Chapter 6: Double Down
The park house kitchen smelled of stale grease and synthetic chocolate. The single bulb flickered, casting jerky shadows over the mountain of empty “Gains Unlimited” canisters piled in the sink. The clock on the microwave read 3:17 AM, a permanent testament to some forgotten midnight snack.
Mordecai stood at the counter, his back to the room. He wasn’t the tall, lanky bird who’d been dragged from the van a week ago. The contours of his body were radically different, reshaped by relentless, furious consumption.
His frame had widened, shoulders softening into sloping mounds that fed into the massive shelf of his back. That back curved sharply outwards before plunging into the profound swell of his ass, two heavy, cellulite-dimpled hemispheres that strained the seams of his stained sweatpants. From the side, his silhouette was a staggering series of curves: the drooping swell of his moobs, the vast, taut dome of his belly that hung low and solid over his waistband, and the jutting shelf of his rear. His arms, resting at his sides, were thick with soft fat that spilled past the sleeves of his tank top. He was stirring a mixing bowl with a dull, mechanical rhythm.
Rigby was a molten mound in the cracked vinyl booth. He’d ballooned past his previous state, his body seeming to have abandoned any structure in favor of pure, lard-laden mass. His face was a perfect moon, his cheeks so full they pushed his eyes into glittering slits. His neck had vanished, replaced by a solid column of fat that flowed from his jaw to his collarbone. His t-shirt was a stretched relic over the globe of his stomach, which sat on his lap like a separate entity, its lower curve resting on his thick thighs.He was staring at nothing, his breathing a slow, wet wheeze.
The only sound was the clink-clink of Mordecai’s spoon against the glass.
“Make it a double,” Rigby grunted, his voice thick, as if his tongue was too large for his mouth.
“It is a double,” Mordecai said, not turning around.His own voice had a new, breathless quality. “Triple, actually.”
“Yeah.Good.”
This was their routine now. Wake up aching, hollow, a void screaming to be filled.The hunger wasn’t for food. It was a deep, cellular craving that made their hands shake and their thoughts scatter.The shakes were the only thing that quieted it. Temporarily.Mordecai lifted the bowl, a thick, beige slurry sloshing inside. He didn’t bother with a glass. He brought it to his lips and drank, gulping loudly, rivulets escaping the corners of his mouth and tracing paths through the downy feathers of his chin.He drank until it was gone, then slammed the bowl down, panting. A seismic tremor went through him.His belly, already immense, seemed to tighten and glow for a second. He groaned, a sound of deep, almost sexual relief, and leaned his hands on the counter, his head hanging.“Fuck yeah,” he breathed.
Rigby watched, his own need a sharp, coiling pain in his gut.“Mine,” he demanded.
Mordecai pushed the second prepared bowl across the counter.Rigby didn’t get up. He couldn’t, not easily. He just reached a bloated, trembling arm and dragged the bowl to the edge, then lifted it, spilling some on his monstrous chest, and chugged. His throat worked furiously, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the fat. When he finished, he let out a long, shuddering sigh, his whole body going lax, the immense weight of him settling further into the booth’s creaking frame.
Silence descended again, but it was a different silence now. The frantic, itchy need was soothed, replaced by a warm, sluggish fullness and something else—a restless, tingling energy that buzzed just under their skin. The supplements weren’t just about satiation anymore.They were a trigger.Mordecai turned slowly. His eyes, heavy-lidded, found Rigby.They weren’t eyes focused on a friend. They were eyes glazed with a need that had twisted, mutated. The chemical cocktail in their bloodstream, the “refined” Adiposine-X, did more than just add fat. It rewired urges.Hunger, thirst, libido—all blurred into one primal drive: consume.
Hunger, thirst, libido—all blurred into one primal drive: consume.
The fluorescent light buzzed like an angry insect. Mordecai’s breath was still ragged from the shake, his heart hammering against the inner wall of his chest. He looked down at his own body, at the sheer, obscene mass of it.The sight didn’t disgust him.It fascinated him. It made a low heat coil in his gut.
“I’m… I’m gonna hit the sack,” he muttered, his voice rough.“Yeah. Me too,” Rigby wheezed from the booth.Neither of them moved.The energy wasn’t gone. It was just changing form, simmering, redirecting.It pooled low and insistent. Mordecai pushed himself away from the counter, his movement a slow, wide arc as he navigated his bulk through the narrow kitchen doorway.
The hall to their bedrooms felt longer, the walls closer. His hips brushed against the doorframes on either side.Every step was a negotiation, a shift of tremendous weight from one thick leg to the other. Behind him, he heard Rigby’s labored grunts, the wet sound of fat sliding against vinyl as he extracted himself from the booth, then the heavy, plodding footsteps. They didn’t speak.The air between them was thick with a shared, unspoken tension.
Mordecai shouldered his bedroom door open. The room was a mess of discarded clothes, all too small now.He didn’t turn on the light. The glow from the park security lights outside sliced through the blinds, painting stripes across the swollen landscape of his bed. He stood at the foot of it, trembling.It wasn’t from cold. The need was a physical ache, a pressurized throb centered in his groin but radiating out through every bloated inch of him.
His cock was hard, a rigid claim anchored in a forest of coarse feathers at the apex of his colossal thighs. It looked almost absurd, jutting out from the sheer cliff-face of his lower belly. He couldn’t even see its base.He reached down, his fingers clumsy, and wrapped a hand around himself. The touch was electric, but it wasn’t enough. It was distant, disconnected by the overwhelming intervening mass.A rough, frustrated groan escaped him.He needed more.He needed pressure. He needed to be consumed by the very thing he’d become.
He let go of his cock and instead brought both hands to the great, hanging swell of his belly. He grabbed two thick handfuls of his own soft, doughy flesh.He squeezed, hard. A jolt of sharp-pleasure-pain shot through him.“Fuck,” he hissed into the dark.
He began to knead the fat, pushing the heavy, pendulous roll up and over his aching erection. The soft, warm flesh engulfed his shaft completely, creating a hot, tight valley of his own making. The pressure was immense, a slick, silken squeeze from all sides. He fucked into it, a shallow, desperate rhythm.“Yeah, oh fuck, yeah,” he chanted, his voice a broken thing. He drove his hips, his colossal gut wobbling violently, slapping against his thighs with wet, heavy sounds. He was fucking his own fat, using the obscene bulk of his stomach as a cunt.The degradation of it, the sheer, filthy wrongness, fueled his frenzy. His moans grew louder, ragged. He pictured the doctor’s cold smile, the gleam of the needle, and he fucked harder into the self-made crevice, punishing his own body for its need, rewarding it for its size.
His orgasm built not as a wave but as a seismic event, a deep, rolling shockwave that started in his balls and seemed to vibrate through every pound of lard he carried. He slammed his gut down over himself one final time, a guttural roar tearing from his throat as he came, spurts of cum hot against his own buried skin, lost in the deep, fleshy fold.
Across the hall, Rigby was on his back on his mattress, which groaned in protest beneath his concentrated weight. He’d pulled his sweatpans down just past the curve of his ass. His own dick lay trapped against the monumental dome of his stomach.He couldn’t lift it.He couldn’t move it.
Tears of frustration pricked his eyes.The need was a vicious, scratching animal inside him. He spit into his palm, reached down, and then shoved his entire fist into the soft space between his protruding gut and his thigh. He grabbed his cock sideways, pinned it against the sticky, sweaty skin of his inner thigh, and began to piston his hips upward, fucking the tight, hot tunnel created by his own immensity.The bedframe banged against the wall in a frantic, stumbling rhythm. He fucked into the prison of his flesh, his other hand mauling the soft, jiggling moon of his belly, pinching a nipple through his shirt. “C’mon, c’mon, you fuckin’… blob,” he sobbed, driving upwards, over and over, the fat of his stomach sloshing with each impact.
He came with a choked-off scream, his whole body seizing, the pleasure wrenched from him violently, a stolen thing. He lay there, spent, breathing in the dark. The smell of sweat, of cum, of protein powder, and of something deeply, chemically wrong filled the room. Outside his door, he heard the floorboards creak as Mordecai shuffled to the bathroom to clean up.They didn’t speak. In the silence, the hollow ache, the gnawing void, began to reconstitute itself. It started as a faint whisper in the base of the skull.By morning, it would be a scream. The white card in Mordecai’s wallet seemed to pulse in the dark drawer.