stuck

The question, though, is how does Steve come to his fucking senses? Where does it happen? What is the context of his horny, mixed signals regret, seeing all of the beef Bucky is bringing to the (groaning) table these days?

Do we think Steve walks into a boardroom at the new headquarters...

A shiny golden ring on his finger proclaiming his loyalty to Peggy - that woman he kissed once, then went back in time to rewrite her whole life, just to figure out how restless being a family man would make him - while his hardening cock in his pants reminds him of his instinctive draw toward the man he grew up with? In his stuffy chinos and polite button-up shirt, both pressed perfectly, does he have to confront his contrasting other half while surrounded by professional company? Is the setting making him itch, wishing he could ask every question coming to his mind, yearning to be able to touch more than just patting the other man's shoulder?

The other man, Bucky, who barely fits into the clothes he's just managed to cram himself into. Plopped heavily down into a creaking little office chair. His belly is spilling over his belt just to be pressed against the edge of the table as he goes to town on the complementary breakfast they're being served - it's a good spread, enough to feed the small army that the new avengers are. As he digs into the sugary, oversized muffins and donuts while blatantly ignoring the sliced fruit, his fat hips are dug into by the arms of his chair.

Do we think Steve is easily sliding into his tight, red, white, and blue little catsuit in the new team's new locker room...

not breaking a sweat, not from one pore on his perfect body, not until - what was that sound?

Curiosity piqued, Steve tiptoes forward to peek around the corner to the next row over only to get an eyeful of Bucky squeezing himself, a size three sausage, into a size one casing. There's a lot of meat in front of Steve now. And his mouth is watering at the same time that his mind is running a mile a minute - how did he ever convince himself to leave? Why did he want to leave? Just… look.

In the privacy of the locker room, Bucky has barely, barely managed to work himself into his painted-on tac pants. The seams around his fat thighs are screaming loud enough Steve doesn't need to rely on his advanced senses to hear it. His pants are so fucking tight around his big thighs and bulging package that the (still undone, a wedge of flesh between the two sides of his zip, mother of god) waistband is forcing his hips out into pudgy handfuls, ripe for the groping.

Steve almost forgets himself and steps forward. He itches to grab Bucky by the hips, to take handfuls of his generous flesh, to turn him around, and to slap his fat ass. His ass has to be fat-fat, right? All that width on his hips and the heavy, round bulge of his g-u-t.

Plus, god, that uniform top is not going to fit. There is no chance. His swollen moobs, soft and capped with soft, perky nipples, stretched out into much bigger circles than Steve remembers. His gut. There's nothing Steve can say or think. He's just. Big. He looks bigger, too, the more he struggles to get into his clearly already once or twice sized-up uniform, jiggling, grunting, and sweating like a glazed pig. 🥵

Do we think Steve gets roped into sparring with Bucky...

training together like old times and that's when it really hits him how much more solid Bucky is? Solid is the polite, outside-voice way to say it. Internally, Steve is hit with a much more visceral thought: he got fat.

Steve just didn't realize sooner because Bucky was always bigger than Steve before. So, it makes sense in Steve's head now, too. It's normal. He doesn't think twice. Not until he's being punched stupid and knocked straight to the ground with more force than Bucky probably needs to put behind his fighting when they're just training. (Bucky's not taking anything out on him, nu-uh. He would absolutely deny any intentions like that. He is not petty. He's too old for that.) One, two, just two rounds with it and Steve gets steamrolled, flattened beneath Bucky's mass. His solid yet flabby chest pillowed against Steve's muscular shoulders. His bulging, heavy gut slotting against the curve of his spine and overflowing it. His wide hips and massive thighs against Steve's round, pert ass and toned thighs. Oh. Steve doesn't just feel small compared to him, like old times, he wheezes like old times. Suddenly, he can't breathe.

Oh, he got fat. There's no two ways around it.

Squished beneath him, still getting walloped by his flesh and metal fists, it's like being run over by a tank. Though, Bucky is a lot hotter and more sweaty than a tank would be, working himself to a fever, throwing around all that weight.

Steve just about moans beneath him, smothering his face into the mats. He's more than just passively ashamed of how he can't help but roll his hips against the sparring mats, pretending he's trying to get free when really, he just likes feeling all of his fat belly against the low of his arched spine.

Do we think Steve doesn't realize Bucky is coming in too until he can't sleep the night after he arrives...

answering the call but wondering if he's still capable of going back in and fighting again? To deal with his restless uncertainty, Steve is making his way down to the gym from the room he's staying in at the new compound. He's planning to burn off his nervous energy. It's three in the goddamn morning and Steve is in loose sweatpants and a tight t-shirt when he stumbles upon Bucky. The other super soldier is also in sweatpants and a t-shirt, just hanging out in one of the endless hallways here.

Whatever noise he makes while thinking, steam practically pouring from his ears as his mind rattles faster and faster, overheating, Steve apparently startles him.

Here, wherever they are, there's a vending machine. And. Bucky. Bucky is contemplating what to get from the calorie dispensing machine next, a few already opened bags in his arms, more than a few crumbs decorating his puffy chest and belly. Just standing there, he's munching, thinking, and scratching his belly absentmindedly. His tight sweatpants are slung low, crushed beneath the weight of his proudly protruding tummy. His shirt is just as strained - it's stained, too. There's a dark shade of sweat clinging around his pits and beneath his big moobs. Worse than any sweat or crumb staining, the tight cotton of his t-shirt has rolled far up over the mound of his gut, exposing his hairy, pale belly, hence the free scratching. Steve can't actually tell, across his gut, if those pink lines are recent, from his fingernails as he rubs his turgid, gurgling gut, or if those are stretch marks.

Can he get stretch marks? With the serum? Is that possible?

Shocking him enough that he whirls around, almost losing his waddling, precarious balance - he burps, too. Breathy and quiet, but definitely an actual belch.

ok ok let's start with dad bod Andy

maybe his metabolism just slows down a bit with age

his sedentary job

some stress eating

that new bakery across the street with the ~cute barista~ (are we thinking x reader? Ransom? a Seb character?)

whatever caused it, there's suddenly a layer of fat accumulating on Andy's middle

oh something more like a beer belly

all those late movie nights and all that beer late at night

maybe it just barely brushes the tops of his thighs when he sits down

nice and round and firm

rounds out underneath all his shirts and pulls them tight against his belly

maybe he doesn't notice at first, his slacks are getting uncomfortably tight and all his dress shirts are gaping at the buttons, but he's too stressed lately to focus on anything else really

and then he's sitting in that coffee shop again after he's already eaten lunch and he's drinking a caramel latte and eating a huge cinnamon roll as an afternoon snack

he's shifting around and arching his back to get comfortable, but that just pushed his belly more against his shirt and suddenly he hears this ping

and when he looks down there's suddenly a gut sitting in his lap and his button down is gaping over the widest part of it

how did he not notice gaining weight?

but when he looks around if anyone saw him pop that button, he catches the barista's eye across the room

and they come around to Andy's table and put down a chocolate muffin wrapped in a napkin with the barista's number on it

(oh God sorry this is already so long, but somehow I've never though of dad bod Andy, ugh straining the seams of those tailored suits, ohh throwing around that new weight when he gets angry, his thick waist giving him an even more imposing figure 🤤)

Let's get to Ransom thots though!

that boy did not grow up knowing any boundaries, just surrounded by abundance, excess and indulgence

multiple course meals for every dinner

is it even dinner if you don't have at least hors d'oeuvre, appetizer, main course, and dessert?

private chefs available around the clock to cook up whatever he was craving

feeling peckish? have some antipasti: olives, peperoncini, mushrooms, artichoke hearts and bread dunked in olive oil

the Drysdales don't just eat at midday, they lunch

breakfast doesn't exist, they're too preoccupied with looks to eat when they can't show off, it's boozy brunch over business dealings

vanity is the only reason Ransom hasn't porked up yet

but the constant dieting and over-exercising has sparked a gnawing hunger inside him, a craving to finally give in and eat his fill

and when he finally gets over that eternal dating phase and puts a ring on someone?

his well-maintained physique is gone in a heartbeat, his abs are basically gone after the wedding night

a married man doesn't need to draw any looks anymore

it's a happy coincidence that his partner likes Ransom's weight gain as well, because he surely wouldn't have gone back to dieting even if they hadn't

he has to retire that big, white sweater from the movie within barely two months

Ransom doesn't just eat until he's satisfied

his greed extends into his eating habits as well

after he experiences it for the first time, he always eats in utter excess until he is completely full

stomach aching, squirming in his seat, stiffling burps and cradling his distented belly

it looks ridiculous at first, a round ball of food tacked to his front

but his body quickly catches up that little overstuffed belly

he slows down a bit once he finally thinks he's caught up on all those years of denying himself

but a good 50lbs have settled on his body at that point

all wide and heavy, plush fat and soft rolls

ohhh I imagine he'd have the softest under belly, all velvety smooth, striped with stretch marks, but Ransom would take care to use lotion on them every day

and in the metaphorical sense too, he mellows out a bit when he's not constantly hangry and two seconds from a binge

he's still an abrasive asshole on the outside most of the time, but you actually get to see his softer side

and even though your marriage was mostly for each of your families' sake you actually fall for each other

“Nah, that’s just to get the vodka taste out of your mouth,” Bucky said and presented Steve with an enormous bottle of vodka. It looked huge even compared to Bucky’s bulk.

“Bucky…” Steve sighed but he was already reaching for the bottle. Bucky had been fascinated by the fact that Steve couldn’t get drunk. Supposedly, Steve heard Bucky’s voice say.

He barely had any kind of resistance against alcohol or other meds for that matter. They’d quickly discovered that after trying to sedate the Winter Soldier with a Captain America amount of drugs.

“Do we really have to do this tonight?”

“It’s Friday night. You have two full days off to recover from a potential hangover.”

Steve studied Bucky’s face for a moment. He sighed and got comfortable on the sofa.

+++

Unsurprisingly the vodka didn’t do anything but make him need to pee. Steve moved to get up for the third time in an hour, he’d just managed to drink the last gulp of the damn gallon bottle and had washed it down with another beer, since Bucky wouldn’t let him drink anything else.

But when he moved now Steve was caught off guard by all the liquid sloshing in his stomach. A wave of nausea washed over him and when he grabbed his belly it actually rounded out into his palm.

It was a dizzying realisation.

Steve had always been slim. Even in his big Captain America body Steve had a disproportionately thin waist. He slid his hand along the curve of his belly and for the first time he noticed how much the skin there prickled, tingled, buzzed. How tight it felt.

Is this what being drunk feels like?

“Getting drunk,” Bucky teased with a smirk.

“No— I don’t know, I’m just gonna—” Steve ripped his hand away and pointed in the vague direction of the bathroom.

Even though it was his own body Steve felt like he was doing something forbidden. Only once he had locked the bathroom door did he dare to touch his belly again.

Tentatively at first. He turned to look in the mirror, took a step back and to his surprise he couldn’t actually see his belly pushing out the way it felt like. No, his shirt mostly hid it, only when he slouched a bit could he see his belly really pressing against the fabric.

Steve didn’t know why he was disappointed by that.

He pulled his shirt up. There was a curve bowing forward right between his hip bones. Steve skimmed his fingers over the skin. He turned to the side and pushed his belly out. He supported it with both hands and felt another prickle of disappointment when there wasn’t any real weight to support.

Steve turned to the other side and—

He almost jumped a foot in the air when Bucky knocked on the bathroom door.

“You ok in there? You’re not throwing up, are you?”

“No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

Steve still felt a bit shaky. This must be what drunk feels like, he decides. Drunk people had weird thoughts and did weird things. So, Steve must be drunk, right?

Steve finished up his business and then returned to the living room.

“See,” Bucky said triumphantly, “with enough alcohol even Captain America gets tipsy.”

“To be honest I’m not sure what drunk feels like anymore.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes and looked to the side, wracking his brain for a description.

“Warm and fuzzy.” Bucky’s smile morphed into something more mischievous.

“Fun and happy. Y’know the stuff you’re not,” Bucky poked a bit of fun at Steve.

“And like you’re about to make the stupidest decision of the night, which is… to keep drinking.” With that Bucky pushed himself up and fetched another six-pack of beer.

“Buck…”

“No, no, we’ll keep going until you’re sure whether you’re drunk or not.”

“I’m not then!” Steve shouted after Bucky, but a weird energy fluttered in his body when he saw the six-pack.

“One”—Steve held up his index finger—”more six-pack, but after this I’m done.”

“Deal.”

+++

It feels so fucking strange.

But so fucking good.

Steve’s belly rounds out more and more with every bottle and now that he’s aware of it he can feel the beer sloshing in his stomach with every move. It starts getting heavy in a way Steve didn’t know he’d ever craves.

This was nothing compared to the sudden transformation in the 40s. The added weight had been muscle and it had actually made him feel lighter on his feet. Running, jumping and climbing with ease.

But this…

The novel feeling of there actually being something. No matter how hard he tries he just can’t keep his hands off his belly. Though just resting them there too long makes heat creep up under Steve’s collar.

Bucky seems pretty focused on the TV but occasionally he glances over to check on Steve and he really can’t deal with this right now. He forces his hands to rest on his thighs instead. Mechanically takes another sip.

And another.

And another.

Steve just needs to keep his hands occupied and he won’t embarrass himself. That plan works great until the six-pack is empty and Steve is left with his very angry stomach making itself known. Rumbles, growls and gurgles that make Bucky look over more and more often.

He’s definitely not drunk, Steve decides.

His mind is fighting, trying to decide what to do with his hands. Steve can’t fidget the way he wants to with how sensitive his belly feels, but he’s sure that a belly rub would help right now. Excitement flutters in his stomach, but Steve can’t do anything about it. He is painfully aware of Bucky looking over again.

“Are you ok there, pal?” Bucky asks with genuine concern.

Steve’s belly groans again and he uses that excuse.

“I really overdid it.”

“I think that pretty conclusively proves you can’t get drunk then, if all you’re complaining about is a sore stomach.”

“Sorry,” Steve grimaces half from the discomfort of the bloat and half because he’s so unbearably turned on but he can’t. fucking. do. anything about it right now.

He had planned to spend the evening with Bucky, but Steve really needs to figure this out. What the hell makes him this hot about his bloated belly and what he wants to do about it.

His mind drifts off for a moment and Steve catches himself thinking what if it’s permanent. Not just bloating but actual fat. Eating himself to this point of discomfort…

The creeping feelings of guilt and shame in Bucky's chest are crushed completely beneath an iron curtain of darkness and sweltering arousal. His most selfish, greedy instincts have always come out at night.

Evenings out with Steve - when Bucky can convince him to get out of their tiny, dusty apartment - are always torturous. It's not that Bucky doesn't want to go out with Steve; it's that Bucky wants to go out with just Steve, but they can't do that. They gotta have buffers. For Bucky's sake, so he doesn't do something stupid and get in trouble with Steve, or God forbid, with some copper (that's always been Steve's role, not Bucky's). It was extra torturous tonight. The middle of a hot, humid July evening, packed into a smoky, instrumental bar, a dame hanging off of Bucky's shirt collar, her lips pressed to his neck, staining him with her waxy red lipstick. Bucky tried to pay attention to her, he did - God's honest truth - but he just couldn't. As good as her plump lips felt, Bucky was fucking dying to feel Steve's plump little belly.

Hours into the syrupy evening, Steve was deep into the cheap house brew, uncaring how it tasted, just about how it made him feel. The gal Bucky's dame of the night promised to come hadn't shown. Again. Poor Steve.

So, Steve resigned himself to the bar, no dancing for him, just drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. So much drinking that his concave belly became a rounded, sloshing dome barely tucked into his shirt and oozing out between his stressed suspenders.

My God.

Bucky is thinking about Steve's shirt with the gaping buttons now, hours later. They can't afford undershirts - not that they make any small enough (when he's not sloshing with cheap, shitty beer) for Steve anyhow - and so with just the right, stolen angle, Bucky could lay eyes on Steve's creamy, pink-tinted skin, stretched to full capacity beneath his nearly-transparent button-up. That's another thing, oh, Lord, Steve doesn't run hot. He ain't got enough heat for that when he's not feverish with sickness, but he was sweating tonight. Too much alcohol and too many bodies cramed into one little bar will do that to a man - leave him sweating so thickly that his white shirt starts to bleed through with the color of his skin, showing off the shape of his body through clothes. A peep show better than a wet t-shirt contest.

Steve's body, swelling up like a little portion of bread left to proof in the oven, bubbling with yeast and growing slowly. On a normal day, out in the open air, Steve's body drives Bucky crazy. But it was something else in there. Steve's little body, not so little all the sudden, belly rounding out underneath his sweat-soaked shirt with its gaping buttons and his suspenders shoved to the side to make room for that heavy tummy working on crushing his waistband down.

Steve wears belts, usually, mostly to keep his pants pinned to his boney hips in a death grip, but his belt suddenly had a death grip on his heavy, bubbly belly tonight. Bucky licked his lips, wondering if it hurt, gasping at the thought when his gal nipped his neck at the same time.

Oh, he wanted to touch so bad he coulda crawled outta his skin, his fingertips twitching, squeezing his gal's hips a little tighter than usual. He could hardly control himself.

He still wants to.

Right now.

He wants to touch and he could wriggle outta his own skin.

It has to be tomorrow! Technically. Steve spent hours drinking after an hour, maybe more, of waiting for the second gal. Bucky twirled and necked half-heartedly with his gal for a while. And it even took a long time to stumble home 'cause of Steve hanging off his arm, drunk and saturated with beer like a sponge in a bathtub, suddenly twice it's usual weight, soaking, heavy, and useless, so, yeah, it's gotta be morning.

Bucky is spending his dark, early morning thinking about it all. Replaying every sip he watched Steve's beer-wet, alcohol-loosened lips take, drowning himself until he collected a whole lake inside himself.

Steve can fit way more inside his body than he looks like he could 🥴

Bucky fits more arousal than he would've expected of himself, especially more than he'd'a thought based on just a night of memories and a moment of noises. He's engorged, too, like Steve. Just in a different way. Steve got big in the belly and it's making Bucky big between his legs. Aching.

God.

It's too dark to see anything in their room, Steve and Bucky confined to either side of their thin mattress and threadbare sheets. The darkness is a weapon and tool; Bucky can grip his prick and stroke it good because it's dark, but he can't see what he's getting off to because of it, too.

Steve can't see him.

Steve is asleep.

Bucky's pretty sure he's asleep. His wrestling around might've woken him up. If he's awake, he's too nice or too niave to comment on Bucky's behavior, getting off in the same bed that holds his best friend after getting off with that dame, her smooth, lithe hand down his pants in the alley outside, the air cold but not cold enough to cool his imagination, perverting her long, blond curls to short hair, her slim fingers into artist's hands, her small breasts into a flat chest...

Steve might be the one sleeping on a full tummy, bloated with enough beer to kill a much taller man than Steve, but he's not the greedy one.

Bucky is greedy.

Bucky hoards every tiny fucking scrap of Steve he can get his hands on.

He's stroking himself, stifling his own moans with a gal's lipstick stuck to the side of his neck, marked pink, her perfume still soaked into his skin, and her plump lips a fresh memory. It's not enough, though. Nothing is enough. He can't get enough of Steve. He can't. He won't. He'll gorge himself on this, though -

Pitch black, all he has is the white noise gurgles and groans of Steve's overloaded pot belly. It sounds as if the beer is fermenting over again inside Steve. Bucky chokes down a whine, imagining Steve's swollen beer belly bigger. It sounds like all that sloshing, frothing, calorie-heavy liquid is fermenting, for sure. Steve, even in his sleep (he's gotta be asleep, right? (Why does Bucky hope he's awake, knowing what Bucky's doing and grinning that mischievous, trouble-making grin to himself, luxuriating in how desirable he is, fat cat?)), is burping. Hiccuping. He has to be extra swollen now if he's gassy even while unconscious.

His body just has to get it out: Steve's, bloated and excessively full; and Bucky's, feverish with gluttonous desire.

Steve stumbles in and out of deep sleep again and again. So, Bucky matches the pace of his sinning hand to him. Might as well add to the torture, right? Further, Steve's breath is unsteady, as always, his poor, brittle lungs, but tonight there's an extra uneven rhythm to it. Hiccups, belches, throaty-groans, and more breathy, moaning hiccups.

Bucky swears can hear the sound of Steve's hands rubbing over his skin at one point, caressing his bloated belly, soaking up all that beer and dumping it into his bloodstream, slurring and loose, getting much closer to Bucky than normal, draping himself over Bucky, clinging, if only he were awake.

(Maybe he is awake - the thought excites Bucky dangerously, heart pounding in his chest.)

Steve's pot belly consumes his perverted imagination, powered by how it gurgles and groans. It sloshes erotically every time he rolls over, trying and failing to get comfortable.

Bucky twists his hand around his shaft, reaching down with his other hand to grab his aching balls. At the same time that he can't help but gasp, Steve rolls over -

Oh.

Suddenly, the round, taut swell of his fever-hot pot belly lushly presses against Bucky's flexing arm. He's unconsciously searching for a comfortable position for his stretched, probably throbbing belly. Steve's been restless like this all night, denting their shitty mattress so much more than usual, slowly getting closer and closer, or, fuck, not moving but slowly getting bigger and bigger. Bloating with bubbles, full of froth, and crammed with carbonation. Bigger. Closer. Bigger. Closer. Closer.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.