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!)
