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mylevisdontfitanymore · 7 months

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Hear me out king

Himbo Steve that accidentally dresses super slutty

So like I’m imagining like a college au w ex jock Steve being Bucky’s roommate that’s used to just wearing what he has so he’s just wearing some running shorts but he wears that and like an old college t shirt but he’s aware enough to know he’s gotten fat but oblivious to the fact that he now looks like a blimp, so his ass is straining the poor shorts (also leaving a good amount of bulge on display in the front) and his shirt fits in the morning pretty snug ,but by the afternoon it’s riding up and he’s completely unaware so he’s just in his dorm ass fully over filling his shorts , his gut hanging out of his shorts , and his bulge just there , and Bucky comes back (maybe from class ig) but he just comes back to Steve sprawled out on their futon everying fully on display a beer or two maybe by Steve’s feet (and purely just for visual purposes you know how Chris gets that pink kinda flushed look when he’s kinda drunk, anyways I’m imagining that carrying over into Steve) and poor baby is just unaware how much of a slut he looks like (I also imagine him just adjusting his crotch in his too tight shorts but the touching just leaves him like half hard so he’s constantly readjusting but basically playing with himself) anyways Bucky sees Steve like this and it’s absolutely the final straw and he just puts his stuff down on his desk and just practically pounces on him and starts making out w him (and obviously Steve’s into it but he’s thinks it’s just out of no where still unaware how slutty he is )

Anyways can you tell I’ve been getting college ready 🤓

I have had this prompt for so long. I'm so sorry 😅😅 so hopefully you stuck around to see this request get filled and please enjoy if so!

Warning for stucky belly kink ahead. Always unbeta'd. Stuffing, weight gain, tight clothes, kink discovery, etc. all ahead!

"You-you're going out like that?" Bucky feels like his brain has blue-screened, staring at Steve as he stumbles out of the bedroom in their tiny box apartment not too far from campus.

"Like what?" Steve inhales hugely in preparation for his equally massive yawn, his belly swelling enough that the seams at the sides of his shirt audibly strain to contain him. Once he's done yawning, covering his mouth with one big hand, he smooths that hand down the dome of his belly over the thin, worn fabric clinging to him like a second skin. He's wearing the college shirt he bought their first year before their first term even began. It's gone from being white to practically transparent.

Transparent and... the shadow of his belly button is... 🥴 it's present.

And it's too early for this shit.

Why is he wearing that shirt!? 😫😫😫

The shirt he bought in school spirit and excitement before their first term even began as freshmen - before Steve stopped working out cold turkey, too much studying to keep up with his routine from football. Besides, he's not playing football in college, so why should he keep going to the gym? He doesn't need to!

He was actually a size medium, back then, but he always crammed himself into smalls. Back then, his muscles threatened to burst the seams of his shirts. And now...

It isn't his muscles that Bucky is focused on drooling over, staring through the transparent fabric. Far from it. It's his belly button. Shadowed. Deep. And always stretched by the end of the day from the food he shoved down his throat, piling up under the soft fat that's expanded out like a balloon under his shirt. Bucky is staring through the transparent shirt, not at his muscles, but at his pink, round, hard nipples. Bucky can just barely see them around the logo of the name of their school. But he can. He can definitely see them. He can see his nipples and the puffy mounds of his pecs-turned-moobs because all the excess weight he's put on stretches the logo out. It's not really obviously readable anymore - that logo. Bucky's not focused on staring at his muscles through his transparent shirt, he's drooling over his arched spine when he shrugs, "yeah, 'course," and walks around Bucky. Walking away from Bucky.

Oh, God.

Watching him walk away is worse than seeing him, soft and so, so unaware as he stumbles out of bed.

His ass in those fucking pants. Jeans. His ass in painted-on blue jeans.

His backside is ripe. It's huge. It jiggles when he walks. His thighs rub together like they did before, but it's not solid muscle anymore that doesn't shake and move so easily. Thick. Hard. It's softness. Fat. Jiggly, bouncy, rippling fat that's widened his thighs and his ass and even his whole entire waist.

Widened to the point that it makes the bottom hem of his shirt cling to his muffin top deliciously.

Bucky hasn't had breakfast yet. He could devour a dozen muffins, he thinks, and he doesn't have Steve's gluttonous appetite. He never has. Steve doesn't just have a hollow leg to store the excess food he stuffs himself with; all of his body is hollow, and it's all so stretchy. He stretches big. Wide. Fat.

"Why?" Steve's sleepy mind finally catches up to Bucky's odd, struck-dumb behavior. Questioning him.

"'Cause, because, 'c-cause," he swallows all the spit that's gathered in his mouth. He really can see the line of Steve's spine through his transparent shirt. He can see the way it's been pulled forward and pushed back to compensate for all the weight he's got on his front and all the weight on his back. His belly. His boobs. His ass.

Bucky feels faint.

"Because?" Steve prompts, lazily going about his breakfast routine - making himself an an exorbitantly sweet, exorbitantly sized protein shake, helping himself to a protein bar (or two) to snack on while he waits for the blender to be done with his shake, and two (or three) bowls of cereal with (full-fat) milk. No wonder all of his clothes look painted on. No wonder he's blown up after high school football like a blimp.

A fat, delicious blimp.

"Because someone is gonna, gonna try to pull some moves on you," Bucky pushes out a stupid excuse. A shitty little pick-up line. What he really wants to say is because one of your professors is gonna kick you out of their class for indecent exposure! I can see you're... you're... all of you!

Steve smirks around his chewing. He's already got a mouthful of protein that his body clearly doesn't know what to do with anymore, and it's only 10 in the morning. Early for their college-student asses. His throat contracts, swallowing a big chunk of it, a fattening chunk, "you think so?" Again, he smooths his hand down his front.

Is he trying to torture Bucky this morning?

Bucky nods stiffly when he realizes Steve actually wants an answer.

Steve smiles so wide that his dimples appear on his chubby cheeks.

Oh, God.

He's so hot and he's so sweet. Literally. All he seems to eat (besides everything) is sugar.

Bucky makes a strangled noise and stiffly walks around their apartment, picking up his books and binders and pencils and unplugging his laptop from its charger, loading his bag up so he can get to his first class on time.

Bucky allows himself to steal one more look at his stupid hot, stupid boyfriend before he leaves. Hand on the doorknob, looking over his shoulder, he gets the perfect eyeful of him from the side as he chugs his protein shake. Fuck. He has curves for days. He's shaped like a fucking S. Fat tits, looking irresistible in his impossibly tight shirt. Huge, round belly defying gravity, sticking straight out. Mounding asscheeks trying to bust out of his stretched jeans. He nearly lets a moan slip.

Every swallow leaves his throat bobbing and his tummy swelling larger.

"Later," Bucky calls, voice strangled.

Steve stops chugging for long enough to lick his lips, wipe his hand across the shining, wet surface of his plump lips, burp unashamedly, and say, "yeah. I'll see you for lunch?"

"Uh-huh," Bucky forces out, his voice nearly audibly wrecked. Lunch. Yeah. Like Steve needs lunch. Just look at him. So. Big. Or, actually, no! Don't look at him! Bucky ends up slamming the door and shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the semi he's now rocking.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky hears Steve rip one more, loud burp as he's shuffling away from their front door. Palms sweaty. Lightheaded.

Thanks, Steve.

...

They meet up for lunch at their usual spot on campus. Today, Steve is a little late, but Bucky wouldn't change that little fact for the entire fucking world. He's sitting at a table, bouncing his knee, half paying attention to his phone, waiting for Steve to dig into his meal when--

"Oops, that was close!" Steve's cheerful voice cuts in. "Sorry! My bad!"

Bucky sets his phone on the table, next to his tray, and looks up.

Steve has his own tray. It's dangerously full, nearly overflowing. Especially dangerously full because as he was approaching the table, a huge smile on his face, excited to eat and excited to see Bucky, he apparently wasn't paying attention and nearly ran into another student.

The other student grimaces, also apologizing. But then slips away without further incident and...

Bucky is forced to watch, in seemingly slow motion, Steve strut toward the table. His hips, so wide now, sway. His thighs swish, swish, swish, rubbing together as he walks. It's no wonder two pairs of jeans have worn through at the thighs already. His moobs bounce with each step. His belly, too. It's so round. Rounder than Bucky remembers it being this morning. How-? Has he been snacking in class? How much did he eat for breakfast after Bucky left?

Bucky is struct dumb by the idea of Steve leaning against the fridge, chugging his protein shake that's practically a fucking milkshake or sugary smoothie at this point, head tipped back, throat working, belly growing. Then, on top of that thick, sugary drink, barely a drink more a thick slurry, shoving down a whole box of cereal. Also, tipping the sugary, crunchy food straight back into his mouth. Chewing through it. One hand rubbing his tight, tighter belly. And when that's not enough, he throws the empty cereal box aside with an unsatisfied growl, turning his huge ass around, pulling open the fridge with all the elegance of a starved grizzly bear, then bending over, sticking his fat ass out, belly hanging underneath him, and using both hands to grab anything edible and shove it straight into his face.

Shaking himself out of the fantasy, Bucky bites his lip. His stomach growls. The sound of desire has nothing to do with the food on his plate or even all the food piled onto Steve's plates. It has everything to do with Steve himself. Steve crammed into his fucking clothes. They look like they might burst at the seams at any moment, like that soft-yet-firm fat could come bursting out, pale except where he's being squeezed the tightest, red lines cutting into him.

God.

Steve looks impossible good. Impossibly good standing, walking, then, even better sitting down.

When he sits down, his belly jiggles like extra firm jello and expands even further into his lap. Taking up a lot, lot of real estate. Bucky would like to take up the rest of the space on his lap. He'd like to get up and fall over onto Steve. Straddle his lap. Press himself like a cat against his round, overfull tummy. And he'd like, more than anything, he'd like to feed him every crumb of food sitting on the plates on his tray. He wants it so much that he feels like crawling out of his skin. Bucky is on the edge of his seat and this close to falling off, drooling as Steve scratches his belly, now seated, and finds his shirt rucked up enough to expose a few inches of his delectable belly that puffing out over his pants.

"Hey, Buck, you havin' a good day so far?"

Bucky swallows, his voice suddenly rougher than gravel, "yeah." His day has been... fine. But, now it's great.

It's great.

...great watching him nod and instantly wrap his big mitt of a hand around his fork and scoop up his food, straight to his mouth. So eager to eat. Feed himself. It's great. It's definitely not torturous for Bucky to watch him swallow mouthful after mouthful, eating with the efficiency of a competitive eater, making pushing all that fuel down into his already swollen belly seem easy. Where the fuck is he putting it?

Bucky can barely hold into his own fork. He can't really hold onto any thread of conversation Steve starts, talking around his constant mouthfuls of food, either. He's entirely consumed by Steve's consumption.

His painted on clothes just get tighter and tighter and tighter.

He drops some sauce on his huge, puffy moobs, and it causes Bucky to choke on his water. He nearly does a spit take.

Steve whines about it, upset about ruining his shirt.

"We'll bleach it," Bucky says all too quickly. As insane as Steve is making him, he can't get rid of that shirt. He just can't! It's so transparent, and it's the closest he can get to watching Steve blissfully stuff himself shirtless, spilling sauce over his big, strained boobs.

Steve frowns but nods, too.

His appetite is far from ruined.

Bucky pretends to need something from his backpack so he can lean down and peer under the table. Those inches of dough-bursting-from-a-cardboard-biscuit-tube fat are on display again. He's swelling. With every mouthful, his gut is growing. Wider. Fuller. Bigger. He's bloating. He looks like a blimp.

Bucky doesn't know how he's going to get up from his chair to go to his next class, he looks so heavy, but he would pay a million dollars he absolutely doesn't have to watch it happen. He wants to film it and replay it again and again and again until the tape wears out so he knows each and every jiggle, so he can see every place his clothes roll up or ride down, so he see can memorize the entirely satisfied, pleased expression on his handsome, chubby face.

Bucky nearly bursts himself, thinking about it, so he doesn't know what's going to happen when Steve does have to get up. He'll combust if Steve gets up to get seconds.

Steve will probably get seconds. He can't imagine Steve sitting through an entire two classes without his big belly grumbling if he doesn't have at least a few more plates.

Oh, God.

When did his boyfriend get so fat?

And when did Bucky start liking it so much? 😳😫

...

Bucky gets just a glimpse of Steve in their apartment after class before he's off to work. And it's a... a lot.

Steve nearly doesn't see him. He's studying, so focused that he's mindlessly snacking. He has to snack. Otherwise, he can't focus. That, or, he focuses by nearly chewing holes in his cheek and lip. He's always had some kinda oral fixation. His football mouthguards always ended up with teeth marks in them, same with his yellow, #2 school pencils, and every year for his birthday, he gets Steve a pack of weirdly flavored gum for him to try alongside whatever regular gift Bucky got.

Bucky is relieved and pained by Steve's transition from non-edible (or not swallowable (gum)) oral fixation to completely, only edible items. Relieved because he doesn't have to tell him to stop chewing on shit he shouldn't and pained because...

Fuck.

Just looking at him hurts.

It... hurts. 😳

Steve parked his fat ass on their couch - putting a big dent in the middle, thanks to his weight - and as he studies, he's working his way through a pile of snacky, easy-to-eat, processed food. Wrappers are everywhere.

His transparent, stained shirt has rolled up past the few inches of his thick lower gut all the way to his belly button. Huff. The "small" of his is back exposed as he hunches over, reading the textbook in his lap. His chunky love handles are visible as well. Jesus. Bucky bites his own lip, suddenly also in need of something to do with his mouth. Steve's pants have been exchanged for gym shorts, and they're forced down loooow on his hips. There's too much stacked weight on them for them to sit in the right place. Woof.

"See you later," Bucky rasps, staring at Steve's thick back. As he looks, he imagines Steve's front, though. He's leaned forward, so his gut must be crushed into stretched, thick rolls. It must look extra round and big between his chest and thighs and--

Stop thinking, Bucky. Stop imagining, Bucky. He tells himself. It's not good for him. He's not gonna be able to function at work. Shit.

Steve lifts his head, "huh?" There are crumbs on his face. His chubby, messy cheeks will be the death of Bucky. "Oh, yeah, Buck, see you. You'll be back for dinner?"

"Yeah," Bucky coughs, "dinner."

He eyes Steve's exposed tummy now that he's turned in his seat. Round. Getting rounder. Impossibly rounder. How is he still getting rounder? Still bloating and growing and swelling. Ripening. Marked with red and pink and white lines. Growing fatter faster than his skin can take it. Ballooning out of his clothes and his own body.

Hnnng.

How does he fit it all in there?

How does he not notice?

He's growing out of... everything!

Bucky spins around before he can pop a boner, "dinner!" He squeaks and speeds away.

...

Steve. has. already. visibly. grown. by. the. time. Bucky. returns. from. work.

Visibly grown.

By now, he's so round he's almost fucking spherical.

He's so big that he's massive.

He's pink with heat and satisfaction, a lazy, little smile on his face, and he's reclined fully back on their couch, the TV playing in the background - some football game Bucky couldn't give less of a shit about - one hand resting over his dick and cupping his balls under his gym shorts and underwear while the other is wrapped around a beer can.

Bucky doesn't make words. He just growls. It escapes his throat.

He's had a few. The cans are sprawled messily around the coffee table with evidence of more snacks. Not just thoughtless snacks for studying. Deliberate snacks. Snacks enjoyed while relaxing in the light of the TV. Nuts. Meats. A few sweet treats.

"B-ugh-ck!" Steve hiccups in the middle of his bright greeting.

Bucky still can't speak. The TV is on full volume, but he can't hear it; it doesn't matter that there's anything playing on it. All he can hear and see is Steve.

Steve.

Steve, in his stupid, too small shirt that's rolled all the way up to his motherfucking tits by now. It's a bra. The shirt looks like a bra now, stretched tightly over his moobs but not covering them. Bucky swears it's even more see-through now. His nipples are hard. Pink. Round. Hard. Hard like his drum-tight, globe of a gut.

Steve hiccups drunkenly once more, staring at him, patiently waiting for any sort of response. He jiggles and jolts; he sloshes with alcohol.

"You eat without me?" Bucky can hardly get the words out.

"Nah, nah, just-" he broadly gestures toward the mess in front of him, the beer, the snacks, the GUT fat and full in his lap, monopolizing the space, "-relaxing."

Bucky shivers, "yeah." He licks his lips, "you know... work wasn't so good for me. You gonna help me relax?"

"Ov-" Steve stifles another hiccup behind his fist, "oof," he puffs, pulling his hand out of his pants to settle his sloshing belly, digging into the taut side, "of course!"

Bucky swallows, "'kay," his mind is reeling, "stay there." Not like he could get up even if he wanted to. "I'm, I'm gonna... I'm gonna get what I want to relax."

"M'kay," Steve smiles into his next sip of beer despite still dealing with his belly-jostling hiccups.

Bucky goes to the kitchen, places an order for pizza, a lot of pizza, using his phone, but comes back with the box of cupcakes Natasha sent him home with after work. Working for a heartless, large corporation like Starbucks can have its perks, as it turns out.

Steve has finished his latest beer, and he tries to throw it onto the coffee table but misses. It rolls across the carpet instead. Bucky can't hold it against him. Bucky can't hold anything against him. Not when he's like this. Big. Huge. Hiccuping. Sloshing. Stretched tight. So tight that every time he burps, he groans. Thighs splayed out as wide as he can get them to give his huge, huge, bare belly space to breath. His tits barely covered by what used to be a shirt - what was a shirt just this morning.

"Oooh, gimme," Steve reaches out his hands, making grabby hands for the box. He knows it contains something sweet.

"Jesus," Bucky can't help but murmur. How does he still have room?

"What?" Steve asks, making a greedy sound that goes straight to Bucky's own uncomfortably tight pants. "You wanna relax by living through me vicariously?"

"Sure," Bucky rasps. "You'll work through 'em in no time," he nods toward the cupcakes. Steve takes a bite from the first one, getting frosting on his nose and nearly choking as he moans around the taste, his eyes rolling back, then closing in bliss. "Your metabolism."

"Yeah," Steve moans, arching his back, trying to shift some of the weight off of his lap, "couple'a sessions and they won't mean nothin'."

Bucky is stunned. He genuinely doesn't know if Steve is drunk enough on beer and food and sugar to think he still works out or if Steve just somehow knows that Bucky is throbbing at the sight of him and is going with it. "Yes, and"ing.

Whatever.

It doesn't matter.

The sight of him.

Fuck.

Overfed.

Ballooning.

Fattening.

Steve swallows the first cupcake. The second. The third.

"Ugh," he smacks his lips, they're sticky with sugar, "do you want me to eat them all."

"Mmm-hmm, big guy," Bucky smiles, trying his hardest not to crack. "There's pizza on the way, too."

"Ohh," Steve moans. He moans! At the thought of pizza.

What. the. fuck.

He doesn't just moan, though, he wiggles in his seat. His gut is so hard, packed to the brim, that it doesn't really move. Bucky swears he can see the jump of Steve's pulse in the stretched, tortured skin. It looks so heavy. So full. He wiggles like he's trying to find room, but it's obvious to Bucky that there is none. It would be obvious to anyone who had the pleasure of seeing Steve like this. Anyone but Steve himself.

Steve, who's groans and gurgling and has his eyes so heavily lidded that they're practically fully shut. Yet...

He's making steady progress.

He swallows the fourth and fifth cupcakes in practically one bite each. Bucky sees the thick, moist cake go down his throat in a big, bulging gulp.

Steam is about to shoot out of his ears. Fuckfuckfuck. This is his wet dream that he didn't know he had.

Steve hiccups, he's not even closing his mouth all the way as he chews now. He's breathing too hard to do so, and so he keeps making these lip-smacking, sighing, exhausted sounds. But he also keeps eating. Bucky doesn't even have to prompt him. He just does it.

How?

What?

Why?

He looks inflated.

No wonder he's gotten so fat!

He'll be fatter tomorrow.

Bucky would bet money that this shirt won't get over his swollen pecs in three weeks, in a month, tops. He's just blimping up too fast.

"Gimme the last one."

"What?" Bucky startles.

"G-guh," Steve groans, rubbing his hands on his ball-shaped stomach, massaging, like he can work the fullness and tightness away. "Gimme the last one."

"The, uh, the cupcake?"

Steve cracks open one eye, "yeah, duh," he says.

"Okay."

Bucky's hand shakes as he grabs the last cake, unpeels the wrapper, and extends his arm, shaking more and more the closer he gets to Steve's mouth.

Steve's fingers wrap around his wrist, steadying him, and he leans in the last half inch, tilting his head to the side, his eyes slipping shut and his sweet, sticky, pink lips part. It happens in slow motion. He bites in slow motion. He moans, "mmm, yeah," around the delicious cake, his fingers grasping tighter, locking Bucky in place as he takes bite after bite until it's gone.

He licks Bucky's fingers clean.

Bucky

Bucky doesn't

Bucky can't -

Bucky can't function.

Steve's long eyelashes flutter, "that's the stuff," he groans, fully satisfied and sounding like it.

Bucky is sweating.

"The cupcakes, sure," he puffs, "but I dunno if I can work off a whole pizza, Buck," when he turns his head to the side to look at Bucky where he's sitting next to him, his chin doubles. Bucky almost moans out loud.

Instead, he shakily gets out, "n-no one said anything about an entire pizza?"

Steve whines, digging his fingertips into his gargantuan tummy. It looks fake, he's so round. Like he got a fake, heavy, silicone pregnancy belly - overdue pregnancy belly and stuck it on himself. "But you knooow I can't control myself around pizza."

"I don't want you to!" The words explode out of Bucky.

Steve jolts in surprise. He hiccups painfully, wincing, "huh?"

"I don't want you to control yourself. Fuck, Stevie, I can't fucking take it. I gotta - I, I, you-! You make me crazy. God. I can't get over this. I don't want you to control yourself, and I don't want you to work anything off. I want you, I want you to -" he can't say it out loud.

He can't say, I want you to get so, so much fatter. Bigger. Heavier. I want you bursting out of the next size up in clothes, too. I want you waddling. I want you always stuffed and satisfied. I want you so big that when I fuck you your tummy hangs and jiggles and you moan about how anything else, any little extra bit will make him pop, even just Bucky's come in his ass.

"Over what?" Steve's eyebrows crease together adorably.

"This!" Bucky groans, "oh, God, all of this," he gestures to the globe of Steve's belly.

"I'm," Steve licks his lips, "I'm just bloated, though."

Bucky moans, "you're not." He does what he's been dying to, he digs his hands into that fat, he pinches Steve's heavy, stacked sided, "you're not just bloated, baby. And I love it."

Steve makes another confused noise, he stares down at himself, trying to wriggle and getting nowhere as his chest heaves with the effort to move all his weight. "Oh."

The doorbell rings.

Pizzas here.

They stare at each other, both of them breathing hard, just for different reasons. Steve's fat fucking gut is weighing on his lungs, compressing them and every time he tries to move, he can't. Bucky's on the edge of orgasm, just watching Steve glut himself, and his lack of breath isn't helped by his frantic admission.

"You don't have to-"

Steve slides both hands down the apex of his rooooound gut, he leans back into the sofa, seemingly reveling in the feeling, really truly taking in the feeling of his bloat, of his fat, for the first time. "Feed it to me."

"What?"

"I don't think I'll be able to get anything else in if I have to do it myself. So. You're gonna stuff me."

"What?"

"Buck, please, stuff me. I want it," his voice is raw. He moans needily, "stuff me."

How can he resist?

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