#mylevisdontfitanymore

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Thinking about Steve getting so big and round that he can rest on his belly like it’s a giant beanbag and he’s alone without Bucky so he starts to belly fuck himself and is just whining and moaning and panting being very verbal while feeling himself jiggle

Asdfghjkl 🥵🥵🥵

Oh.

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink ahead, including impossible/unrealistic levels of belly fat, belly humping, immobility, etc.

A stuttered, high moan bursts desperately out of Steve’s heaving chest as he squirms on top of his impossibly big gut. The sensation is otherworldly. It doesn’t feel real even though it’s so fucking visceral. It’s all he can feel. He can only feel his own fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Huge. He’s lost in it, lost in his own fucking fat. Steve’s grown so huge. Fattened and then overfattened recklessly. Ungodly round and swollen.

Steve lets his head hang down toward his overgrown middle and chest, pecs turned to moobs to just breasts, they’re so big and fat. All of him is. And he’s out of breath, panting and gasping, just from bucking his hips down frantically, barely doing any work at all, just trying to get any sort of friction to his blubber-buried dick. He hasn’t seen his dick in so fucking long, he hasn’t had Bucky’s hand or mouth or anything of Bucky’s around his dick is so long. His dick might as well be gone at this point, all of his normal sexual pleasure replaced by the pure pleasure of consumption - eating like a madman, eating so much that his belly stretches and he moans and cries, swearing he’s going to burst at the seams, straining around all this food and drink packed and stuffed into his body. It’s how he’d like to go, though, if he has to, he’s going to ride the wave of utter unrestrained gluttony like a true pig. Steve shivers just thinking about it - oh, oh, fuck yes. His gut stretched, new marks etching themselves into his thick flesh, his stomach churning and gurgling, his skin flushed red with how big he’s made himself, his body glistening with sweat, and creaking. There’s not enough room. There’s never enough room for everything he wants inside him. Delicious, decadent food.

Steve’s thinking about stuffing himself now, while he fucks his own fat. He’s reached an entirely new plane of greed and gluttony that he can’t be stopped. He’s the size of a boulder, his belly the shape of one, and he’s going to be stopped just about as easily as a boulder rolling down the side of a mountain. Jesus, he’s greedy. He’s fat. Huge. He’s moaning, crazed with the sensation of what he’s become.

The only thing Steve has to work with to get out his throbbing, pulsing arousal is the taut, huge surface of his belly. Nothing else. He’s so big. He can’t reach anything but so of his gut. Even his belly is too big for him to reach all of it. Steve whimpers. All he can feel his the sweaty, hot sensation of his own overfattened flesh. Thick and heavy, wobbling and jiggling underneath him. All over him. He’s massive. He almost can’t breathe, his stomach is so filled and so hard and pressing into him, trying and failing to find any more room to expand into.

Still, having trouble breathing or not, with every lazy thrust of his hips, pleasure sparks inside Steve. It feels so good. Fucking his own fat. So. good. But he needs more. Still. Steve always needs more. More food, more pleasure, and more complete hedonism.

Really writhing now, not just squirming, Steve’s toes curl until the soles of his feet ache like the sizes of his absolutely massive belly do, trying to stretch around all those calories, exponentially swelling him more. More. Steve whimpers unstoppably through a burp. There’s gas inside him rolling and bubbling in his stretched stomach and intestines from the damn keg of beer Bucky poured into him (trying, in vain, to placate and satisfy the monster of Steve’s appetite that they’ve built together) before he left to work on the monumental task of gathering, buying, and then hauling all the groceries they (mostly just Steve) need at home. So, now, Steve’s gargantuan stomach is carbonated. The feeling of bubbles in him is too much. He keeps belching and moaning, the bloat, the pressure mounting inside him. He’s gonna explode. All the humping and wiggling isn’t helping, he’s making more bubbles inside himself. Pressure. More pressure, tricking his body into thinking he’s fuller and leaving him panting even harder. He’s so fat. He can’t believe it.

Actually, he can believe it. He lives in his own head with the constant onslaught of thoughts that demand moremoremoremoremore. That’s how he got so giant. More. That’s how he grew this massive, round gut that holds his body off the ground like he’s laid out on a big, plush beanbag.

More.

Lavish.

Soft.

Big.

Steve just can’t fucking help himself. He’s so gluttonous and he doesn’t want to stop. Never.

Waves of his own wobbling fat take Steve beyond reason, almost beyond pleasure. It’s fucking good. So good that he can’t comprehend what he’s become. A true, immobile beached whale. His feet can’t touch the ground, they haven’t been able to touch the ground in ages. Ages and ages that have only been filled with food and drink - filled like Steve is filled. Overfilled. Unbearably filled with literally anything that Bucky wants to shove down his throat, from greasy pizzas to rich pastas to creamy desserts to malty beer and thick milkshakes.

More.

Steve licks his lips, whining. He just keeps fantasizing about food while he humps and fucks his gut. Jiggling. Wobbling. Bloating. Slowly… slowly… slowly growing fatter, stuffed with food, and always reaching new heights. Every day that goes by he’s the fattest he’s ever been and also the smallest he’ll be from now on.

God.

Another burp makes its way out of Steve, he intends to moan, squeezing his arms and legs into the blubbery sides of his belly - what he can reach of the sides of his belly underneath him - but he can’t control whether or not he moans or burps. He can’t control himself. What’s the difference anyway at this point? Indulgence is pleasure, pleasure is indulgence; food is sex, sex is food. There is no difference. All he knows is the pure sensation of unending fat underneath him. His body. So big. He can’t comprehend how fucking huge he is and it makes him so fucking horny.

#mylevisdontfitanymore #ask #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #chubby steve #fat steve #immobility #alcohol consumption #intox kink

[achubbydumpling]

I've been seeing a lot of Buckitty 😻 (Bucky with cat ears and a tail and cat instincts (and maybe a heat/mating season too 🥵😳)) on my dash and I LOVE HIM but you know what we in the belly kink community need more of-? Buckitty with a nice big belly. Maybe he's a nice, well-fed fat cat? Maybe he's bloated with milk/cream? Maybe he has a litter on the way, preg with kits and swollen tits? Tell me your thoughts, please, when you have time!!

I love you Dumpling! 💞

- mylevisdontfitanymore

YOU CAN'T COME IN HERE TALKING ABOUT BUCKITTY LIKE THIS @mylevisdontfitanymore 😩😩😭 I wasn't prepared!

but ohhh yess let's talk about him!

maybe he starts as a scrappy, little alley cat and turns into a big, fat and lazy house cat under Steve's doting care

kinda like this :D

but the one thing I can't stop thinking about is Buckitty heavy and round with Steve’s pups, lapping up pints of heavy cream as a snack 😩😩

“the pups need it,” he insists, but Steve can see him growing softer by the day

Buckitty would also love belly rubs during that time, he’d never ask for them of course, but his shirt would mysteriously keep riding up even if it’s a new one, a few sizes too large

but Steve always got the hint, carefully projecting his every move Steve would lean forward and rest his palm on Bucky’s belly, pretty low in the beginning still acting like Bucky might push him away at any second

Buckitty’s eyes slide shut after just a few moments, heavy, slow blinks and his tail flicking lazily, Steve scoots up a bit so he has full access to Bucky’s belly, he pulls his shirt up too, up right underneath his tits

ohh and they have grown, haven’t they? his softening pecs have grown heavy with milk, he’s barely along half-way and yet he’s already leaking occasionally

“just proves what a good dad you’ll be,” Steve always tells him, but Bucky is still shy about it, his ears always swivel backwards and a faint blush spread on his cheeks

that is until one night belly rubs turn into more

it started with a curious lick along one of Bucky’s new stretch marks, deep-red, angry ones that radiated around his belly button after Steve had just sucked him off

Steve had been rubbing down Bucky’s belly with lotion once, then twice a day, but his skin just couldn’t keep up with his rapid growth, in part due to the pups, but also due to his ravenous hunger (and Steve’s relentless feeding)

his mouth trailed but following the stretch marks until he reached Bucky’s stuffed belly, he couldn’t eat as much in one sitting anymore since the pups had grown too big, but Bucky still ate as much as he could manage on every occasion

usually Steve stopped here, he was respectful of Bucky pushing him away when he crept further up, mouthing at the side rolls that were spilling out of Bucky’s top, but that night Bucky didn’t stop him, maybe he was too tired, maybe he was curious to see where this would go

Steve felt the feather-light touch of Bucky’s fingers in his hair­ but no push even though his tail moved more agitated than before

when Steve glanced up just to check, Bucky’s cheeks were tinted red, but he was also biting his lips and hiding his smile, Steve nosed his way further up keeping his hands on Bucky’s belly for now, he slowed down a bit and concentrated on the sensitive spot right over Bucky’s ribs (or rather where his ribs used to be)

Bucky’s body reacted in turn, he tried arching his back into the touch and to Steve’s absolute delight a drop of milk rolled down almost straight into his mouth

he’d been thinking about it more and more in the past few weeks, he’d seen Bucky cleaning himself up, the milky rags in the laundry and he’d smelled the enticingly sweet scent, of course his brain went into overdrive, producing fantasy after fantasy involving Bucky’s changed physique

Steve pushed Bucky’s shirt up and latched on without another thought, Bucky’s hand tightened in his hair, but didn’t push him away—he pulled him closer in fact

“ohh-“ Bucky breathed clearly surprised at how good it felt, the constant pressure lessening from an ache to nothing to something building to.. Bucky moaned obscenely as Steve pushed his tongue flat against Bucky’s nipple and sucked harder only letting up when Bucky tugged him back a bit

Steve’s eyes were wild, his hair completely untamed and a milky white sheen on his lips

“you taste incredible, let me, please-”

Bucky pulled Steve in to kiss him, a feral part in Bucky’s mind hummed with pleasure at being taken care of so well—of being desired so completely and.. Bucky glanced down at Steve’s upper body the faint curve to his belly that was prove of what had just happened sent an unparalleled shock through his system

is this what Steve feels when Bucky gorges himself until his belly is bloated completely round?

in that moment Bucky didn’t care to examine the thought further, he pulled Steve close again

“drink, you gotta- c’mon”

Steve complied without any complaints, latching on confidently and drinking his fill, Bucky’s claws raking down his back only seemed to encourage him, even though they drew a few drops of blood

Steve’s body was rocking against Bucky’s side in rhythm with his swallows, muffled moans kept working their way out of Steve’s throat and Bucky knew Steve wouldn’t be able to stop until there was not a drop of milk left

another roll of Steve’s hips, another deep gulp and Steve was shaking apart

he kept suckling on Bucky’s nipple all the way through his orgasm, so lost in the sensation and used to the movement that he didn’t even notice there was no more milk for him to swallow

Bucky cradled Steve’s head in his paws and pulled him off gently, his body flooding with so much love and fondness that his chest felt tight with it, Buckitty couldn't help the purr that rumbled in his chest and rubbed his cheeks all over Steve while he came back to himself

it took a while, but Bucky knew Steve was fully with him again when he groaned and clutched his bloated belly

"why'd you let me drink this much in one go?" Steve whined, when he buried his face against Bucky's soft side Buckitty purred even louder

(purring is supposed to help with healing broken bones, why not Steve's stomach ache too? :D)

#asks #mylevisdontfitanymore #fat Bucky #fat Buckitty #lactation kink #weight gain fiction #wg story

[hungryhungrydoe]

✌🏻enjoy

(Idea by @mylevisdontfitanymore ❤️)

#my artwork #artwork #getting fatter #belly kink #chubby belly #digital art #fanart #weight gain #chubby stucky #chubby!bucky #chubby!steve

[frogstalavista]

✨🌈☀️ send this to ten people you’re happy to see every time they pop up on your dash/notif & wish them a good day 🌟🌈☁️

- mylevisdontfitanymore

OMG I WILL 😭 WHY DOES MY DAY KEEP GETTING BETTER AND BETTERRRR OMGGG

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I am... fully obsessed with the magic doll story you wrote. Is there any possibility one day getting an expansion (heh) that included other aspects of the ask, like getting Bucky drunk or making him horny and cum from a distance?? Sorry, I had no idea I would like it that much 👀

This magic doll

I'm not sure how much this expands on the original idea, but... I just blacked out and came back with this, so 🤷🏻‍♂️ have it 😂😂

(Also, tagging @bnb-atnite because she went feral for that story 👀)

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink. Mostly rapid and magical weight gain, some vague dubious concent vibes but not really, etc.

I’d like to think that Steve likes to take his boy toy out on the town, showing him off, the media thinks they’re dating, but they don’t know that this pretty, young twink is Steve’s toy. Paid for and still pampered by Steve’s wealth.

As a result of Steve taking him out to the most lavish, expensive dinners, showing him off, alongside Steve’s need to keep his reputation (relatively) controversy-free… Steve has to unstuff the magic doll when they go out for the aforementioned high society vanity and practical reasons. For vanity, paparazzi would ruin them (as hot as it would get Steve) if Bucky waddled out of their building, thighs not only rubbing together but spilling out against each other, all that fat jiggling and forcing his legs further apart than they normally would be when he walks, turning his smooth walk into a wide-legged, ponderous staggering. The whole time he would need Steve to hold onto, his balance so fickle when he’s that fucking big. Steve’s arm fighting to make it all the way around his thick, soft waist and getting lost in between those heavy, overflowing rolls; Bucky’s chubby hand tight on his muscular forearm, clinging to him, complete contrast; Bucky huffing and puffing, his chubby cheeks red and misted with sweat, pure exertion from all that weight packed onto his frame and being forced to walk the short distance from the elevator to the lobby to their waiting, chauffeured car where he needs Steve to help stuff him into the backseat, fighting all his blubber, it’s a good thing that they don’t buckle up in the back because even with an extender… Bucky wouldn’t fit, meanwhile, Steve isn’t out of breath at all, not a hair out of place, nothing but a cocky smile on his lips, after all, with his workout regime he could skip the elevator down from their top floor penthouse, run the flights of stairs, down, up, then down again, and still be fine. But not Bucky. Bucky’s overburdened frame, overflowing with this soft, luxurious blubber, would cause quite the media frenzy, feeding off of him. And God knows there’s enough to feed off of. Steve would get off on it, but he doesn’t do it. For practicality, they can’t leave the penthouse with the magic doll, and subsequently with Bucky so round and heavy, because Bucky can’t move very well when his body is stuffed with fat. When the magic doll - always in Steve’s pocket, ready to be manipulated and played with whenever Steve feels like it - nearly bursting at the seams with so much fiberfill, Bucky can hardly maneuver around the penthouse, much less the outside world. In the penthouse, he knocks stuff over with his shelf-ass, he gets stuck in doorways (and even in Steve’s impressive, huge shower stall), he finds it difficult to waddle more than a few inches before becoming exhausted, he complains about having to use his arms because when he does his heavy, big tits get in the way, and, just, anything that isn’t sitting on his ass, mounding out underneath him like a thick cushion, is hard. So, when he’s so huge, he sits and lets himself be pampered. However Steve wants him, so long as it’s resting, he’s good.

However, as much as it makes Bucky pout when he’s unstuffed, returning to that little twink he was when Steve first bought him, it’s totally worth it once they’re done with their little date and he gets to experience being supersized all over again. There’s nothing like a public dinner date filled with foreplay, knowing that the real fun begins when they get home where Steve can have him to himself and mold his body into whatever form he wants, all for him to play with him. Touch him, fatten him, grope him, spank him, fuck him, even fuck his rolls. Whatever he wants. It’s about what he wants. Bucky is a toy, his needs don’t matter, he’s just here to be Steve’s. And Steve’s going to play with him. Roughly or softly, he’ll play however he wants.

So, their date is foreplay in the form of Steve buying courses and courses and courses of expensive, fancy food that come in tiny portions that Bucky always swears will never fill him up, only to sing (pant, really) a different tune in an hour when the plates are still coming and he’s not so sure he has any more room. If not for Steve demanding that he keep eating - he paid for it, didn’t he? Bucky isn’t sure if he’s talking about the food or Bucky himself. Jesus Christ, that’s hot. - claiming he wants to have to hold him close to his side when they leave so the cameras don’t catch that Bucky’s popped at least one button off of his shirt, the pressure of his swollen belly just too much for the expensive cloth and thread. And if he doesn’t pop a button, if he doesn’t finish all his food, well, maybe he’ll have to go to bed without an orgasm and without all the fat he so desperately wants to be packed back onto him, addicted to how soft he’s grown (ha) used to being under Steve’s pampering care.

So.

Bucky eats.

He eats and eats and eats, always moaning at the rich tastes of the decadent foods, easily letting Steve continue to fill his wine glass until he’s satisfied with Bucky making a pig of himself in public. Stuffing his face. The evidence is clear on his body - his belly distended into a tight, pregnant-looking globe.

In the bathroom before they leave, Steve slaps his tender gut a handful of times, weakening Bucky’s knees until he’s leaning against Steve’s chest, panting hard, his eyes rolling to the back of his head with a whimper as he feels all the food inside him shift and churn, he’s so full and Steve’s being so mean. The burn of his slaps is barely diffused by his tight, tight shirt. The smacks are just to make him focus, though, Steve knows how dumb his spoiled toy gets, and he needs a reminder to suck in as much as he can while they walk to the car. Keep up the reputation. Then, once they’re inside, he can let his greedy belly bloat back out. Nearly moaning into his collar, practically drooling on him, Bucky nods and struggles to right himself.

They stumble through camera flashes into the car to go home.

Bucky whines and moans through the car ride, Steve’s heavy, hot palm resting possessively on his starter belly for the night, the bulk of his body close, leaning into him. His lips are pressed close to Bucky’s ear, whispering about how he can’t wait to watch this chubby belly swell into a real fat gut and… hmm, y’know, maybe he can’t wait. Maybe he’ll pull out the magic doll in the interior pocket of his suit jacket and start puffing him up right here. Wouldn’t that be fun? He could give Bucky huge, big tits again and then force him to walk from the car to the doors of their building with them wobbling and spilling out of his shirt. Wouldn’t the gossip rags have fun with that? Talking about how this tiny little twink went and got himself big, mommy milkers… or maybe, maybe he should stuff his ass, make it huge and give everyone in the city, hell, with Steve’s business being a household name, everyone in the country something to jerk off to. That big, fat ass.

Bucky is panting. Forget foreplay, this is… it’s midplay? Just play? It’s so much more than simple foreplay to get him riled up. He's past riled.

His belly is stuffed to the point that he might burst and he’s so hard in his slacks, his belt biting into his waist, that he’s achy. He wants Steve to play with his dick right now. He doesn’t care that he’s pretty sure Steve wouldn’t do any of that, and he’s just talking. He doesn’t know 100%. And he could. Bucky is his to play with. He could do whatever he wanted to him. If he wanted he could take his clothes and make him do the walk of shame up to their building, streaking with his stuffed, glutted middle bulging out in front of him like Steve’s fucked him so good, so often, that he’s defied the laws of biology and impregnated him despite his lack of uterus.

Steve caresses his tender middle, dragging his fingertips just hard enough over him, that he shudders. A soft, “please,” comes out in a whine.

Steve just nips his ear, hushing him.

Bucky swears that he nearly dies, his heart pounding so hard in his chest, on the way back to the penthouse. He’s too turned on. He’s gonna explode. Anticipation and fullness are so overwhelming together.

Once they’re behind the heavy, solid wood door of the penthouse Steve stops dragging him along, possessive but also reasonable because Bucky’s not sure how he’s still walking, he’s not even that heavy, he’s just too turned on, there’s nothing going on in his head. So, Bucky stops in his tracks, Steve goes to the kitchen for… something, meanwhile, he sticks to the door, leaning against the cool surface, trying to catch his breath.

It doesn’t hit Bucky that it’s intentional on Steve’s part until, oh, God -

He’s squirming in pleasure with the tingling, stretching feeling of his body expanding. It’s magical. Literally. But it feels magical, too. It’s so much better, after a break of being back in his “normal” body, he’s fucking dying here, feeling himself balloon right back up. It will never get old. It’s tight and tingly, his skin fighting to keep up with the pure lard that’s exponentially filling him, almost like the sensation of pins and needles. So, so intense. It’s hot like fire spreading through him. It’s such a stretch that it takes his breath away, he feels like an inflatable parade balloon. Fuck, he’s about to be the size of one, too.

Bucky moans, tortured by the sensation and by the fact that he can hear Steve, his footsteps on the wooden floor, chuckling as he waltzes out of the kitchen and further away from Bucky - it sounds like he’s heading for the bedroom, which, fuck yeah, but Bucky can’t move! He’s still expanding!

Heavier and heavier, wider and wider.

It feels like he’s swelling to fill the whole door frame. Like he’s gonna get stuck again! He moans loudly at the thought, there’s really nothing as sexy as Steve coming up behind him to unstick him, teasing him for “letting” himself get so big (as if he has any choice with the power Steve has over him), and then getting his hands all over his body, sinking into his soft, plush fat, grunting with the effort of shoving and shoving, making the parts of his body that aren’t wedged in tight jiggle and wobble in waves until he stumbles forward, dazed from how turned on it all makes him.

Bucky’s still swelling.

What’s better or worse-? Getting fattened in the blink of an eye, suddenly woomph, hugely obese and incredibly off-balance and so aroused, or having it accumulate just fast enough for him to feel his body struggling to keep up, his heart pounding as he knows what’s coming.

“Buck?” Steve calls, beckoning him forward.

He struggles through a few steps, his new weight making his muscles tremble while his mind weakens. He’s shaking. He’s already so close to begging out loud. He just wants more already. He wants it fast. He wants it now! Fatten meeee! Swell me!

Bucky uses the walls and furniture along the way to the bedroom to steady himself, fighting to keep walking when he really just wants to fall to his knees to enjoy the sensation that’s overtaking his whole body.

Swelling.

Filling out.

Inflating.

Bloating.

Shit, it’s so good.

By the time he gets to the end of the hall that leads back to the master bedroom and bathroom, he’s sweating. Steve is standing there, leaning against the door frame, smirking at him, eyes dark as he watches his struggles. He’s holding that fucking doll and a mass wad of stuffing. Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat, his dick twitching like an excitable pet hearing the word “dinner.”

Then -

“OH!”

Steve forces all of the huge mass of stuffing into the little magic doll, making it bulge.

At first, it all settles right into the doll’s belly, the biggest open space available. It’s so much that Bucky stumbles and falls onto his suddenly massively, massively round gut. The thump sound of his impact would be laughable if it weren’t so fucking obscene. He is so excessive. SO fat. The air is knocked out of him. His head is spinning. He’s so fucking turned on. He could come like this. He could. He’s on top of his gut, his legs forced to spread so wide around the massive shape of his gut, and -

A whole long moan that’s almost more like a wail leaves Bucky, emptying his lungs of all oxygen as Steve takes the ungodly huge chunk of stuffing straining the doll’s limits in its tummy and massages it. He smooths the big ball of fiberfill out, distributing it more evenly throughout Bucky’s frame. Bucky can’t breathe. It feels like there are hands all over him, touching him, touching him, touching him, squishing, squeezing, and groping his fat. He feels like a pillow being fluffed. But a heavy pillow. It's so heavy that he doesn’t think he’s ever going to walk again. Guh. How does he ever get used to this feeling between their public outings? It’s mind-melting. With Steve touching him without touching him, his belly shrinks, but the whole rest of his body thickens, evening out, leaving Bucky much chunkier, but on all-fours rather than resting on top of his gut.

Of course, once he’s done massaging him, Steve stuffs him more. Filling the freed-up space.

More.

He makes his body so thick, his arms and legs blubbery and his belly nearly sagging to the floor while he trembles on his hands and knees. To deal with the weight, Bucky arches his back, but it doesn’t help him deal with how turned on he is - if anything, it makes him hornier because he can feel how his thick ass jiggles and pops out more. He could get fucked like this; if he’s not too fat for Steve’s dick to reach his hole yet, he could get fucked like this; he wants to be fucked like this. So bad. He wants Steve to fuck him, grope him, jiggle him, and fatten him.

More.

He’s so fucking spoiled. Weakly, plaintively whining, begging without words as his arms and legs slide farther apart under the still-increasing weight of his body. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck meee. If Steve keeps pushing him he’s gonna be laying on top of his fat rather than crawling on all fours soon. He’s too soft and weak! Absolutely spoiled.

“Buck, honey-”

Steve’s voice makes Bucky stretch his head up, blearily looking at him through the haze of arousal.

His voice has softened “-quit playing around and come to bed, baby. I know your tummy hurts after dinner, c’mere and I’ll rub your belly in bed, don’t you want me to make it better?” he’s too good at playing the doting, innocent husband of an overdue wife considering that he’s the one doing this to Bucky, fattening him, driving him insane with too much and not enough pleasure.

With a whimper Bucky tries to crawl forward again, wobbling, his body fighting so hard to do something so simple that’s so hard when he’s so fucking heavy. He can’t make it and he opens his mouth to beg for help, he can’t do it! He’s too big! When -

A truly shameless, obscene sound comes out of Bucky. Before he knows what’s happened and why he’s suddenly so hot and so sweaty and so close to coming, Bucky is going down. He’s suddenly crumbling onto the floor face first, putting his weight on his tender gut and belching through another desperate moan. He can’t take it. He can’t -

Steve.

Fucking! Steve! So mean!

Just barely, Bucky can make out that Steve is holding the doll, not passively stuffing whisps of fiberfill into its body but now rubbing it. He’s rubbing the, the…

Oh, Jesus, just looking at what he’s doing to the doll, and thus doing to Bucky, makes embarrassment riot inside him. It’s so dirty!

He’s rubbing the crotch of the magic doll. He’s pleasuring it! Pleasuring Bucky!

His eyes roll to the back of his head, going limp in stunned arousal.

It fucking feels like he’s pouring pleasure straight into his body through his dick. It’s like being jerked off and sucked off and humping his own fat all at the same time. It’s like nothing else, he’s never felt something so good. It’s melting his mind. It’s ruining him for any other pleasure that doesn’t come from being so gluttonous and out of control.

Bucky can feel himself quivering on top of the cushion of his squished, fat belly. He can feel his dick, trapped where he can’t reach it under all his heavy, thick blubber twitching and leaking. He’s sweating so much, running the hottest fever. He’s wailing, voice breaking, when without fucking touching him Steve jerks him off to orgasm. It’s hot and wet against his own skin but Bucky can’t see it, the dirty evidence is hidden by his swollen body. The whole time, Bucky can feel Steve’s eyes on him, focused and burning, as captivated with him as a cat that’s just spotted an impressively fat mouse, deepened with the sadism of a predator whose only pleasure is unraveling its prey like a spool of thread. And just to make it worse, dragging him through the last twitches of his orgasm, Steve pinches the doll’s belly, undeniably delighted to hear how Bucky’s moans change tune.

It hurts to be groped so hard - his belly is under so much pressure already with him on top of it, and adding to it is… it’s, it’s unbearable. It feels so good. All he wants is to be touched and he is being touched but he wants Steve to actually touch him, he doesn’t want magic, he wants it to be real, and he’s already aching for more. Spoiled. He wants to be hefted into bed and turned over, rolled onto his back where he’s pinned and made into a bloated, swollen playground for Steve to touch, grope, hump, and climb all over. He wants Steve on top of him, grabbing handfuls of his thick blubber, jiggling it, and grinding into it, getting red in the face as he reaches his own high, getting off on what he’s done to Bucky. How he’s ruined and perverted him. How he owns him. He can do anything he wants to him, and Bucky will lick it up and beg for more like the greedy boy toy he is.

Me rn:

Did I realize AFTER I wrote this whole thing that I neglected to talk about Bucky's clothes tearing off of him as he got fatter? Yes. Is that evidence of my brain being horny scrambled? You bet your ass it is 😂

#mylevisdontfitanymore #ask #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #magic weight gain #magical weight gain #rapid weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #fat bucky #stucky #immobility #button pop

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION: VOODOO WEIGHT GAIN. Anything that happens to the voodoo doll, happens to the person it's moulded after. You stuff the doll with more fluff, and the person's belly grows. You dunk the doll in beer or a glass of wine, it soaks into the fabric and the person gets wasted. You rub at the doll's privates, and you hear startled moaning from the other room. I don't know, I just saw the idea on DeviantArt and I think that it has a lot of potential..

*Note: I, the author of this silly, kinky, little Tumblr fic, am white. And because of the past association between white people saying “voodoo” and cruelty towards people of color, I will not be using the term “voodoo doll.” I know nothing good or bad was necessarily meant by your ask, grey-faced anon user 😊, but I just don’t want to use that! So I’m going to say magic doll 🤷🏻‍♂️*

I FUCKING LOVE THIS IDEA.

JESUS CHRIST.

I AM SO FUCKING HERE FOR THIS.

Immediately, immediately, when you sent this to me I had a whole fucking AU in my head. This idea gives rich-man-Rogers and house-husband-boy-toy-Bucky…

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink. Mostly rapid and magical weight gain, some vague dubious concent vibes but not really, etc.

I am picturing the full fantasy.

Steve is rich as fuck and is the CEO of his successful company. Whatever that is, it’s not important. What is important is that Steve is older than Bucky and is taller and bigger than him, too. Bucky is younger and twinkier. He’s sweet and needy *cough* slutty *cough*. Steve has needs too, though. Needs that are a special kind and can’t be met by just anyone, so rather than sorting through the whole fucking mess that is dating and sparking a new romance… he turns to hire someone who he can take his needs out on. A sex worker.

Steve hires a sex worker.

Specifically, Steve hires Bucky, striking up an exclusive contract with him. He wants Bucky to live with him, he wants Bucky to be ready for use at any time he needs him, and he wants Bucky to - within his limits - give into all of Steve’s dirtiest fantasies.

One of these fantasies is having a boy at home who is at his every beck and call, and who is totally, completely spoiled. Not bratty, but spoiled.

And Steve wants the evidence of Bucky’s spoiling to be on full display. He wants his houseboy - his toy - to be soft. Pale skin completely bare. Waxed, not shaved. Skin lotioned extensively. Soft. Clothed in the finest silk and lace and the like. Manners perfect. Not all skin and bones, not all bulky muscle, but fat and padded as if he’s never had to work a day in his life and is instead doughy and excessive. Always sitting on his comfortable, cushy backside.

Yeah… 🫦

Steve has specific tastes.

But Steve also has more than enough money to acquire said specific tastes. He has so much money, in fact, that he can afford to commission a small, hand-sewn, delicate doll from one of Natasha’s highest-recommended contacts. Said contact is secretive, illusive, and extensively expensive, but she agrees to Steve’s wants immediately, claiming she has just the thing and he doesn’t need to keep explaining, so… Steve has no complaints.

Steve has no complaints whatsoever, reclining in his desk chair with his belt and slacks undone, dick out, at his heavy wooden desk in his private office at work, the top floor, his solid wood door locked, with his personal secretary blocking all of his calls. On his otherwise spotless desk, there are two things: one is his laptop, and the other is a pile of fiber fill stuffing. In one hand he’s holding that little magic doll. Meanwhile, Steve’s other hand is poised to pack some of that stuffing into the doll’s body. But Steve isn’t looking at the doll, nor at the pile of awaiting stuffing, he’s looking at his laptop. The thing that is so interesting on his laptop is Bucky.

In perfect, crystal-clear quality the security camera feed from his penthouse is sprawled across the big screen. The penthouse he’s sharing with his contracted boy toy.

Bucky.

He’s been watching Bucky wander around, cleaning (Steve would prefer if he didn’t, he really does want Bucky helpless and spoiled, but he knows the younger man would go stir crazy if he didn’t have something to do, so he allows it), just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And…

Now is good, right?

Yeah.

Now is good.

So, Steve pushes a big, thick wad of stuffing into the doll and watches, dick jerking, as Bucky’s silence is interrupted by a cacophony of noise - all at once, his boy toy’s sweatpants rip to shreds and his toy lets out a sound that’s half-whimper, half-moan. He’s totally startled by the sudden woomph of his ass tripling, maybe even quadrupling, in size. Bucky is so blatantly confused that he ends up stumbling forward, nearly falling over but catching himself barely. With the flurry of movement, his ass jiggles.

Oh, Lord, Steve groans.

Big and fat.

Perfectly fat.

Bucky’s ass is unreal. It was before, firm and round, but now it is impossibly unreal. There’s no texture of dimpling cellulite and no striped stretch marks over the delicious surface of Bucky’s suddenly exposed ass. It’s perfect. Untouched. Unmarred. Only fat.

Bucky looks, well, Steve has started gnawing on his lower lip without realizing it, drawing blood already, so, it’s easy to say that he looks edible. Such a big ass on the most perfect, good-est boy. And Bucky is such a good boy that when he recovers, whimpering, after a brief, pornographic moment of groping himself, squeezing handfuls of fat where it’s mounding up behind him and twisting sharply around to try and investigate what has happened to his body, he just… goes on.

He keeps cleaning.

Steve is floored.

Oh, this is going to be so, so much more fun than he thought.

Bucky keeps cleaning as if nothing happened.

The only difference is now, Bucky is trying to stifle his precious little whines and he keeps sucking in sharp breaths like he’s embarrassed to let it show that he likes his shiny, new thick ass despite, to his knowledge, being completely alone. Unobserved.

Steve makes a whine of his own, a bitten-off, growling whine, but a whine nevertheless, when Bucky pauses cleaning to arch his back like he’s testing out how it might feel to get fucked with such a fat ass - like having such a big, heavy ass makes him feel sexy and he can’t help it. Immediately, Steve wants to make it better. He wants to make it worse. 😈 He wants to stuff as much stuffing as he can fit into the little doll’s chest to pack Bucky’s tits full of soft, malleable fat. If his boy likes how it feels to have fat, thick curves in the “right” places, then he’s going to give it to him. And then he’s going to ruin it by adding fat to the “wrong” places, too. He’s going to fatten him up. He’s going to make him huge with no effort at all.

Maybe he shouldn’t just give Bucky a taste of what it’s like to be curvy and sexy in a traditionally feminine way, all ass and tits, maybe he should pack him full of stuffing right this second, and see what he does, see how he preens and arches his back and touches himself, see how he spends his day alone, unknowing that Steve is peeping in on him, watching him get off to excess. Despite the dangerous pull... Steve doesn’t. Steve has self-control. Sometimes.

So. He lets it drag on…

He lets Bucky enjoy his fat ass for close to an hour. He simply watches, drooling and passively jerking off, as Bucky waddles around the penthouse, his ass wobbling and jiggling as he walks. His footsteps are much heavier than normal under the weight of his monstrous ass.

Bucky has removed his ruined sweatpants, but he hasn’t taken off his shirt. It should look silly. It doesn’t. It’s sexy as hell. Steve’s going to make him tear his way out of that shirt, too. He’s going to watch it be ripped to shreds. 😮‍💨

With another wave of lust, Steve decides he’s done waiting and he launches into action. He stuffs the doll again, focusing on a new, irresistible part of Bucky’s body that he wants to make even more irresistible by swelling him.

And instantly, with the doll stuffed, Bucky balloons.

His thighs, this time, widen with another sudden whoomph of magic.

His now colossal thighs match his ass delightfully. Thick and perfect. Doughy blubber that has to weigh too much for Steve to lift, despite his extensive gym routine.

Bucky moans outright this time. He’s less confused, too. He just accepts it. This is him now. The perfect, moldable toy. Adaptive and dumb.

Perfect.

He takes to the new fat packed onto his frame like a fish takes to water. Although… he’s nowhere near as physically graceful as that metaphor, Steve is talking purely about how Bucky reacts emotionally to seeing himself swell like a mound of dough left in the oven to proof overnight. Expanding. Bucky can hardly seem to walk now. His lower half is so puffy, so swollen that he’s waddling. Swaggering. Wobbling. All that fat moves captivatingly, jiggling in slow, swollen waves like the ocean after an intense storm. And because Bucky can’t walk anymore, Bucky plops down onto the nearby sofa. So heavy and overgrown that Steve’s expensive, expensive couch lets out a loud creak. Bucky swears, sounding panicked, but not too panicked to get up again and not too panicked to not start touching himself again.

His hands first make contact with his fat ass, squeezing inches of padding between his thumb and fingers at the sides of his body where his ass spills out away his hip flexors.

Steve feels a little faint. He feels more faint when Bucky scoots his thighs apart, setting them wider with a heavy, bothered sigh - they’re not only so fat that he can’t walk, they’re so fat that it’s hard to move.

Christ.

Bucky and this little doll are the best things that Steve has ever paid for. He swears. Then, Bucky moans, drawing his attention back to him and away from his money, the needy, little big minx.

Steve wants to give Bucky everything.

Steve takes the biggest ball of stuffing this far and packs it into the doll’s belly until its seams creak.

The force of the sudden fat being added to Bucky’s poor frame is so intense, whoomph, that Bucky is thrown back against the sofa. His head is thrown back too, eyes rolling to the back of his head, neck arched attractively, mouth hanging open, sweat appearing on his skin all at once. His skin. Oh, God, Steve growls to himself, he’s so fucking delighted that he’s recording all of this footage because he’s going to spend the rest of his life sneaking away into whatever nearby bathroom or closest or bedroom or wherever he can to replay the way Bucky’s shirt bursts off him, getting off to it.

The sound of the seams ripping, popping, and fabric shredding mixing orgasmically with Bucky’s cry of pleasure. Filled more than he could’ve ever dreamed of. Made so impossibly round that he’s stuck to the creaking, overburdened couch.

His gut fills all of the space in front of him.

The surface is taut like a drum and as round as a globe. Totally unmarred. No stretch marks, no bruises, not even the flush of skin struggling to contain so much blubber. He looks incredible. Mouth-watering. Pale. Fat. He’s rising like dough. And there’s only one thing left to do…

Steve stuffs his tits too, watching the way Bucky squirms, the way he writhes on the expensive, luxury couch as if he’s orgasming on the spot. So filled that he can’t take it anymore. He can’t hold anything in. He can’t keep himself from screaming. He can’t stop himself from coming. A blimp. A fat, excessive blimp sitting on top of a monstrous, thick ass and immense thighs with a belly that stretches out past his fat knees, so big and round that it shoves equally over-fattened tits up to his face, leaving him choking on them. He is overripe. Moaning with abandon, lost in the throws of pleasure from being so thoroughly gorged.

Swollen.

Filled.

(Here's part two)

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #weight gain #rapid weight gain #magic weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #chubby bucky #fat bucky

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Do you ever imagine Steve burping helplessly and Bucky getting turned on in a public place?

This isn’t public public but something that I have been thinking a lot about recently is car rides and how an especially rough ride might jostle burps out of someone while also forcing them to hold their sensitive, overfull tummy, groaning with complaints as the car rumbles and shakes. Then, as all this is going on, there’s also nothing they can do about it because they need to get home. In fact, before they got in the car and started getting jostled around, they really wanted to get home, they were so excited to get home so they could lie down and sleep off all the excess food and/or drinks they stuffed into themselves. So they're just trapped burping and being shaken up like a can of soda, about to pop. And that’s what I’m going with here! I hope you enjoy it!

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink under the cut. Warnings for alcohol consumption (but Steve can't get drunk because we're talking about serumed Steve, so it's not really intox? yanno?), burping, bloating, button pops, etc.

Steve and Bucky have just spent their evening at the latest fancy, excessively formal gala where they’re playing politics. Shaking hands with the government officials they pretend to listen to when it comes to how to save the world, living up to their roles as superheroes who are definitely not vigilantes and certainly operate under the law, yes, sir. Really actually gritting their teeth against boredom while making polite conversation. They’re doing it for the sake of the other Avengers and so they’re not deemed as enemies of the state… again.

So, once it’s over and they’re free to go home, both Steve and Bucky breathe a sigh of relief upon getting back to their car. It’s all over, well into the night or, actually, the next day. It’s morning now. Early, early morning. But. It’s over with. Thank God.

Steve, however, sighs especially loudly, fidgeting with his tie and instantly undoing the knot the moment he drops his ass into the passenger seat, shutting his door with a little too much force.

“That bad?” Bucky smirks, teasing him but not looking over from the driver’s seat at him because he’s too busy sticking the keys in the ignition and starting the car, flicking on the ventilation system and fiddling with the radio, turning it on low for some background noise.

“You have no idea,” Steve snarks back tiredly, falling farther into his seat as he buckles up with a click.

Amused, Bucky looks over at his best guy now that the car is idling, warming up, there’s something in his voice that catches his attention - he swears if anyone said something stupid to his Steve, they’re gonna pay for it - and

Oh.

After he blinks and takes a moment to process what he’s seeing, Bucky feels his own eyes widen comically when his gaze lands on the way Steve’s gut is suddenly bulging out from his body. The breath gets caught in his throat. His stomach. Woah. It’s… it’s a thing. It’s big. Suddenly, straining the limits of his choking formal attire. His neatly pressed black suit jacket and white dress shirt underneath with the tails of his black tie falling to either side of the hill rising from the middle of his body.

“What the fuck?” Bucky murmurs involuntarily, staring at his best guy and trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. His belly is so pressed outwardly and distended that Bucky can’t see the shiny leather belt that he knows is holding up his slacks. He’s… huge.

With eyes on him, Steve stretches like a cat, arching his back like his belly actually fucking fighting to escape the formal wear and seat belt that he’s wrapped haphazardly around it. His suit looks painted on, so unbelievably tight; his seat belt is curving underneath his belly’s sudden weight and curled over the top of it, emphasizing its heft.

“C’monnn,” Steve whines, high-pitched, breaking his Captain America facade that he uses for these types of events and returning to the punk he really is, “get us out of here already.” He turns his head to the side, his blue eyes glassy.

Automatically, Bucky puts the car in gear and does as he says - he’d do anything for that stupid punk - but, at the same time, he can’t stop shooting glances over to the passenger seat where Steve’s resting, reclining, fully exhausted, in his seat. He sighs heavily again, this time it’s in relief from unbuttoning his suit jacket. Bucky catches an eyeful of it, his dick jumping, trained like a dog to a whistle but the whistle is Steve taking off his clothes. And… if possible… his belly swells outwards another inch. Maybe more.

“Jesus, Stevie,” they come to a stop at a sign, just leaving the parking garage, and Bucky uses the moment to reach over and touch his belly. Just making sure it’s real and he’s not seeing things. Patting him down. Under his palm, it’s very real. Very tight and very real, making a ripe, solid thump sound with each pat-pat he makes.

The collision has Steve stifling an airy belch behind a loosely curled fist, “c-careful, Buck,” he warns.

“Or what, you’ll pop?” Bucky’s teasing but also… he could. He might. Just look at him, nearly bursting out of his clothes. On a goddamn normal day, Bucky can’t deal with Mr. Steve I-Like-Tight-T-Shirts-That-Show-Off-Every-Inch-Of-My-Hot-Bod Rogers. So how is he supposed to deal with Steve when he’s dressed to the nines in formal wear and they’ve just had to deal with a fucking room full of stuffy politicians that frustrate him to the point of wanting to rip out his hair or punch a wall or fuck someone hard? (Preferably the last option, and preferably Steve).

He looks - Bucky licks his lips which are suddenly dry - almost pregnant. Ready to pop alright. Bucky shivers as he shifts gears.

Steve lazily chuckles at him, breathless, explaining his situation away by flapping a hand passively, “everyone wanted to have a toast to or a toast with Captain America,” Bucky nods, trying to listen and barely succeeding, “and you know how it is, I can’t turn anything down when I’m wearing the stars and stripes, it looks bad.” Steve shifts in his seat as Bucky hits the gas, the softest groan falling out of his loose, full lips already driving Bucky insane even before he admits, “so I have no idea how many flukes of champagne I drank.”

As they continue to cruise, Bucky keeps looking over at him, stealing glances, trying but failing to keep his eyes on the road. He’s trying to process the thought of Steve getting fucking wasted in this new century. Sloshed. Hitting glass after glass, bottle after bottle, until he’s flushing pink, and getting stumbly and tipsy and touchy like he used to before the serum when he was the lightest lightweight. Always snuggling up to Bucky, all over him, curling up in his lap like a cat after they went out drinking back in the day, kissing him and clinging to him, begging him with slurred words and dangerously mischievous eyes to fuck him rough and hard. Yanno how I like it, c’moooon, Buck, do meee, Bucky can still hear his drunk voice.

“Christ,” Bucky finally spits out some fucking words, his brain practically smoking, “it’s a good thing you can’t get drunk then, pal.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s breathing is labored as he tries to get comfortable, wiggling around in his seat, pulling at his now open collar and the seat belt cutting into him, “still can get full, though-”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees too quickly, too eager.

“And bloated,” Steve hisses out the tiniest of burps, leaning completely back into the leather seat, flopping back, his hands limp at his sides, “I’m sooo bloated.”

Bucky swallows thickly, “you look it… looks like you’re smuggling a watermelon under that suit.” Bucky’s flesh and blood hand aches with how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel, he’d be worried about breaking it if all his attention weren’t split between making sure he’s not about to crash and Steve.

“Thanks, asshole,” Steve laughs gently, the sweet sound ending in a gasp as he feels the alcohol in his belly swirl, the finger food he ate swimming in it, there’s so much.

“Just look at yourself, baby-” Bucky can’t resist pushing further, teasing and in awe at the same time. That’s what he and Steve do, though, they give each other shit. It’s a love language.

“Mmmmm-hm,” Steve lazily glances down, moving slower with just how overfull he is.

“You were sucking that thing in?” Bucky risks taking one hand off the wheel to reach over and smack his gut. Lightly. But, still, it’s enough to jostle a bigger burp out of Steve. He can’t believe how tight Steve’s belly is. He can’t believe how big Steve’s belly is. It’s making it hard to think. “That whole time? Your poor abs!”

“Uh-huh,” his big chest heaves as he tries to breathe deeply but can’t find the room in his body to fully expand his lungs, his stomach is too big, stretched, taking up all the extra room in his body and more, “Jesus, yeah,” he agrees, “my abs hurt, they’re so stretched-”

Bucky licks his lips, why does that sound so good? To him, and evidently to Steve with his tone of voice… it’s gone all breathy and soft like it does when he likes something. Turned on and weak for whatever it is, unable to put up a fight.

“-But it feels good to let it out, too.”

Christ.

Tease much, Rogers? Bucky wants to bite back.

But instead, Bucky can’t be bothered to be ashamed of himself when he answers, “it looks good, too.” Fucking sue him. He’s attracted to Steve all the time. Constantly. How would this be different? Why wouldn’t he want him like this? Even more of him. He can’t believe how hard that dress shirt is straining to keep his swollen gut covered. There are diamond gaps of exposed pale flesh between every button. It’s as if his belly is dying to get out and swell bigger, needing more space to get larger. And he’s… he’s interested in seeing it get bigger. If Steve can stomach it (ha), at least. He doesn’t want to actually pop Steve. He just wants to push his limits. See how much he can take.

Steve huffs, shaking his head affectionately like he can’t believe it. But he blushes bright pink, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. He’s on the same page, just shier about it, “thanks, pal,” he murmurs, ducking his head, “you know how to make a guy feel special.”

Bucky snorts, “sure thing,” they stop at a red light and Bucky indulges himself, finding one of the gaps between his buttons to put two fingertips against his bare skin. Investigating the new landscape of Steve’s mountainous gut. It feels like he has a fever despite being unable to get sick these days, and when Bucky presses his fingers in, just to feel how much give there is in that tight belly -

“Oof,” Steve groans, “be carefu-uuuurpp,” there’s nothing Steve can do to stop the burp that comes barreling out of him.

“Be careful?” Bucky smirks, laughing a little, more breathless than anything, though, he had no idea that a stomach could do that. Could be so tight. He’s felt up Steve’s rock-hard abs plenty. Often, even. But… this is different and it’s exciting. “Or what? What’re you gonna do if I’m not? It seems like you’re having a hard time over there, bud.”

A car drives up behind them, appearing out of the empty night and honking, forcing Bucky’s eyes back onto the road. Ah, the light’s green, it probably has been for a while, too. So, he drives on.

Steve is about to respond, giving him shit right back, he’s sure, when the car hits a sudden pothole, jostling them both. But, poor Steve, it hits him worse. Not just startling him. The pothole is on the passenger side, to begin with, and Steve’s more affected by it anyway with his bloated belly. Despite how tight it is, packed to the brim with carbonated liquid, the dip in the road leaves it bouncing, jiggling, and sloshing violently as the car shakes. Bucky has never so deeply paid attention to the suspension because fuck. The impact seems to send a shockwave through Steve’s whole body, causing him to emit a loud, reckless belch that actually echoes in the tight confines of the car. The last of it turns into a groan as Steve curls his hands protectively around his belly like he can stop it from sloshing around. Meanwhile, Bucky could fucking thank the god-awful Nazis right now for gifting him with super hearing, forgiving all the other torture they put him through, just because he can hear the way the champagne bubbles trapped inside him fizz, tickling his insides almost… pleasurably if the blush spreading over Steve’s face and down his neck is anything to go by.

They’re both breathing harder now.

Not even a minute later after the first cacophonous, obscene accidental moment, Bucky turns onto another road, taking them home on autopilot, leaving NYC and heading towards Brooklyn. On the other road, right after the gut-churning too-fast turn, there’s another polehole, this one worse. Worse not because it’s bigger but because Bucky knows what’s going to happen. He sees it ahead of them and his brain is still processing what just happened, how seeing Steve jiggle and wobble made him feel involuntarily forcing him to picture the way Steve’s ass and tits move when he rides him, the way he groans when his dick bottoms out inside of him, stuffed full, and -

Bucky doesn’t even try to avoid the pothole, he just stares at Steve out of the corner of his eye, white-knuckling the steering wheel.

Steve’s swollen midsection heaves with another burp. Fuck. Bucky might be crazy, he might be seeing things, but his formal shirt, the buttons!, God, they’re almost straining more than they were before.

This time, his burps mix more with his groans and moans of discomfort.

Bucky’s head is spinning.

He feels like he needs to ask, “you alright?” But it’s more excitement than concern racing through him. This is… something about this is hot. Boiling even.

Letting the back of his head hit the headrest, hands supporting the underside of his belly, Steve swallows. Then, he nods weakly, cheeks flushed, “yeah,” he coughs to half-hide another burp, “‘m just gassy.”

Bucky’s gaze lingers on the mesmerizing sight before him, unable to tear himself away. The roughness of the road seems unending, who the fuck is in charge of New York streets anyway? They’re doing an awful job!, every jiggle and slosh of Steve’s belly sends shivers down Bucky’s spine. It makes Bucky’s face hot and tingly, stealing glimpses of his bloat as he takes them home.

Bigger and bigger and bigger.

He’s just filling up more with each shake-up of the contents of his stomach. Gas building. Bubbling.

Reflexively, with each belch and moan that escapes Steve’s lips, Bucky gets more and more aroused. His dick feels as hard as Steve’s belly looks. The tension in the car thickens. Steve tries to apologize for being so noisy and gassy, embarrassed, the manners he was taught holding him back, but Bucky won’t have it. Hastily, he reaches over with his hand not on the steering wheel to massage the roundest, most bulged-out part of his belly, saying, “you gotta let it out, baby, it’s okay. I want you to. Don’t hold back” He digs his fingers in just enough to cause another belch from Steve - a whimper right after - and they both squirm in their seats. “That’s it,” Bucky pats his tummy, encouraging him.

It seems impossible. He’s so full of champagne, so round. And all the sweet, fizzy alcohol is just getting more and more carbonated, more sparkling, more bubbly, more sloshy inside him with every jolt and shake of the car. Despite how much he’s burping, letting some of the gas escape, he just keeps swelling. Little by little, his belly inflates farther, expanding like a balloon. A balloon attached to a helium tank. Bucky is exhilarated by it, and judging by how Steve’s uncomfortable groans have pitched up into sounds that are more like moans of relief chasing each belch… Bucky isn’t the only one.

There’s something so hot about watching him blow up. Inflate. Expand. Swell.

The tension in the air follows Steve’s strained dress shirt, at first, it’s well-fitting, then a little bit tight, then tighter, tighter, until it’s creaking at the seams, ready to burst. The tension is so thick, it could be cut with a knife. Ready to snap. The buttons are threatening to pop off at any moment. All that gas… all the sloshing. The pressure is mounting. Every pothole, speedbump, black-tar snake, and accidental hit curb is a sweet torment for Steve, making him burp and cry out more which in turn torments Bucky. Both of them are wracked with anticipation, crawling with the need to touch each other.

The next time Bucky can take a hand off the steering wheel again and reach out to thump Steve’s swollen gut, Steve lets out a low, guttural moan, his body jerking into the sensation. But at that same risked moment, they hit the deepest, biggest pothole yet and -

Pop!

The first one is so loud and unexpected that it makes both of them jump in their seats, Bucky slams on the break which doesn’t help Steve’s precarious situation.

Pop!

The second one makes Steve whimper, trembling in his seat under the sloshing liquid inside him, swirling around, leaving him aching, the seat belt digging into him harder, feeling as though it’s cutting him in half.

POP!

The third one has Bucky swearing because fuck. Fuck! That’s so fucking hot. Steve is so big, so swollen that the buttons on his shirt, stretched over Steve’s belly have popped right off, flying forward and hitting the dash or the windshield. His shirt is no longer able to contain the bulging dome of his gut. It’s too much to handle, it’s expanded too far for the once perfectly fitted formal attire to hold on.

With each button that bursts free, a pleasurable relief in its own right, Steve’s pale, round, so fucking round, gut spills out into the heated, thick air. No longer held back by his clothes. The audible slosh of Steve’s champagne-and-gas-filled belly swelling suddenly, violently into his lap between the white halves of his now-ruined dress shirt is mouth-watering. With every stuttered breath Steve takes, stunned by arousal and shock, his gut seems to pulse with his overindulgence. Bucky can hear his heart racing and he knows Steve can feel it in his expanded stomach. All that taut, smooth, blushing skin exposed.

Oh, God.

Steve lets out his loudest moan so far, reckless with it. His hands had been braced on the center console and door handle respectively, hanging on as he was sloshed and jiggled. His hands fly up, grabbing his gut now that he isn’t so precariously balanced on the edge, feeling ready to burst with the pressure mounting inside him, forcing burps to come out of his mouth whether he wanted them to or not.

“Oh. Ohhh,” he can’t stop saying it, as if he’s shocked by what’s happening to him and he is, probably just as much as Bucky is. Somehow his flesh is still so taut. The pressure has alleviated some, but not much. He still feels like a fucking balloon.

Swollen.

Bloated.

Spherical.

Shaking, the blond caresses the surface of his shiny stomach. The heat of his belly pressing down against his thighs, in his lap, sends waves of pleasure through his whole body. He may not be so tightly compressed but the burps keep coming, released between his desperate gasps for breath, “ah, urrrp, oh, ooh, auurp, fuck me. Buurp. Guh. Uhhn. I feel so full!” He whines, “I’m so gassy, and, urrrrrp, God, so round.”

Bucky is amazed that he’s still fucking driving because he isn’t fucking functioning. Watching Steve touch himself, rubbing the dome that is his tight middle and daring to try and sink his fingers into his swollen body for relief from the pressure, Jesus Christ, it’s enough to kill him where 70 years of brainwashing didn’t.

Fuck Steve Rogers.

“Ah, oh, ohhh,” Steve’s voice trembles, “I can’t - URP - believe it. Look at me,” he begs Bucky, turning his head to the side to pout at him.

Fuck Steve Rogers.

“‘M so big! Buck! I’m so big! I didn’t know-oh, I could stretch so much. It aches,” he whimpers, “‘m so stretched! Buurp.”

Bucky stops in the middle of the road. He doesn’t give a shit anymore. It’s nighttime. There’s no one driving behind him anymore. There are other lanes. Anyone who does drive up behind him can fuck off. They can go around - they can go to hell. He needs to get his hands on that gut. Now.

Steve writhes as much as he can under the mass of his gut sitting on top of him when Bucky lunges toward him, “look at me!” he whimpers again, happy under his attention, “it, it… it fills my, my whole lap. Urrrrp, ugh, God, ‘m so bloated!”

His stomach feels so tight that Bucky can’t believe it. He can’t imagine what the pressure must feel like for Steve. The fullness. It has to be unbearable. Like being fucked full of cock but so, so much more. Hell, just looking at him is raw and pleasurable in a way that it shouldn’t be, so he can’t imagine what it’s like for Steve. There’s nothing erotic about this yet everything about it is insanely erotic… how he can’t stop making noises, uncontrolled burping. Sloshing. Belching. Fizzing. The way he’s squirming. The way he’s begging Bucky to help him, relieve the pressure, touch him, massage him, anything!

“Buck, I’m… I’m so full,” he whimpers.

“I know, Stevie,” he growls, his voice low and husky, practically already fogging up their windows he’s burning so hot for this, “but, Christ, babydoll, you look incredible.” He does. His gut is throbbing, red, and shining under the street lights. Bucky can’t stop touching his belly, massaging it worshipfully. Thumping it to hear how much his body sounds like a drum. “We should keep you like this,” he’s already salivating at the thought, his hips jerking forward to grind into nothing but thin air. He wants him so bad when he’s like this, stuffed full, exposed, and incapacitated by the sloshing weight in his big, sexy belly.

“Unnngh,” Steve whines, nodding, “it, it feels so good,” he pants, “urrrp, aarrp, ‘m so fuckin’ full, Buck.”

“You’re like a balloon,” Bucky whispers, leaning over awkwardly in the car to say the words into his mouth, kissing him desperately, “so tight you’re about to pop.”

Steve’s eyes flutter shut, shivering, “keep, keep touching me, I need-” he cuts himself off, burping right in Bucky’s face with a flare of embarrassment so strong it makes him squeak. Mortified.

Bucky won’t have it, though. He bites Steve’s lower lip hungrily and digs them deeper into the debauchery, “I bet we can find a liquor store that’s still open, you wanna see if we can get a few more bottles into this tanker?” Then, he slaps his gut to make him convulse, curling around his pulsing, throbbing, aching belly.

Steve can’t take it, moaning, “yes! Yes, Buck! Please! I wanna be bigger. Fill me up until I can’t take any-ah-ahh, URP, any more!”

(Why does staring at an overflowing bottle make me horny? What even is this fetish 😂)

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #chubby steve #bloating #alcohol consumption #burping

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I would looooove if you could write a little something about Steve and Bucky celebrating Bucky reaching weight gaining milestones. Stuff like going up his first size, out growing his drivers seat, reaching 300,400, 500 etc (maybe also reaching immobility?? If that’s not too extreme haha sorry just a wish)

Like do they celebrate with feast, a special meal that has emotional meaning to them, buying Bucky new clothes/gifts?

Thank you for indulging me!

Not gonna lie, I am BAD at actual numbers and knowing what someone would look at that size so.... this might be rough, but I'm trying and I'm not thinking too hard because, uh, horny brain = dumb

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink, lots of stuffing, weight gain, some immobility, etc.

I think the through line of all these milestones is one thing: stuffing.

It might seem kind of unimaginative because aren't they just stuffing Bucky to make him gain anyway? What's special about stuffing him when he reaches a milestone? Well. Let me tell you -

When Bucky reaches a milestone, Steve makes sure the stuffing is extra ✨️special✨️

He goes all out, making sure to get anything and everything that Bucky has been recently craving, and ensuring that he orders as much as he can that way there's no interruptions in their session. He also ensures that Bucky is pampered throughout the stuffing. Anything he wants, he gets. Steve isn't mean when he doesn't hit milestones, not unless Bucky wants him to be 😏, but he's more inclined to let Bucky struggle, sweating and panting and rubbing his own tummy. When he hits a milestone, Steve will all but pat his damp forehead dry, handfeed him every little bite, peel his grapes, cut his food into bite-sized pieces, rub his belly, belly him put his feet back to recline under his growing gut, and anything and everything else.

Steve makes it worth his while. They both are obsessed with Bucky's weight gain, if they weren't, they wouldn't be hitting so many milestones to begin with, and they both know that, but these celebratory stuffing milestones are Steve's way to really, truly express that obsession. That admiration. He can't fucking believe that Bucky is growing so large and round for him. The weight is piling on. It's incredible.

200

Bucky starts his weight gain journey around 180lbs, so the first 20 pounds don't really look that different. Unless someone is really looking for that extra little bit of softness, they wouldn't see it. His face is a tiny, tiny bit rounder. His ribs are less visible. His belly pooches out, it's no longer flat, but he could also could just be bloated. It's not huge (not yet 😏). His thighs and waist aren't really noticeably larger, either, they're squishier but... not bigger, really.

Those first 20lbs are different, though.

20lbs.

That is an accomplishment.

Bucky's body is changing.

Steve and Bucky can't wait to see him change even more. Rounder. Bigger. Fatter. Yes. So... in anticipation of getting larger, they celebrate these 20 pounds with a stuffing and unknowingly set the tone for the rest of their milestone celebrations.

They celebrate with a stuffing. Bucky's most indulgent stuffing yet.

Steve orders take out from several different restaurants, having the deliveries staggered so none of Bucky's food gets cold while he works on the first course. Bucky jokes halfway through the second order that if all of Steve's orders for him are so massive, he won't last through another one! There's no way! He's already running out of room. His gut is heavy, getting heavier. He's not chubby enough yet for his tummy to be squishy when he's full. He's full. He's taut. He can press his fingers into the tight, round, surface pushing out from his ribs, but it aches when he does. He can feel all that food in there.

Steve takes over when the next course arrives, feeding him with one hand, rubbing his starter belly with the other. Massaging him to softness so they can wedge more calories in him.

"C'mon, yeah, yeah, that's it," Steve encourages, drooling as if he's the one filling up on rich, delicious food, not the other way around, "swallow it, good boy, you got this. You can do it. You gotta keep eating. Doesn't this feel good?"

Bucky moans, chewing and throwing his head back to swallow, feeling the food push down his throat in a sizable lump and land on top of the mound of food bloating him into a round balloon. It does feel good.

Really good.

"Yeah, I know, baby," Steve replies, shoveling more into his mouth for him, "don't you want more? You wanna feel even better. You wanna get even fatter."

Bucky mumbles his agreement, "yesh," through his food, even though it's a rhetorical question. This does feel incredible. He really does want more. More food. More of Steve's big, heavy hands on his growing, gurgling belly. More fat. More stretch marks. More achy cramps from muscles pulled tight. More fullness. More. More. More.

Could he already be addicted to this?

The doorbell rings again.

Delivery.

Bucky groans, dropping his head back and shutting his eyes just to swallow. He really doesn't know.

"Looks like you'll get your wish," Steve sounds like he's wearing a shit-eating grin.

Fuck.

"Don't worry," he gives Bucky another quick forkful before standing up and moving toward the door, "it looks like you'll get your wish, baby."

Bucky swallows; his stomach whines, making his dick twitch. So. full. "Uh-huh," he puffs.

"It's just dessert," Steve softens, smiling and coming over with, thank fuck, just one bag of take out.

By the time Bucky has demolished the bag, courtesy of Steve shoveling bite after bite after bite between Bucky's sugary, sweet lips, Bucky's head is spinning. Steve is rubbing his belly around where Bucky's hands are glued to his excessive, domed tummy. He's never been rounder. He's never eaten more - not on Thanksgiving, not on Christmas, not during any of their stuffing sessions before. He's never seen himself so big. He's never -

He's breathing so hard.

He's sweating buckets.

He's tight.

He's hard.

He's full.

He's never been so stuffed. Speaking of Thanksgiving, he feels like a gorged turkey. Packed. Dense. Oooh. Fuck. He groans. It feels so good. Why does it feel so good? It should feel bad! His stomach is throbbing, tight and achy, but so is his cock. He's not used to how connected his cock and belly are still. How can his stomach swelling make him so horny? 😫😫

Fuck it, he doesn't care when it's so good!

It gets even better when, with awe and arosual in his voice, Steve tells Bucky he's done. He finished everything. There's nothing left.

"Oh my god, you're a blimp-"

Bucky shivers, blinking his eyes open and gaping, food-drunkenly, down at himself. His gut.

His. gut.

"Look at you," Steve coos, rubbing him.

Bucky can't let go of himself.

He's-

He's big.

So big.

He can't believe this is real.

"You're, God, I've never seen you so," he trips over his words, truly fucking thrilled, "so fat."

Bucky whines, he wants to shout, I know! I know! But he can't speak, he's breathing too hard.

"What do you say, baby, wanna take this party to the bedroom, stretch out? Let this tummy bloat?"

Fuuuuck.

He's so stuffed and -

And he's gonna grow bigger. Steve is so right. All that grease and fat and rich sweetness from the takeout. He's going to bloat even bigger. He might pop! He does need to stretch out! He nods.

How much weight has he gained sitting here, in pure food? How much weight is he going to gain, digesting all this food? How fat can he possibly get?

"Alright, up you get, then," Steve murmurs, getting up himself first. After, he looks at Bucky expectantly.

Trying his hardest, Bucky fights the heavy mound of his gut, sticking straight out from his torso, solid with food. He heaves, once, twice, three times, he, he-

He can't get up.

Bucky gasps for air around his stretched belly. His lungs are crushed. Short of breath from being so round. Bucky wants to moan, but he doesn't have the air for that either. His hands scramble against the tight, hard surface of his belly, reaching for something, anything to pull himself up, but not getting anywhere because he doesn't want to stop touching himself. He can't stop touching himself. He feels so good. Solid. Round. Tight.

Steve-

Steve watches him with dark, intense eyes. Looking at him like he wants to take a bite of him. "Are, are you-" he doesn't finish. He can't.

Bucky whimpers thinly, nodding urgently. He is. He really is too big to get himself up off the couch. That's never happened before! He's too stuffed! Too round!

Bucky is ungodly turned on.

All he can think about is how good he feels and how much he can't wait until he doesn't have to be stuffed to feel like this. He wants to be so fat that he can't get up even when his belly is empty, except, wait, no! He never wants his belly to be empty again. He wants to be stuffed always. He wants to be stuffed twice as large as he is right now because he wants all this heavy, heavy food to be fat. Soft-yet-firm fat. Wobbling and round. He wants-

Steve jerks him up by the wrists. He's panting, too. He has no excuse. He's not stuffed to the point of the best kind of achy, throbby pain.

Steve's large, strong hands land on his hips, suddenly steering him - walking behind him with his lips to Bucky's ear - "c'mon tubby, you need your rest to work through all these calories," his fingers caress the impossibly round belly attached to Bucky. His belly. His belly! That's all Bucky's! "Let's get you to bed." Steve's voice lowers to a whisper, "I'm gonna lay you back and suck the fuck outta your dick, baby, this is the hottest shit I've ever seen. I can't believe you vacuumed all that food up. You're a little, well," he chuckles, "maybe not little, but you're a black hole."

Bucky leans his bigger mass back into Steve, stumbling, toddling, and weak at the knees from his words.

Fuck.

He's going to do anything to keep hitting milestones. All of this is so unbearably hot. The excess. The fullness. The weight.

300

Again, when Bucky finally, fucking finally, yet also so soon, how has it been so long since he was 200 lbs and no time at all with how fast the weight is piling on - ballooning in thick, chubby rolls - they celebrate with a stuffing where Bucky eats as much as he possibly can.

Engorging himself beyond belief. Fatter, fatter, fatter. Rounder, rounder, rounder. The numbers just keep ticking up. From 180 to 200 to 250 to 300. It's so satisfying to watch those digital numbers tick up, almost as satisfying as rubbing his hands over the dome of his belly, pushing out from his plump moobs.

This time -

This time, when Bucky eats as much as he can, stuffing himself, it's so much more.

More.

More in that Bucky and Steve start at a restaurant, dining in. Steve chooses Bucky's order. Steve makes sure to get a dish he knows Bucky loves, but going for the more indulgent, more expensive order that Bucky wouldn't dare if he were in control. The plate is massive. Stacked with food.

Steve remembers when Bucky's eyes would've gone wide, thinking how will I possibly fit all of that inside me?

Now, the opposite happens. His eyelids hang heavily over his eyes, pupils expanding and darkening. He's thinking, I can't wait to put all of this inside me and more.

"You hungry, baby?" Steve asks, playing footsy with him under the table.

Bucky knocks their shoes together, "mmm-hmm," he moans, dramatically shutting his eyes and inhaling deeply at the aroma of his food.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Dig in, tubby."

Bucky moans softly under his breath, obeying.

He shovels the meal into his mouth in record time, practically licking his plate clean and moaning around the taste even though he's stuffing himself so effectively that Steve doesn't possibly know how he can taste it. Steve lets his meal last... Bucky will need a little time to digest between now and the food they're going to have waiting at home. Fucking bless scheduled deliveries.

Steve orders them dessert to go, having their waiter box it up. The fudgy cake will be perfect to top Bucky off after his second and third courses. Maybe his fourth, too. Steve and Bucky are on the same page with pushing limits. Bucky will end tonight tight as a drum and round enough to roll. He can't think like that if he wants to get up any time soon, though. 🥵

"St-" Bucky pauses to burp into his fist, "Steve," he moans, shifting in his creaking, wooden kitchen table chair. He's nearly too heavy for it even when he's not stuffed with 10 or more pounds of dinner.

"What, baby?" Steve's fingers feel cool against Bucky's damp, feverish forehead, brushing a stray strand of hair out of the way.

Bucky can hardly breathe, his gut is pressing into his body so much. It feels like he hasn't got room. He needs. He -

"Steve," he moans again.

"Babyyy," Steve rubs firm circles on the tight, tight surface of his belly, "what is it?"

"Guh," he complains. He can feel sweat pooling at the base of his spine, above his thick ass, arched with the weight at his front. He can feel dampness under his arms and between his bloated belly and round, fat pecs. He might be sweating in the crease of his double chin. God. When did eating become such hard work?

"Do you need to get outta this chair, Buck? Is it too small for you? Huh?"

Bucky nods, burping and moaning at the same time. Every release of pressure feels so fucking good.

He knows he can get more in, he wants to get more in, he just needs-

Oof.

He needs to get more horizontal. He's being pressed in on, on all sides; the arms of the chair digging into his blubbery, stacked, and stretch-marked sides; the back of the chair pressing into his big, big ass; his belly so tight and full that it's hurting his lungs. His poor body. He's compressed and about to pop.

"Alright, fatty," Steve softens, grabbing his thickening wrists and pulling him forward.

It takes effort.

Steve has to heave, grunting. Bucky has to put in all his strength against his weight. The chair creeeeaks.

"Ugh!" Bucky groans, his arms trying to soothe his sloshing belly. He can't, though, Steve is still grabbing him, still trying to get him up. Fuck. Fuck, he's such a fat ass. How can eating be such hard work? How can struggling to get up feel so good? How can getting fat be so luxurious? Fatter. Getting fatter. He was already fat.

Finally, Bucky's sides unstuck. Unwedged. Popping free.

He nearly topples forward, all his weight fighting gravity going forward, forward, forward and-

Steve steadies him with a laugh, "woah, there," patting him on the bowed out side.

Bucky's whole belly ripples. Christ. He's never felt fatter. His back complains, arching more. It's like he's pregnant. God. Oh, God, what did he eat that was so heavy? How did he get so heavy?

He staggers after Steve, going wherever he leads. Panting. Wobbling. Struggling. The thing that keeps him from taking a break, asking for a breather like a true fatty, is more. More food. He gets more after this.

More.

He's not done yet.

This celebration is going to end with a bang. That bang might be Bucky popping.

Fuck.

He's gonna explode.

Sitting on the couch is easier than sitting at the table. The couch doesn't force him to sit up so straight. It's easier. He can feel all the food shifting inside him, glorping and sloshing. He almost feels... hungry. On the couch, he can leave his arms splayed out by his throbbing sides, giving himself room to bloat. Rounder. Tighter. Skin flushing redder. Fuck. Mooore. He moans for it.

More.

Steve answers his cries, hand feeding him. He takes care of Bucky so well, and with every bite Bucky moans - he swears he can feel himself growing with each bite.

He might, fuck, it's so intense that he might black out. All he knows is there's a barrage of food that's going down his gullet and landing in the massive pot that is his gut. Tight. Tight. Tight.

At some point, he's done. He can't breathe. His lungs can't expand. There's no room in his body. His belly is completely solid. Stuffed to the absolute brim. Gluttonous bliss. All of the fat that's grown on his heavy frame feels a hell of a lot less jiggly suddenly.

Shit.

Fuck.

He huffs. He puffs.

Steve is talking to him, telling him something about how hot he is. So full and stuffed. Sitting on his ass, getting bigger. Larger. Gonna be so huge.

It all rolls over Bucky. He can only focus on the pulse of his racing heart in his belly. He, he-

Steve rubs his gut, and he swears it's so good he might cream in his underwear. His underwear feels too tight. He's never been so impossibly packed. Solid all the way through. He'll never move again. He's never felt so fucking huge. He's never felt more fucking sexy. Everything about this is sexy. Blindingly so. Greedy. Excessive. Gluttonous.

Steve's fingers stray from Bucky's struggling, stretched skin over his broad gut and dip into his shallow belly button.

"OH!" Bucky wails. He's so sensitive there! It tingles, and the hot, thick pleasure shoots electrically straight to his dick where it's trapped under the boulder of his belly.

Steve fucks his belly button with his fingers, thrusting, curling, pressing.

"Ohhhh, oh, ohh, God!"

Steve keeps at it. Fingering his belly. He's trying to jiggle and wobble his fat, but he's so tight. He's too packed. Made illogically huge.

Pleasure curls hot and tight and electric inside Bucky. How is there room?! It's even more intense now than it was before - how full he is. He's going to come. He's going to pop. Burst. Explode. Fat. Fatter. The weight of his gut on his swollen cock is good but really, it's just that he's been rewired to find his gut insanely erotic. He's grown, and he's gotten more sensitive. His nerves feel like they're most alive over his gut. Steve's thick fingers in his belly button are what's doing him in.

Christ!

Bucky wails when he comes, his dick entirely untouched. His poor, abused, stretched belly the only thing getting loved on.

Steve stares, stunned. "Fuck, I fucking love you, glutton," he rasps, nearly speechless.

400

Bucky is 400 lbs, and he has truthfully never felt so good.

It's so much effort to walk - to do all these small little tasks that were effortless when he weighed over 200 lbs less - but it feels good to walk, too. He's started waddling. Just a little. Unsteady. Heavy. His legs are thick, and his chubby thighs jiggle, sweatpants about to burst at the seams. His love handles shake and rub against his chubby arms with every plodding stride he takes, the hem of his shirt slowly coming up to expose his stretch-marked, soft fat. His belly gurgles and sloshes, dragging his back into a painful arch with all the weight it adds onto the front of his blubbery, round body. His moobs bounce, all this excessive, obscene cleavage straining against the stretched fabric of his t-shirt. Just walking makes his dick hard now.

Yeah.

He's fucked up. He's fucked up on food.

He always had a thing for food, there's no denying that, but Steve has trained him so well. He gets so hard for anything around food. Calories. Fat. All of it.

Bucky is almost always drunk with excessive fullness and gluttony, aching for more.

More.

Steve stuffs him, giving him what he wants. Moremoremoremore. Greedy fucking glutton.

Bucky already has past the point of fullness where he can keep going on his own tonight during this celebratory stuffing. He isn't walking right now. He's simply feeding. His belly is throbbing.

Full to the top.

No extra room.

Still, more food is being shoved inside him. Shoved down his throat. Added to the immense, thick fat already on his frame.

Bucky groans around the food in his mouth. His mouth floods with saliva. Good. It tastes so good. He can feel his stomach stretching. Preparing for more.

More.

There is only the need to get more. Grow more. Fatten up more. Become as massive as he can until he can't walk - until lying down is the same blissful sensory experience of walking. Rolls rubbing against rolls, stacked up, he's so big. His body has no more room for fat. So incredibly excessive.

Steve chuckles at his loud outburst, begging for more, "that's it, baby," he murmurs, his fingers gently running down his throat, coaxing him to swallow. "Take it. Get bigger for me."

Yes.

Bucky moans again.

More.

There's just a little bit left.

A little bit more.

Chewing and swallowing, desperate simply to grow, Bucky finishes the last of the feast. Bite by bite. Swallow by swallow. Exactly what Steve gives him, Bucky consumes. Encouraged not only by the lust inside him, just as heavy and oppressive as the mass of calories in his belly, but by the way Steve stares at him. His eyes are heavy. Dark. His hands are greedy, rubbing, pinching, wobbling - playing.

Playing with him.

Playing with his fat. Playing with Bucky. His fat, pet glutton. His own bloated playground of softness. Unbearably sexy for them both. Bucky is living it and breathing it, and Steve is watching it, eyes glued. He's never seen something more obscene.

Bucky moans. He burps. The pressure inside of him is immense. He feels immense. He can barely stomach it.

So. much.

Bucky wants to get up. Not to get away - he doesn't want to stop, just the opposite, this is all he wants forever - but he wants to waddle into their bedroom and get horizontal to really feel the intense fullness, to feel all the heaviness on his lungs, to feel what he's done to his body. Grown. Increased. Swelled. Fattened.

Bucky can't get up, though. It's not even that he's too full. He is too full! But. But... He can't. He can't fucking get up. He couldn't if he tried. It's too fucking hot. Hot and heavy. He's too heavy. There's too much fat in his way. Way, way too much fat. He's made himself so fat. Steve's made him so fat. He's so big. Getting bigger.

Bigger. God. Was their ever a hotter word?

Steve groans, and he squeezes Bucky's prized gut. His gut wobbles in thick, slow waves, even with how full he is. Solid. Stuffed. Bucky can't believe it. The way it feels-

Christ.

It's orgasmic.

So fat.

So thick.

So heavy.

With a long, satisfied moan, Bucky's hips try to jerk forward. He's too heavy. He can't move. Stuffed and entirely immobilized. His body moves, though. His belly. Waves. Fat. Thick.

Heavy.

Oh, God.

It's too much.

Bucky short fucking circuits, electricity shocking through him, white, hot heat that makes him come messily, grinding against the underside of his completely full, flabby belly.

Fuck!

Steve is on him before his head stops spinning, spreading his thighs WIDE to accommodate for Bucky's thick girth. He's grinding against Bucky's blubber, which is pushing all his sensitive, thick fat hard and harder against Bucky's sensitive cock. He just came! He can't come again! He can't! He can't! Oh, God. He can't even see straight. Nothing has felt so good. So indulgent and decadent.

Steve shoves the last, last bite of food messily between Bucky's gaped, moaning lips, muffling his desperate, wailing sound, and forcing Bucky to swallow breathlessly. He licks at Steve's fingers, still struggling to breathe, and that's what sets Steve off. That show of pure fucking gluttony. Nearly bursting at the seams and still mindlessly accepting more.

500

For the first time, when Bucky is officially waddling and heaving for breath every time he moves - not even when he's walking! Just when he's moving! Shifting from laying to sitting up, changing his position on the couch, crouching to dig through their always stoked pantry, whatever - Steve doesn't make enough food and doesn't order enough food for Bucky to get fully stuffed during their celebratory orgy of gluttony.

Gluttony on gluttony on gluttony 🥴🥴

All compounding into one rich, pampered, too decadent feast. It's such a feast that just getting a whiff of all the foods that are laid out for Bucky to put down would make you gain weight. POUNDS of weight. Easily.

Still, ALL of what Steve has set out is not enough.

Bucky has grown into such a pig, no, a hog, NO, such a whale that the courses, courses, and courses are food do not satisfy the greedy beast inside of Bucky's wobbling, endlessly round belly.

Steve has to order more food for Bucky when they're winding down to the last few platefuls. God. He's so fat that even when he's approaching full, then, after they get their next order of take out and Bucky's moaning about being on the cusp of bursting, he's all soft and round.

Other than the way that his skin glistens with sweat, the way that his feminine, heavy chest heaves and jiggles, and the way that he moans excessively loud, unable to shut his mouth, unable to shut up... you would never know that he's full to the brim. Packed. Stuffed. No more room. It looks like there's plenty of room in that gut. There has to be! How could anyone so sinfully fat ever be satisfied? You don't get to Bucky's impressive, lavish size without pushing yourself to the limits. Yeah, Bucky's habit of gorging himself until he's stuck on his back has never been more visible than it is now. Steve loves to see it.

Steve loves ordering Bucky more food. His dick is hard, he's already come once. Bucky has, too. They just couldn't wait. Why would they wait? They're indulging tonight. They're celebrating. They can do whatever the fuck they want.

"Steeeeve, Steve, Steve, 'm gonna fucking pop. Swear to God," Bucky slurs between bites of food, he's still fucking eating like he's ravenous, digging into his feast in the same way that a starved predator digs into a luscious, juicy fresh kill. There is no time to worry about such silly sensations as fullness. It is not every day that prey is caught and torn into. Bucky must take what he can get. He must stuff himself like a predator. Moaning, burping, groaning, gut gurgling through its excessive bounty. It drives Steve insane. "'M really gonna, gonna explode this time, oooooh," he grips his tummy, chubby hands scrambling over the roundness attached to his ballooned body. He looks like one of those people from Wall-E.

Like he's never walked on his own two feet. All fat. Round, soft, soft fat.

Steve slaps his gut, reveling, perversely, in the way that Bucky groans and how deep his hand sinks into his blubber. He really is a whale. He's not meant to walk. Yet, he's too fat to swim now. He can't go anywhere. He can't do anything but eat. Glut. Consume. Gorge. Stuff.

"Jesus Christ," Steve growls.

"Mmmmmnghh," Bucky senselessly moans. "So. Fat." He pants.

"Sooo fat," Steve agrees darkly, "you're so huge, baby."

"Wanna be," he pouts.

"You don't have to want to be. You are, fatty. You are the biggest. The fattest. I can't believe how fat you've gotten. I can hardly see your stomach bulging through all this fat!" Steve swallows his drool, "just look, Buck-!"

Bucky obediently looks down, his sweet, round face developing another chin.

Christ.

Steve could blow his load all over those chins right now, untouched. He doesn't. Instead, Steve squeezes all the soft fat that's malleable and thick despite being stretched around his throbbing belly, then he shakes it.

Bucky's fat moves. "Guh, mmm, fuck, Steve," Bucky gasps, he tries to hold his belly in place, he's so sensitive! He can't take it! It does nothing, though. Steve is shaking his whole gut. He's pressing his hands into his fat. He's trying to find his rock-solid gut under all that blubber. But it's too much! There's too much! Steve can't feel anything, so he keeps going. Bucky can do nothing because he can't even reach all of his gut. His arms aren't long enough. His stomach is so huge.

So. huge.

All of him is so huge.

Steve's plan, post endless stuffing, was to get Bucky onto his hands and knees and see how close his gut is to the floor, but... looking at him like this, feeling him like this, he knows it won't work. Bucky is too round. Bucky is too big. Bucky is too much of a whale, his gut is too round to let his hands and knees touch the ground, although...

He squeezes one last time, Bucky whimpers, "Steeeeve, 'm too full!"

Maybe all that blubber would squish out around his sides, and he'd get stuck like that. His belly and piled up, excessive fat would prevent his arms and legs from being able to move. Bucky would just kneel there, moaning, his fat wobbling while Steve fucks him, on the cusp of filling him more. Giving him just enough to really make him burst. Too much.

Maybe Steve should carry out his plans.

Maybe Steve will carry out his plans to fuck his butter ball... once he digests some.

Steve isn't strong enough to move Bucky without any imput from the food drunk, pleasure drunk glutton himself. 500. God. How did he get so big? How did he grow so large? When did his appetite become entirely bottomless? The mind willing, only the flesh weak.

Flesh.

Fatty, pale flesh stretched to the point of a hot, red stain and stripes covering him. Overindulged. Overfed. Fattened. Ballooned into an unrecognizable, excessive, burping, groaning whale from the slim, svelte, charming man. Steve doesn't hardly recognize him, though. Steve knows that this is what Bucky was always meant to be. Bucky was meant to be so massive. Luxury. Soft. He slaps the perverse surface of his domed middle again.

Bucky sobs, "fatter, fatter," he whines, "gonna get bigger!"

"Fuck yeah, you are, tubs," Steve can hardly scramble into his lap now, there is no room with his gut in the way, "you're gonna keep growing, you're gonna get bigger." He humps that irresistible, soft, but stuffed belly. "You're never gonna stop. You couldn't. You won't."

"Fatter! More! Steve! Make me fatter!" Bucky chants, agreeing desperately. He can't even twitch into Steve humping him, so he just moans recklessly. Craving. More food. More sex. More indulgence. He needs it. Neither of them can actually imagine what he will look like any bigger than he is, but they will find out. He needs to grow until the couch and the bed can't hold him. Too fat. Too heavy. Too much. Yes.

Yeah 🥵🥵

(Here's a short add on!)

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #writerkenna #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #chubby bucky #fat bucky #immobility

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

(https://www.tumblr.com/mylevisdontfitanymore/736011986052284416?source=share) oh boy, now i can't stop thinking about steve and bucky attending a party and not knowing each other, and one of them being the foolish guy who is plied with too much alcohol and slowly yet steadily gets stuffed throughout the night as people put things in his mouth and he just mindlessly eats everything he's even without question, and the other (your choice on who's who) is a repeat customer. Whereas everyone else comes by once, maybe twice and plays with his belly and feeds him food and tells him he's a good boy, the other guy comes WAY too often, giving him shots and bottles of beer and hand-feeding him so much food and getting to see first hand how big and stuffed and swollen his gut gets throughout the night, and is the one to give him belly rubs when he drunkenly whines at the pain 😳

This post

SWEATING thinking about Steve swinging past Bucky again, affectionately thumping him on the swollen belly and asking, "how's it going, champ? You full, yet?" causing Bucky to curl desperately around his bulging gut with a wordless, strung-out whine. His needy noise is so loud that Steve can't hear the solid, deep sound of his palm smacking him so... he has to do it again. Just a few more times to be sure, listening instead of the drum of his belly, to how his whine changes pitch, higher and hotter, as he's thumped like Steve's at the store testing the ripeness of the melons. He can't squirm to get away, though, he's long past that, so he just has to sit there, shivering and complaining with his incoherent sounds.

Bucky's just so sensitive! He has to whine that loud! It hurts! His whole belly throbs, feeling like it's on fire, so stretched that his skin is taut, pink, and shiny. He can't fit anything more inside him. Fuck, he can't think about anything more than his stomach. He's so stuffed and so fucking drunk that he doesn't even remember Steve. He peers at him through his eyelashes without recollection. Sloppy drunk. He can't place his face, but he's real handsome.

He doesn't remember anything that Steve's done to him. Again and again.

He doesn't know what Steve's come by time after time whereas everyone else has just had one go around. Steve's shoved so many snacks into his lazy-open lips. More than anyone else has by far. He doesn't know that it's been Steve constantly taking empty red solo cups from his weak fingers and replacing them with cups so full that they're almost spilling, sticky and wet down his wrist onto the poor sofa he's suffocating with his weight. He doesn't know and he doesn't care. Bucky just thinks that Steve is checking up on him, being a little rough. It's too bad Bucky's lips are too loose from drinking to say anything. He just whines more. Steve's smacks and gropes are nothing he can't handle... for now.

Steve gives himself an invitation, "that so?" he asks after another glutted whine from Bucky, tracing the thick curve of his ball belly. Bucky groans this time, panting. "Mm-hm, yeah, you're good, just look at you," he murmurs.

Bucky thinks this guy is talking more to himself than to Bucky. Somehow he doesn't mind. His belly pulses and hurts but it's better when Steve's touching him, when -

"Ohhhh," Bucky whimpers, dirty, when suddenly Steve finds his weak spot, his fingers hot and warm and thick as they trace the rim of his belly button, not dipping in. Not yet. Bucky can't believe how sensitive he feels right there. He can't breathe. It's the weight of all the food and drink inside him, it's the anticipation, it's the pain, it's - "guhhh!" He moans as Steve pushes the tip of his pointer finger into his tightly stretched, shallow belly button.

He's touching him like he's fingering him.

Oh.

It feels obscene and good and Bucky is pretty sure blindingly suddenly that if he doesn't come right the fuck now from having his taut, heavy belly fondled and his belly button fingered while he reclines, totally slouched into the couch, limp, he'll just explode instead. There's so much pressure. He's so tight. And Steve's touching him like that, fingering his belly button with one hand and using the other to scratch his strained skin so lightly, tickling, pushing his skin-tight shirt up to the sweaty fold under his pecs and sweatier armpits and Bucky is gonna come. He's, he's so big.

How did he get so big? Has everyone been feeding him? Has everyone been taking turns to stuff him like he's a centerpiece, gluttonous and entertaining? Is everyone watching Steve touch him? Does everyone know he's this much of a glutton that he's gonna bust a nut from nearly bursting!?

Oh, God!

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #stuffing #bloating #alcohol consumption #dubcon #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #stucky #intox kink

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Thinking about spooky vibes for my belly kink~ how about a curse set upon someone to fatten with the moon? 👀

No matter what they do, no matter how much they exercise or watch their food, as the moon waxes, they get plumper and plumper, waking in the morning to seams popped as their pj's got too tight throughout the night. As the moon wanes, they feel a sense of relief, the strange growing is gone, and the weight is coming off, but... little do they know, it will happen again and again and again 😳😳

They grow especially fast and especially large, ripe, with the harvest moon.

#belly kink #text #weight gain #rapid weight gain #magic weight gain #mylevisdontfitanymore

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Dumpling (@achubbydumpling) reblogged my chubby Bucky Orbeez belly post (x) with the tags:

#bear bear bear bear bear bear bear bear bear bear #I'm fine I swear just 😳😳 *bear* #and Steve's comments about him bulking for winter!!!

And it set off a bomb in my head. So, welcome back, Dumpling. You're already making me feral. Have this as an offering 😂

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink ahead, lots of stuffing, bloating, tight clothes, talk of weight gain/eventual immobility, animal play (nickname "bear"), humiliation/teasing, etc.

It’s been a long day of training recruits at Stark Tower (Steve never liked the look of that building. It’s a big eyesore as far as he’s concerned. But, he’s at least come to appreciate the people in it more and more, especially now that he isn’t the ring leader, it’s Sam’s turn to do all that, making commands). So, Steve is more than happy to be home, shouldering his way through their front door, shrugging out of his leather jacket, shoes, and listening for any sort of noise that might indicate where Bucky is inside. He’s really looking forward to seeing Bucky again. Even 8 hours can feel like too long to be away.

There’s ambient noise from the TV, so Steve heads there first. When he gets there…

His boyfriend makes the perfect picture of sloth. Laziness. Lethargy. All of that.

It's clear as day, he hasn't moved in the 8 hours Steve has been gone. Clearly, he isn't aware that Steve's back yet, zoning out, staring at the TV. The light flickering and dancing over his face, highlighting the new fullness in his cheeks and the expanded softness underneath what once was a very sharp jaw. He's so invested in whatever show or movie is playing that he doesn't know how much he's eating. It wouldn't surprise Steve if he didn't know he was eating at all. There are bags and bags of snack food piled on the coffee table, a few settled next to his marshmallow soft thighs spread out, large and puffy, on the couch, and even a few bags overflowing onto the floor. Amongst all the processed crap from their well-stocked pantry (living through the Depression will do that to a man, making him stock up like a doomsday prepper) are trays and dishes of microwavable or oven-ready frozen food. The kind that tastes mostly alright but certainly aren’t alright if you're trying to watch your weight. Chalked full of sugar and fat and salt and chemicals that are better not thought about.

Worst of all, Bucky has zoned so far out, eyes trained on the TV, uncaring about everything else, that there's a true pile or crumbs on the top of his gut and speckling his round, girlish chest. His moobs.

He looks like a size 2 sausage in a size 1 casing… maybe a size 3 or 4, even with how his soft fat is bursting out of his poor clothes. Another Depression mindset there, huh, Steve thinks to himself, Bucky has had those (once loose) basketball shorts and that red Henley for months on months. They don't look comfortable, and they're worn out, but he's still crammed himself onto them. Steve knows from doing the laundry that the elastic of those shorts has long given up. It's so worn out and demoralized that the elastic has started to fray apart with strings and rubbery pieces crushed under the weight of Bucky's big belly and accompanying equally huge hips and love handles. The legs, as strangely loose and baggy as they seemed when first becoming acquainted with the future and new fashion, can hardly contain the girth of his thighs. Steve is surprised his legs haven't worn through the inside seams or that they haven't burst when he bends down with an overburdened groan to forage through the lower cabinets. His shirt, though, somehow, his shirt is worse off. It's probably because he's had it for longer. The fabric has been worn so, so thin, Steve can see the tone of his skin through parts of the shirt and… in other places he doesn't need to see through the shirt because the henley has risen up, not even bothering to try and cover his excess fat. Like right now.

Right now, Bucky is zoned out but he's continued to shovel food into his gaping maw like he's starving (far from it, truthfully) and so he hasn't thought to try and make himself decent. The stretched, worn fabric has given up the fight, rolling up to expose more than half of his dome-like gut. It's just… hanging out.

So achingly thick and fat, and marked deeply, lovingly with stretch marks that are so intense they look like he's been clawed at. Thick. Reddish purple. Flushed. He's getting so big! So fast! His skin (and the serum) can't dream of keeping up with his out of control appetite. Steve can hear Bucky's fuzzy tummy churning and sloshing with the unbearable amount of calories he's crammed down his throat from across the room, over the sound of the TV.

Bucky belches and Steve, Lord have mercy, can only stare at the way his belly jolts and quivers. The movement of his swollen, balloon belly is an earthquake that shakes his tits, too. He's so big. Swollen. Steve knows his chest, even though his struggling shirt contains it (for now), is also marked up. It’s literally bursting at the seams with how fat he's making himself. Uncontrollably eating and stuffing and growing. Putting on ample winter weight. But even if he can't see those stretch marks on his chest through his sad excuse for a shirt, Steve can see the engorged outline of his tits, smushed up against the neckline and begging to spill out. His stretched nipples, the cutest shade of pink, are hard and jutting out through the thin fabric.

Suddenly, Steve has to swallow, his mouth flooding with saliva. He licks his lips, imagining tonguing his sensitive nipples through his shirt, making them harder and forcing Bucky to try (and fail) to squirm away, his thick body jiggling in waves. He imagines pulling Bucky's shirt down. He would have to smack his buttery middle until he whimpers and finally sucks in so Steve can fit him back in his shirt. Then, Steve would tease his belly button through the shirt. Maybe he'd lick his belly button, too. Maybe he would bite the hang of his gut where his fat is the thickest and softest.

Steve shivers in place, finding that he can't just stand here and watch anymore. He needs to intervene in the session of gluttony his boyfriend is mindlessly plowing through.

As he walks into the room, getting closer to the mess that Bucky is and the mess he's made, the impulse to touch only gets worse. He's so delectable. Huge and fat. Radiating heat. The hair on his belly is fuzzy and the same deep brown of the hair on the top of his head. Steve is so fucking glad he's decided to let his body hair be. Steve’s developed a thing for Bucky's longer hair - he will never tire of watching Bucky pull it back into a bun. But he’s developed another thing, too. A thing for the hair on his chest, the hair on his tummy (especially), the hair on his legs, even on the hair on his forearms. He looks so… masculine. He’s got this great beer belly shape to him. He can't fool Steve, though, he's all sugar and sweets and food. None of that fat is hard, alcohol-fueled weight. It’s all junk. Anyway, he’s shaped like a big, excessively spoiled, fat man and he's hairy like a man. It's, actually, reminiscent of a teddy bear. Or a real bear - a brown bear. Heavy, fat, and lumbering.

To break him out of his food-coma and brain-melted-TV-coma state, Steve smacks the side of his belly the moment he can, standing in front of him, awed at just how dedicated he is to growing and getting stupid. No thoughts. Just TV. Just calories. Entertainment. Nothing else.

Bucky jumps as much as he can. Which, spoiler, isn't much. He's all bloated and weighted down.

“Look at this thing!” Steve smacks his gut again, the sound satisfying and the look even more satisfying. It's so unbelievably tight at the top. His stomach is undoubtedly stretched to the point of almost popping, but he's got so much fat that all of him still wobbles like extra firm jello. His hands still sink into inches of excess fat. It's all excess. He's excessive. Staying home and doing fucking nothing but adding to his widening ass.

Bucky, once he recovers from his initial shock of being snuck up on (some great assassin he makes), he squawks. Good naturedly offended.

“Is this what you’ve been doing all day, big guy?” Steve asks, sitting down next to him (ignoring the crunch of an empty chip bag (or two) under his ass, he'll pick up after his big butterball later), already knowing the answer and not bothering to wait for his reply. “You’ve been so lazy lately, Buck,” he scolds, gleefully watching how Bucky’s eyes slide shut like he’s savoring it. “The cold weather must be getting to you, huh? Making you crave hot cocoa, soup, and…” Steve looks around, licking his lips, “everything? You tryna get more insulated for the season or what? Goddamn. You are packing it on.”

Even though he really has been stuffing himself like he’s getting ready to hibernate, bedding down in a dim, quiet place surrounded by comfortable blankets and pillows but also a huge, fuzzy gut extending out from him, big enough to be its own entity, Bucky shakes his head insistently, talking through his latest mouthful of over-processed, crappy food, “nohh lazyy, ‘ard work!” He barely keeps all the food in his mouth, his cheeks pooched out, full and bloated. It should be gross. It isn't.

He's so fucking hungry he just can’t stop. It's hot.

Hard work, my ass, Steve thinks. But… also, Steve takes inventory of just how flushed he is and…

Maybe it is hard work.

His face is beet red, his blush diffusing up into his hairline and over his ears as well as spreading all the way down his neck. Hell, his chest is probably red, too. Hot to the touch like he has a fever instead of being too well insulated. His belly is definitely red, too. Steve can see it. There’s no need to imagine. That fucking thing is still hanging out and still bloating bigger. Stretched extremely. So packed and tight that all of his blood is being redirected to send the energy he needs to digest mountains of food. It’s hard work to metabolize through pure sugar and fat.

Bucky’s flushed head to toe and sweating terribly. Sweating like a pig.

Still, Steve shakes his head, letting out a single, “ha!” Before murmuring in sarcastic disbelief, “stuffing your fat face is hard work? Yeah, right, bear. Bulking comes naturally to you.”

Bucky shakes his head more frantically as he finishes chewing and swallows.

“It's’hard!” He protests.

Steve has a million jokes immediately. Hard. Yeah.

As Bucky shakes his head more, his double chin triples for a moment. Steve has to fight a moan from coming up. He's so soft.

Then, to show how much he means it - it’s hard work - he plucks at his barely surviving shirt, un-scrunching the fabric to reveal the crescent moon sweat stains from under his flabby, heavy breasts. Steve just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. So, next, Bucky lifts his arms clumsily - the wings of fat under his upper arms jiggling - to show that he’s also got wicked pit stains from getting so hot.

“You’re sweating? Pfft. Anything would make you sweat, tubby, you’re so out of shape.” Steve teases him, loving the reaction he’s getting. Hot and bothered. He's saying it to say it. Bucky has a lot of shape these days. Much better shape than the soldier he once was. “You can hardly lumber around the apartment without getting red in the face. Waddling from one room to the next means you need a minute to catch your breath like you've actually done something impressive.” Steve laughs meanly. “Honey, even the tuckered out, sore, and barely-trained new recruits I've been working with could beat you after a day of working out!”

“But my belly hurts!” Bucky protests again, whining, “my abs are all stretched out! ‘M sore, too!” He pouts, huffing, “‘s not fair to me either.” When he crosses his big (fat, not muscle, not anymore) arms over his chest, all he succeeds in doing is looking more adorably grumpy and giving himself deep, deep cleavage. It's not intimidating in the slightest.

Steve's mouth actually goes dry, eyes lost in his cleavage for a moment. That can't stop him, though. He's having too much fun with Bucky. Teasing him. What's he gonna do anyway? He can't fucking move. “Abs?” Steve recovers enough to draw a curved line down the front of his heavy, round belly where there used to be an impressive cut between rock-solid muscle. “Oh, Buck, honey, you don’t have those. They're all gone.”

Bucky whines, but the wiggle of his oversized hips says otherwise to his verbal complaints. He's enjoying this.

“You couldn’t even pull yourself off the couch if I tried to make you,” Steve lays it on thick, pinching all the extra flab he can fit between his four fingers and thumb. An overflowing handful. “There’s no way you’d be able to do a single fuckin’ sit up. Your abs are long, long gone.”

Bucky huffs at him, wiggling again, trying to prove him wrong.

Steve watches him, hot to the core, as he struggles to sit up straighter, less reclined into the soft couch with all his soft mass, then struggles to work around the ball of his tummy, trying to reach forward, leaning over the expansive thing, and do… something, anything. He can't. His fingers wiggle in mid-air, arms out straight in front of him.

Overall, he barely moves an inch. A sheen of sweat glistens above his upper lip.

Steve represses a shiver when he realizes his blue-grey eyes locked on target, that he's reaching for a box of snack cakes. Oatmeal creme sandwich cookies. A classic. He can't ever resist them. He’s got a tooth for everything, but especially sweets. And even with the feast spread out around them, it's a miracle any of the oatmeal creme pies are surviving in that box, let alone 4 of them. There were 12 in the box, that's only 3/4ths of it! He can do better. Steve will help him do better, like he always does. He's so nice.

Bucky flops heavily back onto the couch, panting impressively hard for having done no work at all. He blows a lock of hair out of his face. His chest and belly are heaving.

Without opening his mouth, just looking at him, Steve communicates, I told you so. He sighs, satisfied, and neatly and easily bends at the waist to reach the box himself, “you ate your way right outta that fit, little body, a long, long time ago, Buck. Now look at yourself.” He manhandles some of his big, big body. Jiggling waves of fat. Fuck. Before he gets too carried away, Steve shakes out one of the snack cakes.

And Bucky moans softly as Steve tears the clear plastic packaging of one of the cookies, opening it and positing himself to feed him.

Holding it to his lips, watching his pretty, white teeth and full, pink lips and wet tongue, Steve talks him through downing more calories on an already overfull stomach, “and, oof, baby, the way you’re going, you’re never gonna get that summer body back.” Shaking his head when Bucky takes another ravenous, large bite, he adds, “you're like a bear! Packin’ it on for winter, but…” Steve clicks his tongue, pretending to be disapproving rather than drooling over the mind-melting changes. All the weight. Piling on. Rolls on rolls on rolls. Inches added to his waist (and his everything). “Not even months of sleeping off all this food is gonna make you skinny again.”

Bucky finishes the snack cake. He burps.

“There’s not gonna be any seasonal fluctuations. You’re too greedy. You won't let that happen, will you, bear?” Steve smirks, smacking his tender belly hard enough to leave him whining. He shakes his head. Steve smacks him again. “No, you won't. You’re too fat! So fat. And you love it. All this winter weight, it's gonna stick around.”

Bucky shakes in place, both from the anticipation, imagining all that heavy, heavy, hot weight appearing on his body all at once. Ballooning. Expanding. Growing. Getting bigger and bigger and bigger now, putting on hundreds of pounds immediately. Now. Please. And from the more immediate threat of Steve opening another little cake. He’s relentless.

Bucky bites into it anyway. Eyes rolling back into his head.

“Next winter, you’re just gonna be bigger. Then, the winter after that, you're gonna be bigger, too.” Steve could coo at how Bucky nods, thoughtless and docile. “You're gonna be the fattest bear ever. Definitely the fattest I’ve ever seen with this fuzzy tummy dragging on the ground between your thick thighs and arms.”

Lips smacking, Bucky demolishes the last of the oatmeal creme pie, “more?” He begs, eyes soft and round. Just as soft and round as he is. Though it's hard to match…

Really hard.

His stomach is actively bloating bigger. Expanding like a marshmallow in the microwave. Steve lets his mouth run, smashing the next and next snack cake into him, feverishly rambling, “you're gonna be overheating in your cave, Buck. Too fat for winter, hmm? You ever heard of that?”

Crumbs on his face, hands on his overburdened gut, trying and failing to soothe the bursting-at-the-seams ache of his stomach and stretching fat, Bucky tells him no with another shake of his head. He's even redder now. Sweatier. Working harder. Panting. Moaning softly through every heaving, gasping breath. Too much. Too much. Not enough.

“Well, it's gonna be you, bear,” Steve growls, letting his boyfriend lick the remaining sugar from his fingers, wiping his hands on his stretched-out shorts, and then joining him to grab and massage and shake his gurgling, expanding belly, “you're gonna be a bear too big, with so much lard packed onto ‘im that he could survive winters back to back to back without having to bulk back up in between. Hell, how're you even gonna crawl in your cave and bed down, bear? You're too big for the entrance now, I bet. Can't fit through! What am I gonna do with you?”

Bucky groans, his head thrown back. His thick, pale, fat neck looks juicy and tempting. Steve wants to bite him, he wants to choke him, he wants to shove a hose down that throat and funnel calories into him to really blow him up.

“What. am. I. gonna. do. with. you?” Steve wonders, smacking and pinching and groping his sensitive belly to punctuate each word.

Miraculously, Bucky answers, crying out, “feed me! Feed me more!”

“More, bear?” Steve nearly chokes in disbelief, “how are you gonna fit more in you!? You're already so big! I don't think you can get bigger without exploding.”

“Wanna be,” he slurs, drunk, head lulling to the side and eyes glassy, “wanna be heavier.”

“You'll break our bed,” Steve whispers harshly, rubbing big circles on his massive belly. Trying to touch as much of it as possible at once. He fucking loves this jelly belly.

“Don't- don't care,” he pants, his poor, poor shirt has rolled up more, covering exactly none of his bear’s gut. It's aaaaaall hanging out. Flabby yet tight and marked. “You said! Too big for my den. Wanna be.”

“Ohh, you wanna get stuck in the doorway, hm? These fat hips too damn big to get through.” Steve chuckles to himself, playing with his body, fat and doughy all over, “gonna come home one day and find you like fuckin’ Winnie the Pooh, aren't I, baby? With your head stuck in a jar of honey, belly too wide to get outta the fuckin’ front door. But you're too dumb to learn your lesson aren't you? You'll do it again. Stuff yourself again. Bigger. Fatter. You just keep forgetting that you don't need to put on more weight.” He frowns theatrically.

Bucky whimpers. All needy and desperate. He's plush with extra weight. So touchable and firm and blubbery.

“Oh, bear, you're so stupid,” Steve coos, “it's precious. You're just so greedy, and you can't help it. It's instinctual. More more more. You just want more. You wanna bulk up and hibernate constantly, won't be happy until you’re one huge blimp.”

“Yea-h, yeahh, I can't, can't help it,” Bucky works out the words, still catching his breath. It's not helping that Steve is touching him like he's a giant stress ball. Squeezing. Groping. Feeling all that heavy, heavy food sitting in his poor, abused belly.

“I just don't know what to do with you, bear! You don't know what's good for you, and you're getting so terribly fat.” He clicks his tongue, “tsk, tsk, but I can't help it, either, just look at that sweet face! How am I supposed to say no to you? Even when you're too heavy to get off your fat ass and you're telling me to get you more…” he sighs, “I can’t help it. So. I hope you're ready to balloon, bear. ‘Cause there's no stopping you.”

“Yes!” Bucky moans through a hiccup, “bigger!”

#mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #stucky #animal play #bear

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

This is also a college Steve and Bucky AU that I can't get out of my head Imagine a jock who is well known for always completing keg stands and winning drinking competitions and being able to guzzle down the most beer without stoping and never being able to back down from a chance at victory and he gets invited to all the parties because people just want to see how much he can take and not-so-slowly he starts to develop a tank of a beer belly that he's in denial about when he's sober and totally doesn't notice when he's drunk and it becomes a novelty at parties to pat him on the gut and hand him another beer and play with his belly and get him as full and as drunk as possible just to see the lasting effects on his growing body, and in his drunken state he slowly starts to enjoy the way people fondle his moobs and play with his gut and call him names with affection, and it eventually transcends into his sober life as well and he longs for people to pat him on the belly and tell him what a good job he's doing and bite his moobs like breasts and he doesn't even know why he has these desires but he finds himself thinking about it constantly, and he only admits how much he wants it when he's too drunk to remember his own name and surrounded by people who are a little more sober than him, who want to make him feel good but also continue to give him beer and alcohol even when he's passed his limit because at the end of the day, they really do just want to see how big they can grow that keg of a gut. He put so much effort into being a jock, and now he's subconsciously putting all that dedication into this instead

Oof, God, yeah, it's like he's turned into the campus mascot! 🥵

And yanno how a lot of college campuses will have those statues around the quad or at the entrance to one of the bigger, more important buildings that has a really shiny part because it's tradition to walk past and pat or rub the statue for luck-?

It's that, but with a student. (I'm thinking Bucky for this 💦)

Just imagine, after a particularly filling party, Bucky is sitting on the couch. His chest is heaving, moobs hanging out, his shirt long gone - who knows if he ripped it off himself in the middle of his feverish, alcohol-induced stupor or if someone managed to peel it off of him when he wasn’t paying attention, too busy consuming - his belly jiggling as he breathes so hard. He’s so packed full and heavy that he’s denting the poor furniture, crushing the padding, making the springs squeak, leaving the wood frame groaning. 

And, as per tradition, when he’s done with the last kegger, groaning his way through it, struggling to fit anything else inside himself, stomach stretched taut so much so that it feels like he’s full up to the back of his throat, even his esophagus filled, people start to come over to rub Bucky’s belly. Drunk college kids stumbling their way toward the spectacle that he’s become, slurring their praises and compliments for how good he did. How big he got. They all know the legend, but it’s one thing to know and another to see.

Bucky is damn notorious for his ability to chug. 

Nobody on campus doesn’t know Bucky’s name (or, really, the shape of Bucky); nobody doesn’t come over when they see him waddling through campus, huffing and puffing, offering at least a high five, if not giving him enough quarters for a soda from one of the many vending machines in every building - gotta keep his capacity up, right?

After guzzling everything the party instigators managed to get their hands on, doing more than one keg because he’s like that, Bucky’s unbelievably big. So round. His skin is clearly throbbing from the stretch of fitting so much inside himself. So, as he sits there, he lazily lets his legs spread wide so his heavy tummy can hang between them, resting on, and overflowing from the couch. He has to take it easy or he’s gonna burst.

So. full. 

As he takes five, his break well-earned, Bucky’s belly gets more and more gurgly under everyone’s hands. The globe attached to him - somehow a part of his body even though it’s so swollen - gets more and more red, too. New stretch marks are almost visibly etching themselves into his skin and he’s begun to shine with sweat, so exerted and heated from consuming so much. Pushing himself so far. 

Soon, a line forms - too many rowdy kids coming over to touch him. 

The touches turn from relatively light pats, everyone wanting to hear how ripe he sounds, thumping him, to harder pinches and slaps. Everyone wants a piece of him. They all want luck from the campus mascot. 

Barrel Gut Bucky Barnes.

No. 1 Greedy Boy.

Rub for good luck. 

So, by the time the party has cleared out for the night, Bucky is left there. Alone. Dazed and stuffed. He’s still sweating. He’s still trying, in vain, to catch his breath. The only difference from when he had just finished the kegger to now is that now his poor gut is redder and hotter with the outlines of handprints from where his fat has been slapped hard making him jolt and belch, the small fingerprint bruises from where he’s been pinched, shocked into hiccups by the way it aches, and lines from the girls who scratched the surface of his globe-gut with their acrylic fingernails until he moaned and shivered, moving as much as he could underneath the immense, oppressive weight of his own overfull body, trapped in place. A statue for everyone to touch and feel and gape at as they walk past.

How could anyone get that full?

Christ.

At this point, they might as well get a fucking forklift under his ass, lift him and this shitty, almost-broken, college-kid-bought couch, drive him over to the middle of the quad, and set him out there for everyone to admire openly. Bucky loves being a fat-bellied mascot but even if he didn't... he's too drunk and dumb to do anything about it now. He's in too deep. He's swollen himself too big.

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #bloating #alcohol consumption #intox kink #objectification #bucky barnes #chubby bucky #fat bucky

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Thinking about your spooky Feederism post but buckyyyyyyy

Hear me out Bucky’s daily nighttime fall attire is just some cute pumpkin pj pants that are pretty loose and fall low on his waist (bc he’s a slut) but I imagine he’s pretty toned not super muscular but not not muscular yk anyways he does his nightime routine shower pjs watch tv scroll on his phone and it happens by some freak coincidence he eats a pumpkin (or sweet potato) pie at 3 am on the first day of fall anyways from the midnight snacking at the witching hour triggers the seasonal expansion starting slowly when the moon waxing as just him feeling a tiny bit more hungry then it gets worse (better) I’m sure you can expand (get it ) on that idea 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨

Spooky belly kink

Okay okay okay okay this put an idea in my horny brain. SO. IMAGINE:

Buckle in fuckers, this got out of control. It's long. Warnings for unbeta'd stucky belly kink (Bucky centered, though), magical weight gain, magic, rapid weight gain, stuffing, immobility, etc.

It's early in October, so very early that it's still hot outside. Unfortunately. Seriously, like, Bucky just would like to sleep in his cozy and perfectly hideous Halloween themed pajamas and sip on a hot pumpkin spiced drink, but he can't. It's too damn hot. He will end up a festive puddle if he does.

So, his fuzzy, orange pj pants have gone from comfortably resting around his waist to sitting low on his hips for some ventilation, to... dammit, fine, as he's lounging around the house one early fall evening, waiting for it to cool down so he can sleep, Bucky pulls his fussy, festive pajama pants fully off. Leaving him just in an oversized pumpkin t-shirt and his underwear.

But it's still too fucking hot. He's still sweating. Fuck. This. This is not how fall is supposed to be!

Bucky grumbles and pads into the kitchen of his apartment so he can open the little window over his sink. He unlocks, opens, and then turns his back to it, blatantly ignoring the footsteps he can hear in the alley outside in favor of starting to return to his couch where he can lie (mostly) comfortably and grumble to himself about the heat. The footsteps are fine. People walk out there all the time. Whatever. He's fine, other than maybe melting to death.

As a result of the alley being relatively busy usually and Bucky's back being turned, Bucky doesn't notice the curling, semi-transparent tendril of purple, sparkling magic that reaches in through his now open window. It shivers and curls to the best of an ominous whistle. A whistle coming from someone's mouth outside - whoever is making those footsteps.

With his back turned, he doesn't notice its immediate lightning-like strike against his back, the tendrils wrapping around his sides and over his belly even as he continues to put distance between himself and the window.

By the time Bucky is flopping back down onto the couch, the unseen, unheard lightning is gone. It's absorbed into his lean, muscular frame. His back and sides and belly. His belly-

Now prone, Bucky scratches his tummy through his shirt, feeling a bit of an itch. It's nothing, though. Just the fabric of his shirt pulling against his body hair, probably. Whatever.

Whatever.

It's too fucking hot. It'd ruining his fall. That's all Bucky can think about.

Bucky intermittently complains to himself and scrolls on his phone until it's really time to get to bed. Just in his t-shirt and in his boxers with a light blanket over him, Bucky falls into an easy, blissful sleep, only waking up when...

At about 3 AM, according to the blinding light of his phone (when he takes it off the charger to check, rookie mistake), his belly is rumbling. Loud. Bucky rubs the sleep out of his eyes, frowning before he's even really awake.

God!

He feels hollow!

The moment he's done with his eyes, he blinks and glares down through the darkness at his gut. He had dinner! And he snacked before bed while melting his brain into goo on social media. Why is he so hungry?

So. Hungry.

Bucky just wants to go back to sleep. He tries to have a drink from his bedside water bottle - maybe he's just dehydrated? He rolls over to lay on his stomach. He...

Nope.

He's starving.

It feels like his stomach is trying to gnaw on his spine.

So, with a sigh, he has to push himself out of bed and wander through the darkness of his apartment, one hand on the wall and the other outstretched before him so as to not walk into anything, before eventually reaching the kitchen.

What can he have to settle his stomach before he goes back to sleep? Cereal? Nah. He's not in the mood. He's fresh out of granola bars, so not that either. He polished off the last few slices of leftover pizza for dinner. Maybe-?

Bucky opens the fridge, standing in the illuminated pool, feeling the chill wash over him, staring at the slim pickings aaaand -

Huh?

How-?

When did that get there?

Bucky is shameless with buying himself little treats to get through life, in general, but... he likes to think he would remember if he bought himself an entire fucking pumpkin pie and a canister of whipped cream to go with it. Before he can really investigate, Bucky's tummy growls again. A slice of pumpkin pie does sound really good right now. His mouth is flooded with saliva. With a glass of milk. Fuck. That would hit the spot.

Bucky doesn't really think about the fact that he ran out of milk two days ago and hasn't had time to go to the store yet. He feels dazed. Maybe this is a dream? Maybe he did fall asleep again after chugging water, satisfied enough to sleep but not satisfied enough to really fight the hunger off, so it's seeping into his dreams?

If it is a dream, what's the point of getting a plate and a cup? What's the point in real life anyway? He lives alone! Bucky's belly grumbles once more, this time in agreement with his sluggish thoughts. Suddenly, he can't wait. He can't even spare enough time to get himself a fork. It's just him. Just him and his belly and his dream.

Fuck it.

He digs in. Lifting the whole pie out of the tin and nibbling at the crust. It's mild and sweet. Mmm. He takes a deeper bite. The explosion of flavor takes over his tongue. That's it. Yeah. His eyes slide shut. The creamy pumpkin and dancing spices; the sweetness; the crumbly, delicious crust. Bucky takes bite after bite after bite, barely taking the time to swallow. He wants to fill his entire mouth with the taste and texture of the pie. He stuffs his face until his cheeks puff out like chipmunks.

Bucky swallows a few times to get all of the pie he's eaten down, feeling the chilly, smooth pie slide down his throat and drop into his empty belly. The pie tastes good in his mouth, but it feels even better. He already feels sleepier. He can feel his heartbeat slowing down in his chest. His breathing, too. His eyes are shut, but nevertheless, his eyelids feel heavier.

His belly feels heavier.

Apparently, while he was reveling in the pleasure of this mysterious pie, his body continued to eat. Stuffing his face.

Stuffing. his. face.

Bucky has both hands on the pie and so he can't reach down to explore his tummy. He doesn't even think to do that, though. He's dazed. He's in the process of eating. Eating messily with his hands. There is nothing else. Nothing but eating. He is biting and chewing and swallowing, and his belly is slowly but surely going from painfully empty to heavy. Full. He feels round. He can't touch himself, but he feels bloated. It's meditative.

Stuffing.

The entire pumpkin pie goes down so easily, so smoothly that Bucky doesn't really register that he's just put away an entire pie. He's living in the timeless, foggy, and nonsensical reality of what must be a dream. It's not his fault that he doesn't realize he's run out of food to shove into his hungry mouth until he finds no more filling or crust and instead just his dirty fingers.

Rather than panic over how much he's thoughtlessly consumed or be astonished about his sudden massive stomach capacity, Bucky simply licks his fingers clean with a satisfied, weighty sigh. His left hand, then his right. Then, Bucky licks his lips, too. He blinks slowly. He feels good.

He licks his lips again, savoring the taste of the pie. Moaning over the fact that he doesn't have anymore. Oh, wait-!

Bucky's eyes flick open urgently, his mouth makes a click sound, dry. Mindlessly, he sets the empty pie tin back onto the fridge shelf he found it on. He has whipped cream still! He has a gallon of milk still!

The little logical voice peaking through his dreamy haze and rich satisfaction clouding his midnight reality tells him he can have a taste, just a dollop. The amount that would be put onto a single slice of pie. Reasonable. Not too greedy.

But...

Then Bucky's swollen belly gurgles. It has other plans for him. So, even though Bucky's head tells him he's just going to have a little, his suddenly gluttonous belly overrides it. Big time.

The aerosolized sound of the whipped cream coming from the canister is hypnotizing from the moment he tips his head back, puts the nozzle into his mouth, and presses down, releasing the sweet, silky sugar and cream to the moment the canister squeals. Empty.

Bucky swallows.

Did he swallow at all when he was emptying the whipped cream into his mouth? Did it all pour directly into his gut?

Bucky sets the empty can next to the empty pie tin. The idea of investigating his throbbing, tight, overpacked belly enters his peripherals but... he gets distracted.

Bucky chugs an entire gallon of milk, moaning through it, feeling it flow right into his tummy and slosh around. The crust of the pie absorbs it, expanding. His belly gurgles and grumbles. Bubbles. Bloating. Oh.

Oh.

The whipped cream went in heavy and sweet, and the milk adds to it. It's not as sweet, but it is heavy.

Bucky knows without looking at the label that this is full fat milk. He never buys full fat milk anymore! He must've picked it up by mistake! Oh, well.

He's not going to return it.

He couldn't.

He's done with the gallon.

He's done with the gallon.

Oh.

Bucky burps, he hiccups - he sloshes.

Fuck.

The milk container isn't in his hands anymore. He's free to slap his hands down onto his struggling belly. Feeling the way it sloshes and swirls and vibrates with a few more hiccups.

The tightness of his belly is exhilarating. He feels like a drum. The weight of his belly is comforting, familiar but also new. Instinctually, he knows he's safe. Yet, he's never been so thoroughly gorged before. The heat coming from his taut, heavy gut is like his own personal heater soothing him into sleep. And the sounds coming from his globe-like tummy are like a white noise machine. Bucky is practically falling asleep on his feet. He can't open his eyes. He can't move.

He can't move.

"Oooh," Bucky moans, staggering back one step, then two. His hands are flat on his gut, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing away. His entire center of gravity has been thrown off with an entire pie, can of whipped cream, and gallon of milk.

He stands in place, wobbling. Waddling.

Bucky waddles back to bed, arms around his belly to try and keep the burps and hiccups and moans in. He doesn't want to be jostled too much. He might pop. He hardly remembers how he got back into bed, let alone if he closed the door to the fridge. It doesn't matter, though.

The moment Bucky is on his bed, he's out like a light. On his back, weighed down, hot and tight and good, and snoring softly. His hands never leave his belly. He's stuffed it, he's grown it, he's--

And as he's drifting off, he's wishing it was like this all the time. Not just in his dreams. Full. Taut. Swollen. Big.

The next time Bucky drifts into consciousness, it's much later. It's still ungodly early, but... later. There's a light from the full moon drifting into his room. It's not light enough to really wake him up, but enough that he realizes he's...

Heavier.

Bucky realizes, half-awake, that it's harder to breathe now than it was when he was last conscious. Huh? Why? Does he have an oncoming cold? Is he congested? He sniffs. No. So, what?

Bucky attempts to roll over. He doesn't make it, though. Instead, he just groans.

Yeah.

He's, uh, he's -

Heavier. Definitely heavier.

Rounder.

In the limited moonlight, Bucky can juuust make out the way his shirt has filled out with, with a solid, thick belly that's ungodly round.

A faint tickling of, oh, that's right, appears at the very back of his mind, but mostly Bucky is bewildered and awed. The pumpkin face on his shirt is illumated by the light of the full moon, and it's stretched and warped by his body. His belly.

His belly looks like a pumpkin. It would look like a pumpkin even without his festive shirt. It's that large. Heavy. And tight.

Holy shit.

How? What? When?

Bucky lies there, panting, sweating, feeling swollen and sleepy, with his hands on his gut, contemplating his existence for a while longer. What the fuck happened to me? Where did this gut come from?

He's on the cusp of the thought of did I have a midnight snack? And the following, was that dream(?) real? When -

Oh.

"Ohhhh," Bucky moans around his panting breathes, scrambling to lift himself higher on the bed and finding himself unable to do anything. He's too heavy. He's -

Is he growing?

It is harder to breathe.

Yeah.

He's, he's growing.

The face of the pumpkin is stretching, stretching, streeeetching. In the silence of the night, beyond his heavy breaths, the only sound is the complaints of his shirt fabric and the seams.

Under his hands, he's heavier and harder. Oof. He even feels fuller, the larger he grows. Bucky pokes his fingers into his gut, and out comes a deep, brassy belch despite the fact that his fingers don't sink into his belly at all. He's so fucking bloated. It's like he's shoved a basketball up under his shirt. Hard as, as a pumpkin!

And he's as roooooound as a pumpkin, too!

He watches the growth, the swelling, the bulging of his middle as he pants harder and harder. It's... it's... again, he slips into a hypnotic headspace without his knowing. The visual makes him feel sleepy. Hot. Heavy. Weighed down and comfortable. His eyelids droop. And, in no time, with his pumpkin tummy expanding out from his body, over top of him, Bucky is lulled to sleep. A soft, sleepy smile on his face.

Yet, his sleep is no longer dreamless. It's still blissful, but it's colored by visions of being a pumpkin. A huge pumpkin. Prize winning. The kind you see at a county fair being lifted by tractors from the beds of trucks to industrial scales. He's not on a scale in his dream, though. Which is good - he might break it! Instead, he's growing in a pumpkin patch, tethered to the ground by thick, feeding vines, but really, he's stuck in place by the massive weight of his pumpkin belly on top of him. Pinning him. Legs splayed out. Arms splayed out. Tummy growing and growing and growing. Rapidly. Impossibly. Crushing him.

Outside of his dreams, lying back and unconsciously in his bed, Bucky rubs and rubs his gut, obsessed with the taut, hard, spherical surface. He's practically vibrating with warmth. He is still smiling. He's snoring softly under the heft of his gut. His cock has worked itself to throbbing hardness in his underwear but even his physical arousal can't overpower the bliss of his dreams.

He can't shake himself out of the dream -

Growing. Swelling. Widening. Fattening.

Late the next morning, Bucky wakes up disappointingly thin and flat-bellied. He frowns down at himself. The only evidence left of his dreams is the sweat covering his body and the wet spot in his boxers. His shirt... he, his, his shirt might be a little looser than it was yesterday. Stretched. But. He must be misremembering. Also, his tummy, it must be his imagination, but it feels... tender.

As it turns out, Bucky isn't going to have a dreamless night in all of October. Not after that first night, his unconscious mind full of greed and gluttony. Stuffing. Stuffing. Stuffing. Growing. Growing. Growing. Heavier. Heavier. Heavier.

His dreams have him gorge himself, an unending tide of food and lust that can't be satisfied until he physically can no longer reach whatever food has appeared to him in his dream. Or, his dreams are full of nothing but unending growth until he drifts back into consciousness from his sunny, pleasant dish in the cool earth of the pumpkin patch. Rising above the rest of the pumpkins. He's big. He's huge. He's giant. He's impossibly massive. Much more pumpkin belly than man.

His starting size in his dreams climbs throughout the month until when he shuts his eyes, he's so huge that he can hardly move. Crushed by the fantastic, humongous blimp of his belly. He can not describe the way it feels to begin so large and only swell more.

More.

He didn't know their could be more! Bucky moans to himself, thinking about it. More. It's such a good word. How did he never know before? More.

How big could he possibly get?! Bucky craves to know so badly. He starts stealing naps in the middle of the afternoon. He starts hitting snooze more often. He puts candy bars that he's been trying to save for tricker-or-treaters on his nightstand to open and stuff into his waiting, salivating mouth the moment he's unfortunately pulled from his dreams. Big, big, bigger.

Yes.

Bucky won't complain about the shift of his dreams; not the content or the frequency; he can't complain! Especially not when on the Halloween night, with the moon perhaps the fullest he's ever seen it, round and fat and bright, his dreams take him to the fridge again.

He hasn't been back to the fridge since the first night.

Bucky licks his lips, and he rubs his chubby hands together even though it makes him giggle, it's such a cheesy gesture. But. He can't wait to tear into whatever is in his fridge. All of it. He's going to eat all of it. He fantasizes about destroying everything in there and in the pantry and cabinets and everything he has to eat. Every little morsel possible. It's all going down his throat and dropping into his fat, fat belly.

His firm, heavy enough to leave him sweating and gasping, heart thudding, waddle-inducing belly growls. Despite the overfed size of him, he feels starved.

With a jerk, Bucky opens the fridge and groans. He's brought to his knees. All that delicious food. Take-out containers galore. Each heavy and sticky - the sign of good, really good food. There's an entire three pizza boxes in there, too! Each box is full of with a complete, delectable pie. A gallon on chocolate milk. Full fat chocolate milk. Eggnog, too. Unseasonal, but... Bucky doesn't fucking care. It's going to be so thick and rich and good. He'll chug it straight after the milk. Further inspection reveals that in one of the drawers, there's an untouched pumpkin pie. Fuck, yeah. Fuck, yeah! Underneath the pie, there's a container stacked full, so full it almost can't shut, of fudgy brownies. Bucky finds cookies, too. The take-out includes Chinese food and Thai and Italian and -

"God," Bucky moans happily, stroking the parts of his heavy, gravity-defying gut that he can still reach. He hopes he won't be able to reach hardly any of it soon. All this food.

He's going to expand.

He's going to get so fucking fat.

Bucky empties the fridge. Then -

THEN

T H E N because Bucky is a true glutton now, by the end of his month of training, he goes on. He eats more. He finds the cabinets and the top of the fridge equally, fully stocked. The dream melts further from reality at that point, and lightning bolts, friendly, helpful lightning bolds of sparkling, neon purple begin to tangle around packages and bags and dump the contents into Bucky's mouth. All he has to do is stand there, which is a good thing because even the dream can't rescue him from the weight of all his gluttony. This feast has made him fatter than fat. He's engorged. He is massive. So fucking round. His knees shake. He moans and shivers around the candy bars being ripped open by sparkly purple magic to be shoved down his throat. Sticky. Sweet. He's eating them whole. With each bar, he feels the fat on his frame grow. Thicker. Rounder. Heavier. Abruptly, Bucky crashes back onto his monsterous, dimpled ass.

And he wakes up on the kitchen floor. Bathed in moonlight. There is no food in sight, although there is -

There's

All around him, littered are the remains of his feast. Wrappers. Crumbs. Empty containers.

It was real.

But

How?!

Bucky palms his flat, tender belly with a moan. He lets his head drop against the floor rather than craning down to stare at his disappointment of a belly. He wants it to be real so bad. That fat, hard, tight gut. His mouth waters and his appetite roars. Please.

Please!

His cries are heard.

It must be a dream! Right?! That's a thing? Isn't it? Waking up into another dream?

It must be a dream because it hits him all at once. The growth happens as footsteps start to echo through the alley outside Bucky's apartment building.

Step. Step. Step.

Bucky is trying to get himself back to bed to sleep off this weirdness (and maybe have time for another gluttonous dream before he has to go about his day), getting onto his elbows to stand up when BWOOOPH.

Bucky swells.

Sudden.

Hoooly shit.

Heavy and round and hard as the fattest pumpkin in the whole patch.

Bucky is knocked entirely onto his back with a heavy crash. The wooden floorboards creak under his massive frame. Ballooning. He's ballooning. He hasn't stopped yet. Bucky moans ungodly loudly. It's real. It's real! This is everything he wanted! The sensations. The heat. The pleasure. Christ. He wants to be a pumpkin forever.

He's awake! He has to be! It's never felt like this before. It's so real! Every detail is clear and fucking hot as shit. He can't reach his other arm to pinch himself, so he pinches the thick, firm fat of his expanding gut. He pinches as it grows. Bigger. Bigger. He whines with how hard he pinches his blubber. It hurts! He doesn't wake up!

It's real!

And it feels so fucking gooooood.

He's a fucking pumpkin. Ripe. Overripe. He's a whale. Blubbery. Too heavy to swim. He can't move. He's just -

Oh, fuck.

He moans out all the limited air he has in his lungs. Loud. Outrageously turned on. Pulsing and throbbing tightly, hotly. His cock but really his belly. It's pulsing, it's gurgling, moving, sloshing like he really did consume all of that fucking food and all those gallons of thick, fattening milk and Eggnog and juice and his poor tummy has no idea what to do with all the rich calories.

Laughter floats in from the alley outside. It's followed by a voice, deep but sweet, too, "I can make that happen, darling."

Bucky has no time to ask what? What will you make happen? He has no time to even think about thinking. The seductive tone of the voice feels like fingertips against his most sensitive flesh. All of him is sensitive now, plumped. Fattened. Ripened. He would shiver if he could move. If he wasn't so fat that he's immobile. He loves it.

Following the voice, eyes, blue eyes, appear outside his kitchen window.

Bucky should be afraid, but he's not. He's -

He's intrigued.

He's the child lured into the witch's house and fattened for eating. Too stupid and gluttonous to dream of putting up a fight.

"I can make you my fat pumpkin all year around, not just as a Halloween treat," the velvet voice purrs. A hand appears next to the stranger's attractive face. His fingers flick and -

Purple, shimmering magic bolts from his fingers to somehow cradle all, all of Bucky's heavy, massive body.

BWOOOPH

Bucky bloats, packing on at least another hundred pounds.

"Oh!" Bucky moans, fingers scrambling over his rolls, trying to touch himself. He wants to touch himself so badly! Frantically, he nods his head, feeling his chin double and triple, "pl-please! Please! I wanna be-" he groans. "I wanna be your pumpkin!"

"Good," the attractive witch purrs.

"Grow me! Please!" Bucky cries.

The witch does as he pleads, humoring him. "What do you wish to eat, my pumpkin?" he asks as he slithers in through the open window. Standing before him, his cold, electric-sparking hands against his sensitive, taut skin and the underlying blubber.

"Anything!" Bucky whines. "Anything! I just wanna, I wanna be bigger!"

"Ohh, what a greedy pumpkin I have." He slaps his gut, laughing. Bucky ripples like thick jello. Holy shit. His toes curl. "I can't wait to make you bigger." His fingers and sharp nails dig into his tight flesh. "You, pumpkin, can call me Steve."

"Steve," Bucky moans immediately, "g-grow me."

#ask #mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #rapid weight gain #magical weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #stucky #witch steve #human bucky #fat bucky #immobility #tight clothes #magic #plant transformation

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Tumblr has removed the edit option for asks, so... we're doing it this way until they fix their shit:

The emotional eater Bucky thing got me thinking…would you ever consider writing a gif where Stucky has been together for a while and Steve is called away on a mission for an undetermined length of time. Poor Bucky is worried sick and just keeps stuffing himself at every chance he gets and piles on the weight. When Steve gets home, Bucky’s embarrassed and instead of Steve getting upset, confesses he’s into it and they live happily ever after. With the occasional light teasing thrown in. Bonus points for burpy and hiccuppy Bucky. 🥺

emotional eater Bucky, original ask

Ooooh, this gives room for lots of different scenarios in my mind, so, sure! I can do some writing where we explore a few:

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink, warnings for stuffing, weight gain, insecurity, hurt/comfort, kink discovery, etc.

Bucky gets on the phone with Steve whenever possible. He’s on an undercover mission, so it really isn’t that often, he has to be somewhere completely secure where no one can see the mask of the character he’s playing slip off. It’s not often and it’s not for long but, still, Bucky will take what he can get. Even if what he gets is listening to the way Steve tries to talk to him normally, but… he can’t hide from Bucky. He hears the undertone of stress and exhaustion in his voice, and without realizing it, Bucky transitions from mindlessly pacing their apartment to mindlessly eating.

He stops in front of their fridge/freezer and listens as Steve rambles to him, pretending he’s fine, cracking open a new gallon of ice cream. When Steve yawns - speaking to the dark circles that must be shadowing his eyes, running himself ragged without anyone to look after him - Bucky shoves a heaving spoonful of ice cream into his mouth.

Without realizing it, Bucky eats faster and faster, making quick work of the whole gallon as Steve tells him everything he can. Some mission details, but mostly how much he misses being home, how much he misses him, and how much he misses everything else.

Listen. Swallow. Listen. Swallow. Listen. Swallow. It’s the only two things Bucky is doing. So, by the time his spoon hits the bottom of the gallon, Bucky isn’t trying to repress his stress or his worry for Steve anymore. No, he’s trying to repress the hiccups and burps that want to come up. His lips are cold, and so is his packed stomach. He shivers and barely doesn’t groan out loud, using the hand not cradling his phone to massage his stretched abs apologetically. Every hiccup shakes his tight belly (which is getting less and less solid the longer the once-frozen cream sits in his body, he’s beginning to slosh noisily. He just hopes Steve’s super hearing can’t pick it up over the phone). Every burp is gas that doesn’t get released, staying trapped in him instead, and he’s starting to bloat up like a balloon. His abs feel hot with how stretched they’re getting. It feels kind of nice - warm and tight - sort of like cuddling. It’s distracting.

He’s lured back into the conversation, though, when Steve catches onto his heavier breathing and asks what’s wrong.

Bucky fumbles to tell him that he’s pacing too much, ignoring the fact that he’s a damn super soldier, he wouldn’t start panting the way he is right now if he went for a jog and talked to Steve the whole time.

Steve doesn’t think that hard about it. Instead, he apologizes for oversharing.

No. No, Bucky shakes his head. He’s fine. He tells Steve that. And, privately, he thinks he overdid it. Oversharing but… actually under-sharing because no human should eat so much fucking ice cream in under 30 minutes. He’s had way, way too much ice cream. It’s all sloshing and churning in his guts.

Then, the phone call ends with soft goodbyes.

Alone again, Bucky decides that he feels like a swollen tick, engorged with so much blood that he’s expanded. Doubled or tripled in size. How can his stomach get so big? Is this normal? Being able to swell so much? Is this a super soldier ability?

No longer smothering his sounds out of embarrassment and wanting to not worry his partner, Bucky slowly, gingerly bends over to grab a can of soda out of the bottom shelf of the fridge door - hoping to clear out some burps - and groans loudly, grabbing his heavy belly with both hands. He hiccups. He nearly falls back onto his ass, bending over and jolting like that. But he doesn’t. Barely.

He decides to ride out his mistake on the couch, leaning back, sipping his soda, and burping loudly, unashamedly. After a while, he feels his stomach deflate a little. It’s not as hard, at least. He still sounds like a washing machine, sloshing and gurgling, hiccupping and burping, groaning and moaning. But, one good thing can be said about the entire experience, he’s not thinking, for a second, about anything. No anxiety. No stress. No worry. Abstractly, he wishes Steve was here to nag him and rub his belly, but his mind is as clear as it’s been since Steve left.

❤️

Not too long later, after that first nearly instinctual belly-filling distraction/coping mechanism, Bucky wakes up in the middle of the night sweating. He’s so, so worried about Steve that it’s appearing in his dreams. It’s not even a normal dream with images and some semblance of real life, walking around, and seeing and experiencing. It’s just the feeling of being worried. Stress. Anxiety. Teeth-chattering.

Bucky has to get up. He thinks about showering off the sweat, but instead, he tugs off his shirt and sleep shorts, wandering only in his underwear to wherever his feet want to take him.

They want to go to the kitchen. His mismatched hands are on board as well, immediately finding the fridge and opening it, going straight for the pan of left-over lasagna that he had for dinner. It’s an entire family-sized dish. He stopped himself at 3 servings during the evening, but now, shaken awake and needing some kind - any kind of comfort, he can’t quit. It should be gross, he’s eating it cold and only using a fork to carve large chunks of cheese and meat and noodles and sauce out that smear the corners of his mouth, but it isn’t. He’s not thinking. He’s eating. He can’t think when he’s shoving food into his mouth. He can’t think when his stomach is struggling to stretch bigger and bigger. He can’t think when his belly aches with fullness. All that occupies his mind is the slow, intense fullness that grows and grows inside him. He likes the way it feels - being full.

Bucky doesn’t know when he woke up, he didn’t look at their alarm clock in their room, nor did he bother to open his phone, so he has no idea how long he spends ravenously shoving food into his mouth. But he’s there for long enough that he finishes the rest of the dish. The entire family-sized lasagna. Thick, greasy, and rich, sitting in his gut like a brick. A couple of bricks, actually.

“Oh, God,” he moans to himself when his fork hits the empty container with a clang.

His poor belly!

Oh, it’s so heavy. And round.

Jesus.

He’s never seen himself like this! Not even after he scarfed down a whole gallon of ice cream and bloated up like a balloon from the excessive dairy, sugar, and fat. He’s even more round and tight. His body sounds like a drum when he taps his hand against his belly, whining.

So, it’s all Bucky can do to shut the fridge and flop back down onto the tile floor, his belly sticking up like a mountain from the rest of his body. Pale and exposed. When he stuffed himself with ice cream, he was wearing a shirt - clothes - this time he isn’t. He’s basically naked. If he bothered to lift his head, he can almost see the way his belly shivers and ripples, his stomach and intestines struggling to contain, let alone digest all of that food. It’s so much more intense, seeing all this weight attached to him, under his skin. He’s all belly!

Bucky burps so loud he wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbors woke up and heard the commotion. Maybe worst of all, though, he can’t stop puffing, “oh, oh… oh,” the sounds are all breathy and soft. He’s overwhelmed with the weight of himself. His belly. It’s so tight. Hot, too. Bucky feels like a bug pinned to a board under a heat lamp, ready for examination. God, he can’t even roll around and get onto his hands and knees. He’s stuck. He’s, actually, Jesus, he’s wiped out, yawning after hissing out another burp... tired because it’s the middle of the night and tired because he’s so ready to collapse into a food coma.

He might as well sleep right here, right? Catch some shut-eye while he can with his head quiet, and his body is weighed down?

❤️

In the same week as the lasagna night (which wasn’t a dream, by the way. Bucky really woke up on the floor, and despite still being full in the morning, he made the poor decision to have breakfast. He should’ve regretted it with how his gut throbbed after devouring two whole boxes of cereal, one brand-new gallon of whole milk, and two cream cheese-slathered bagels, but… he didn’t. It made him feel better to keep up the overwhelming tight, heavy, hot fullness, barely able to drag himself to the couch to sleep it all off) Bucky watches Clint and Natasha come home from a two-week mission. They’re both scraped up and bruised, eyes dull from their exhaustion. Neither of them has any serious, terrible injuries but…

Bucky can’t help but think about Steve. Steve can heal minor injuries (and more than minor injuries) easily, but he’s taken advantage of because of that ability. Often. Bucky has seen it, again and again, Steve will go on new missions while still healing injuries from the last mission. Bruises fading. Broken bones still mending. Cuts hardly scarring over before disappearing entirely. Dislocated joints still tender.

He’s thinking about Steve.

Only Steve.

And, suddenly, his body on autopilot, Bucky is outside the Tower, away from his teammates and other reminders of Steve. Before he catches up, his fingers call an Uber using his phone. Then, his mouth has the driver take him to one of his favorite spots, a rundown, old-school diner that serves classic Americana food. The actual classic shit that Bucky remembers eating.

By the time he arrives, all of Bucky is on board with this plan. Except for his stomach. He tries to promise it that he won’t go overboard but…

He’s so hungry.

Easily, Bucky pops his most charming smile, showing off his dimples, and asks the waitress seating him for the booth in the very back corner where he won’t be easily seen. She lets him have it even though he’s alone, and normally corner booths are reserved for bigger groups. Good.

Then, as soon as he’s handed his menu, he goes down the thing, ordering what feels like the entire fucking menu. Not to mention how he double orders some of what he’s had before and knows is good. Still, the waitress dutifully writes down the entire order and brings it to him in manageable waves. If we were thinking properly, he would swear that she does it on purpose, eyeing him with… maybe disbelief? Maybe challenge? Maybe even interest? Either way, she keeps him pliant with lots of refills of creamy, sugared coffee and bubbly, non-diet soda. Then, without even being asked, she brings him a flight of all the different shakes they make.

Bucky is deep in his waking food coma by that point and he’s pretty sure, at first, that he’s hearing things when she claims that they’re the house.

Oh, God.

He has to have even the shakes then, doesn’t he? He can’t refuse free food. Even if he’s about to pop!

The shakes give him a much NOT needed second wind and he vacuums it all up, scarcely remembering that he’s in public and can’t freely belch and moan and hiccup and generally make a scene of how he’s swelling with food. Still, he’s unthinking. Just eating. Stuffing. Growing. Expanding like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the damage actively being done to his waistline.

Bucky eats until he feels so heavy that he could be entirely made of metal, not just his heavy arm. He eats so much that he tiptoes the line of feeling sick. Overstuffed. Weighed down by good full-fat, sugar-sugar (no sweetener for him, thank you very much) food that tastes like home…

“O-oof,” Bucky puffs to himself, shocked by how much harder it is than he remembers to scoot and lift his ass out of the diner booth. Heavy. He doesn’t really fit in the booth anyhow, with his belly pressing painfully against the edge of the table and flowing onto the table itself. He’s so swollen. He needs to get home. He wants to crash and sleep off all these calories. He can’t function he’s so full (but… isn’t that the point?).

❤️

Soon, Bucky has a jittery day, all day, for a few days and he ends up solving the issue by marathon stuffing himself. He JUST went grocery shopping but, there’s nothing that can stop him from cleaning out the entire apartment - the cabinets, pantry, countertops, top of the fridge, fridge itself, and freezer - before giving in and ordering piles of take-out for every meal. Keeping any of his worries for Steve at bay by shoving food into his mouth that only shoves his stomach out fuller and fuller, rounder and rounder, heavier and heavier. It gets to the point that there is no fucking food and he’s sick of take-out despite its convenience.

So, with his belly bursting from his clothes like a dame who’s expecting but didn’t budget for maternity clothes, so she’s making do with what she’s got, he pulls himself out of the apartment on unsteady feet to go grocery shopping. The weight of his belly keeps pulling him forward, making his back arch and hurt. And… Bucky wonders, his cheeks hot, if any of the people around him think he’s round in the family way, not the greedy, stuffing himself beyond sound reason or logic way. He’s seen men be pregnant in the future. Palming his gut in front of the produce, rubbing it, Bucky looks down - he could see it. He could really see it. He looks pretty pregnant. Like. About to pop pregnant. Maybe even overdue. If it were Steve’s baby, though, maybe not. Steve’s baby would be pretty fucking huge and strong and -

Oh, God.

Bucky feels the way the food inside him shifts and churns and his temperature seems to rise at least ten degrees. He needs to stop before his prick gets any ideas and he’s indecent for public with how he’s fantasizing about being stuffed full of Steve like that.

Fuck.

Bucky shivers and hides it by biting into one of the apples he picked out. He needs to keep shopping. Quickly. He needs to get home. (If he’s honest with himself, the thing that he’s looking forward to doing once he gets home is slowly but surely packing every bit of this food into his huge, beach ball belly. How big could he possibly make himself? How badly can he stuff himself full? Hnng.)

His trip takes a turn for the worse then, his tummy is unbearably tight and solid and it keeps hitting the handle of the cart as he waddles behind it, pushing it. Also, with every turn down a new aisle, he keeps seeing Captain America themed cereals and snacks and drinks, and… he misses his guy so badly. So, he snatches it all up. Still! His monstrous gut growls.

Hungry, always so fucking hungry.

How can he still be craving more? It doesn’t make sense! He doesn’t have room for more. But, he supposes he would rather be dealing with an unending appetite than unending, heart-breaking loneliness and stress and anxiety. So… whatever. Bucky eats another apple out of his cart, burping as softly as he can around the juicy flesh of the fruit.

By the time Bucky gets to check out, he has a good amount of empty wrappers to pay for, things that he’s snagged off the shelf because they looked good and he needed to sate his worries, so, he kept stuffing himself.

Eating everything.

Bad, bad idea to go shopping when he’s hungry (even if it seems like he’s always hungry now).

The clerk checking him out doesn’t look pleased with him. But, also seems to have some restraint, appearing to take pity on him (or be making fun of him), murmuring, “bad pregnancy cravings, huh?”

Bucky’s brain short-circuits. He fucking hopes she can’t read his mind. It’s all gluttonous filth now. He does look fucking pregnant. Obviously so. Round and tight. A big fucking globe pulling his back into an arch and making his walk into a waddle, ankles and feet swelling, he’s so goddamn heavy.

“Uh, yeah. Yup,” he grits out awkwardly. He’s very glad the checkout stand comes up to his waist.

It’s too much. Everything. Too much.

Once Bucky’s back at their apartment, he has to have security bring the bags up because he can hardly haul himself out of the car, wedged in behind the steering wheel, let alone the mass amount of food he bought to feed two super soldiers. But! Not even two… just him. Just one.

Just him…

Bucky eats more then. Because Steve enters his mind again.

He eats rapidly as if he’s a half-starved stray dog finding last night's leftovers in the garbage outside, he sweats like a pig while he does it, he pants and huffs and can’t catch his breath with his stomach encroaching on his lungs, pressing out and in, too, he bursts another pair of jeans the button flinging across the room and hitting the wall with how much weight was behind it, and he pops the seams on the side of his shirt with how far his belly expands out after literal days of nonstop eating. He can’t help it. He can’t do anything. He can’t breathe with so much food inside him. He can’t stop panting and moaning, his head spinning. He can’t move yet again. He can’t think about worrying.

❤️

In the morning, Bucky groans like he’s dying, lifting himself out of the dent he’s made in the couch, and heads to the shower to wash off the sweat and crumbs he managed to miss and not suck up like a damn vacuum.

He showers, steps out, and as the steam disappears from the mirror, he’s confronted by the fact that…

He’s chubby.

Like, really chubby.

It looks like he’s swallowed a beach ball or a pillow. His gut is big. There’s some soft fat overlaying his sudden belly (and his thicker thighs and arms as well as bubbling his butt out into a fatter shelf), but really, it’s solid. Solid. Densely packed with so, so much food inside him. God. How did he ever get all of that down his throat? He’s bloated, too. That isn’t helping at all. It’s making it so much worse. After his stuffing spree last night (and the past couple of days), he’s so bloated and tight, and pressing on his belly just makes him ache, it doesn’t get any burps or belches out.

He ends up with the fucking hiccups. Oh. Jesus. He whines to himself between the jolting hiccups. He’s aching with the pressure. The weight. The fullness. His gut and… and underneath his gut, too. He’s so full and swollen, he can’t help it. It’s such an intense feeling and Steve hasn’t been here to, to touch him or do anything, and -

Steeeve.

Bucky tries to stop himself, now worried about Steve being away and Steve when he comes home to find him like… like this.

Blown up like a balloon.

His abs don’t just look stretched, they’re gone! Beyond repair! He had abs the last time Steve saw him, now he’s… round. Big. Heavy - heavier.

But Bucky can’t stop himself. Because he’s an emotional eater. And he’s more worried now than ever. What is happening to Steve on his mission? Is he okay? It’s been a long time since they’ve gotten to call or text, so he has no idea what might be happening… if anything? When is he going to come home? When Steve comes home, how will he react to Bucky being fat? What will he say? Will Bucky be able to lose it if he’s less worried about Steve and he can see Steve and touch him and hold him? Will Bucky blow right back up into the stuffed turkey he is the next time Steve goes on an undercover mission where they can’t keep in touch? It’s all he can think about.

So, he uncontrollably stuffs and packs and shoves food into himself until he’s sprawled out on his back on the cold kitchen floor, groaning and rubbing desperate circles on his complaining belly at all hours of the day. Morning. Evening. Night. It doesn’t matter. He just can’t stop cramming food into himself. And he keeps getting bigger and bigger. Actively growing until -

Steve gives him word that he’s coming home.

Bucky is unspeakably relieved. But, oh, God, what is he gonna do about his weight?

The night before Steve is scheduled to come home, flying back, Bucky eats what feels like, at least, fifteen pounds of Italian takeaway. Everything is carb-heavy, oily, and rich. The only reason Bucky can get to sleep is because of the white noise of his tummy gurgling away, making him forget his worries. Any foolish plan he had to let his bloat go down all tomorrow, not eating until Steve got home, is ruined by the fact that Steve comes home at fucking 5:00 AM.

He crashes into bed with Bucky, and Bucky is so relieved to have him here (and so weighed down by enough pasta to give him a food baby… if babies were fifteen fucking pounds) that he just passes back out after being jostled awake. It’s not until he wakes up much later in the morning - almost noon - being spooned behind by Steve that he freaks out a little. Just a little. He’s remarkably cool, considering that Steve’s big, warm hand is resting perfectly on the fat crest of his gut. He’s pressed against his back where his gain might not be as obvious but… there’s no way he can hide it. When Steve wakes up and processes what he feels, what is he going to say?!

Bucky is jolted so strongly by his emotions that, in trained response, his stomach growls. He’s still stuffed. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t hungry. He’s hungry for relief from his worry and stress and -

Steve shifts, he stretches, he yawns.

He’s! Awake!

Bucky freezes.

His gut gurgles, loudly, trying to get Bucky to feed it.

“Hm, Buck?” Steve sleepily asks while nuzzling into his hair, assuming he spoke and it wasn’t just his overinflated stomach.

Tears prickle Bucky’s eyes, and he suddenly has the fucking hiccups.

Hic. Hic. Hic.

Terrifyingly, Bucky looks down through his watery vision to see his monstrously round tummy jolt and jiggle with each involuntary hiccup. He’s so fat. What is Steve going to say? What is Steve going to do?

“Aw, baby,” Steve’s sleepy voice is so warm on his skin, “got the hiccups?” He squeezes him, strong arms around his wide, soft middle, “you poor thing.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, he shakes his head tightly. No. Go back to sleep, Bucky wills him, testing any possible telepathic link they might have after their ridiculously long lives.

“Shh,” Steve tells him, patting (patting!) the fatty, soft side of his gut where it’s spread out huge and monopolizing so much of the bed, “it’s okay.”

“It’s - hic - it’s not okay,” Bucky whines.

“It’s okay,” Steve touches him so gently, rubbing his jumping, jolting belly, then - Jesus Christ - pulling up his tight sleep shirt to get better access.

Bucky is waiting for the other shoe to drop but it doesn’t. Hic.

“You feel good.” Bucky tries to suck in, but it doesn’t do anything, his abs are too fucking stretched - overtaxed by the sheer volume of food he’s put inside himself, gone forever after funneling so much fat and sugar behind them. “You feel like home,” Steve murmurs into his ear, kissing the back of his neck, “all soft and warm…”

“Oh.” Bucky says involuntarily.

“Yeah,” Steve chuckles, “you have no idea how happy I was to come home and feel you-”

“Feel?”

“Yeah, honey, it was dark. I didn’t want to turn the lights on and wake you up. So, imagine my surprise to feel you like this,” Steve drags his wide palm from the top of his tummy aaaall the way down, “you feel really good.” He squeezes him again. Bucky feels himself squish. Fat. Tubby. Excessive. “You’re all domestic now,” he noses his earlobe sweetly, the hint of an endeared, appreciative laugh in his voice, “soft and warm. Slow and big.”

Bucky swallows, he’s… he’s feeling warmer hearing Steve talk about him - about his body. He’s always liked it when Steve compliments and praises him. Touches him.

“You’re so cuddly. Gonna make it hard for me to let you go.”

“Don’t,” Bucky pleads, turning his head to look at him.

“I won’t,” Steve seals the promise with a kiss, “buuuut, if we wanna keep you like this, then we’re gonna have to get up and get your breakfast, aren’t we?”

Bucky’s gut gurgles loudly as if screaming its agreement.

Steve just smirks, his mouth uncharacteristically sharp for how early it is.

With anticipation, Bucky licks his lips. Should he tell him he’s still tender and stuffed? He doesn’t know how much more he could possibly fit into his stomach but… Bucky doesn’t think he wants Steve to go easy on him.

#mylevisdontfitanymore #ask #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #tight clothes #button pop #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky #chubby bucky

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I don’t know what to do w this thought bc there is no plot but I’ve been thinking a lot abt stucky Wandavision au w belly kink and it’s just all sweet and innocent at first yk 1950s all pg and sweet and it just dives into an absolutely kinky hellfest of Bucky stuffing Steve making him burst out of his suit each decade with just a fatter Steve with different popular foods of the era and is KSBDKD ekem anyways -🐮

This is gonna be another case of me admitting that I am not a good Marvel fan because... I didn't watch WandaVision 🫣🫣 BUT you're a goddamn genius because that concept is so hot.

With every decade, Steve gets fatter. Fatter and fatter and fatter. Testing the limits of all these different styles of clothes. Finding new favorite types of food. Each morning, Steve leaves their home a little larger and a little slower until... maybe he won't be leaving at all 😳

Warning for stucky belly kink, (probably) historical inaccuratacies, weight gain, stuffing, clothes destruction/tight clothes, immobility, some name calling (pig, whale, etc.), and all that kinky goodness below.

1950s

I'm thinking about the excess that was the 1950s in America.

The post-WWII booming economy lends itself to this picture-perfect life that is seemingly within reach (if you were white, middle class, and heterosexual). A house, a car, a dog, children, etc. And all this overflow - this excess speeds up Steve's gain like nothing else. Bucky is a stay-at-home house husband, while Steve goes out to work; so, that also speeds Steve's gain because Bucky has to keep himself busy, he's got to do something other than clean, launder clothes, pay bills, or whatever. Cooking and grocery shopping fills most of his time in a way he enjoys.

Bucky always ends up cooking too much - making too much food for just the two of them. Then, because he's made too much, he overuses ingredients, and he has to go back to the store to get more... maybe he should get more when he's there? Right? He needs to buy more ingredients so he doesn't have to come as often. Steve ate everything Bucky cooked anyway, so it's not like it was actually too much, right?

Right?

So, at the start of the decade, Steve is nice and strapping. Under his pressed shirt, suit jacket, suspenders, and trousers, he's got a full fucking six pack, tight, high pecs, and broad as hell shoulders with legs that go on for days. But Bucky is getting good at building a soft husband. With every dish he perfects, every meal he cooks, he gets closer and closer to a chubby husband. Every day.

Hamburger, tuna fish, and chicken casseroles; meat loaf; fried chicken and deep-fried vegetables; mac and cheese; spam and canned ham; spareribs and salisbury steak; hot dogs; buttery mashed potatoes; banana cream pies, cherry angel food cake, and pineapple upside-down cake... all popular foods that Steve readily eats. And eats.

No matter how much Bucky makes, Steve will try to finish it all. He deeply appreciates being cooked for and he wants to show his appreciation. Even if, at the start, not everything is perfect.

If Steve doesn't finish it all by dessert, Bucky knows it will be gone by the time he wakes up with Steve in the morning. Steve gets up for work, Bucky gets up to make his hardworking husband breakfast, sending him off with a full belly (nevermind the fact that Steve is still gurgling through his dinner from the day prior and his midnight snack turned midnight feast).

Anyway-

Steve becomes accustomed to coming come from a long day at work to delicious smells emanating from the kitchen. It's never long before Bucky comes out, full frilly apron and all, and steers Steve into their dining room, sitting him down and serving up all the different dishes he's made for that day in a seemingly endless stream.

Steve compliments and moans his way through all of the dishes. Trying every single one. Not just trying a bite of each, but eating the lion's share of every dish. He makes sure Bucky has his fill, but everything else goes toward Steve. He can't help it. He's a stubborn, determined guy. Even if it didn't taste good (which it does, Steve could be convinced he's in heaven), Steve would be eating it all. But it does taste good. And he wants his husband to know he's doing good. So... down it all goes.

Until, by the time dessert is rolled own, Steve has his hands flat on the table over top of his knife and fork where they rest on his placemat. His glass is empty for now, he's gulped down glass after glass of milk with his meal, and he'll have a few more before he's done - the fatty drink bloating him by filling in all the cracks that fold can't fit into. Steve's got his head bowed, and his chest is heaving. Eyes squeezed shut.

Full.

"F-full," Steve puffs out, his lips slick. But, he's not done.

As he's stuffed his face, his tie has shifted to the side, exposing his shirt buttons. A while ago, Bucky helped him messily roll up his shirt sleeves as to not get them (more) dirty. He looks disheveled. Every shallow breath leaves his stretched stomach expanding more, truly testing the limits of his previously nicely starched shirt. Now his shirt is stained. He isn't a messy eater, but with all he's eating, there's no way that he wouldn't drop something on his swelling belly, beginning to split his suspenders apart and crush his belted slacks down.

The more often they do this, the more they settle into this time period, the more the buttons of Steve's shirts gape - little diamonds growing between each button, exposing more and more of his ribbed undershirt.

Someday, they're gonna bust. Coming off one by one. Pop. Pop. Pop. Bucky's toes curl just thinking about it. The release of each one, too tight, Steve's pot belly - his swelling gut, a beer gut under construction - forcing them to come flying off. Then, his belly rounding out. Expanding into the new space. Happy to be released and ready for more with the added space and freedom.

1960s

Bucky mourns the loss of visible straining buttons with the change of fashion following the decade. Or, actually, he mours the loss right up until he gets to stuff his heavier husband again. In his new clothes.

Then, when he does stuff him in this new style (with new foods, of course), Bucky is suddenly much happier. Not just from stuffing him. He's much happier because, as it turns out, the buttons being hidden isn't that bad. Not at all 🤤

With his stuffy little sweater over his dress shirt, covering his tie and gaping buttons and struggling, worn-out belt, Bucky suddenly gains a whole new level of appreciation for sweaters - the sweater makes him look even chunkier. A layer of softness over his softness. Rounding him out even more. Padding him just that little bit more.

The sweater balloons out and out, showing the indents of each straining button underneath until...

His belly gets to be too much, too big, and his sweater creeps up, showing off the bottom of his button-up shirt where it's getting tugged out of his unbearably tightly belted pants.

That little sliver of his shirt. Exposed. It makes Bucky crazy.

And, oh, there's the waist band of his pants (not for long, his belly will start hanging over before long), too. A little bit.

Just a peak.

A tease that leaves Bucky unable to do anything but feed Steve a whole course by hand, packing food into him with the goal to push the hem of his sweater up higher and higher on the dome of his gut. He wants that dress shirt to come untucked from the stretch he's putting Steve's tummy through, too.

He wants it.

He wants to see the slow, drawn-out progression. The tease. Up and up and up; rounder and rounder and rounder.

Another perk of the sweater is the heat it brings. Steve's a big, growing boy, so he already gets hot fast. But, it only gets worse with his fat and added sweater insulation. Now when he stuffs himself - or when Bucky stuffs him - he turns the prettiest pink then red. Glistening with sweat. 🥵

Overtaxed.

Overheated.

Overfed.

More and more every day, more and more every year, Steve looks more overfed. Fatter. Heavier. Rounder.

(That might be the part about time, how it blends into a montage of growth.)

Sweaters and vests aren't Bucky's favorite 60s trend, though. Far from it. Bucky's favorite thing about the 60s is how suddenly everyone is into finger foods.

Deviled eggs, skewered meatballs in sweet-and-sour sauce, celery stuffed with cream cheese, cheese balls, etc. Anything you can eat with your hands, no silverware. Also, with the finger food comes dips. Clam dip, onion dip, and many more that Bucky would've never thought to make on his own. Dips for dipping little bits of food gripped between fingers.

And finger foods are fucking awesome because Steve eats then messily. At first, he shoves them inhumanly fast into his face, moaning and gasping and sighing. He comes home feeling starved (re: after not being stuffed to the brim, hardly able to move, during the workday), and seeing all the little pieces of food turn him into a monster. A hungry beast. He plows through the little morsels. Never getting enough. Steve uses one hand to settle his swelling gut, and his other hand blurs as he rapidly goes between trays of food and his mouth. Again, eating like an animal. An animal of Bucky's making - he trained him to eat like a pig after all.

When Steve finally slows down, rubbing his tummy and patting it, trying to get his belly to digest faster so he can have more, Bucky gets to swoop in. Another reason finger foods are fucking great. He picks up the little foods delicately and tucks them into Steve's still watering mouth.

With every mouthful, Steve's lips and tongue brush his fingers. It's electric, the wet, hot, slick feeling of his mouth. Pure sin.

Bucky's hands are close enough to Steve to feel it when he moans or when he burps, the hot rush of desperate air. Steve only burps around Bucky's fingers when it comes up so suddenly that Steve can't turn his head to the side to burp more politely. Privately, that gives Bucky quite the thrill, his dirty, hungry pig. Burping uncontrollably. Sure, moaning is hot as hell, but there's something extra about his burps.

Also, about the gurgling of his gut.

His gut under that fucking sweater, dress shirt, and tie. Now he's not just bloated anymore, though... not after a decade of stuffing, now he's got fat. His gut is bloated all the time, glutted fully, but he's also fat. He's soft.

He's never been more handsome, but he's only going to get more handsome as he gets fatter.

1970s

With the turn of the decades, Bucky buys himself more clothes and gets himself familiar with rising food trends, and he also does as he always does, buying Steve new clothes, too. Usually, though, he buys what he knows Steve will wear. Just underwear for sleeping. Blue jeans and t-shirts for non work clothes. And formal work clothes. Boring and simple because Steve's never really cared about his body or looks, uncaring so long as he keeps functioning, but he's so handsome it doesn't matter that he doesn't care so much about fashion. This time, though, Bucky also buys what he hopes Steve will wear. Because something catches his eye.

He can't help himself.

He hopes with everything in him, that Steve will wear some of the tiny, little shorts that have come into fashion for men.

He desperately wants to see Steve in tiny shorts.

So, he buys a few pairs. Some jean shorts that look unforgiving and might cut his doughy waist in delicious halves, some softer more sweatpants-like shorts that will be easier on his sensitive, overstuffed body, and a pair that are modeled like women's athletic shorts, just for the shits and giggles of seeing Steve in something designed for athleticism.

Despite buying them with the intention to get Steve in them, Bucky's still not prepared for it when it happens. He doesn't even have to use his puppy dog eyes or have to wait to ask Steve until he's stuffed and pliable! Steve just shrugs and agrees to it. He's gotten more and more pliable (more domesticated) the larger he's gotten. Maybe it's the fat slowing his body and mind down. Maybe it's making him dumber to be full and indulged all the time. Maybe be stuffed satiates him, leaving him without any room to be stubborn or argue.

Either way, Bucky gets Steve into them. And he is unprepared.

Steve is poured into the little shorts. Not only is there no space between his pale, bare thighs, his thighs squish together, trying to find more space - they're so soft, wide, and excessive - and not getting any. His massive ass hangs out the back of the shorts. Dimpled and round. Like cake. Soft, soft cake that Bucky wants to bite.

His poor husband works up a sweat, waddling from one side of the room to the other and back again and again when Bucky tells him to. He wants to see that ass move.

He's. chunked. up.

Also, also, there's his hips. Those trim, little hips are nowhere to be seen. Instead, his tiny waist has expanded. His love handles hang out of his undershirt - a ribbed, white tank top - and lap over the waist of the shorts. His tummy has really, really started hanging recently; it's just as exposed as his fat sides. It's so heavy and large. Swollen like a fat tear drop.

He looks edible.

As compensation for being forced to strut his overweight, plush, pale body around their living room, Bucky feeds him his entire dinner by hand. And he does it from the couch. TV trays have been popular since their inception in the 50s, but Bucky has always gotten more of a kick out of feeding Steve at the table. Progressively watching his belly approach the table, then push over the edge of the table and spill onto his placemat as he's gotten bigger; progressively watching his hips fill his dining chair; progressively watching Steve struggle harder and harder to walk out of the dining room when he's finally finished, stuffed full.

Now, Bucky breaks out the (slightly out of fashion) trays.

He sets up the feast, course by course. Some of it is actual food: pineapple chicken, quiche, stuffed veggies, and cheese logs. Some of it is snacks, more and more processed crap becoming more common: cereal, crackers, chips, etc. And some of it is dessert: carrot cake and pudding.

Before he eats any of it, though, those little shorts are swallowed by Steve's heft. The scrap of fabric is hidden under his massive muffin top. Bucky digs his fingers into those pudgy love handles and groans.

"Gonna feed you outta these," he promises, voice gone all breathy.

Steve bats his eyelashes and lets his mouth drop open, expectant, and so outrageously hot. After the first bite, he speaks, though, chewing, then licking his lips, "you always do."

"Mmm-hmm, you wouldn't know how hard I had to look to find these in your size."

Steve makes a sound, but his mouth is stuffed fill.

"It was so hard. I wonder if they're gonna stop making anything big enough for you soon."

Stee swallows thickly, "they wouldn't."

Bucky stuffs a heaped fork into his mouth. Making a noise of consideration.

"You hear the news, people are just gettin' fatter. Year after year."

"You're getting fatter."

"Uh-huh."

"Gonna get so fat for me."

"I already am. 'M huge."

"Gonna make you fatter. Huger."

"Yeah," Steve moans, his eyes shut, entirely trusting Bucky, "Gonna get too fat for fat America to even keep up with me."

(I know obesity was actually declared an epidemic in the 80s, but shhhh)

1980s

The 80s brings pasta salad, beef stroganoff, sloppy joes, pudding pops, 7-layer dip, blackened meat, bread bowls, cool ranch Doritos, and Hot Pockets. And Steve tackles it all looking like the hottest, fattest bad boy. Maybe like a mobster boss with his light wash jeans that look like they're painted on and his black leather jacket that he can't zip up. He could zip it up around his gut for, like, a week. Then, he outgrew it. Like everything. That gut.

God.

His gut has grown obscenely round. Like a ball. A beach ball. Maybe a small yoga ball. It forces his legs to spread when he walks, even if he isn't full, and it makes his back arch, too.

It's heavy. He complains about it. It's hard to lug around. He gets embarrassed when he's forced to sit down and then get up because he has to put so much effort into getting up. Heaving himself to his feet. Grunting. Bracing his back as if he's expecting. Getting up from the bed in the morning, getting up from the table after breakfast, getting into and out of his car to get to work, getting out of his office chair for lunch, getting out of his lunch chair, and on and on.

He has a hard time moving.

Bucky can tell.

Steve puts on his leather jacket and jeans on the weekend and then parks his ass in his recliner. He only moves when he has to go to the bathroom. Otherwise, he sits all day. Eating. Watching TV. Letting Bucky lower his recliner into a 180° line so Bucky actually has room to ride him. (One of the only ways to have sex now, with how large Steve has grown). There ain't no way Bucky would be able to get to his dick with that fat, thick belly in the way. There isn't even any room on his lap anymore. The monster of always-hungry gut has it monopolized. And his thighs are nearly too wide, too fat for Bucky to comfortably straddle.

But...

Bucky is a little obsessed with his leather jacket.

Sometimes, when he's half riding him, taking his cock, half feeding him a sloppy joe that makes him look like a pig, smeared over his mouth and chin, he will slap Steve's gut until he sucks in with a pained groan. Then, Bucky'll use all his strength to pull the sides of his leather jacket together, and he will wiggle the zipper up as far as it can go.

Steve grunts and moans and burps.

If he has the air, his lungs compressed by his gut, Steve will moan, "it hurts! Buck! I- I can't! M' too full!" But usually he can't even complain. He just has to take it.

When he stops sucking in, the zipper flies down.

Or, it usually does.

One afternoon, the pressure of his fat is too much for his jacket. Steve is bubbly and drunk and burping and Bucky is so close, writhing on top of him. And Steve's gut surprises them both by breaking the zipper.

It bursts open.

Instantly, Bucky's hands are all over that gut, and he's coming. All Steve can do is moan. Blinded with the release. His belly is stretched. Tight. Hanging off of his body. He's gonna fucking pop. Too much.

When did he get this fat?

Why does it make him so horny?

God.

He whines, almost choking out a sob, grabbing for Bucky's still slim hips with fat fingers, as he cries, "more, more, moremoremoremore."

1990s

Steve may spend all of the 90s on a sugar high because he eats like a fucking kid throughout the years. All the sugar. All the processed crap. It's addictive. He swears. They have to put something in it. He smashes through boxes and boxes of snacks. All at once. The amount he goes through in just a week is unbelievable. He's a fucking black hole, well, not exactly... because Bucky knows exactly where all the food goes. His ever-swelling husband.

Steve eats it all, lunchables, hot pockets, bagel bites, pizza rolls, gushers, string cheese, fish sticks, fruit by the foot, toaster strudel, etc.

All literal junk. Junk food.

Bucky feeds him real food, too, of course. But Steve swears it feels like he can't get enough. Not enough food. Not enough of the fake, processed shit. Even when he's fighting his body's physical ability to fit more inside of himself, he can't have enough. He needs more. More sugar that his brain needs. More rich, homemade food that he will always eat, and will especially eat if Bucky gives him those puppy dog eyes, too.

So, what is he supposed to do but eat?

Admittedly, throughout the decades, Steve's never felt this out of control. He is, though. He's so out of control. And it feels so good.

He doesn't want control back. He only wants more.

Despite his vivacious hunger, Steve still can't believe how fast he's piling on the pounds. It's like he can feel himself blowing up. Like, if he leaves a hand on his gut, it'll expand visibly under his palm. Hot, gurgly, and only tight when he's at his absolute maximum. Most of the time, he's officially too fat to know when he's packed to the brim.

Nothing feels better.

Nothing fucks his mind more than thinking when he puts his hands on his body, he'll find a rock hard, bloated tummy only to sink his fingers into jiggly waves of fat; an ocean of fat. And it's all him.

His belly.

His fat.

Steve can, for a little, hide the bloat the shitty food leaves him with with the oversized, still bad-boy, grunge-like clothing of the decade, but he outgrows it so fast that he never can hide it for too long.

Even those JNCO jeans and baggy flannels can't contain his massive body. His belly. His love handles. His ass. His thighs. His rolls. He's too big. Too big for anything to be oversized on him.

Bucky buys him clothes more often throughout this decade than any other. It's not just in Steve's head. He is speeding through the pounds. Day in, day out, he's growing.

He's always eating. Always sweating. Always moaning.

If his mouth isn't full of food, he's sleeping, showering, using his mouth on Bucky, or he's chugging teeth-rotting soda. The carbination makes him burp so easily, and the burps shift all that food inside him around, allowing his belly to create just a little more room. Room that Steve instantly has to fill.

It's kinda like his body is finally taking after his hunger. When there's any tiny amount of space in his belly, his mind tells him he's starving and he has to fill it; if there's a tiny amount of slack in his clothes, his body expands to fill it. With so much fat and so much food, Steve's eyes are heavily lidded constantly. He feels drunk all the time when he's pigged out. Slow and lazy and uncoordinated. All he can do is let Bucky feed him and let Bucky take pleasure in his blubbery, irresistible body.

2000s

Diets, raw diets, explode in the 2000s, but Bucky won't let Steve hear a word of it. He skips the fruit smoothies and salads and replaces them for Steve with more junk food. Pepsi. Energy drinks. Cupcakes. Cake pops. Pizza. There's also, again, meatloaf and mac 'n cheese. Chicken pot pie, too.

Steve keeps going. He keeps stuffing down junk on top of all the actual food. He keeps gaining and gaining and gaining. It's a barrage, constantly, of food.

"Buck," Steve's loose lips slur, "'m-I'm fat."

"You're not just fat, Stevie. You're huge. A hog. Massive. Enormous. A whale. Immense. A fucking yoga ball of blubber, baby."

"Yeah," Steve whines, rubbing the bloated sides of his gut that he can reach. "Fat."

"No, baby, you're more than fat. You're massive. Say it-" Bucky commands, jiggling his heavy belly.

"I'm m-massive."

"So fucking fat that I can't believe it. Need more words to tell you how huge you are."

Steve just shivers, looking as if he's suspended in orgasm. Getting off on being told how unbelievably big he has grown to be, and how much more bigger he is going to get.

Regardless of his size, Bucky isn't so sure that Steve is aware of the change in style. He's pretty sure he's just aware of his inflating body and the food. The new foods. The returning foods.

Into the Future

When he's not working, Bucky swears Steve is constantly in a food coma. Even when his eyes are open, he's all dopey. Zoned out and happier than Bucky has ever seen him so long as he's eaten within the last 30 minutes.

What a big, fat dumbass.

The perfect husband.

I don't even know what alternative universe this is; I didn't think this far because this is just a mess of horny, but I would like to imagine that by this point (the 2010s, 2020s, etc.), they have more than enough money to retire, OR maybe Steve is still working for a while, but he starts being able to work from home with computers becoming better and more common, so he doesn't have to leave. No more calories wasted by needing to walk or spend lunch away from his feeder husband.

But, just because he can, he still forces himself into clothes. At first. He doesn't need to because he's not seeing anyone else, he may as well be naked all day every day, exposing his white, soft fat that's striped with stretch marks from decades of indulgence, ballooning like biscuit dough from a little cardboard tube.

Still, he keeps forcing himself into clothes for some time.

He does it until he can't.

It happens seemingly overnight.

Suddenly, he's too fat. Too big. Even his shirts large enough to look like a tent on a normal sized human are too small. He can hardly walk by himself, so, of course, dressing himself is out of the question. His body is just too big. Round. Heavy. All he's good for is eating.

He's overqualified for stuffing himself. It's all he's been focusing on for decades, after all. Steve always ate like it was his job, packing down delicious, fatty calories by inhaling food until he was on the cusp of bursting, forming new stretch marks before Bucky's very eyes, but now it is his job.

"Grow for me," Bucky whispers worshipfully, "that's all you gotta do, baby. Grow." Crawling all over his overflowing body.

And grow Steve does.

Until he's bigger than he could've ever imagined being.

Steve's stomach is massive - a huge, round, plush ocean of fat attached to his front. Thick and blubbery. His ass is dimpled and just as massive with thighs to match. His heavy body leaves him lumbering and waddling whenever he does manage to get up. Awkward but also so fucking hot with the way he jiggles all over as he manages one foot in front of the other.

Meanwhile, Bucky spends his time still cooking but also loving on his massive husband. He's always worshipping all that fat, massaging and groping and fucking it. He's irresistible. Unbelievably attractive in his truest form - a show winning hog.

As Bucky feeds and fucks his rolls, Steve just lies there, his head tipped back, food in his plush mouth, panting. Chest heaving; moobs wobbling. Splattering come somewhere deep in his rolls as his fat rubs and moves against him just right - that's all the stimulation he gets these days, his dick has been swallowed by his lard.

There isn't a time when Steve isn't stuffed to feeling as if he's gonna pop. Even though it takes so much more to fill his stretched-out tummy these days. Even in the middle of the night (because Bucky wakes him up to funnel shakes or melted ice cream straight into his ever-expanding gut).

By this point in their long lives, Steve's the size of their mattress.

A full, huge glutton.

And Steve doesn't want to stop. Neither does Bucky. With every mouthful of food, Steve moans just as loud as he always has, praising Bucky's cooking like he's a God (and he practically is at this point, he's spent so many years perfecting his craft). Plus, Steve's just as eager to try new foods. Still, Steve's just as pleased to add pounds, stretch marks, and rolls to his oversized body. The only difference is that now, popping buttons or bursting seams are not bench marks for his gain. Now, the signs of his growth come from the creaking, then the cracking of the slats underneath his massive body.

One day, the bed is going to give out. And he's only going to groan for more food - not for it to be fixed where he lies in the middle of the shattered bed frame, unable to do anything about his predicament. He can't even think about it. All he can think about is how hungry he is. His stomach is packed, and he doesn't know where any food is going to go, but he needs it. He needs to keep chewing, to keep growing, to keep feeding. Please. Please. Please. It's all he needs. He's addicted.

In conclusion:

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