Hi! Welcome to hungry-tum-stuff, y’all can call me Bee! I’m 22 years old, and I use she/it pronouns. I’m a biromantic asexual, so if you’re looking for an nsfw tummy blog, you’re looking in the wrong place!
Regardless of this being a sfw blog, it’s still strictly 18+. I discuss and write about mature themes on this blog. If you’re younger than 18 I obviously can’t stop you, but if I find you treading here it's motherfucking open season.
In a similar vein, all characters I reference here will either be fictional or my own original characters. I won’t be writing or making headcanons about real people, nor will I make mentions of ways that I engage in this fetish in real life. My one exception is my Fanvue, which you can find linked below:
Fanvue Link: https://www.fanvue.com/hungry_tumbee
One of the hungriest tummies around 💛 Some of you have seen my belly on Reddit, Discord and YouTube, and now I finally have a place to post
someone left the cake out in the rain & i dont think that i can take it bc it took so long to bake it & ill never have the recipe again is basically my favorite hunger scenario Tbh
im not a huge hunger kink person but i do like a scenario where somebody works soo long & hard making food & doesnt get to eat any of it bc somebody else ruined it for them & theyre woeful as fuck And hungry and also theres dramatic 60s music
this is my wholesome and spiritually pure art of a fat person. dont interact with it if youre like sexually attracted to fat people or something thats fucking gross this isnt fetish art this is wholesome and spiritually pure and youre corrupting it by thinking shes hot because shes fat
not that you cant think shes hot because shes fat, that would be fatphobic to say and problematic, you just cant think shes hot in specific gross ways that fat fetishists think fat women are hot, like, finding her body attractive or something
Hi guys. Have you considered: Someone who hadn't realized they were hungry up until their stomach growls.
Perhaps they're feeling a little spent after a busy afternoon, and had almost forgotten about the notion of food until their stomach loudly reminds them. Only then does it feel like a knot in their stomach has come undone and given way to an aching emptiness that simply refuses to be ignored.
Thinking a lot about the different stages of being full.
When you first start to feel it. At a normal meal, you would have stopped eating by now. It isn't hard to keep going, but you're aware of the food travelling to your stomach, in a new way; stretching gently. Maybe your sides feel a little bit tight, or your waistband does. When you put a hand on your stomach, it feels denser, heavier. A pleasant overindulgence. You could stop, now, and drift into a thick, comfortable doze. Or– you could keep going.
You hit a point where the next bite's not so easy, anymore. You're thinking about swallowing, each time, instead of it happening automatically. Maybe you put your food down, for a moment, to catch your breath, and find it a little hard to pick it back up. Your belly doesn't just feel dense- it feels rounder, pushing out of its usual frame to spill into your hand, bulging out to accommodate your indulgence. The taste of food lingers in your mouth, at the back of your throat, even after you swallow. When you stand, your belly is a weight. It pulls at you, heavy, starting to get in the way when you move. Your body doesn't want you to keep going- you would have to do it by sheer force of will.
And then even will isn't enough. You're half-lidded, sprawled back to make room for your bulging stomach, breathing shallowly. You can't force the fork to your mouth. Chewing is a horrible chore. Swallowing is almost impossible. Your skin is tight, stretched thin over the massive ball of food beneath. It's not just your breath that's shallow- not just your lungs being pressed on by your massive belly. It feels like everything in you has been shoved aside by the sheer amount of food– even your thoughts. They're distant and fuzzy, consumed with the weight and roundness and tightness of you, the fullness, how your belly aches at the top, where new food is piled up, strains at the sides and bottom, where everything that came before is sitting, leadenly... it feels so good, and right, to be this way, even as you groan and pant and burp, stomach struggling audibly. Maybe you can force down just one more bite....
being an adventurer stumbling into an inn after a long day bare belly growling loudly. Innkeeper stares at the adventurer's hollow tummy a lil too long before letting them sleep for the night, deciding not to give them supper so they can hear that tummy roar the next morning
"Sorry, traveler, kitchen's closed for the night." The innkeeper says, and the adventurer can't quite tell if they're lying or not. But they're starving and exhausted and can't see why they would lie, so they press a hand to their howling belly and pay for a room for the night, hoping they can rest despite the gnawing hunger within.
this kinda falls short of what i wanted it to be but what everrrrrr im tired of messing with it. new marianne story
[stuffing]
Marianne hadn't seen the young ghoul sitting by the window before. She doubted she'd forget if she had. He looked like a ghost, deathly pale and rail-thin, with dark insomniac circles under his gloomy eyes, and there almost seemed to be a storm cloud casting a damp pondwater shadow over him. She supposed she wouldn't get much entertainment out of this one. He looked like he barely ate. That was alright, though; a customer was a customer, and she'd treat him just as well as the ones she had her fun with. She watched for a moment as he perused the menu, wondering as he set it down what he'd settled on, and approached the table to find out.
"All set to order, sweetheart?" She greeted him with a friendly smile, and he nodded, idly stirring his soda with his straw.
"Can I have the gyro platter? And a fried appetizer sampler, please?"
That was a surprise. Neither item was small, and the sampler in particular was hardly light fare. The scrawny thing sitting before her didn't look like he could finish a gyro on its own, let alone all the rest. Looking down at his benign, sleepy smile, she supposed the night might not be so dull after all.
Carrol gazed out the window as Marianne left, watching the lights of the town reflect on damp pavement in the darkness. He'd only been to the diner once before, on a rare daytime outing with Carole. It was a little out of the way; the pizza place right by campus was his go-to, but it was good enough to come back on a night like tonight where he was craving something a little more sophisticated. He hadn't been sure whether it would even be open--it wasn't hard to find a restaurant operating at this hour right beside a college campus, but the diner was a little further out--but open it was, albeit nearly deserted. Well, deserted was alright. Carrol preferred that over bustling crowds any day.
Given how empty the place was, it didn't take long for Marianne to return with a steaming hot platter of crispy fried everything--onion rings, mozzarella sticks, wings, mushrooms, clams, you name it. Carrol thanked her as she set it down, and he couldn't help but notice her eyes creeping along his slender frame, clearly wondering whether he'd be able to finish it all. He didn't mind that one bit. She left him to it, and he happily dug in. He'd forgotten to eat at all today, and his growling stomach practically jumped like a dog at the promise of finally being fed.
Marianne watched from the counter, captivated by the odd young man. She had her doubts about his capacity, but he seemed to be making quick work of the appetizer, munching away on big bites with a look of mellow contentedness. It must have been good; the restaurant was so quiet that she could just hear the crunch of the perfectly-crispy breading from where she stood now. She could have stood there all night watching him eat, but there wasn't time for that--the gyro platter was ready. Taking the plate in her hand, she made her way back to the table.
"Y'know, pumpkin, I can't help wondering where in the world you're gonna put all this," she teased as she set the new dish down beside the appetizer, which was only half finished.
"Well, normally if I run out of space in my belly, I just stick the rest in my ears," he said simply, and she laughed.
"That, I'd like to see," she chuckled. "Well, you go ahead and eat up, sweetpea."
Carrol took a break from the appetizer to pick up the gyro. It wasn't something he got often, but he loved a good gyro, and this one did not disappoint. The fresh cucumbers and tomatoes crunched as he took a big bite, and a trickle of tangy tzatziki dripped down his hand. He gave his wrist a quick lick, then went in for another bite before setting it down to turn his attention to the salad. It wasn't the sorry excuse for a Greek salad some diners offered; it was loaded with plenty of feta, olives, and onion, more tomato and cucumber than lettuce, well-dressed and delicious. The dressing was seeping into the pile of hot fries beside it, but that was hardly a problem. He liked them just fine that way, and after a few bites of salad, he picked up a couple of savory soaked fries and stuck them in his mouth.
Marianne was watching again, entranced by the thin man's appetite. He ate like he'd been starved--not impolitely, not messily, but with large, quickly-paced bites. He was making good progress on his food, too, considering the amount of it, and it occurred to her that he just might finish. Eyeing his belly, watching closely for the curve of it to come pushing out against his ratty sweater, she decided she was going to have some fun with him.
"Oh, sweetheart, I am so sorry, I completely forgot," she fibbed as she approached the table, "your gyro was supposed to come with a soup! I know you've got a lot to work on right now, I can put it in a to-go cup for you if you want."
"Oh, no need," he said. "Soup sounds lovely right now." She smiled broadly at him, and he smiled right back.
He'd taken the bait. Or had he? She wasn't sure why, but Marianne had a sneaking suspicion that Carrol was playing along with her. There was something knowing in his eyes, something almost impish, a wisdom in his smile that suggested he was in on the game. Whether he had the same goal as her, well, that wasn't clear. As she went to get him a bowl of clam chowder, though, she wondered just how far he'd let her push him.
Carrol smiled up at Marianne as she returned with a piping hot bowl of chowder and a basket of bread--a little extra, she'd made sure--and thanked her as she set them alongside the two big platters. The table looked fit for a family right now, and while even he wasn't sure he'd be able to put it all away, he intended to try. He could tell Marianne was testing him--that she wanted to see him eat it all, in fact--and his goal tonight was no longer just to fill his hungry belly but to tease her with it.
"You've got a good appetite on you, honey," she said, looking approvingly down at the impressive spread. "I like that. You just let me know when you need a box, alright?" She gave him a wink, and he smiled innocently at her.
Carrol peered into the bread basket. There was a full sliced roll and a half, likely what they typically served a full table, if not more. He tore a slice off the roll--it was still warm--and dipped it into the creamy chowder. He was, admittedly, beginning to fill up, but not enough to slow down, not just yet. He ate two slices of the fluffy bread, soaking up the hot broth with them, then dipped into the bowl with his spoon. It was a hearty chowder, chunky with clams and potatoes and plenty of other vegetables, thick and aromatic and comforting on a chilly night like this. It was also very filling, he could tell straight away. He'd finish it, but he'd have to take care.
Pausing on the chowder, Carrol returned to his gyro, wanting to take care of that before it got too soggy and difficult to handle. It was well-stuffed with meat and toppings, and he had to cradle it firmly with both hands to keep it steady as he bit into it. The wrap alone would have made a filling meal; accompanied by fries and salad, the appetizer platter, and now the soup and bread, it would leave him even more overstuffed than the pita was. He could feel his belly growing snug, as a matter of fact, and ordinarily he might have even asked for a box by this point, but he was determined to toy with Marianne just as much as she seemed intent on toying with him. He'd seen the look in her eyes when she took his big order, and he knew good and well that his meal hadn't come with a soup.
Working steadily, Carrol finished off the gyro and followed it with a few fries. His stomach felt tight now, the hefty wrap filling it out firmly, and he could feel the waist of his pants beginning to squeeze him around the middle. He paid it no mind, though, and picked up an onion ring from the platter. With the sauce-drenched gyro out of the way, the fried appetizers were next priority; they were best while they were hot, and while Carrol didn't mind tepid, soggy food very much, he preferred to enjoy it while it was at its peak. He was reaching a point where each bite made him feel aware of how full he was getting, but that was alright. He took a bite of the onion ring. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marianne striding up to the table once more.
"You look like you could use another one of these," she said, setting another cup of soda on the table. The one he'd started with was only half empty, and he supposed he'd have to get to work on that. "Anything else I can get you, sweetpea?"
"Humm…" Carrol thought about that for a moment. He really didn't need anything else--he was beginning to feel absolutely stuffed--but he had to do something to return the gesture of the unnecessary refill. "Is it too late to add an extra side of broccoli?"
"Of course not!" Marianne grinned. "I'll have that right out for you, pumpkin."
She left the table with a smile, and Carrol went on crunching his way through the appetizer. He loved fried food, and his body was no stranger to large quantities of it, but it felt heavy in his belly, especially the mozzarella sticks. He paused here and there for refreshing bites of salad and sips of soda, his stomach bulging against his worn old sweater as it stretched around the growing mass of food inside it, and before long, Marianne was back with what was certainly more than the average side of broccoli.
"Here you go, pumpkin pie," she said, placing the bowl before him. It was hardly a side; it almost looked like enough to be a sorry little meal of its own. Peering down at Carrol, she was pleased to see his tummy beginning to round out visibly. It was a subtle bump, but it was there, a solid presence beneath the otherwise loose sweater.
"Thank you," smiled Carrol, sticking his fork into one of the steamed florets.
"Aren't you feeling full? That's an awful lot for a skinny thing like you," she said, eyeing his belly. Carrol shook his head. "Well, that's good. I like making sure my customers are well-fed."
Well-fed he certainly was. He finished off the first soda, the liquid filling in the tiny gaps in his stuffed stomach, and took a quick sip of the second. Marianne watched from her usual perch at the counter, idly wiping it down but not paying much attention to the already-clean surface. She wondered just how far that man was going to go. He'd matched her soda with a side, and she supposed he intended to eat it. He was, indeed, nibbling at the broccoli between bites of fried mushroom and spoonfuls of chowder, and she wondered how he must have been feeling. He'd packed into his skinny belly a hefty gyro, the better part of a fried appetizer platter, a full glass of soda, a decent dent out of the bread and soup, and a fair bit of the salad and fries, and it showed. She could tell his belly was firm under that sweater, bulging tight and hard from his scrawny frame. Still, he kept going.
The appetizer platter was nearly finished, the salad and broccoli helping to break up the greasy weight of it as he ate, and with a final mozzarella stick, the plate was cleared. He wanted to pause for a moment and catch his breath, hold his belly and let it settle, but, noticing Marianne watching him, he decided not to, not yet. Her game was clear; she wanted to see him stuffed. He was going to make her wait for that. He decided to turn his attention back to the chowder and bread. It was heavy, thick, and filling, the bread seeming to expand in his stomach as it soaked up all the broth inside him, and he could feel an enormous pressure in his upper belly as his stomach distended outward. He didn't slow down, though; he knew he'd lose all momentum if he did. He worked at a steady pace, stomach stretching, until the bowl was empty, save for a little bit of broth which he sopped up with the last piece of bread.
Carrol couldn't deny it--he felt like he was about to pop. He'd eaten the chowder far too quickly, and between that and the carbonation of the soda, he could feel bubbles of trapped air rumbling around inside him. His stomach felt tight as a drum, his bulging belly hard to the touch, so distended it almost ached to move. He still had a little bit of the salad and fries left, though, as well as most of the broccoli and almost an entire glass of soda. Determined, he pushed on.
Marianne had given up on wiping the counter; she was utterly entranced. If Carrol was struggling--and he must have been by this point--his face refused to show it. He was working at his veggies now, picking at fries between forkfuls of salad and broccoli, intermittently sipping on the soda. She almost went to grab him a third glass, but decided against it; his tummy looked like it must have been about ready to burst, and she'd be lucky if he managed to finish what was already in front of him. His bloated middle was pushing out solidly against his sweater, hard and unmoving, and she imagined it must have ached, having stretched so tightly. She wished she could have had a glimpse of it uncovered. She could imagine the strain of his belly button pulled taut, the skin pulling at his sides as his belly bulged outward, a sharp line where it jutted out beneath his chest and between his hips.
Carrol always struggled to fall asleep, but right now, he felt ready for a food coma. His belly felt unbelievably heavy, and though it was uncomfortable, the warm pressure pushing out inside it was almost soothing, in a way. He was making quick work of the soda, taking a sip between each bite, though it left his stomach feeling tight and bubbly, and the remains of his gyro platter were almost gone. The broccoli was getting to be the hard part; it was steamed and very lightly seasoned, not very exciting. Still, he went on, eating pieces between bites of salad and fries, until it was all that remained.
With a pile of empty dishes around him, Carrol worked at the broccoli with the same methodical calmness he'd been eating with the entire time--quick, steady, and seemingly unfazed by how full he was. That was how it looked, at least. Internally, he was achingly aware of his stomach growing tighter and tighter with each bite. It had expanded to its limit, no longer able to stretch any further, and now the broccoli was only building the pressure inside him. He felt like a melon had sprouted and grown just under his ribs, swelling inside him until it threated to burst through the drum-tight skin of his upper belly, and though he only had a few florets left, for a moment, he wasn't sure he could finish. One by one, though, the florets disappeared, and at long last, the bowl was empty. He had defeated the enormous meal. Feeling satisfied in more ways than one, he finally sat back in the seat with a sigh, resting his hands atop his round tummy.
"I'm impressed, sweetheart," said Marianne, eyes fixed on that bulging tummy as she approached the table. "I didn't think you'd be able to squeeze all that in there. You look just about ready to pop."
"Would you be mad if I did?"
"Well, I'd certainly like it better if you stayed in one piece," she chuckled. "I don't suppose you're feeling up for dessert?"
"Oh, I don't think I could eat another bite." Carrol yawned and stretched his arms over his head, and his sweater, loose-fitting horizontally but just a hair short on his lanky frame, slipped up to expose the lower half of his belly, just as tight and round as she'd imagined.
Yet Another Marianne Story nothing special i just wanted diandre to have a nice night at the diner
[stuffing, mentions of weight gain, mentions of body image/diet talk]
Marianne thought she recognized the young man in the booth, browsing the long menu with his chin in his hand and his feet swinging idly under the table. He wasn't dressed quite as flashily as usual--a cozy oversized cardigan over a loose crop top and a soft pair of jeans seemed a fair look for a late-night diner run--but as she approached the table, it was plain to see that it was none other than Diandre Harlin sitting there reading over the entrees. And, she was pleased to see, the tabloids hadn't been lying about his recent change in appearance. She certainly wouldn't have called him fat, but the pretty singer had softened up considerably over the past year or two, complete with a sweet little potbelly poking out over the waist of his pants. He looked sleepy and content as he looked over the menu, and as Marianne came close, she heard that adorable belly rumble.
"Evening, cutie pie," said Marianne with a friendly smile. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Umm… Can I have a Shirley Temple?" Diandre looked up from the menu at her, returning the smile.
"You got it, pumpkin," she said. "Any appetizers while you're thinkin'? We just added hot pretzel sticks with beer cheese to our menu and people are loving it."
"Ooh, that does sound good," he agreed, and she was off with the order.
Diandre hummed softly to himself as he went on reading the menu. He'd been in the mood for pancakes when he came in, but now, looking over the long list of mouthwatering options, he wasn't so sure. He hadn't eaten since an early lunch, and everything looked good. He could stay within the realm of breakfast, maybe something similarly sweet and bready like waffles or French toast, or he could wander entirely off into the lunch and dinner options; fried flounder or stuffed chicken didn't sound bad. He glanced around the diner, thinking. It was late--nearly one in the morning--and there was nobody around, not near his table, at least. If he wanted to really get wild…
"Find anything good, sweetpea?" Marianne returned to the table with a sparkling pink soda and a dish of steaming hot pretzels, and Diandre looked up with a sheepish grin.
"Okay, don't judge me, because I'm really hungry," he started, and Marianne laughed.
"Oh, sweetheart, I would never judge anybody for havin' a good appetite," she assured him.
"Can I do, um, a short stack of blueberry pancakes, and a fried seafood basket?"
"Absolutely," said Marianne, grinning ear to ear. "I think that's a fabulous choice."
Diandre would have liked to say he wasn't sure what came over him in that moment, but he was perfectly sure. He was hungry, indecisive, and tired of caring what other people thought. It wasn't like he intended to finish the entire two meals anyhow; he knew he'd likely have plenty left for tomorrow. Tonight, though, he was going to indulge in his odd combination to the fullest, not stopping to think about what his manager would say, or his no-longer-slim figure, or how he'd look chowing down on two plates of food on the cover of some sleazy magazine. He picked up a pretzel stick and dipped it into the hot cheese sauce. Tonight, he was going to enjoy himself.
There were three pretzels on the plate, and they were big and thick. The cheese was hot and savory on his tongue, the pretzel pleasantly fluffy inside, and as he chewed, he felt perfectly content. Diandre loved food, but, being under constant pressure to stay thin and pretty for his fans, he hadn't allowed himself to really take pleasure in it until fairly recently. Even now, fifty pounds heavier than the scrawny fashionista who had built his image, the thoughts still crossed his mind--is this okay?--what would so-and-so say about this?--shouldn't I be ordering a salad?--but he pushed them away and took another bite.
By the time he was on the third pretzel, Diandre realized ordering two entrees may have been a mistake. He was certainly still looking forward to them, but he was hardly starving with two and a half six-inch hunks of bread in his belly. He doubted he'd even be able to finish one of the meals, let alone make a dent in both. Well, that was alright. He'd have extra leftovers. He finished off the rest of the third pretzel and took a sip of his Shirley Temple, coaxing one of the cherries to the top of the glass with his straw. At any rate, he was glad nobody was around. He'd been to diners that were busy and bustling all night long, but this wasn't one of them. Nobody in sight to catch a picture of him eating enough for two people, not unless the waitress was gonna go behind his back, but she seemed alright.
The other perk of the diner's emptiness was that the food was ready quickly. Diandre had barely finished the pretzels when Marianne returned to the table with two plates--a small stack of fluffy, steaming pancakes just waiting to be doused in butter and syrup, and a basket of hot, crispy fried fish and shrimp nestled among a bed of golden fries. It looked delicious and smelled even better, the warm mixture of sweet and savory scents wafting over him like a spell.
"Thank you!" Diandre was wide-eyed at the appealing-yet-daunting spread. "Boy, I sure overestimated myself," he added with a sheepish smile.
"Oh, nonsense, cutie pie," said Marianne. "A big dinner will do you good."
"Yeah, maybe a little too good," he chuckled, giving his belly a squeeze.
"No such thing," she assured him. "You're looking very healthy these days. It suits you!"
"Aw, thank you!" He beamed up at her, blushing.
"Eat up, pumpkin," she said with a bright smile, and she left him to it.
Despite the bulky pretzels already taking up space in his stomach, Diandre's appetite was still strong, and if he'd been questioning it before, the sight of the fresh, hot food reinvigorated it with full force. He decided to start by buttering the pancakes--that was one area where he never felt guilty about using an abundance of butter--and drizzled syrup over a small area of them before sticking his fork in and breaking off a bite. It was almost too hot to close his mouth around, but absolutely delicious, with juicy pockets of blueberry and buttery syrup mingling across his tongue as he chewed. He let out a soft hum of contentment as he took in the flavors, then picked up another dripping bite.
Once the syrupy area of the pancakes had been eaten, he turned his attention toward the more savory half of the meal. There was a large hunk of flounder, breaded and fried golden brown, and a handful of shrimp given the same treatment. Fried seafood was one of Diandre's great loves, and he knew from experience that that flounder would burn the roof of his mouth clean off if he took a bite now, so he broke it in half in hopes of letting some of the steam out while he enjoyed a shrimp. It was perfectly crispy, the heat of it balanced by the cool cocktail sauce he'd dipped it in, and in two bites it was gone, as was the next one. He followed the second shrimp with a few fries, just as hot and in no need of extra salt, then took a sip of his soda.
Diandre savored his meals as he ate, alternating between breakfast and dinner with no particular method or strategy. He had no intention of finishing, only of enjoying, and enjoying he was. Marianne could see that from her spot across the diner, enjoying the blissful look on his freckled face almost as much as he was enjoying the food. He was a cute little thing, and she hoped he'd make a good dent in his meal. His soft tummy was already delightfully round, and, especially given that it was exposed beneath the tantalizing hem of his crop top, she was eager to see it round out even further.
It didn't take long for Diandre to start feeling full. A variety of bulky carbs were pushing out the walls of his stomach, between the large volumes of fluffy bread from the pancakes and pretzels and the heavier, greasier weight of the fries and the breading of the seafood, and the bubbly Shirley Temple soaked into everything and filled in the gaps with sweet carbonation. Still, he wasn't ready to quit just yet. He wasn't planning on giving himself a bellyache, but he wanted to make the most of his meal while it was fresh. He picked up a piece of the flounder, dipped it into the cocktail sauce, and took a bite. It was a little dry, but still flavorful, and the texture was pleasant enough in his mouth to pull him right back in for another bite.
"How is everything, sweetpea?" Marianne smiled down at him, and he covered his mouth as he looked up, still chewing.
"Really good," he said, quickly swallowing the mouthful. "I think I'm gonna need a box soon, though."
"Well, you just let me know when that cute little tummy's had enough," she teased. "I always say: it'll never be as good tomorrow."
"You're so right," he agreed, and with that little bit of encouragement, he dove back in.
Deciding that the seafood and fries would be less likely to heat up well, Diandre decided to tackle that for the moment. It would do fine in the air fryer, but Marianne was right--it was at its prime right now. He picked up another shrimp, still hot but far more manageable than when it had first come out, and followed it with a couple of fries. They were some of the best fries he could recall having in his time, thick-cut and crisp, and he could happily have picked at them all night. That's exactly what he did, in fact--even as his belly grew snug and full, he kept coming back to the fries, popping one or two in his mouth between each bite. There seemed to be an endless amount of them in the deceptively small basket.
Diandre took a sip of his soda, then fished out the last cherry. He'd have to wrap things up soon. He was beginning to feel stuffed, and while the jeans he was wearing were far more forgiving than his usual tight pants, they were still growing a little too snug around his waist. There were a couple of shrimp left and about half the flounder; that would make a nice lunch tomorrow even if he wound off polishing off the rest of the fries. He decided to finish sweet. He doused another portion of the pancakes with syrup--more than he intended to cover--and stuck in his fork.
The pancakes were delicious, soft and warm and comforting, but they took up a lot of space in his stomach. Each bite made him feel considerably more full. He felt like his belly pushed out further with each swallow, and he was getting to the point where his stomach felt like it was beginning to stretch. The syrupy patch of pancakes would wind up soggy if he didn't eat it now, though. Almost absentmindedly, he popped a fry into his mouth, took a quick sip of soda to break up the dense bready feeling, and broke off another bite.
Marianne watched with great interest as Diandre worked his way through the pancakes. He'd slowed down considerably, and she could tell he was struggling now. The amount of food he'd eaten hadn't been exceptional--a few big soft pretzels, half a fried seafood basket, about a third of the pancakes so far--but even with his new weight, he was a little guy, and there was only so much space to hide it all. His belly stuck out considerably over the waist of his pants, still plush but visibly tightened by everything that had been packed into it, and the crop top seemed to rest higher on the curve than it had when he'd first sat down. The oversized cardigan framed his belly nicely, seeming to emphasize the bulge of his rounded sides. Marianne was enjoying watching that belly, watching the way it moved as he breathed, the way the mass seemed to shift inside it with each little change in position, the way it seemed to push straight out rather than let gravity weigh it down. Wanting a closer look, she decided to check in with him.
"Feeling full yet, pumpkin?" She gave him a friendly smile, her eyes fixed on his bulging tummy. "You're lookin' pretty stuffed." Diandre nodded, but the fork remained in his hand.
"I definitely need a box," he said, leaning back against the soft cushion of the booth and resting his free hand on his belly. It looked impressively taut, stretching a little tighter with each sleepy breath, and it was almost comically round, given that not only was it stuffed to the brim, but it held a good amount of the weight he'd gained recently compared to the rest of his body. Still, he looked like he was thinking about that forkful of pancakes.
"I'll grab you a couple, sweetheart," she promised. Thinking about the way he was contemplating the pancakes, she decided to take her time.
Diandre was under no illusion that he was going to finish much more, but he didn't want to bring home half-soaked pancakes. If he could just finish off the part he'd poured syrup on, he'd be happy. A few good-sized bites remained. He sighed, hand still resting on his belly, and reluctantly brought the fork to his mouth. They still tasted good, at least. Already a little soggy for his liking, but still good. He chewed slowly, almost hesitant to swallow, and when he did, he could feel his stomach stretch just a hair further, gurgling softly as its contents shifted to fit more. He dug out another bite from the pancakes, took a moment for his belly to settle just a bit, and ate it.
Marianne watched behind the counter as Diandre slowly made his way through the pancakes, just out of his sight. She still had a good view of his belly, though, the way it swelled and puffed out with each long breath, the way it pushed out almost far enough to press against the table when he sat upright and leaned forward to prop himself up on his elbows. It must have felt incredibly tight. It didn't rest in his lap despite its apparent weight; it seemed to protrude straight forward like a beachball, too firmly distended to sag. Finally, he set the fork down with a sigh and leaned back once more, now holding his tummy with both hands, and she returned with the boxes.
"Here you go, pumpkin, one for the pancakes and one for the basket," she said, resisting the urge to set them atop his bulging tummy like a table. "You gonna make it home alright? You look just about ready to pop."
"Ooh… I feel like it," he groaned, giving his drum-tight upper belly a cautious rub. "I'll be okay."
"Good," she smiled. "I hope we'll see you again soon!"
Author's Note: Hey! Long time no see :) October gave me the inspiration to write a little something with Buck and Dante again, and I figured I should post it here since it's been awhile since I've posted any writing. So enjoy!
Word Count: 1.5k
CW: Hunger, guns mentioned, sensory issues, gore mention
...
The screen door slammed shut, and Dante looked up from his research for the first time in what felt like hours to follow the sound of heavy, tired footsteps into the kitchen.
"Buck?" He called out, dog-earing his page as he looked up at the clock. It wasn't quite lunchtime yet, but he supposed if Buck was in from the garage, a break couldn't hurt.
"In here!" Buck called back, and Dante slipped out of his chair to meet him in the kitchen: He was rifling through the fridge, tossing every package of lunch meat he could find onto the counter, along with the cheddar, bread and mayo. Clearly, he'd come in here with the intent to make one hell of a sandwich.
Dante leaned against the doorway, observing the other man. "Damn. Someone's hungry, huh?"
"Y'don't even know the half of it." Buck grumbled, serving the other a tired glance before turning his attention back to the fridge to deliberate between other possible toppings. He'd decided on pickles, ketchup and mustard by the time Dante crossed the kitchen and ruffled Buck's hair affectionately on his way to put a pot of afternoon coffee on for himself.
"Well, the full moon is tonight."
"Don't remind me…" Buck sighed. "I swear, it sneaks up on me every month."
"We've had a lot on our plate lately… How're you feeling?"
"Like I never even ate breakfast." Buck's stomach rumbled, and he set a hand against the gentle swell of his belly, rubbing it gingerly as he closed the fridge. "I been thinkin' 'bout lunch all day…" He took out four slices of bread, laying them out on a plate as he munched on the heel.
"So… Two sandwiches, then?"
Buck shook his head, beginning to spread the mayonnaise on thickly. "One's for you. You want ham or turkey?"
"Buck, you don't have to make me one… You should be making yourself one of those massive sandwiches Shaggy was always eating in Scooby Doo."
The other man chuckled wryly as he heaped turkey, ham and cheese onto his own sandwich. "That would do the trick, wouldn't it…" His stomach growled restlessly, and he sighed. "But, you're helping me tonight. I figured I oughta do somethin' nice before I end up tryin' to eat you later."
"So take me out for a drink tomorrow." Dante sipped his coffee, eyeing Buck up and down. "How do you usually manage the transformations, anyhow?" He'd be lying if he said he wasn't interested in watching how the transformation process affected Buck before the full moon rose: He'd been hunting werewolves for years, but he'd never gotten the chance to observe the transformation until his close encounter with Buck during last month's full moon.
How either of them didn't kill each other still amazed Dante.
"I, uh… Usually drive out into the middle of nowhere." Buck clammed up somewhat as he carefully assembled Dante's sandwich. "Figured it was no use tryin' to lock myself down. I've seen the kinda mess I can make when I'm like that… And if I got out, I'd be right by a neighborhood fulla folks I know, and I couldn't risk hurtin' any of 'em. But unless it's hunting season, there ain't nobody in these woods at night. So I just, turn myself loose and hope I ain't too banged-up or too far from my truck when I come to."
Dante nodded along, frowning as Buck explained what the morning after looked like. "So, what do you need me doing tonight? Because hunting season just started…" And he couldn't risk Buck attacking somebody, or vice versa. Because anybody he ran into in the woods tonight would more than likely have a gun.
"I'll tell you later." Buck said shortly, plating their lunches and handing the ham sandwich to Dante. Buck's sandwich was nearly a double-decker: He'd crammed so much meat and cheese on that the two slices of white bread barely contained his condiment-soaked monstrosity. It didn't look particularly appetizing, but it sure looked like it'd be filling.
"I gotta get back in the shop."
"Alright… Just don't work too late, I'd like some time to, y'know, prepare."
Buck nodded curtly, and stole away with his sandwich without another word.
…
It was barely four by the time Buck came in from the garage, and Dante had just started preparing dinner. He figured something hearty was in order, so he landed on chicken and dumplings: A more labor-intensive meal, but Dante was craving it just as much as he was sure Buck was craving something filling.
The screen door slammed open again, but no greeting came from Buck. He didn't even come into the kitchen: The footsteps stopped at the couch, and Dante walked in just in time to see the older man flop back onto it with an exhausted groan. He seemed entirely dead to the world as soon as he closed his eyes, and Dante figured he would have stayed that way if his stomach hadn't interrupted the silence with a terrible howl. He winced and dug a hand into it as the noises trailed off into a string of angry gurgles.
"…Are you cooking?" He asked wearily, turning to face Dante standing in the doorway behind him.
"How could you tell?" Dante stepped past the threshold of the kitchen and onto the shag carpet in the tiny living room to stand behind the couch. If he didn't know any better, Dante would think Buck was sick. He was a strong fella with more than enough energy to carry him through the day, but right now he just looked… Deflated.
"I can smell it." His stomach moaned.
"…The chicken's still defrosting, how can you-"
"I just can." Buck rubbed his temples, his other hand still resting on his belly. Dante hadn't known the other long, but he'd never seen him this agitated before. "I can smell it, I can smell you. I can hear a donkey pissing a mile away and the only thing I can think about is food." He lamented. Dante frowned and finally decided to sit down beside Buck instead of hover over him.
"So all your senses get dialed up to eleven before you turn?" Buck nodded, eyes flitting anywhere but towards Dante.
He wasn't used to talking about this.
"Yup. The wolf who turned me, she uh…Laid it all out for me. Told me that every full moon I'd be "eatin' for two", so to speak. That the only way I could satisfy it was with a hunt. She told me it'd be uncomfortable…" He scoffed. "Nothin' ever coulda prepared me for how it really feels. At first it's almost like bein' drunk: Your senses don't feel right, you're in a different state of mind, the best thing in the world is a plate of wings… And then it just gets worse. The hunger, the ringin' in your ears, and it don't let up until you feel your bones start to break."
It would have been rude, but Dante wished he had his notebook on him. Either way, he couldn't help his curiosity. "…You knew the wolf that turned you?"
"She was my wife." He said simply. Dante had to stop himself from gaping.
"You were-"
"Right outta high school. Stupid decision, considerin' what she turned out to be, but I wanted that apple-pie, white picket fence life and back then, I saw it with her." He shook his head, staring off into the near distance. "She had other ideas."
Dante was speechless. "…Shit. I'm sorry-"
"-And I'm sorry for the melodrama. The full moon seems to bring it outta me." He tried to dismiss the topic, but Dante wasn't having it.
"Don't apologize, Buck. I mean, it's not like it's unwarranted…" Dante set a hand on his shoulder, and Buck just nodded curtly.
"I just… Feel like I have to. I coulda killed you last time, and if we ain't careful tonight…" Buck didn't finish the thought. He didn't want to think of what he might do.
"What do you need me to do?" Dante squeezed his shoulder, but before he could say anything, his stomach groaned. The noise was deep and hollow, and clearly felt just as bad as it sounded by the way Buck's face screwed up in discomfort. Dante just smiled slightly and leaned over to rub his belly affectionately.
"Sounds like I should finish dinner first. Then we can worry about everything else, alright?"
Buck shook his head in disbelief. "You're too good to me, you know that right?" Dante chuckled at that; and he planted a kiss on the top of Buck's head before standing up.
"Hey, you started it. Speaking of… Is that why you started flirting with me around the full moon? Because you get all sappy?" Buck rubbed his neck bashfully.
"Come on, now… Don't go puttin' me under a microscope just because you know all there is to know about werewolves."
i have to admit it fantasy digestion scenarios where it takes someone a day or two to digest an entire meal are so good to me. either due to the massive quantity of food they ate or because whatever they had is simply going to take that long to break down, the idea of being that heavy and warm and sluggish, stuck with the roundest belly you've ever seen after just one meal or instance of indulging is so soooo hot. HOT HOT HOT. it probably wouldn't be that much fun irl, but the idea of being out of commission for that long, unable to do anything but lay there and process literal pounds of fat, sugar, protein and carbs for hours and hours is a hugee turn on to fantasize about good god.
the amount of energy their body would need to digest such a massive amount of food would put them out like a light. they'd be in it for the long haul with a ridiculously long food coma, but their tummy would be so heavy and sore and aching that they'd have to keep rubbing it while drifting in and out of consciousness...... dreaming about all that food and savoring the memory of what they ate the whole time.
especially hot if their full tummy won't stop groaning and bubbling, or if they're burping and moaning shamelessly in the whole time, too out of it to stifle their body's sounds out of politeness or do anything else.
an entire day benched from being so, so stuffed. more than what should even be remotely possible.
I always love to think about when someone is so desprately hungry but they have no choice but to hold themselves back.
They need to eat or they'll go crazy. But they're unable to, which makes things even more difficult.
It can be where they're a vampire or werewolf and its mandatory to fulfill their hunger, but they cant because it's the wrong place or time. Or someone is holding back some dark force or entity that wants to consume whatever or whoever it wants, but they won't listen.
It's at a point where they are absolutely ravenous. Their belly is roaring at them, completely hollow, demanding that it is filled to the brim, but they cannot fulfill its demands. Whatever they're doing is more important than satisfying their belly.
They might be salivating, experiencing painful hunger pangs, holding back the urge stuff their face silly,
But they force themselves to wait just a little longer while they listen to their bellies cries...
