bad company who does horrible things to small businesses. he 100% deserved to be locked down there. fortunato his ass.
with that said… very bad men are veeeery fun to torture! wouldn’t it be a shame if he was plied with drinks during an important business meeting? or maybe has one glass of wine which leaves him feeling woozy, removing his suit jacket and tugging at his shirt because ‘it’s so hot in here’? maybe he needs to lose his composure for a while. to be coaxed into letting go… he’s a much nicer person when he’s drunk.
content warnings: intox, claustropphobia, alcohol, burping, hiccups ; 3.7k words
Truthfully, he should have expected it. Should have expected something, at least — if not a hatchet to the back, or a more discreet murder method, he ought to have been on his guard. He isn’t welcome here. That much has been made perfectly clear.
Theodore Hardison is just doing business. His firm, Blackwell & Barnes, has a reputation for acquiring smaller companies on the verge of going under. They consolidate, stabilize them, and then sell the re-imagined company to the highest bidder… or let it be quietly absorbed into one of the larger firms in the industry.
He’s not the top dog at his company. Hell, Theo’s boss isn’t top dog — not next to the heads of the really powerful companies, like Paramount and Disney. In the entertainment industry, there’s always someone higher up on the ladder… and always someone down below, to do the dirty work. That’s where Theo comes in.
He’s the firm’s “go-between” man. Someone who makes deals, who closes them — who convinces small business owners to give up and throw their dream away. It’s cold, merciless work… and it suits him. Even at his company, Theo Hardison has a reputation: the man without a heart.
“All nonsense, of course.” His words are clipped, a little breathless. “I’m only human. As mortal as anyone else. For some reason, they all believe…”
He trails off, glancing around the tiny room again. No, nothing has changed. They’re still trapped in here.
“Mr. Hardison,” drawls the young woman, smushing her face against her hand “I could not care less about your reputation.”
“How sweet.” His lips curl back in a sneer.
She’s been the wildcard through this whole process. Flora Kim, creative director for Wisteria Lane Publishing. That’s her official title, at least; it’s obvious the woman’s running the whole company behind the scenes. She manages lists of their latest releases, coordinates advertising, and makes sure the staff gets paid — Flora has a finger in every pie. All the big decisions go through Mr. Collier, of course... but the big boss mostly stays at home, minding his own business. As long as the company is making a profit, Collier is a happy man.
Collier has not been happy for seven months now.
The only way out is acquisition. Theo was trying to get the old man to see that, to talk him gently around to the idea of selling. It’s been an arduous process, but he nearly had it. All he needs is Mr. Collier’s damned signature.
So, he drove all the way out to his house on a Saturday afternoon. It was supposed to be an open and shut deal — hardly worth the trip.
Except she was here. The bane of his existence for these last few weeks; the little voice in Collier’s ear, urging him not to sign. She made it her business to get in on this meeting… and Theo can respect a cutthroat businesswoman, but honestly. Cut your losses.
So. An awkward morning, a tense afternoon, and it’s all led them here. Collier requested a particular vintage from the wine cellar. Theo would have gotten it, but leaving Flora alone with the old man was a recipe for trouble. (Also, he had no idea where the bottle was.) So… they went down together.
And the heavy door closed behind them.
Something high-tech clicked into place, a short beeping sound. Theo lurched for the door, rattling… banging on it. It didn’t budge.
“Oh,” Flora said. “Fuck.”
“Fuck, indeed,” Theo echoed flatly.
Because, here’s the trouble: Theo Hardison has a rock-hard shell, a suit of armor, almost no weaknesses. Nothing rattles him. Except… small, enclosed spaces.
Damn everything and everyone. He’s locked in a goddamned wine cellar. The air is stuffy, the walls are lined with gleaming bottles on every side… the heavy stone floor chills him to his bones, and every time he looks up at the slate ceiling, it seems closer. The walls are closing in. Can’t Flora see it? Can’t she sense the air being pulled out of this room? They’re going to suffocate in here… if they aren’t crushed to death first. They’ll be entombed here forever, trapped in a tiny coffin of a room, and no one will ever find them…
“For fuck’s sake,” Flora mutters, slumped back against the wall. “I can hear your thoughts spiraling.”
Theo blinks. Her words take a minute to register — but his brows draw close as he scowls.
“Are you going to faint?” she asks, sounding disinterested. She’s not even looking at him; her gaze roves over the endless shelves of wine bottles, glistening green in the room’s dim light. “You’re like... you’ve gone all deathy.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve seen better-looking corpses.”
“You flatter me.” Corpse-like is an extreme, but Theo does feel shaky. He starts to lean against the nearest shelf… then straightens up, scowling. God forbid Flora notice, and come to the conclusion that he’s fragile. Give an inch, people will take a mile, Hardison. Never show weakness.
Flora’s only interest, though, seems to be in the bottles of wine. She inspects the shelves for a moment before pulling a slender vintage out and studying the bottle.
“Oh man,” she murmurs, reverent. “Collier’s got the good stuff.”
“Give it here.” He holds out a hand.
Flora squints at him like he’s grown a second head. “Yeah, no.”
“I mean… I have some knowledge of…” Theo grits his teeth, feeling like an idiot. This woman always puts him on his back-foot. It’s impossible to play the cool, calm executive when she’s unfazed by any of it. Damn if, if she were his employee, he’d teach her deference…
Flora is a free agent, though. Nothing holds her back. The last thing she wants is to do business with him.
With a scowl, Theo pulls his own vintage off the shelf and studies the label. Flora’s right; her boss clearly doesn’t cut corners when it comes to alcohol. The Amarone he holds is dense and syrupy, aged to perfection. He stares at it for a moment too long — anything to avoid looking around the claustrophobic little room, or god forbid, at Flora. His heart is pounding like a jackhammer. There’s a vice around his chest, slowly tightening. His bronchial tree has turned to concrete, and it’s slowly leaking into his lungs.
He can’t breathe. Sweet Christ, he can not breathe.
“Hardison,” Flora says, voice edged with sharpness. “Hey. Just—“
“Shut up,” Theo snaps, gripping his bottle like a vice. Are the walls closer? Is the room… slowly getting tighter? Bloody hell, it would be just like Collier to have a booby-trapped cellar. He’s been lured into a trap… he’s never getting out of here, even if he shouted for help, the old man wouldn’t hear them…
“Breathe,” Flora says loudly. Theo shoots her a venomous glare. If it were so profoundly simple, wouldn’t he already be doing that?
“I am,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. It’s fine. I— this— stop looking at me!”
Flora doesn’t even pretend to look away. Shamelessness is a talent of hers, apparently.
One slender brow creeps up, a smirk tugging at her lips. It’s as though she’s peeling back his layers of skin, one by one, exposing the nerves and sinew underneath. Theo feels raw, naked under her gaze.
“So,” she muses. “Your composure can be shattered, after all.”
His lips curl back in a sneer. Theo’s first instinct is to snap at her… but the breath has fled his lungs, and the words won’t come. He’s up against a dam, water raging all around him, crashing over his head… Christ, is this what it feels like to drown?
“Hardison.” There’s something almost coaxing in her voice. Like a cat, luring a mouse out of its hiding place. “You’ve got to breathe. If you’re dead by the time we get rescued, everyone’s going to think I killed you.” She hesitates before adding, “they’ll believe it, too. Let’s not frame me for murder, ‘kay?”
“You really think I’d let you kill me?” Theo snaps.
Flora raises both brows now, gazing down at him. Down, because Theo’s sitting on the floor. Somehow, he slid all the way down the shelf without noticing; now he’s curled in on himself, like a turtle hiding in its shell. Oh, god damn it. He tries to raise his head — but the cellar is far, far too tight.
“Stop looking at me,” Theo says in a rush. He hates how plaintive he sounds, but there’s no helping it. “Don’t get closer... I need space. That’s all. You, you’re… sucking the air out of here.”
“Me?”
“You!” He has to fight for his next breath. It fills his chest like thick concrete. All Theo can do is press his head to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. Dignity is abandoned at this point; if anyone from their office could see him now, they’d marvel at Heartless Hardison finally breaking down. Screw them all. In this moment, Theo hates the underlings at the office with a burning passion; he despises his superiors, he could throttle Collier, and he wants to burn whoever designed this miserable little wine cellar alive. If he ever gets out of here… presuming he doesn’t die first… oh, who is he kidding, he’s dying right now—
“Here. Fuck’s sake.” Something is thrust into his hands. Theo’s in such a daze, he can’t comprehend it. Not until he feels cool glass in his hand, recognizes the distinctive shape of a wine bottle. Ah, he thinks faintly as a plush, fruity odor reaches him, the Amarone. Lovely vintage.
“Drink,” Flora commands in a voice that doesn’t broker argument.
Theo raises his head, giving her a wary look — but her gaze is unflinching. Flora nods down at the wine bottle, then at him; her expression seems to say, what are you waiting for?
Oh, to hell with it.
Raising the bottle to his lips, Theo takes a long, deep slug.
No doubt he’ll regret this later —but so long as he’s trapped here, in this stuffy tomb, with the most annoying woman in the world — he deserves a drink. It flows down his throat like fire, and he savors the burn. Theo manages a few more determined swallows before detaching his wet mouth from the bottle. For a moment, he just sits there, panting.
“There,” Flora says flatly. “Now, will you kindly calm the fuck down?”
Theo opens his mouth to make a sharp retort — and hiccups. It just comes up. He can’t control it… but he’s left blinking, more shocked than mortified.
“Huh,” Flora says, and gives a low laugh.
“You shut up,” Theo retorts, like a true professional.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Upon reflection, it’s actually the most sensible solution. They can’t sedate him. That would be ideal — a nice double-dose of Trazodone, like a nervous dog on the 4th of July. That would be the merciful thing to do for him. In the absence of that, and considering they’re trapped in a bloody wine cellar… alcohol is the most sensible choice.
That’s what he tells himself, midway through his second bottle.
By now, the cellar has gone hazy around him. It’s much less claustrophobic when one can’t see straight --- hard to be frightened of the walls pressing in around you when you’re lost a general sense of where you begin and the rest of the world ends. Theo slumps against the wall; he’s removed his suit jacket, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. Surely he looks a mess, but at the moment, it’s impossible to care.
A deep uuurp rumbles out of him. Theo presses a lazy fist to his mouth. “Excuse me, Miss Kim.”
“You’re fine.” Flora’s voice holds… a peculiar note. If Theo were sober, he could surely pick it apart and dissect her motives. As it is, he only knows that she’s looking at him; she hasn’t been able to help staring since he cracked open the second wine. Well, to hell with it. Would she rather a sotted companion, or a panicking one?
Her next words still manage to take him by surprise. He expected criticism. Instead, she says: “Y’know, you’re the only one who calls me that. Even at the office, everyone calls me Flora.”
Theo blinks. “Your office is… very informal.”
This is the wrong thing to say. Flora’s pretty face twists like she’s tastes something sour.
“Okay. Where do you work, the mouth of hell?”
She’s not far off. Reflecting on his last board meeting, Theo snorts softly. (One executive was disgraced, four projects were tossed out, and three interns left crying. That’s a record)
“My office,” he says, choosing his words with slow, drunken care, “prioritizes results. If you can’t ach… achieve your objectives, can’t perform with… competence. And efficiency…” He swallows thickly, and hiccups. “You’re no longer an asset.”
This is far more honest than he intended to get today. Far grimmer, too. He shouldn’t be sharing this with Flora, of all people… yet she’s decided he’s Satan for chasing down his assignment. He’s not, really. It’s not personal. He’s just… doing his bloody awful job.
When Flora finally speaks, her voice is low. “That’s a lot of big words for two bottles of wine.”
Theo snorts. She’s decided not to press the topic… and god, he’s grateful for it.
“God,” she continues, “I mean… at my office, we’re all friends. At least, coworker-friends. There’s never any drama.”
Considering they’re a team of only ten people, not surprising. “Ah, the epis— ahem, epitome of a small business."
“You get more sarcastic when you’re drunk.”
“I am…” Theo swallows thickly, trying to force the slur from his words. The effort makes his head swim. “Not drunk. I— this is not a situation where I—“ Being flustered makes him hiccup again; a hot burst of boozy air jolts him. Belatedly, he presses a fist to his mouth, and scowls like it’s somehow her fault.
“‘m not working,” he insists. This is an important distinction. He can’t be getting absolutely sloshed on the job.
Flora just snorts. Raising her own bottle to her lips, she takes a sip — she’s only been sipping, while Theo’s been drinking — and replies, “Hardison, if this is an average day at work for you…”
“It’s not!”
“I figured,” she replies, and shakes her head. Her glossy ponytail bounces, dark strands of hair feathering around her face. Flora has a face made for smiling. Her soft features are contrasted by a severe bone structure — her high brows, her cheekbones, her square jaw. It shouldn’t be pretty. She shouldn’t be so beguiling. Yet when she smiles, Theo finds he can’t take his eyes off her.
The room spins around him. He’s drifting on a lazy current of wine, his head swimming, his body light. This is a perilous stage of mind. He could make a mistake so easily… and forget to regret it.
Theo licks his lips thickly. When Flora meets his gaze, he takes another gulp of Piedmont.
“‘M determined to… maintain my composure,” he declares.
This effort is undercut a second later, when a heavy, wine-drenched aaAURRP rolls up his throat. He doesn’t mean to. It just comes out… and his eyes flutter shut afterwards, with a woozy moan. “Ohhh…”
Flora stares at him, wide-eyed. Her expression is almost entranced… mingled with a healthy dose of horror. “Jesus, Hardison.”
“I can’t help it,” Theo slurs. “When I drink…”
Well, there’s a reason he never indulges beyond a glass of wine socially. Alcohol makes him… sloppy. His inhibitions fizzle away. Thank God there’s no liquor here, or he’d be a puddle on the floor, and that would be the end of his dignity.
“Wow. You must’ve been fun in college.”
“Me?” The very idea startles him. “No. No, I… didn’ do much of that. Partying…”
The word dissolves into another hiccup, wine-heavy and damp against his palm. He sways where he sits, back pressed against a cask of Bordeaux; his knees are drawn up, like a man trying very hard not to topple over. His chest is damp with sweat. The dim cellar light catches the flush spreading down his throat — and his usually immaculate collar, now rumpled from his tugging at it.
There’s no denying it. Theo is drunk. God help him, he inhaled that last bottle too fast…
He glances down at the bottle of Piedmont laying beside him. It really has been too much… but, well. In for a penny. He raises it to his lips.
Another thick swallow — another gasp for breath, and a helpless huulp slipping past his lips. His fingers dig into the rich fabric of his suit. He looks woozily intent, if he trying to will the sluggish churn of wine in his gut to settle.
“What are you doing?”
“‘S fine,” Theo mutters, fumbling with his buttons. “Mind your own… mmm, fuck.” When did his fingers get so damned clumsy?
Flora arches a brow. “Need help?”
“No, I— hiICC!— I’ve got it.” By some miracle, the button actually comes undone; his trousers pop open, and Theo exhales a deep sigh of relief. He can breathe freely again… even with his belly swollen and heavy, straining against his crisp button-up shirt. He can’t remember ever being this full… and with every movement, the liquid in his stomach sloshes. He feels like a damned wine cask. It’s… rather glorious.
“Just tight,” he mutters. “Too tight, I need… need some air…”
He pauses, holding completely still for a long second… before a wet belch rolls up, from the pit of his belly all the way up his gullet. He follows it up with a wanton moan.
“Oh, man,” Flora exhales. “You’re...”
Oh yes, Theo knows. He is disgracefully drunk.
The wine catches up to him over the next several minutes. On the bright side, he’s not frightened anymore. Not even concerned about the tight little wine cellar, the stuffy air, or the heavy steel door keeping them locked in. He’s not even concerned that they’ve been down here for nearly two hours, and no one’s come searching for them yet. Sober Theo would be worried about all of this. Hell, he’s probably be constructing some devious plan to get them out of this damned cellar — shouting through the air vents, or pushing a message under the door on a folded slip of paper. Anything. Theo’s good at thinking outside the box, so long as it gets results.
Tonight, the only result he’s achieved is a spinning head and a sour case of hiccups.
“hhIIC! hiIIICc! hLLK! Ohhh…”
“Easy there.”
Somehow, Flora has ended up beside him. He’s not sure how it happened. At the beginning of this ordeal, he was avoiding the woman like the plague, but now… it’s oddly comforting to have her shoulder to lean on. Flora smells like early morning dew and earthy sandalwood. Her hair is silky-soft; he must resist the urge to press his face against it. That would make things weird, and they’re already odd enough. Theo Hardison is letting his sworn rival hold him.
“Th’— th’ room’s…” He manages, words coming out thick. He points vaguely around, like she should be able to see it. “Spinning.”
“Is that so?”
She’s mocking him. Theo’s brows furrow; his head lolls against the cask, his fingers slackening around the now-empty bottle. It tips precariously between his thighs, but there’s nothing to spill. He catches Flora’s gaze… and a wine-heavy shiver rolls through him. For some reason, Flora is watching him. Really watching him — her dark eyes drink in each shallow, hiccuping breath, and the way his shirt strains.
Well, that’s intriguing.
"Y'look..." He pauses, swallowing thickly against another rising belch, only for it to escape in a hot, damp puff against his own wrist. "Fuck. You look... mmm.”
His words are syrup-slow, slurred at the edges --- but a glint of amusement dances in his eyes. Can it be? “Like you’re enjoying this."
Flora doesn’t deny it. There's no point, when her cheeks betray her with such a charming flush. She reaches out, her thumb brushing his jaw, where a stray drop of wine had escaped.
"Maybe I am." Her voice is low, shameless. "You’re… fun like this. I can almost see your appeal.”
Theo snorts. “High praise.”
It actually is, from her. Flora doesn’t give out many compliments. At least, not to him. Theo tries to stare her down, but the effort just leaves him dizzy. The cellar spins lazily around him, the long rows of bottles blurring into a haze. He’s not sure if it’s the wine or Flora’s proximity, making his pulse thud heavily in his ears. Either way… he’s in deep trouble.
“Gonna have the hangover from hell,” he slurs.
Flora can’t help snickering, turning her head away. Theo grunts, pressing closer; he doesn’t want to be alone right now, or responsible for holding himself up. His free hand rubs absent circles over the swollen curve of his stomach; it aches, sloshy with wine and heavy with regret. Another involuntary burp rolls past his lips. This one lingers, warm and wine-scented; he doesn’t even try to stifle it, just lets his head tip back with a blissed-out sigh.
“You’re a mess,” Flora mutters. “You deserve the hangover.”
Theo can’t even deny it.
When the doors to the wine cellar finally open, they’ve been trapped for two hours and twenty-seven minutes. There’s no excuse for that; a sober Theo would suspect a scheme, that someone just wanted him out of the way for a while. Or perhaps throwing him and Flora was the plan all along --- they’d either work out a deal or kill one another trying.
Finding Flora cradling an incredibly drunk Theodore Hardison, stroking his back while he dozes, was likely never part of the scheme.
Ah, well. Best laid plans, and all. Tomorrow, Theo will have to decide what to write to his corporate office. How to explain to Blackwell & Barnes that he not only failed to secure the deal, but ended up sinfully drunk off fine wine? It will be quite an email, indeed.
His one consolation? He’ll remember very little of it… besides the weight of Flora’s gaze, intent and entranced, lingering long after the wine-haze has faded away.
I think boys should be kept well fed it is vital that they never go hungry and their bellies are always full and that they get plenty of rubs and kisses and extra snacks whenever they start to feel peckish again even though they are so so full and sleepy and they whine with each time they swallow and and and
I mean, a competent guy breaking down in a panic is hot in the first place. And then add booze into the mix...
I think I'll be re-reading it several times.
agdgsjksd right?? it's been a brainworm in my head for ages, i just wanted to write a sharp, composed guy get incredibly sloshed in a confined space...
like, there's something about having no choice but to drink. your composure is falling apart either way, you're in a situation you have no control in with someone you don't particularly like, and you're trapped, so... at least you can choose to pick up the bottle. at least you can pretend you're still in control, even as the alcohol sets in and your movements get sloppier... even as it all bubbles and sloshes in your tummy, and you can feel your pants getting tighter... even as you can't stifle your hiccups, can't hold yourself upright or even see clearly...
i love how it came out lol. still need to proofread and polish it, but.... hnnng, theo hardison, you delight me
stuffing in jeans is soooo… you have to undo the button and unzip almost immediately as you start to eat, with a sigh of relief and a few burps, freed from the soft gut now spilling out onto your lap. you’re still aware of the friction on your hips and thighs, that tight, snug feeling. denim just doesn’t have enough give. you keep eating, and pretty soon even the pull of the opened zipper is digging into your soft underbelly, cold and sharp, forcing you to wiggle your jeans further down your hips, exposing your underwear. maybe you discard them completely as you continue to eat, but not without the nagging thought at the back of your mind that soon you won’t be able to button those jeans ever again.
content warnings: intox, claustropphobia, alcohol, burping, hiccups ; 3.7k words
Truthfully, he should have expected it. Should have expected something, at least — if not a hatchet to the back, or a more discreet murder method, he ought to have been on his guard. He isn’t welcome here. That much has been made perfectly clear.
Theodore Hardison is just doing business. His firm, Blackwell & Barnes, has a reputation for acquiring smaller companies on the verge of going under. They consolidate, stabilize them, and then sell the re-imagined company to the highest bidder… or let it be quietly absorbed into one of the larger firms in the industry.
He’s not the top dog at his company. Hell, Theo’s boss isn’t top dog — not next to the heads of the really powerful companies, like Paramount and Disney. In the entertainment industry, there’s always someone higher up on the ladder… and always someone down below, to do the dirty work. That’s where Theo comes in.
He’s the firm’s “go-between” man. Someone who makes deals, who closes them — who convinces small business owners to give up and throw their dream away. It’s cold, merciless work… and it suits him. Even at his company, Theo Hardison has a reputation: the man without a heart.
“All nonsense, of course.” His words are clipped, a little breathless. “I’m only human. As mortal as anyone else. For some reason, they all believe…”
He trails off, glancing around the tiny room again. No, nothing has changed. They’re still trapped in here.
“Mr. Hardison,” drawls the young woman, smushing her face against her hand “I could not care less about your reputation.”
“How sweet.” His lips curl back in a sneer.
She’s been the wildcard through this whole process. Flora Kim, creative director for Wisteria Lane Publishing. That’s her official title, at least; it’s obvious the woman’s running the whole company behind the scenes. She manages lists of their latest releases, coordinates advertising, and makes sure the staff gets paid — Flora has a finger in every pie. All the big decisions go through Mr. Collier, of course... but the big boss mostly stays at home, minding his own business. As long as the company is making a profit, Collier is a happy man.
Collier has not been happy for seven months now.
The only way out is acquisition. Theo was trying to get the old man to see that, to talk him gently around to the idea of selling. It’s been an arduous process, but he nearly had it. All he needs is Mr. Collier’s damned signature.
So, he drove all the way out to his house on a Saturday afternoon. It was supposed to be an open and shut deal — hardly worth the trip.
Except she was here. The bane of his existence for these last few weeks; the little voice in Collier’s ear, urging him not to sign. She made it her business to get in on this meeting… and Theo can respect a cutthroat businesswoman, but honestly. Cut your losses.
So. An awkward morning, a tense afternoon, and it’s all led them here. Collier requested a particular vintage from the wine cellar. Theo would have gotten it, but leaving Flora alone with the old man was a recipe for trouble. (Also, he had no idea where the bottle was.) So… they went down together.
And the heavy door closed behind them.
Something high-tech clicked into place, a short beeping sound. Theo lurched for the door, rattling… banging on it. It didn’t budge.
“Oh,” Flora said. “Fuck.”
“Fuck, indeed,” Theo echoed flatly.
Because, here’s the trouble: Theo Hardison has a rock-hard shell, a suit of armor, almost no weaknesses. Nothing rattles him. Except… small, enclosed spaces.
Damn everything and everyone. He’s locked in a goddamned wine cellar. The air is stuffy, the walls are lined with gleaming bottles on every side… the heavy stone floor chills him to his bones, and every time he looks up at the slate ceiling, it seems closer. The walls are closing in. Can’t Flora see it? Can’t she sense the air being pulled out of this room? They’re going to suffocate in here… if they aren’t crushed to death first. They’ll be entombed here forever, trapped in a tiny coffin of a room, and no one will ever find them…
“For fuck’s sake,” Flora mutters, slumped back against the wall. “I can hear your thoughts spiraling.”
Theo blinks. Her words take a minute to register — but his brows draw close as he scowls.
“Are you going to faint?” she asks, sounding disinterested. She’s not even looking at him; her gaze roves over the endless shelves of wine bottles, glistening green in the room’s dim light. “You’re like... you’ve gone all deathy.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ve seen better-looking corpses.”
“You flatter me.” Corpse-like is an extreme, but Theo does feel shaky. He starts to lean against the nearest shelf… then straightens up, scowling. God forbid Flora notice, and come to the conclusion that he’s fragile. Give an inch, people will take a mile, Hardison. Never show weakness.
Flora’s only interest, though, seems to be in the bottles of wine. She inspects the shelves for a moment before pulling a slender vintage out and studying the bottle.
“Oh man,” she murmurs, reverent. “Collier’s got the good stuff.”
“Give it here.” He holds out a hand.
Flora squints at him like he’s grown a second head. “Yeah, no.”
“I mean… I have some knowledge of…” Theo grits his teeth, feeling like an idiot. This woman always puts him on his back-foot. It’s impossible to play the cool, calm executive when she’s unfazed by any of it. Damn if, if she were his employee, he’d teach her deference…
Flora is a free agent, though. Nothing holds her back. The last thing she wants is to do business with him.
With a scowl, Theo pulls his own vintage off the shelf and studies the label. Flora’s right; her boss clearly doesn’t cut corners when it comes to alcohol. The Amarone he holds is dense and syrupy, aged to perfection. He stares at it for a moment too long — anything to avoid looking around the claustrophobic little room, or god forbid, at Flora. His heart is pounding like a jackhammer. There’s a vice around his chest, slowly tightening. His bronchial tree has turned to concrete, and it’s slowly leaking into his lungs.
He can’t breathe. Sweet Christ, he can not breathe.
“Hardison,” Flora says, voice edged with sharpness. “Hey. Just—“
“Shut up,” Theo snaps, gripping his bottle like a vice. Are the walls closer? Is the room… slowly getting tighter? Bloody hell, it would be just like Collier to have a booby-trapped cellar. He’s been lured into a trap… he’s never getting out of here, even if he shouted for help, the old man wouldn’t hear them…
“Breathe,” Flora says loudly. Theo shoots her a venomous glare. If it were so profoundly simple, wouldn’t he already be doing that?
“I am,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. It’s fine. I— this— stop looking at me!”
Flora doesn’t even pretend to look away. Shamelessness is a talent of hers, apparently.
One slender brow creeps up, a smirk tugging at her lips. It’s as though she’s peeling back his layers of skin, one by one, exposing the nerves and sinew underneath. Theo feels raw, naked under her gaze.
“So,” she muses. “Your composure can be shattered, after all.”
His lips curl back in a sneer. Theo’s first instinct is to snap at her… but the breath has fled his lungs, and the words won’t come. He’s up against a dam, water raging all around him, crashing over his head… Christ, is this what it feels like to drown?
“Hardison.” There’s something almost coaxing in her voice. Like a cat, luring a mouse out of its hiding place. “You’ve got to breathe. If you’re dead by the time we get rescued, everyone’s going to think I killed you.” She hesitates before adding, “they’ll believe it, too. Let’s not frame me for murder, ‘kay?”
“You really think I’d let you kill me?” Theo snaps.
Flora raises both brows now, gazing down at him. Down, because Theo’s sitting on the floor. Somehow, he slid all the way down the shelf without noticing; now he’s curled in on himself, like a turtle hiding in its shell. Oh, god damn it. He tries to raise his head — but the cellar is far, far too tight.
“Stop looking at me,” Theo says in a rush. He hates how plaintive he sounds, but there’s no helping it. “Don’t get closer... I need space. That’s all. You, you’re… sucking the air out of here.”
“Me?”
“You!” He has to fight for his next breath. It fills his chest like thick concrete. All Theo can do is press his head to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. Dignity is abandoned at this point; if anyone from their office could see him now, they’d marvel at Heartless Hardison finally breaking down. Screw them all. In this moment, Theo hates the underlings at the office with a burning passion; he despises his superiors, he could throttle Collier, and he wants to burn whoever designed this miserable little wine cellar alive. If he ever gets out of here… presuming he doesn’t die first… oh, who is he kidding, he’s dying right now—
“Here. Fuck’s sake.” Something is thrust into his hands. Theo’s in such a daze, he can’t comprehend it. Not until he feels cool glass in his hand, recognizes the distinctive shape of a wine bottle. Ah, he thinks faintly as a plush, fruity odor reaches him, the Amarone. Lovely vintage.
“Drink,” Flora commands in a voice that doesn’t broker argument.
Theo raises his head, giving her a wary look — but her gaze is unflinching. Flora nods down at the wine bottle, then at him; her expression seems to say, what are you waiting for?
Oh, to hell with it.
Raising the bottle to his lips, Theo takes a long, deep slug.
No doubt he’ll regret this later —but so long as he’s trapped here, in this stuffy tomb, with the most annoying woman in the world — he deserves a drink. It flows down his throat like fire, and he savors the burn. Theo manages a few more determined swallows before detaching his wet mouth from the bottle. For a moment, he just sits there, panting.
“There,” Flora says flatly. “Now, will you kindly calm the fuck down?”
Theo opens his mouth to make a sharp retort — and hiccups. It just comes up. He can’t control it… but he’s left blinking, more shocked than mortified.
“Huh,” Flora says, and gives a low laugh.
“You shut up,” Theo retorts, like a true professional.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Upon reflection, it’s actually the most sensible solution. They can’t sedate him. That would be ideal — a nice double-dose of Trazodone, like a nervous dog on the 4th of July. That would be the merciful thing to do for him. In the absence of that, and considering they’re trapped in a bloody wine cellar… alcohol is the most sensible choice.
That’s what he tells himself, midway through his second bottle.
By now, the cellar has gone hazy around him. It’s much less claustrophobic when one can’t see straight --- hard to be frightened of the walls pressing in around you when you’re lost a general sense of where you begin and the rest of the world ends. Theo slumps against the wall; he’s removed his suit jacket, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. Surely he looks a mess, but at the moment, it’s impossible to care.
A deep uuurp rumbles out of him. Theo presses a lazy fist to his mouth. “Excuse me, Miss Kim.”
“You’re fine.” Flora’s voice holds… a peculiar note. If Theo were sober, he could surely pick it apart and dissect her motives. As it is, he only knows that she’s looking at him; she hasn’t been able to help staring since he cracked open the second wine. Well, to hell with it. Would she rather a sotted companion, or a panicking one?
Her next words still manage to take him by surprise. He expected criticism. Instead, she says: “Y’know, you’re the only one who calls me that. Even at the office, everyone calls me Flora.”
Theo blinks. “Your office is… very informal.”
This is the wrong thing to say. Flora’s pretty face twists like she’s tastes something sour.
“Okay. Where do you work, the mouth of hell?”
She’s not far off. Reflecting on his last board meeting, Theo snorts softly. (One executive was disgraced, four projects were tossed out, and three interns left crying. That’s a record)
“My office,” he says, choosing his words with slow, drunken care, “prioritizes results. If you can’t ach… achieve your objectives, can’t perform with… competence. And efficiency…” He swallows thickly, and hiccups. “You’re no longer an asset.”
This is far more honest than he intended to get today. Far grimmer, too. He shouldn’t be sharing this with Flora, of all people… yet she’s decided he’s Satan for chasing down his assignment. He’s not, really. It’s not personal. He’s just… doing his bloody awful job.
When Flora finally speaks, her voice is low. “That’s a lot of big words for two bottles of wine.”
Theo snorts. She’s decided not to press the topic… and god, he’s grateful for it.
“God,” she continues, “I mean… at my office, we’re all friends. At least, coworker-friends. There’s never any drama.”
Considering they’re a team of only ten people, not surprising. “Ah, the epis— ahem, epitome of a small business."
“You get more sarcastic when you’re drunk.”
“I am…” Theo swallows thickly, trying to force the slur from his words. The effort makes his head swim. “Not drunk. I— this is not a situation where I—“ Being flustered makes him hiccup again; a hot burst of boozy air jolts him. Belatedly, he presses a fist to his mouth, and scowls like it’s somehow her fault.
“‘m not working,” he insists. This is an important distinction. He can’t be getting absolutely sloshed on the job.
Flora just snorts. Raising her own bottle to her lips, she takes a sip — she’s only been sipping, while Theo’s been drinking — and replies, “Hardison, if this is an average day at work for you…”
“It’s not!”
“I figured,” she replies, and shakes her head. Her glossy ponytail bounces, dark strands of hair feathering around her face. Flora has a face made for smiling. Her soft features are contrasted by a severe bone structure — her high brows, her cheekbones, her square jaw. It shouldn’t be pretty. She shouldn’t be so beguiling. Yet when she smiles, Theo finds he can’t take his eyes off her.
The room spins around him. He’s drifting on a lazy current of wine, his head swimming, his body light. This is a perilous stage of mind. He could make a mistake so easily… and forget to regret it.
Theo licks his lips thickly. When Flora meets his gaze, he takes another gulp of Piedmont.
“‘M determined to… maintain my composure,” he declares.
This effort is undercut a second later, when a heavy, wine-drenched aaAURRP rolls up his throat. He doesn’t mean to. It just comes out… and his eyes flutter shut afterwards, with a woozy moan. “Ohhh…”
Flora stares at him, wide-eyed. Her expression is almost entranced… mingled with a healthy dose of horror. “Jesus, Hardison.”
“I can’t help it,” Theo slurs. “When I drink…”
Well, there’s a reason he never indulges beyond a glass of wine socially. Alcohol makes him… sloppy. His inhibitions fizzle away. Thank God there’s no liquor here, or he’d be a puddle on the floor, and that would be the end of his dignity.
“Wow. You must’ve been fun in college.”
“Me?” The very idea startles him. “No. No, I… didn’ do much of that. Partying…”
The word dissolves into another hiccup, wine-heavy and damp against his palm. He sways where he sits, back pressed against a cask of Bordeaux; his knees are drawn up, like a man trying very hard not to topple over. His chest is damp with sweat. The dim cellar light catches the flush spreading down his throat — and his usually immaculate collar, now rumpled from his tugging at it.
There’s no denying it. Theo is drunk. God help him, he inhaled that last bottle too fast…
He glances down at the bottle of Piedmont laying beside him. It really has been too much… but, well. In for a penny. He raises it to his lips.
Another thick swallow — another gasp for breath, and a helpless huulp slipping past his lips. His fingers dig into the rich fabric of his suit. He looks woozily intent, if he trying to will the sluggish churn of wine in his gut to settle.
“What are you doing?”
“‘S fine,” Theo mutters, fumbling with his buttons. “Mind your own… mmm, fuck.” When did his fingers get so damned clumsy?
Flora arches a brow. “Need help?”
“No, I— hiICC!— I’ve got it.” By some miracle, the button actually comes undone; his trousers pop open, and Theo exhales a deep sigh of relief. He can breathe freely again… even with his belly swollen and heavy, straining against his crisp button-up shirt. He can’t remember ever being this full… and with every movement, the liquid in his stomach sloshes. He feels like a damned wine cask. It’s… rather glorious.
“Just tight,” he mutters. “Too tight, I need… need some air…”
He pauses, holding completely still for a long second… before a wet belch rolls up, from the pit of his belly all the way up his gullet. He follows it up with a wanton moan.
“Oh, man,” Flora exhales. “You’re...”
Oh yes, Theo knows. He is disgracefully drunk.
The wine catches up to him over the next several minutes. On the bright side, he’s not frightened anymore. Not even concerned about the tight little wine cellar, the stuffy air, or the heavy steel door keeping them locked in. He’s not even concerned that they’ve been down here for nearly two hours, and no one’s come searching for them yet. Sober Theo would be worried about all of this. Hell, he’s probably be constructing some devious plan to get them out of this damned cellar — shouting through the air vents, or pushing a message under the door on a folded slip of paper. Anything. Theo’s good at thinking outside the box, so long as it gets results.
Tonight, the only result he’s achieved is a spinning head and a sour case of hiccups.
“hhIIC! hiIIICc! hLLK! Ohhh…”
“Easy there.”
Somehow, Flora has ended up beside him. He’s not sure how it happened. At the beginning of this ordeal, he was avoiding the woman like the plague, but now… it’s oddly comforting to have her shoulder to lean on. Flora smells like early morning dew and earthy sandalwood. Her hair is silky-soft; he must resist the urge to press his face against it. That would make things weird, and they’re already odd enough. Theo Hardison is letting his sworn rival hold him.
“Th’— th’ room’s…” He manages, words coming out thick. He points vaguely around, like she should be able to see it. “Spinning.”
“Is that so?”
She’s mocking him. Theo’s brows furrow; his head lolls against the cask, his fingers slackening around the now-empty bottle. It tips precariously between his thighs, but there’s nothing to spill. He catches Flora’s gaze… and a wine-heavy shiver rolls through him. For some reason, Flora is watching him. Really watching him — her dark eyes drink in each shallow, hiccuping breath, and the way his shirt strains.
Well, that’s intriguing.
"Y'look..." He pauses, swallowing thickly against another rising belch, only for it to escape in a hot, damp puff against his own wrist. "Fuck. You look... mmm.”
His words are syrup-slow, slurred at the edges --- but a glint of amusement dances in his eyes. Can it be? “Like you’re enjoying this."
Flora doesn’t deny it. There's no point, when her cheeks betray her with such a charming flush. She reaches out, her thumb brushing his jaw, where a stray drop of wine had escaped.
"Maybe I am." Her voice is low, shameless. "You’re… fun like this. I can almost see your appeal.”
Theo snorts. “High praise.”
It actually is, from her. Flora doesn’t give out many compliments. At least, not to him. Theo tries to stare her down, but the effort just leaves him dizzy. The cellar spins lazily around him, the long rows of bottles blurring into a haze. He’s not sure if it’s the wine or Flora’s proximity, making his pulse thud heavily in his ears. Either way… he’s in deep trouble.
“Gonna have the hangover from hell,” he slurs.
Flora can’t help snickering, turning her head away. Theo grunts, pressing closer; he doesn’t want to be alone right now, or responsible for holding himself up. His free hand rubs absent circles over the swollen curve of his stomach; it aches, sloshy with wine and heavy with regret. Another involuntary burp rolls past his lips. This one lingers, warm and wine-scented; he doesn’t even try to stifle it, just lets his head tip back with a blissed-out sigh.
“You’re a mess,” Flora mutters. “You deserve the hangover.”
Theo can’t even deny it.
When the doors to the wine cellar finally open, they’ve been trapped for two hours and twenty-seven minutes. There’s no excuse for that; a sober Theo would suspect a scheme, that someone just wanted him out of the way for a while. Or perhaps throwing him and Flora was the plan all along --- they’d either work out a deal or kill one another trying.
Finding Flora cradling an incredibly drunk Theodore Hardison, stroking his back while he dozes, was likely never part of the scheme.
Ah, well. Best laid plans, and all. Tomorrow, Theo will have to decide what to write to his corporate office. How to explain to Blackwell & Barnes that he not only failed to secure the deal, but ended up sinfully drunk off fine wine? It will be quite an email, indeed.
His one consolation? He’ll remember very little of it… besides the weight of Flora’s gaze, intent and entranced, lingering long after the wine-haze has faded away.
What would happen if someone got pregnant in Willowlake? If the people are transposed from being semi-dead in their world, would it even be possible? Do you have plans for any of the Willowlake couples to have kids eventually?
tbh, letting Adeline kindle her latent pregnancy kink would be the absolute worst thing that could happen to the residents of willowlake. you know the sims 4? the 100 baby challenge? yeah. The Lady would get inspired, and then no one’s getting any sleep for a whole. ( she would never make people have sex, but she can certainly encourage them. wine and weed and good food and the big bed’s Right There, and is it me or do these little heart cookies make you feel hot and bothered— )
i think… if hasn’t happened yet, but it could definitely happen in the future. their bodies still… work, y'know? all systems are functioning as normal. they still need to eat and sleep, they still use the bathroom, and they’re definitely still fertile. honestly, it’s more like… the situation hasn’t come up on the estate. in the village? sure. you’ve got couples living there, families with kids. people have definitely gotten pregnant there. but Adeline doesn’t watch the village closely, so she hasn’t really seen a human pregnancy close-up.
dorran and aurora definitely want kids at some point, but they’re not about to have an accident. ( sure, he grew up in Evil Fairytale Hellscape of Doom, but dorran does know how to use a condom, thanks ) richard? not happening lol. antoinette? do not insult her! if she wants a child, she will simply pay some impoverished lady to make one for her, why should she do it herself? corvinus? has such a complex, I’m not sure kids are even on his radar. ( he WOULD be very likely to have a surprise baby, if he ever, y’know… had sex. ) there are enough couples and casual sex at Willowlake that it totally could happen, just hasn’t yet.
now, there actually have been two children born at willowlake!! lady adeline has gotten pregnant twice, with each of her husbands, and gone through the whole process. they’ve both been very attentive to her, and she’s made two beautiful, terrifying children 🖤 but i don’t think she’d truly enjoy a pregnancy until watching it play out on somebody else.
