The Clean Plates Club feat. Joel Miller x f!reader
a HeftyThrowaway one shot drabble | Rated: G | word count: 406
warnings: weight gain, stuffed belly, teasing
A/N: thanks be to Nonnie who submitted the prompt. And thank you to @strang3lov3 for the idea for this series. thank you to: @xdaddysprincessxx, @rebel-held, @romanarose, @umnitsa for their help in crafting the nachos.
Delicious regards,
Beefro👌🥩💜
Joel was in heaven, though anyone would be hard pressed to get it out of him. You were in the kitchen, cooking up a storm and he was going to be the lucky sunovabitch who would reap the benefits.
At least his heart was feeling lucky. The trial runs you ran through each weekend leading up to a major catering event made his heart sing, but his waistline, belts and clothing were saying otherwise. Between the regular meals you cooked and all the ‘tasting’ he was doing almost every Saturday and Sunday, each Monday he’d lumber into the office and his brother would made another remark about his weight or gut or a subtle comment on how his clothes fit; sometimes Tommy would even go so far as to poke the butt end of a pencil or pen into the added bulk of his middle and laugh.
Joel would play ignorant to his thickening form and ignore Tommy telling him he must be in love because he’s getting soft in more ways than one. He wanted to slap the smug grin off his brother’s face, but he knew Tommy was right – he was getting fat off your love.
On this Saturday, you’d prepped for a Tex-Mex menu and once Joel had eaten his weight in tacos, he sat back in his chair and huffed, unbuckling his belt. As he did, he made a note that he needed a new one now that he was on the last hole – the one he had added to lengthen its life with him. Just as he was unbuttoning his jeans and letting his stuffed belly out with a groan, you walked into the dining room with another platter of nachos, loaded with beef, queso, lettuce, jalapeño, pico… the tray in your hands looked and smelled so good, making his mouth water. It almost made him forget how full he was.
“You look fit to be tied there, Miller.”, you smiled as you placed the nachos in front of him. You smoothed your hand over his very full middle. “You sure you’re up for this, baby?”
Joel huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Don’t matter. I was raised in the Clean Plates Club… I got a job to do.”
By the time he was done, Joel’s plate was indeed clean, and he sat back in the chair slightly out of breath, button up shirt ruined, and feeling pretty damn accomplished.
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I know I've mentioned this before but not recently but it still blows my mind when I started working even (wtf autocorrect) at wags I couldn't lift a gallon of milk. It was too heavy and it hurt too much and a half gallon was my limit.
Now I'm at blue hardware slinging 30 pound cases of soda around like its nothing.
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Dieter Measures Up feat. Dieter Bravo & Cookie (f!reader)
a HeftyThrowaway one shot drabble | Rated: 18+ | word count: 834
warnings: weight gain, grinding, Dieter being a needy mess
A/N: thank you @toxicanonymity for celebrating 900 friendos in the bistro! and yes... this is a bit more than a drabble.
Dieter groaned. He looked over the email from his manager, suggesting in the firmest way possible that wouldn’t compromise their job, that he needed to wear an actual suit to the premier. To add to his grief, they put in bold right at the end before signing off: YOU ARE NOT WEARING ANYTHING REMOTELY RESEMBLING SOMETHING YOU COULD SLEEP IN.
Included in the message was also the requirement to get fitted for the suit because they knew he hadn’t lost any of the weight he’d gained for the role. Rolling his eyes, he flipped the bird at his phone, tossed it into the pocket of his robe, and pulled the tube of raw cookie dough from the fridge. He forwent the spoon, taking a big bite of the dough, and leaned over the counter thinking.
An idea hit him: he could just send the measurements that were taken when he arrived on set to shoot ten months ago. He smiled as he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his notes before it dawned on him that he had to be measured and then remeasured a few times over the course of the shoot because his costumes kept shrinking. As he wondered who he needed his assistant to contact to track down the measurements, another email arrived from his management team: DON’T ASK FOR PRIOR MEASUREMENTS. THEY WON’T BE ACCURATE ANYMORE.
He scowled at his screen. “Mother fucker.”
*****
It had been a while since he’d been to a tailor, normally opting for off the rack because prior to this role, he was within the sample size range. He was pretty sure he still was. Sure, he had less of the iconic ‘slutty little waist’ and sure, his belly had stuck out when he wasn’t close to being full, but there was no way he was that much bigger.
At least he thought that until the seamstress, an older European woman, came out and began to measure him. Every time he felt the measuring tape pull tight against his body followed by the older woman calling out a number much higher than he anticipated, his body reacted. Not negatively – no, quite the opposite. He was getting hard.
Even after the project wrapped, he kept you on as his private cook, telling you that now he’d had a bite of his ‘Cookie’, there was no way he could have any other. And while nothing was official between you, he hadn’t fucked around with anyone else, and even cleared out his extensive vintage clown pornography collection from the guesthouse and set you up in there so you could live on sight. He loved the praise you gave when he finished his meals and he craved the look you gave when he sat back, belly heavy and sitting on his lap.
He needed to get home. Now.
****
You stood at the door to the pantry, debating on whether to make burritos or chicken korma for dinner that evening when you heard the door from the garage open and slam loudly. Before you could ask if everything was okay, Dieter was behind you, shoving you against the wall, his front to your back.
“Fuck, you do your job so good.”, he grunted, biting softly into your neck. His whole thick body pinned you and he bucked his hips, seeking friction.
“Most bosses offer a raise… not a full body slam.”, you breathed back with a smile.
“Most bosses…”, he panted, “aren’t grateful… enough.”
“Dieter… we can go to the bedro-“
“No… right… oh fuck… right here’s fine…”, he grunted with a whine. He ground his hips, and his painfully hard erection finally found the right angle against your left ass cheek.
“Dee! The couch! Not here!”
His breathing picked up and he bit the crux of your neck and shoulder with a whine. “Just… almost… need this…”
You pushed your body from the wall with all your strength, but it was no use; Dieter’s additional weight had made his physical self just as stubborn as his personality.
“Got me so… fuckin’ big… Olga… measured me… no idea… who I was… said I was a… a fat man…”, he whimpered in grunts, breath panting over the skin he’s made wet on your neck and shoulder.
You couldn’t help but moan in response, and his arm snaked around to your front, cupping your legging clad mound, and pulling your ass against him harder. It was almost painful, but also euphoric. Dieter’s breaths became faster and carried high pitch whines with them.
“I promise… I’ll fuck… I’ll fuck you later… after dinner… just need… to cum n-oh fuck!���
You felt a warmth through your leggings on your ass cheek and his whines hit heights that only dogs could hear. When he finally stilled, his body relaxed enough that you could turn around and face him. He gave you a goofy half grin with heavy lidded eyes.
“Now that we got that out of the way, I’m starved. What’s for dinner?”
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