HELP I can't stop thinking about this fic: https://www.tumblr.com/mylevisdontfitanymore/689619340309446656?source=share and how maybe after Andy has had his fill and is finally done fucking Ransom he spends the rest of the night pumping him full of more alcohol and food and maybe he spends the entire rest of the cruise out of his mind as Andy's drunken plaything, too stuffed and bloated to move far from the bed without lots of help, too drunk to think about anything but his stomach and how much more of everything he wants and always available for Andy to fuck when he pleases
@achubbydumpling Ransom × Andy dark fic, "A Little Extra: Cruise Ship"
I mean… fucking SAME
I remember when Dumpling first wrote and posted that and we had a lengthy conversation about some darker scenarios for that pairing. So, this chaotic, horny drabble will be heavily inspired by that interaction. Thank you for the inspiration Dumpling, as always ❤️
Unbeta'd, warning for dark Ransom × Andy, intox kink, alcohol consumption, mentioned of past non-con/dub-con, free-use, stuffing, weight gain, humiliation/fat shaming, etc.
Andy can’t honestly be blamed for what he does because… have you seen Ransom? That soft, pale skin and pretty, pink mouth with an especially plump bottom lip; those big blue eyes, most often lit with a challenge and dare; his expensive clothes tailored to fit his body. He’s irresistible normally. But, better yet, have you seen Ransom when he’s drunk and messy? Anyone would do anything to have that rich brat when he’s sloshed.
Drunk Ransom and his fat, round belly full of all the alcohol he’s been downing like it’s water. Andy doesn’t even need to encourage him so much, his greedy nature from growing up in the high life does it for Andy. Ransom simply drains bottles and bottles without caring about anything, not the price of the smooth liquor or spectacle of his expanding waistline, his belly bloating right out of his luxurious, perfectly tailored clothes until he’s so full and round - his skin pulled so impressively taut - that he may as well be a walking keg or even a walking, really waddling, barrel. Almost audibly sloshing with too many drinks. It’s a fucking miracle if Andy lets him walk anywhere, though. His slight exhibitionism, his hunger to see the stares of disbelief at such a huge, sloshed brat, is overridden by the possessive fire inside him to keep Ransom.
He wants to keep Ransom full, bloated and packed to the point that he’s stuck on his back, and he wants to keep Ransom to himself. He wants him as a pet. An obedient pet that will do anything he wants, like, for example, drink another bottle and chase the alcohol with soft, pillowy carbs that will drink the liquid inside him and expand further. Andy wants to get him to the point that his stomach is really struggling, creaking and gurgling with how bloated it is.
Here’s the thing, though: Ransom may come off like a bitch and a brat to everyone after being spoiled his entire life but, he metaphorically (and now literally) has the softest underbelly that Andy who, oppositely, appears to be sweet and doting and soft once as the ideal family man but Andy has this very dark side, hidden from most people he encounters. It’s not hidden from Ransom. That dark side is lured out by Ransom. There’s just… something so irresistible about Ransom. Andy can’t stop himself from taking advantage of Ransom. It’s hardly his fault, though, with how much rich boy is asking for it - stumbling around, drinking, and fixing him with those fiery eyes.
Andy has a habit of only having a few drinks here and there, so he barely gets tipsy when he does drink, and this habit works to his advantage now, leaving him with a near completely clear, sober mind to admire this messy, uncoordinated prince… all doughy and spoiled. He’s never done a damn thing besides sit on his ass. (And, fuck yes, would you look at that! He’s got a fucking fat ass. All shapely. Nice and round and wide. Andy wants to sink his teeth into it.) Besides, Ransom’s rich fat. He takes the time to always work lotion into his skin and wax and get massages and, just, otherwise take immaculate care of himself. So, he doesn’t have any stretch marks anywhere on his body. He only has pale, soft, plump, and doughy fat. He’s lush. Smooth. So easy on the eyes and perfect underhand. No stretch marks anywhere on his soft body… not until he meets Andy.
Andy, as we know, can’t resist and he takes advantage of his pale, unmarred body and claims it for himself. Andy fucks him hard and leaves hickies on his puffy tits, thick thighs, and absolute shelf of an ass but, of course, those bitten-in marks don’t hold a candle to the permanent marks Andy makes on Ransom. Andy will have Ransom to himself. He will keep him. And he will claim what’s his by stuffing and bloating Ransom until he’s literally on the cusp of bursting. Funneling alcohol and liquor and spirts and anything that leaves his sweet mouth loose and slurring into him. Stuffing any kind of food down his throat, too. Watching ethusastically as it all stretches his skin so badly, leaving lengthy, obvious, red marks all over his previously spotless body and ruining his body.
Jesus.
Ruining his body. The thought of being the one to ruin Ransom makes Andy feral like nothing else. It feeds into his darkness, making him only want to stuff him worse and ruin him worse and… it goes on and on.
Ransom gets that way, ruined, by being kept as a little pet for Andy. It goes beyond the cruise. Andy snatches Ransom up and just won’t let him go.
At first, when Ransom surfaces from the night after Andy drugged him and used him when he was so full and sloshing he was fucking pissed at Andy. Seeing red. Seething and baring his teeth. But. Also… damn it, he gets it. Through his pounding headache, waking up entirely naked with his legs spread wide and slutty underneath the weight of his desperately full bladder and still bloated stomach, he comes to the conclusion that he knows that he would’ve done the same if presented with such an opportunity. A poor, little thing wandering the ship bloated and wanting to indulge so badly that they’re willing to go to dinner with a stranger, stuffing themselves, helpless as a baby deer under the drugs slipped into their system… Ransom licks his lips.
Yeah.
He’s equally fucked up.
C’mon, he’s rich - if he sees something he wants, he gets it. It’s that way with people, too, not just things. He could see how if he couldn’t charm or bribe his way into someone’s pants as usual, he might just get them drunk enough that they’re easy and pliable to have what he wants from them. It just so happens that when that was used on him, it unlocked his spoiled hedonism and he couldn’t stop pigging out. So…
He doesn’t blame Andy. He can’t stay mad, even if it feels like he’s pulled a fucking muscle with how big he got (and still is), puffed up tight and round on alcohol and sugar. Rich boy has never been sore before. He’s not familiar. He could be though. It’s achy and throbby and… he kind of likes how it feels. It feels like a job well done. He’s pushed himself so much that he’s made himself sore. Damn.
With Ransom not only not pissed but also into it, they develop A Thing.
Specifically, a relationship based on free use and indulgence.
Andy is the one in control and Ransom is the one giving himself over to be stuffed and fucked and filled. Anything Andy wants to do to him. Anyway Andy wants to fill him. Ransom aches and throbs for it, craving the fullness and heaviness now that he’s had it once - chasing the high.
So, Andy keeps Ransom drunk whenever he doesn’t need to be present in reality for his responsibilities. Which are… what exactly? Ransom doesn’t work, not thanks to that multigenerational wealth, so there are not many times he has to be sober for “responsibilities.” He has a whole fucking team of people managing everything about his life (his “babysitters” according to Andy’s mocking laughter), meaning more than anything else, he’s nice and full. Well. Usually, if he’s how Andy wants him he’s painfully full. Sloshy yet packed tight. His stomach made into a water balloon.
And that’s where most of those stretch marks come from.
Poor baby. He gets all marked up so fast! Aw. 🙄
As established, Ransom has lived the high life since he was born, he’s always been fed the best foods and drinks and hasn’t had to work a day in his life, so he’s always been soft. His slowing teenage metabolism has left him puffy. Not quite yet chubby, but certainly on his way with his problem controlling himself and his appetite for, well, everything. But then Andy comes crashing into his life and feeds him and feeds him and feeds him, and Ransom is growing fatter faster than he ever could’ve on his own. Faster than he ever would’ve dared. Ransom is pretty vain. He wanted to stay in shape and “presentable” but he can’t. He can’t help himself. And Andy sure as hell won’t help him. He’ll just pop the cork to another wine bottle and hand it over, making sure to lift the end of the bottle when Ransom tries to stop and catch his breath. He wants him to down the entire thing. Chug it. Now.
Despite all the alcohol that should give Ransom a solid, hard beer gut, Ransom continues to pack on butter-soft fat. Soft, plush fat that can be felt when he’s not drum-tight from impossibly high levels of fullness.
Andy doesn’t care about Ransom’s pleasure in their arrangement of free use. He only cares about his own. Just like that first night when they encountered each other. He’s focused on himself. Fucking Ransom’s pasty, doughy thighs, then his clenching, tight little hole. Dumping him onto the bed and having his way with him, completely unrestrained.
During bloating and/or stuffing sessions, the pained groans Ransom gives, the way he clutches at his expanding, tight gut desperately, or his attempts to jerk his head away from a new bottle or another spoonful of a rich, decadent dessert do nothing to stop Andy. He can complain and squirm as much as he wants but it’s not gonna change the fact that he’s only done when Andy is satisfied. He’s his pet and his toy. He’s Andy’s to play with and use and ruin however he wants. All the new stretch marks Ransom develops appear seemingly overnight and appear very early on in their arrangement. The marks are dark and intense, his poor skin is literally splitting open with the pressure of all that food and alcohol in his belly. He whines and tries hard to soothe them with lotion and ice and heating packs, but it does nothing. Andy doesn’t care until he does. When he does, it’s because he’s getting off on it. Getting off and splattering them with come.
New stretch marks along with the rapid explosion of buttery soft fat on Ransom’s frame are just more evidence of that little fact… this isn’t about Ransom’s pleasure; it’s about Andy’s.
Andy is shamelessly using him.
Actually, if anything, the stretch marks, groans, whimpers, and visible discomfort, even pain, when Ransom is being used especially roughly turn Andy on. Fuck, look how much control I have over Ransom. Look how willing my rich, bitchy boy toy is to eat for me. Drink for me. Look at how he can’t stop me. Ransom heels. He surrenders. He’s so fucking easy and pathetic and that’s why Andy had to have him that first night, drugging him to get it.
Pathetic and needy.
It’s so easy for Ransom to fall into that mindset of being used up. Ruined. Controlled. He enjoys being Andy’s pet and fuck toy so much. It starts against his will, yeah, but it’s also everything he’s ever wanted. It’s not about his pleasure but… also, it is. He’s being spoiled and taken care of and pampered. He’s nearly always blackout drunk but that’s just a little detail. It doesn’t matter that much, most people in high society have alcohol problems behind closed doors anyway! Andy isn’t doing anything totally terrible. He’s just getting Ransom where he was bound to end up anyway, speed-running the debauchery of being so grossly rich.
Sure, when Ransom is lucid enough to think (a true rarity), he tells himself that he doesn’t want the weight that comes with the indulgence but it has to stay because he can’t separate the two. But, that’s not how it really is. Rich boy is lying to himself. And that’s nothing new.
It’s a lie because he can’t help it when he’s sober, when he’s tipsy, when he’s drunk, when he’s high, anything, he grabs his belly, his thighs, his moobs, any part of his suddenly much fatter body he can reach. He grabs himself. He wants it. He wants to feel it. He wants to see his body jiggle and move as he jerks off or tries to pitifully bounce on Andy’s cock only to find it to be too much work, going back to just lying there with the room spinning, letting Andy do all the heavy lifting. It’s fine. It’s great! Even if he tells himself he “doesn’t like it,” he doesn’t like gaining weight, it doesn’t matter. Andy is forcing him into it. There’s no guilt. Just indulgence. Just pounds piling onto his overburdened frame.
And… with the acceptance that he can’t stop, he’s only going to grow bigger and bigger and bigger until (or if) Andy decides to stop, Ransom is completely, wholly a rich pet. He sits on his ass, never lifting a finger, only getting fatter and fatter. Being fed all day, rolling around and jerking himself off if and when Andy has to leave to go to work or get more groceries or… whatever it is that he still has to do himself because he can’t pay one of his countless personal assistants to do it for him as his pet can. Disgustingly rich and shameless, detached from the everyday person’s lifestyle.
However, their exploitative dynamic gets worse and worse better and better until Andy has Ransom trained to only orgasm when he’s being fed or bloated. It started with Ransom’s love of having anything in his mouth. He’s always enjoyed fingers in his mouth, or cock or pussy in his mouth during sex - coming faster when he has something to occupy his plush lips - but it’s transformed. Andy exploits his oral fixation, perverting it until no matter how much Ransom tries to jerk himself off under his overflowing belly or reaches around his wide blubber to finger himself until he’s shaking, sweating, and whining from the unprecedented hard work, he can’t reach his climax. He can’t come until he’s being fed or bloated. He needs something being forced down his throat! He goes without (a long time for him, a few hours, but a pathetically short amount of time for literally anyone else) until he can’t and he slurs through begging words. Please, please, please, I need sugar! I need carbs! I need fat! I need alcohol! I need to come!
Then…
Andy makes it worse.
He always does.
Worse and worse and worse. Using him. Ruining him.
Andy forces Ransom to go from needing something edible in his mouth to needing his gut to be full, too. He needs something in his mouth and he needs his belly full. He’s so used to constantly being drunk and pigged out that when he isn’t, instinctually, all he’s thinking about is food and alcohol. More. He wants more. He has to be comfortable at his baseline.
And his baseline has become warped to the “comfort” of being painfully full, so packed and tight that new stretch marks are on the way.
Then, and only then, bloated like a beached whale, can he come.
Pathetic.
Also - as if Ransom needs more, the greedy bitch - Andy loves to dress Ransom up in luxury clothes. Andy gets hard from putting him in everything from panties and corsets and stockings and heels to full, classic suits. Slacks. Belts. Waistcoats. Jackets. Always Andy uses Ransom’s money - extensively using the passcodes he gave him to get into his bottomless bank accounts - and then stuffs and bloats him until he bursts out of his brand-new clothes. Immediately ruined and in need of replacement. The expensive fabric is nothing but scraps once they’re done with it. Rips and tears from fat bulging through, buttons missing, popped off from all the pressure, ladders in stretched stockings caused by widening hips and thighs.
And Ransom loves it. Of course, he’s ended up growing out of all his clothes… again. He wants to do it more, too. Please. The greed is on a constant loop in his mind, only intensified when Andy is near, pleading, feed me, feed me, feed me. Feed me! Feed me!
Ransom’s only known indulgence and luxury his entire life. He’s the worst kind of glutton. Always has been.
So it’s really not surprising to anyone from his old life - rich family and stuck-up “friends” - that he’s blown up like a balloon, even if they all make nasty comments about his gain. Unafraid to shame him, mocking him to his face as well as behind his back. Asking him if he really needs to eat all of that when they lunch together. Raising eyebrows when each and every time they see Ransom, he’s in new, larger clothes. Telling him to hurry up when they stroll, and he waddles through the many rooms of a mansion estate or the garden outside, side by side. Pestering Ransom about going to see a doctor because the baby should’ve come a few months ago, shouldn’t it have? Or simply outright telling him that he’s too fat and it’s embarrassing - threatening to cut him off or write him out of wills if he doesn’t slim back down to their expectations. They have standards. They have reputations to uphold. They can’t be seen with such a slob.
A pig.
When they say those terrible things to Ransom’s face, Andy might be comforting... if he feels like it. But usually, he’s demeaning, too.
Ransom lives for it. He gets some shivery enjoyment from people from his own walk of life shaming him, but it’s nothing like the pleasure of having the man who corrupted him shame him and then keep fucking ruining him. It’s the finest kind of head-spinning depravity. Always with some new way to make fun of him…
“Of course, they said that, pet,” Andy drawls, his accent really coming through when he’s turned on. “Did you forget to look in the mirror before you left the house?” He grabs his face and squishes his chubby chin and cheeks, “speaking of… you’re about the size of a house these days,” he grins.
Ransom whimpers at the same time that his tummy growls - it’s far from empty, but, whenever someone talks about his weight, it just makes him hungry. Hungrier. He’s always hungry. You can’t stretch his stomach to the size that it is without a voracious appetite.
Or…
Andy snorts, “can’t blame them for asking who tailors you’re clothes, can you, Rans? No one in high-end fashion makes clothes the size of tents.” He pulls at the soft sweater he’s wearing, the knit thick and making him look even thicker and softer. “They expect their wealthy patrons to know better than regular, working, and middle-class people, pet. They know the rich will stay thinner because they’re vain. That, or, you know, get the fat sucked out of them, going all plastic.”
Ransom moans around the beer bottle between his lips, he doesn’t stop swallowing more of the malty, flavorful drink, though. He can’t stop. Andy is right. There’s so much about the high life that requires so much self-control. Ransom has never had self-control. He can’t. He can’t control himself. He needs more.
Or…
“Aw, pet, were they making fun of you again?”
Ransom nods, pouting.
Andy just sighs, happily satisfied, “telling you you better get your eating under control, hm?”
Again, he nods.
“Imagine that… anyone thinking you are the one in control. You’re just a sweet, brainless little pet. Well. Not little. Not anymore,” he chuckles, and Ransom pants, his gut too heavy on his lungs. “They don’t know I’m the one fattening you up,” he pinches his ass filthily until Ransom squeaks, “this is mine. I fucking built this ass. But they don’t know that, pet. And they don’t even question it. Isn’t that wonderful, piggy? You’re so greedy they don’t even think about foul play. They just assume it’s your nature and you got hugely fat all by yourself.”
Ransom feels hot, his head is spinning again, and his vision is blurry as if he’s been afflicted by a sudden fever. They’re only in the next room over, taking a breather before they go and mingle with more of Ransom’s family. Ransom doesn’t give a fuck about his family (he never really has), but he especially doesn’t give a fuck right now. Right now he wants Andy to feel up his belly and jerk him off. Now. He’s so fucking horny. It’s hard enough to be sober for so long, acutely aware of every pound of fat on him, how he jiggles and moves, without anything to numb him, but when he’s being teased about it, too? Meanly by his family and meanly 🥵 by his fucking owner and feeder?
Fuck.
He’s too fucking hornyyyy.
“You want out of those clothes tonight, pet?” Andy tugs at the straining fabric of his waistcoat, barely holding around his rotund middle, the buttons this close to pulling apart so much that gaps form, exposing his dress shirt underneath.
Ransom nods eagerly, completely breathless at the thought (not that that’s a hard thing to achieve when he’s so severely restricted).
Andy tips his head to the side, indicating a passing server with champagne flukes on their elegantly balanced tray from the corner he’s crowded Ransom into, “then you better start fucking drinking,” he gruffly whispers, lips to his ear.
Ransom moans. Thank God. He’s been miserable sipping on just water all night, trying to be on his best behavior when around others.
“If you pop a button by the time we leave, in front of everyone, then you won’t have to go to bed clothed and aching. If not…” Andy just smirks, “it’s not like you can come without being so fucking grossly stuffed that you burst out of your clothes anyway, so it won’t matter, will it, pig?”
Ransom goes up in flames.
Immediately, he flags down the help and empties the tray of flukes into his keg-belly before waddling back into the middle of the party, unashamedly taking two of everything being passed out by the help. Food and drinks. He has a mission. Make a pig of himself in front of everyone until he pops.
