Work Text:
Being that you lived in Circhester your whole life, it was only natural (or maybe even expected) that you ended up working part-time at Bob’s Your Uncle starting in high school.
You had shifts after class, and soon it turned into a longtime job. Coworkers came and went, but you were in your twenties now and still working at the cozy family restaurant. The managers and chefs knew you well by now, and you’d work evenings or afternoons in between your college courses and battling in tournaments.
It was during this period in your life that you’d met Gordie. He’d become the town’s freshly-minted leader just a year or so ago, and rumor was he often visited Bob’s Your Uncle every other weekend or so—except, you’d never managed to catch him at work until the day you took a shift for one of your fellow waiters.
After you two met that day, the connection was almost instantaneous. You attended a few of his matches, and even visited his apartment. You went on several more dates with him before he confessed his love to you.
And now, all was well. Perfect, even. This would be your second week of officially dating.
You hadn’t expected to see Gordie pop in at lunch, though—especially considering it was off-season, and a weekday. However, when you looked up from cleaning off your dishes into the sink, you spotted him in the doorway, chatting with the hostess. A few passersby—mainly girls—swooned from outside the front window, but for the most part he hadn’t been closely tailed by the press.
“—Your boyfriend’s here, huh?” quips the head chef, Boss, as he patted your back teasingly. He’d been working here for at least thirty years, and was sort of like an uncle to you at this point; he was even pretty friendly with Gordie. He always kept his long, platinum blond hair greased back and wore dark black aviators—even indoors.
“That’s his third time here this week,” he muses again, flipping one of the burgers on the grilltop. “Wonder if he’s been trying to catch a certain someone on their shift?”
Luckily you two were in the back of the house—otherwise you might’ve clamped a hand over his mouth. “H-Hey, don’t say things like that! If he wanted to know when I work, he could just ask me...”
“Probably surprisin’ you,” Boss concludes, whistling a little as he flipped yet another patty.
The more you thought about it, the more it made sense. You hadn’t seen him the apparent other two times he’d come in for lunch.
“M-Maybe...” Readjusting your uniform, you prepared to head to the dining room—and when you did, you found Gordie sitting at the bartop on a stool, his usual spot the last few times he had caught you working here.
And it just so happened to be your table today.
“Gordie!” you chirp, gliding behind the counter to greet him. “You’re here! I didn’t know you’d be coming today!”
He smiles up at you—dazzling as always—and reaches to touch your arm gently. “Figured I’d give you a nice surprise. And I gotta make sure the old man isn’t overworking you.”
You laugh at that, suddenly a lot more at ease and relaxed than moments ago. He tended to have that affect on you. “Oh, don’t worry about that; I’m just glad I get to spend some time with you!”
“Of course... I feel the same, love.”
It was impossible for you to hide your glee. Especially right now, just after the lunch rush, when hardly anyone else was seated.
“—Don’t give ‘im too much special treatment, kid!” calls Boss from the kitchen, right on cue. “Especially no discounts!”
That makes Gordie chuckle as he takes the plastic menu from you.
You giggle, and after a few moments of him scanning, you ask, “What’ll it be?”
It’s been a month or so of your boyfriend coming into the restaurant nearly-daily on his lunch breaks.
Perhaps this wasn’t the healthiest thing for him, because whenever he came, he ordered a lot. Since Bob’s Your Uncle was diner-style (with a few twists, of course), that meant they served breakfast, lunch, and dinner foods all around the clock.
Whenever Gordie would come in and gravitate toward his stool without even waiting to be seated on a slow day, ordering whatever he was in the mood for. It was often things like a double-stacked Tauros meat cheeseburger, or a banana split sundae made with Tropius fruit and Moomoo milk ice cream.
Today, it had been a roasted ham and cheese monte cristo, battered in eggs and fried to a greasy texture, and long chocolate-frosted donuts filled with Alcremie cream for dessert.
You smile over some simple small-talk as you go to grab his finished, dirty plates—lately he’s been getting so much food that there isn’t usually a sliver of leftovers for home.
When you peek over the counter at him...you can just see the results of Gordie pigging out so much.
The cable-knit sweater he’s wearing should help hide the jiggly curve of his tummy in theory—but it’s white instead of a slimming black. That, combined with the straining button of his too-tight jeans underneath all that chub, just makes him look even heavier.
The denim pinches at his lovehandles, and makes his gut jut out even further. It brushes up against the counter when he leans over, with his elbows perched and a smile on his face. His eyes are only ever on you as you work, and since the kitchen window leading to Boss in the kitchen is right near his stool, she doesn’t have to move far.
Your eyes are only ever on him, too. The way the stool cushion dips under his weight, and how his perky chest rests like soft mounds atop the shelf of his upper belly. Gordie pats the side of his belly and discreetly rubs the ache away when he’s sure you’re not looking—except you watch carefully out of the corner of your eye.
But it’s cute, and he looks so happy, so you let it be and remind yourself to give him extra special care when your shift ends later this evening.
“Babe!”
Gordie pulls you into a hug, his belly—nice and soft in a heavy curve—squishing against your front and making your face grow warm.
“Good to see you, love,” you say, breathing in his scent. When you wrapped your arms around him, you couldn’t help but feel the thick rolls and lovehandles at his waist—and then noticed how your arms couldn’t reach all the way around him. Your hands merely gripped his jiggly lower back fat instead of interlocking like they could just a month ago.
There’s more of him now than four months ago, when you’d first started dating. He’d definitely...gained some weight, but it wasn’t like you were going to tell him that. Perhaps he’d seen some of his fan club’s posts and gossip already, though.
There was no way he’d be able to lose all of the extra pounds before the gym season started up again. But when that time came, you were still going to act shocked when he tried on his uniform top and it wouldn’t so much as reach the waistband of his shorts (assuming those could fit around his width).
“—Guess I came at the lunch rush, huh?” he chuckles back after he pulls from the embrace. He’d probably gotten a good look around over your shoulder, and indeed it was quite busy.
There’d been an ice skating event in town today, so you were getting nearly twice the amount of customers due to visitors from neighboring cities. Almost every single table was filled up, and all the waiters and cooks were on shift.
You giggle a little back, palm lingering on his forearm for now. Even at this distance, his tummy nearly brushed up against you. You had to clear you throat and speak up over the loud hustle and bustle.
“Yeah, you’ve got bad timing today— Even your usual spot’s taken...” You looked at him sheepishly and apologetically. “All we’ve got left are a few booths, is that—“
“—It’s perfect, no need to worry about it. A seat’s just a seat. And, I don’t have much time to wait for anything else to free up, so...”
“Right! Well, just follow me.”
You led him to a booth at the back—the very last one in the row, in fact. It’s against two brick walls, and the tabletop is glossy wood.
When Gordie goes to sit down, he has to slide in—this isn’t his usual stool at the bartop, after all. The booth is one of the smaller ones, reserved for four people instead of the bigger one for six. It’s bolted down, so it’s not like he can discreetly shove the table back for a little more precious room.
He has to shimmy between the seat and the table, and you spot him sucking in his stomach the best he can. But even so, he’s still a lot bigger—you wonder if he’ll even be able to get in at all. Suddenly you feel like this had been a bad idea.
The edge of the table digs into Gordie’s plush belly as he finally sits, the cushions pushing into the fat of his thick ass and creaking in the process. Somehow, he fits, squeezed and wedged in there like a Buffoulant sausage, his middle jammed underneath his plump chest and against the tabletop, and his back rolls pressing against the back cushion.
And that’s just it—said booth table cuts into him, his soft tummy spilling atop it and splitting into two rolls. His lower belly below the table rounds out into a perfect curve, resting atop his thighs. At least his shirt hadn’t rolled up.
You doubt he’ll be able to get out by himself after he’s eaten—he already struggled to get in while being the size of a Miltank before stuffing himself (well, who are you to assume he hasn’t been snacking already, though?).
“Y-You alright sitting here, Gordie?” you ask, fidgeting with the menu in your hands, your cheeks glowing pink. “You’re all comfortable?”
“Ah, well—mostly.” He clears his throat. And continues huffs. Still, he doesn’t look at you, instead adjusting himself further and pressing as much of his squishy belly underneath the table as he can. His expression is as blank as it could get in this situation, and his eyes are impossible to read under those sunglasses.
“Are you sure?” you interrupt, trying to pull him back to reality. “I can probably get you a table instead if we just wait a little longer—“
“—N-No!” he says insistently, forcing a smile and waving his hands dismissively. “Don’t worry about it, babe, you’re already working hard enough. I’ll just order.”
“Oh, alright...” you say through a sigh, pulling out your pen and notepad and handing the menu over. “What’ll it be today?”
“Hmm...” he mutters, scratching at his (now double) chin. “...The steak and eggs, make it medium-rare and the eggs sunny side up, salt and pepper. Mm, and then...some Aguav berry juice, buttered croissants on the side, and...a short stack of those Kalosian waffles, too.”
He handed back the menu like it was nothing, and you clenched with a blush, saying, “C-Coming right up!” before heading back to the kitchen.
The food took longer than normal. Of course, because of all the rush, it was expected. You were grateful, though, because that meant there was more time for you two to small-talk—all the while, his belly rumbling, which you gently teased him for.
By the time every heaping dish came out to the pass, it was the tail-end of the rush. Some guests had left, while most simply finished up the last of their meals and were lingering at their tables, chatting and resting after a big lunch.
There were three whole plates for Gordie that you placed down in front of him, plus the tall drink, but he didn’t look abashed in the slightest. Some patrons looked on the scene, but you tried not to face their direction.
“There! That’s everything for you, Gordie.”
“Thanks, baby.”
You watched him lick his lips in anticipation as he picked up his fork and knife. He cut the steak and eggs fast, dipping the meat into the runny egg yolk and then chewing.
...But of course, you were on shift, so it wasn’t like you could stand around at his table. Clearing your throat after a moment, you moved to your other tables—the two booths next to him and a few of the patrons at the barstools—and tended to them. Thankfully, most of them just needed refilled water or their checks.
Whenever you looked back to your boyfriend, you saw him gobbling up his eggs, dipping some of the croissants in it and then opening the other one up, placing the egg whites on top and chomping down. Some of the yolk drips stained his chubby face, and the breadcrumbs collected atop his belly.
Which, now that you could take a good glance at it while taking the neighboring booth’s dishes away, was starting to fill up nicely. The steak was already gone from his plate, and he was on his third croissant, so it made sense.
When you pass again, gulping, you spot him washing down the carbs with his juice, poured in a tall glass.
“—Yo.”
It’s Boss. You’re in the kitchen, placing the plates at the sink for the dishwasher, when you hear his voice. It makes you jump out of your stupor.
“Y-Yeah?” What could he be bothering you about?
“Your boyfriend—bring him some soft-serve, on the house.” He flips a few pancakes and whistles a tune, but you still stand there.
“Huh? Did he order some?”
“Nah, on the house. He’s been giving us some good business, after all.” Boss said it sort of knowingly, and you see him smirking. Even though you can’t see his eyes under those shades, you knew.
It makes you blush. “Alright... It’ll probably go good with those waffles.”
Boss hums and you go to the freezer, bringing out a small bowl and scooping a few generous portions into it.
When you head back toward the booth, cup and spoon in tow, Gordie’s about halfway through the first waffle, with two more left. They’re wide and hexagonal, and about an inch or so thick. Golden-brown and with powder sugar and syrup on top, filling the little holes.
With the rest of your tables packing up and some already gone, you decide it wouldn’t be a problem if you sat down for a little bit while Gordie finished up.
“Hey, Gordie— Boss says have some ice cream, it’s on the house.” You slide into the booth across from him, now fully realizing just how much space he occupied. Your own body wasn’t even close to touching the tabletop, and yet...
...His upper gut sat like a mound as it got cut into by the edge, with his man-boobs not too far away from being able to sit on the counter, too. The rolls bulging at his sides seemed more accentuated now that his stomach was so full and straining forward.
Through his full mouth, he gives a please grunt and smiles back at you.
And as he cut his next dripping waffle piece, fork poised high and maw draping open, you scooped up some of the vanilla soft-serve yourself, holding it up for him cutely across the length of the table.
Gordie takes a second before realizing what you’re doing, but happily drags the spoon into his mouth. He licks it clean.
This goes on for a while, Gordie not slowing down in the slightest as he eats and eats and eats. The ice cream is gone before the waffles, so you absentmindedly speak about your day, playing footsie with him underneath the table.
For a few rare moments, you get him to stop chewing and ask about the latest preparations at the gym, what with the new season starting in about a week. He said it’d be a slog.
The whole time, though, you’d been imaging what the rest of that belly looks like at the bottom. When he’s done and leans back to massage his fat, you still can’t see the entire thing. What you can looks totally rounded and flabbier at the lower end. You’re sure parts of his underbelly will surely be exposed, unable to fit into his shirt.
“Well, I’ll get going,” Gordie says after a burp, patting his stomach. “Still got some prep work to do at the gym.”
“Of course! I have a few more hours on my shift, too.” You get up, waiting for him, until you glance down—
He’s sheepish when he says, “You, uh—You probably need to help me a bit...”
Fuck, he looks so plump and massive at this angle, his arms held out helplessly. He’s so wedged in there from getting so stuffed. Gordie can shimmy to the edge on his ample butt, but it’s a challenge to move his solid belly through.
“R-Right...” But you smile to help him feel less embarrassed about it—the tips of his ears were rosy. “You push and I’ll pull.”
You grip his arms, fingers sinking into the bit of fat there, and try your best to be discreet about lifting him. The weight is so heavy that you’re fairly certain you’re hardly helping, but at some point Gordie manages to free him and stand.
He wobbles for a moment, in which you see his blubber resettle and jiggle into place. He’s huffing and steadying himself, and you can see that yes, his shirt doesn’t quite fit right.
“Jeez, that sitting position’s gonna give me some real indigestion,” he remarks, pulling his shirt back down over his round tummy. It dimples at his belly button and the little divot of his lower belly, that hangs over his waist and dick.
You just giggle and wink in spite of it. “Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of you when we get home.”