And Baby Catfish Makes Three
feat. Frankie Morales x Mouse (f!reader)
a HeftyThrowaway one shot drabble | Rated: PG-13 | word count: 855
warnings: Child birth, labor, pain, families - if you see that I missed anything, let me know!
A/N: finally! @xdaddysprincessxx put it, Mouse was beginning to pull a Bonnie from Family Guy with how long she was pregnant. Thank you to @thehalflifeofloveisforever for reviewing this ages ago, and for @strang3lov3 and @noxturnalpascal for reviewing it in the present day.
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The last centimeter was taking forever and was the most pain you’d ever experienced in your life. Frankie was now sitting in the bed with you leaned back between his legs, your back to his chest. You needed him like this, cocooning you with his large body, trying in the softest and sweetest ways to be your support. One hand was wiping your forehead and the other was being squeezed by the uncharacteristically strong grip of your own.
“Breathe, mama… you’re so close…”, he whispered encouragement while planting kisses on your sweaty hair.
You tried to breathe in the rhythm that you’d learned in lamaze, but it was near impossible with how much pressure and pain you felt.
“Doing so good, Mouse.”
*****
Hours went by and you felt like this would never end. Your mind was clouded and you had no idea how much time had gone by, you were now fully enveloped in your labor. The people in the hallway passing your room talking or machines making any noise around you were not even registering anymore.
You felt an immense pressure and all those books that said you would just know when to push were right.
“I feel like… I have to push… Frankie… please… I have to push….”, you mumbled, trying to sit up.
If you could have seen Frankie’s face when he heard you, you would have thought he’d won the lottery and watched a chicken get beheaded - both fear and excitement meshed and his heart just about leapt from his chest. He unwedged himself from behind you clumsily and pressed the call button. Almost instantly, a nurse with the name badge reading ‘Sherri’ came in hurriedly and smiled.
“I heard! It’s go time!”, she cheered far too enthusiastically for your liking at the moment. She checked you and hailed the doctor to come quickly.
Frankie moved to the side of the bed, as instructed by Sherri and stood by your side, holding one of your legs up, while Sherri held the other. The doctor arrived and got in place at the end of the bed.
*****
You’d been pushing for nearly an hour and you felt like you were going to pass out. “I… I can’t!”, you panted and wailed, looking up at Frankie, eyes pleading with him. “I can’t do this… I… please! Frankie… please let me stop!”
“Mama, you’re doing it right now. You gotta keep pushing.”, he murmured back, pressing a kiss to your sweaty hairline. He couldn’t bear to look you in the eye as you were giving birth to his baby. He felt like the world’s biggest asshole. “I know you can do it… come on, baby… keep pushing.”, he tried to keep his voice calm, but your pleading and cries for him were breaking his heart, causing a lump in his throat.
*****
Frankie counted to ten for every push and in between he pressed his mouth to your temple and whispered more words of encouragement while you panted and pleaded for this to be over. You turned to look him in the eyes and he smiled, leaned down and kissed you.
“Come on, mama.”, he whispered against your mouth.
“One more push… go!”, the doctor announced.
You gathered up all your strength and bore down as hard as you could, crying out as you did. Then you heard it. That perfect, beautiful, anguished noise.
You heard her.
Someone, you weren’t sure who, announced that it was a girl. Your girl. She was placed on your chest, and Frankie broke down, sobbing into your hair sweet thank you’s and I love you’s.
You couldn’t tear your eyes away from your little squalling, angry baby. The world stopped as you looked down at her and your heart broke and repaired itself a million times before you even could let the first tear drop fall. There she was. Every panic attack, every sleepless night, every pain, every sorrow, every moment of self-doubt was all worth it because she was here.
Through your tears, you managed to coo, “Hey Matilda… I’m your Mama.”
*****
Matilda Maria Ariidae Morales, also known as Taters, was everything and more that you and Frankie could hope for. It didn’t even register for you how much Frankie had missed out on bonding with Taters being that she was inside you for nine months, and now that Taters was out, he took every chance he could get to cuddle, snuggle, feed, change and bathe his sweet girl. Frankie truly took to being a dad like a fish to water, and you loved him all the more for it. Her first six weeks home were chaotic and calm, with little to no sleep juxtaposed to perfect moments. More often than not, her afternoon nap was on her daddy’s chest while he dozed on the recliner in the den, watching tv - just like you’d imagined and hoped.
Both of you had agreed that Will and Hannah were the perfect candidates to be Taters’ godparents, and while both of them cried when asked, agreeing to fulfill the honor, Will was utterly inconsolable as he held his god daughter for pictures.
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The Ariidae or ariid catfish are a family of catfish that mainly live in marine waters with many freshwater and brackish water species. They are found worldwide in tropical to warm temperate zones. The family includes about 143 species.
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Being Neighbourly feat. Frankie Morales x neighbour f!reader
a HeftyThrowaway one shot drabble | Rated: 18+ | word count: 1,681
warnings: f masterbation, feeding, belly rubs, belly kink, oblivious people liking each other
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, y'all! Here's a ditty that's been sitting in my wips for months. It's not Mouse and Frankie, but similar dynamic.
It was only a matter of time until you fell for one of your neighbours. And in doing so, you had proven that food was the way into a man’s heart… or bed.
It started when you cooked up a batch of meatballs to freeze for future use on a Saturday afternoon. You had all the windows open to avoid overheating your apartment. Leaning out the window that faced the parking lot of your complex, you watched as Frankie parked his truck. As he walked towards the building, he looked around then up and waved at you.
You gave a small smile and a wave, thinking that would be the end of it, when he called out to you.
“Hey! Neighbour! Uh… is that you making something that smells good?”
“Just meatballs.”, you called back.
“Just meatballs, my ass. They smell amazing!” He looked like he wanted to say more but just smiled back at you.
“Thank you! Um… do you want one?”, you said back, not sure why you only offered one when you had four trays of them. But his eager nodding and scampering into the building made you happy you did.
You’d seen Frankie around the building in the usual places you meet your neighbours: the laundry room, the parking lot, the mailboxes. He was tall and lean minus the small tummy he sported, but still looked like he hadn’t had the comfort of a home cooked meal in a while. He seemed sweet and helpful, once even helping you bring your groceries up the stairs when the elevator was out of service. He lived in the suite right below you, and some nights, you’d hear him and another male voice out on the balcony, enjoying a blunt or a cigarette. Beyond that, you didn’t know much about him.
After the initial introduction to Frankie as a guinea pig for your cooking, you found him to be quite handy to have around. For every issue you had in your suite that the landlord had ignored, Frankie had a fix. For every fix, you had a thank you meal ready for him. This became a regular occurrence and slowly turned into either you made enough food for both you and him then delivered it to his suite, or him joining you for dinner and you giving him the leftovers. This carried on for a while, and you noticed that Frankie’s small tummy was not so small anymore. The topic came up after he completely annulated an entire baking dish of your home-made enchiladas in one go.
Sitting back at your table, his belly pushed out and stuffed, he sighed a little laugh. “Fuck, I just can’t help myself. You cook too good.”
All you could do was smile and look down, trying to stop him from seeing the bashful glee on your face. You’d watched him eat the entire thing and all you wanted to do was go to his side, rub his stuffed belly, and feed him yourself. It had been a running theme in your head when you laid in bed at night, vibrator on high while you cried out his name. You’d never gotten off on anything like this, but it worked. You just wished it wasn’t a fantasy.
“I mean it. I had to get new pants last week. Not that I’m complaining at all about your food.”, he reasoned, making sure you knew that he was not upset. “But if we’re gonna continue to be neighbours, I need a spandex wardrobe.”
You both laughed at his little joke as he rubbed his belly, signalling an end to this topic. But god damn it, you wished you could just reach out and touch it, feel his belly and tell him he’s got more room in there, and then feed him. But you didn’t, and he continued to come around throughout the week for dinner; you both played this same routine: you made the food, and he ate it. It wasn’t lost on you that Frankie liked to eat, but what you didn’t notice was how much he really liked that it was you feeding him.
On one Saturday summer night, you were sitting on your balcony, far later than you normally would be, enjoying a sangria. You heard the sliding door open below you from Frankie’s and could hear him and that other male voice talking.
“Drop it, Pope.”
“Dude, I can tell. It’s written all over your fucking face when she comes up. You’ve got it bad for this chick.“
“Fine. Yes. Happy?”
“Sure. But you have to tell her. There’s no way-“
“Yeah, and have her laugh in my face? She’s not into me like that.”
“And how the fuck would you know?”
“Because she’s too fucking gorgeous and out of my league.”
Your heart dropped; Frankie was head over heels for someone - someone who wasn’t you. Before you could quietly leave your balcony and mope inside, you heard the other voice, Pope, say, “No one feeds you like that if they don’t at least like you, Francisco.”
You froze.
Frankie sighed. “Fuck you, man.”
“All I’m saying is if a beautiful woman like that keeps inviting you back to her table when you’re getting fat on her cooking, you’re in. You just got to make a move.”
The last thing you heard Frankie say as they began their exit from the balcony was, “Shit, Pope. I’m fucking hungry.”, followed by the two men laughing.
You sat silently on your balcony and let a breath out that you didn’t realize you were holding in. You ventured inside and laid in your bed.
****
You had made yourself scarce the rest of the weekend, no sure how to interact with him after what you had heard, but you’d returned home exhausted from work on the following Monday to find a note on your door form Frankie that read:
Want to go out for dinner? You can have a night off.
x F
You grinned to yourself, hopeful that this was Frankie trying to make a move and went into your apartment, got changed into a more casual outfit, and headed down to Frankie’s.
He opened the door and gave you a big smile while telling you where he was going to take you - his favourite Tex-Mex restaurant.
The car ride over started a little awkward, but you soon fell into an easy conversation.
“So why the dinner out? Sick of my cooking?”, you poked, watching to see how he would react.
“Fuck no!”, Frankie barked out laughing. “I just figured that maybe I could get dinner for you, and since there’s not a snowflake’s chance in hell that I could even compare to you in the kitchen, I thought I’d take you to my favourite place to eat… other than your table, of course.”
You felt your cheeks turn pink and you could feel Frankie smiling at you. You felt bold as you thought of what you’d heard on Saturday night and wanted to test the waters.
You reached out and put your hand on his that was on the gear stick. “Thank you, Frankie. You’ll have to show me your favourites on the menu.”
Frankie sucked in a breath at your touch and nodded. “Yeah… uh, I pretty much like everything they have.”
You smiled and nodded.
*****
“Recommendations?”, you asked looking over your menu.
“Well, like I said, I pretty much like everything. But my favourites are, uh, the burritos and fajitas. Can’t go wrong with those, and the elote is great, too.”
Once again, you felt bold. Without the restrictions of what you had cooked and the ingredients you had on hand, Frankie could really let himself loose in here and you were more than happy to encourage him.
“How about you order, Frankie? I normally decide what I’m cooking, so you get to decide tonight. Order to your heart’s content – I’m in.”, you say, leaning forward and cocking your head.
Frankie’s eyebrows twitched and his lips parted. His tongue flicked out and he nodded. “You sure you’re up for that? It’ll be a lot of food.”
“I’ll be fine, Frankie. The question really is will you be okay. Because food is more of a spectator’s sport for me when I’m with you.”, you say with a wink.
Frankie just stared back at you, his breathing getting quicker. His brain was trying to wrap around that fact that Pope was right: you were into him and like to feed him. He thought he’d died and gone to heaven.
Before he could pinch himself, the waitress approached the table. Frankie placed the order – it was a lot of food - and you just sat back and smirked as he spoke.
“You sure you’re gonna be able to handle all that, Frankie?”, you questioned with a wry smile and teasing tone.
Frankie gave you a flirtatious grin and took your hand. “Yeah, and there’ll even be room for dessert.”
By the time Frankie had eatten two plates of food, he was sitting back in the booth, finishing his pop.
“How’re you doing? You still got another plate.”, you gave him a coquettish smile, pushing the plate forward to him.
“Oh, honey. I’m full.”, Frankie chuckled, patting his belly.
He watched as you got out of your side of the booth and slid in next to him. Throughout the meal, you and Frankie dropped silent hints as to where you both wanted this to go. You again felt emboldened and reached out to rub his belly. He watched you, his eyes pleading with you to keep going.
You leaned in and purred into his ear before nuzzling it with your nose, “Oh, Frankie. You’re not that full, are you?”
Frankie shivered and gulped. Once he had cleared the last plate, Frankie huffed out a breath and tried to hide a small burp. You sat at his side, continuing to console his overstuffed tummy, and gave him a kiss on his cheek.
“What’s next?”, Frankie asked, looking at you with a lazy smile.
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Man in the Mirror feat. Frankie Morales x Mouse (f!reader)
a HeftyThrowaway one shot drabble | Rated: PG | word count: 400
warnings: weight gain, body insecurities, self love, ogling oneself in the mirror
A/N: this has been sitting in my WIPs for god know how long. Thanks @pinkypromisepascal for rattling it loose.
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Frankie's eating habits were really beginning to catch up with him. Just this week, Mouse had come home with a couple new t-shirts and pairs of jeans for him, saying that his current ones were now only to be worn by him in the house for her.
He got the hint.
He'd also needed to size up his coveralls again when he realized that sucking it in wasn't cutting it anymore for the zipper to be closed over his belly.
The guys at work gave him some good-natured teasing, especially if he's had a good weekend at home with his Mouse and his belly showcased the results.
The Frankie that had existed when he was young, a teenage Frankie would have been crushed by the notion that he was bigger, and it wasn't a private insecurity - people noticed. Having a chubby belly that popped over his waistband would have probably sent him into a shame spiral.
But that was the Frankie before her. Mouse's Frankie didn't sweat about his waistline getting bigger or how his shirts rode up when he ate too much, or how his belly jiggled as he pounded into the woman he loved as he fucked her from behind.
Most of the time, it didn't bother him. And the times that it did, he knew well enough to voice that to Mouse, and he was quickly reminded that she thought his belly was sexy.
It wasn't the word he would use, at least not until today. Today, while he was getting ready to leave work, he was in the bathroom taking off his coveralls and washing up, he caught a glance of himself in the large mirror above the sink.
It caught him off guard. Sure, he’d looked at himself in the mirror, but it was always intentional, always for a reason; like when he was brushing his teeth and fixing his hair, or making sure there was no food caught in his astonishing moustache. But this time, he caught the reflection of his profile from the corner of his eye, and he stopped and gave himself a good look.
Looking back at him was a big guy with a belly. He gave his belly a firm shake, smiled, and knew that his evening’s activities were going to consist of two things: eating to his heart’s content and showing his Mouse how much he appreciated her.
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.
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?”
Not his Father feat. Frankie Morales x Mouse (f!reader)
a HeftyThrowaway one shot drabble | Rated: G | word count: 528
warnings: Talk of labor, DUI, drinking, but mainly fluff
A/N: Just a little insight into Frankie's thoughts on becoming a dad.
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Frankie soothed his hand other your back, as you were bent over the kitchen counter and rocking your hip side to side, waiting for the contraction to subside.
“Breathe, baby… don’t hold your breath… keep breathing, Mouse…”
You sucked in a breath, and Frankie’s furrowed brows softened. As much as he hated seeing you in this pain, he was just as excited that he was so close to holding the little life you’d been carrying on your own for nine months. It was almost his turn to be close to your baby and get to be a daddy.
A daddy.
Based on the relationship he had with his own dad, or lack thereof, the idea of being one should have scared him shitless. But it didn’t - most of the time. He’d had enough therapy and experiences to know he wasn’t his dad, but there were echoes of him in Frankie - his nose, his voice, his nervous ticks, his military history. Even though that didn’t make him him, he still spent nights worried he would wake up one dad and be him.
Frankie did know that one difference between them was that his dad wouldn’t have let himself indulge to the point of being twice the man he was. No, Frank Sr. would have rather drank himself into a stupor than let himself enjoy a life with the woman who loved him. He knew he didn’t want to be his father.
Frank Sr. had once told Frankie when he was young how scared he was to be a dad before his older sister, Cecelia, was born. He said it took him a while to get the hang of it, holding a little baby, and he’d even said that kids didn’t get interesting until they could talk and walk on their own. When Frankie’s sister had his nephew, he watched you hold little James, tears falling down your cheeks, and nothing could have convinced him that a baby wasn’t one of the most spectacular things on this planet. He knew he didn’t want to be his father.
He’d dropped the junior from his name the moment he was legally able to. After he had told them furiously what it would mean to him to not be tethered to an abusive drunk, serving time for a DUI that killed someone, Will and Santi helped him pay for the name change, so he would never be called Frank Jr. again. He knew he didn’t want to be his father.
When one of his aunts recounted the story of when he was born, and he was told Frank Sr. was out at the bar, refusing to come home when his mom went into labor, it was told to him like a joke. But now, watching you breathe through your own labor, the idea made him furious for his mother because even god himself couldn’t rip him from your side right now.
He knew he wasn’t his father.
The contraction passed and you stood up, still leaning on the kitchen counter. Frankie held you and splayed his hand over your belly and kissed your temple.
