#nonbinary feeder

~

Her highest standard is pretty much just: sugary. She enthusiastically declares to love everything you make, great or just okay, but you don’t mind. She takes her job of taste tester seriously, and within a couple weeks, she’s practically bothering on the hour to make those cookies again, more of this spongy cake, that one thing, but make it pink? Pretty please?

Despite the show’s demand for variety, you can’t help but prioritize Abby’s preferences and whims. She likes soft and chewy things, and caloric, decadent things, and so you keep making them in a frenzy of productivity. Cakes and more cakes, and - really, it impresses you how much of it she eats. Not just bites. Finishing whole dishes off.

You keep waiting for her to get sick of it, sick of the sugar, but if anything, she starts to eat a bit…compulsively. She starts eating late into the night. Starts eating sweets early in the morning.

She starts to get softer.

Plumper. Chubby.

Her hips round and thicken, her thighs swell, her jaw loses its edge. You find yourself enraptured by these changes. Her breasts get bigger. Her chin gently doubles when she looks down.

Sometimes you forget who and what you’re supposed to be baking for.

You add too much cream and custard as pastry fillings because you want to hear her moan a little longer into those gushing bites. You add a little too much sugar because her belly is cute and pudgy and peeking out of her clothes and you’re hopelessly in love with it. With her. Why shouldn’t that belly get just a little bigger?

Weeks pass of your increasingly hard work and her increasingly hearty eating (now at regular meals too, not just with your desserts). Her weight gain picks up, gaining momentum, making her heavier. Wider. A tad bit slower. Your attention feels split in half between one-minded focus on making winning dishes and all-consuming infatuation with Abby’s oblivious yet unhesitating march toward…fat.

~

Instead of falling asleep to fantasies of winning the competition, starting your own bakery, and living in an idyllic future, you fall asleep to the comfort of holding your overweight wife.

~

A week before you’re off on the flight to the show’s set, you host a tasting party, making all your best pastries and cakes and baked dishes. It starts off excellently: No one invited flakes (and neither do your dishes), your house is bustling with energy and cheer and congratulations and good lucks, and Abby is being more endearing than usual, not so much tasting the different offerings as she was mechanically eating full meals-worth of food every moment she wasn’t talking with friends.

You try to be discreet about sneaking looks at her fairly enormous bubble butt, currently hugged very tightly in jeans that didn’t fit her anymore.

She keeps eating and eating, clearly oblivious to how much more she was consuming compared to everyone else.

A couple hours into the party, Abby lets out a jolly laugh at something someone says, and you look over as her pink-nailed plump hands cover her mouth to hide how full it was of macaroons.

You witness it happen: the gust of her laugh finally straining her waistband past it’s limit; her jeans button popping off, landing with a tap on the tile floor a few feet away. At the same moment, ample lower belly surging through waistband flaps, its weight enough to force open the zipper to its base.

For a very long half second, you, Anna, and your mutual friends all stare at the hefty, fat belly cradled in her opened jeans. Then Anna sucks it in and flees, all high-pitched apologies and self-depreciations.

You follow, of course, opening your bedroom door to find Abby frantically changing into different jeans - presumably the first pair she got her hands on, because they aren’t well chosen. She struggles to get them up past her bulky thighs.

You let out a small sigh (trying not to get distracted by her artful cellulite). “Abby…”

“Nothing fits anymore.”

“Abby,” you try again.

She flings the jeans away and stomps to the closet, making many parts of her body wobble and jiggle on the way. She comes back out in a pair of leggings. Whether she was shamefaced because resorting to stretchy leggings would make it crystal clear to everyone at the party what her wardrobe situation was, or because the leggings weren’t actually stretchy enough, giving her a four inches or so of pure, fatty muffin top overhang on both her sides...you don’t know. You’re more concerned that Abby’s eyes are glassy.

“I’ve gained a lot of weight,” she breathes out, rubbing one temple. It’s the first time she’s acknowledged it.

You want to hold her pudgy hands and tell her: Honey, you’ve ballooned. Forty or fifty pounds at least. Instead, you say, “You look amazing. You just need properly sized clothes that fit you.”

She looks up at you, too innocent. You realize with a flash of insight that her body is finally as soft as her heart. “You don’t hate it?” she asks.

“The opposite. I love how I can see how much I love you, and how much you’re being loved.”

You mean every word, and it’s clear Abby knows you do. She’s not so self-conscious that she doesn’t pull you into one of her classic, crushing hugs. “You’re a good baker,” she mumbles.

You laugh.

~

(You get third place at the baking competition, and couldn’t be more proud. But even that is nothing compared to coming home to your excited wife, who, while she was gone, learned to bake a little herself, gaining another thirteen pounds all on her own.)

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Thank you to the reader who commissioned this work!

And thank you for their amazing GIF!!!! They would prefer to stay anonymous.