#fat Steve Roger’s

[chubbydrawer]

*now on patreon* As Steve Rogers ran down the street after his muscle growth experiment, he began to feel heavier with each step… #maleweightgain #fat #chubby #thick #gainer #gainerart #bigboy #bigbelly #fatter #growingboy #growingbelly #tightclothes #poppingseams

[itsalmostavengers]

If people had had the SENSE to sleep with Steve Rogers back when he was shorter then they would have known he fucked like an absolute freak. Unfortunately it seems no one took any FUCKING INITIATIVE in the 40’s and just wasted all the unhinged horny potential of a 5’5 man who knew any day could be his last and lived like it. A real damn shame.

[blackynsupremacy]

JUST HIM

big, muscular men that act embarrassed when they’re referred to as “baby boy”, “pookie”, or “stink stink”, but they lowkey eat that mushy shit up. they can’t help, but to freeze and blush because at first they think you’re teasing, but in actuality, you call them that because underneath that hard, toned muscular exterior they’re just a big cinnamon roll when it comes to the people they care about, including you. you see their heart truly for what it is. you see him. not the actor, not the superhero, not the god, nor the mythical creature. just him.

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Goooodddddd fat spoiled Bucky is my Roman Empire need more of him and masseuse Steve omg. Imagining him on his hands and knees for Steve lying on his big belly or Steve massaging his belly till he reaches his fat pad skdjdjsj I need more of them

Totally, utterly spoiled fat Bucky and masseuse Steve

You have me thinking of all different kinds of scenarios with them 🤤🤤

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink ahead, LOTS of fat-shaming, immobility/mobility issues, this is a BIG BUCKY, stuckage, button pops, etc.

There's one summer night, literally in the middle of the night, an hour, maybe two past midnight, when Bucky has the air conditioning fucking blasting in his room because it's hot outside but mostly because he's way too fucking hot underneath all his fat. He's about as insulated with blubber as a whale is for the cold ocean depths but he isn't in the ocean (unless the ocean of sweat he's dripping with counts), he's beached on land. And all that jiggling, thick fat leaves Bucky flicking a finger toward the help, wheezing through airy burps and hissing hiccups that they must place an "emergency call" to Steve. He needs more help than just his live-in servants who tirelessly have fetched him lidded platters of "midnight snacks" that are anything but snacks.

Bucky woke up craving more before midnight. He wasn't hungry, he just wanted more. And he's been stuffing himself for hours now. Hours to midnight and hours past midnight, chasing a craving that he just can't satisfy, his taste grown too greedy in his years of spoiling. He's been ruined.

Now, he's packed full of so much food that he's in pain. It hurts. He's so full it hurts. He wolfed down too much too fast after a hedonistic dinner that was (like his snacks not being snack-sized) not a dinner but an endless parade of dishes mirroring a grand feast in his grand dining room. A room designed with lavish parties in mind; parties and celebrations that Bucky has never thrown because he rarely has others not a part of his staff on his acreage, his kingdom and castle are devoted to him and him alone. He has enough hunger to fill the dining room with its lengthy table and, underneath anyone else's much more reasonable weight, sturdy chairs.

With enough of a feast fit for a royal court destroyed entirely by one greedy, fat king and another sprawling meal of its own piled on top of that feast, Bucky desperately, desperately needs Steve. He's tired - sleepy and ready to fall into a food coma unlike any he's had before. There is no way he can lift his flabby, bingo-wing arms to rub his angrily gurgling tummy himself. He can hardly see straight! His eyes are watery from the exquisite, aching strain of his overexpanded stomach. A few tears have fallen from his eyes, too, trailing slowly down his plump cheeks as the pressure inside his body becomes too much and something has to give - his tears are squeezed out. He's overflowing.

He keeps hiccuping and that makes everything hurt worse, his eyes unfocusing and blurring that much more. He's throbbing. He can feel the muscles, buried under layers and pounds of thick flesh, stretching and straining in an effort to keep his blimp-sized gut attached to him. He can feel every bite of food inside him, jostled with each painful hic! hic! hic! and he doesn't regret one mouthful. Bucky doesn't know - doesn't understand regret. His life has no consequences. He has it all and can always have more.

More.

That's what he's missing. More. He needs more. He needs Steve to help him struggle through the gas and bloat and gurgles and moans and worst of his stomach fighting to accommodate the pounds of food he shoveled into it. The closest he's ever come to regret is thinking about how he wishes he demanded that Steve live on-site like all the rest of his staff so he wouldn't have to wait in suspense, nearly bursting at the seams for him to come and rub him down.

And...

When Steve finally arrives, the first thing he does is laugh in the face of Bucky's excruciating gluttony. He laughs, his voice sleep-rough, at Bucky's sweaty, red, moon-round face and sagging rolls of flesh, beached in his cloud-like, California-king bed. The entire, expensive frame shudders and creaks each time Bucky's flabby body jiggles under another painful hiccup or vaguely relieving burp. An expulsion of gas he's just too food-drunk and snooty to care about. He has no manners, that much is obvious, just look at him. Then, look at Steve. They are opposites. Even in his pajamas, Steve is fit and put together. He looks sleepy but good in his muscle-strained sweatpants and sweatshirt, his golden hair a mess, his chiseled face extra handsome in the moonlight.

Once he's had the last laugh, Bucky's masseuse gets to work, rubbing and grabbing and squeezing and working his magic that makes all the tension bleed from Bucky's oversized, tense body. His taut gut relaxes as much as it can when it's packed full of food still digesting, his muscles turning to mush, submitting underneath Steve's stern touch.

Steve's words are stern, too, teasing him as he works, digging his hands in harder and harder until Bucky is whining and moaning with pain, he's so tender, he's just been stuffed to his breaking point but Steve doesn't care. Steve doesn't care because he does this to himself. He asks for this.

"You're such a brat, Mr. Barnes. Only you, princess, would think this-" Steve gestures vaguely to, uh, all of Bucky's fat gut "-is an emergency worth waking someone up in the middle of the night over. Couldn't go eight hours without stuffing your greedy face, could you? Where is your self-restraint? Oh yeah, you don't fucking have any, you spoiled brat." Steve smacks his gut several times in a row as if reprimanding him. All it does is make Bucky squirm weakly, his body jiggling thickly. He couldn't get away if he put all his pathetic strength into it. It hurts. It feels good. "This isn't an emergency, Mr. Barnes, this is a cry for help. Look at yourself! I have literally never seen anyone this fat. This isn't letting yourself go, this is pushing yourself. If you could get yourself together and push yourself to get healthy, just think what you could've done! Mommy and Daddy might've raised a little Olympian if you went the other direction, but no, you put your back into becoming a shapeless blob instead. Tsk. Tsk," Steve clicks his tongue, but the sound is drowned out by Bucky's needy whimpers. If what Steve's saying is so offensive why does it feel better than sex? "

"I can't believe you. An emergency," Steve scoffs, mocking him more, "if you keep going this way, you'll see a real emergency. You'll be calling the fire department to cut through the doorways of your precious custom-built mansion 'cause you're gotten stuck in one, wedged in place on the rare occasion you get your lazy, fat ass out of bed to do something yourself." Steve shakes his head, digging his nails in, making Bucky want to wail. All he does is belch loudly, the edges of the sound high and desperate. "But that real, actual emergency won't stop you either, will it, princess?" Steve grips a handful of his flesh, wobbling it to make Bucky squeak, "you won't stop because you don't understand the problem, do you? No. You have too much money for your own good, you throw money at the problem and the problem goes away, simple as that. You've gotten so fucking huge that you can't fit through your doors? Oh, well, you'll just reframe every one of the countless fucking doors in this stupidly big house. Who cares if reframing involves special-ordered wood and lacquer and the time and brainpower of some poor architect to figure out what dimensions will actually fit your fat ass? Who cares? You don't. You're too busy thinking with this gut."

Bucky's sagging, fat chest heaves. He feels as though he can hardly see Steve over his unending roundness of a stomach, but what he can see him will haunt him for the rest of the night... that smirk. Steve could cut him with that smirk, it's so sharp. Bucky feels it like a blade, his smile and dark eyes cutting into him. Jesus Christ. He wants exactly that. He wants more.

Hic!

Steve laughs again.

-

Bucky knows that Steve is in front of him, on his knees, but he can't actually see him anymore other than through the many reflections that surround them. They're in the wing of Bucky's abode where his tailor has set up his private business just for Bucky. It's a lucrative shop despite having only one customer. Bucky has lost track of just how much money he throws at his tailor by now, but he knows it's a lot. He outgrows clothes often. Sometimes, he forgets why he bothers with clothes. He doesn't leave the house hardly ever and he pays his staff handsomely enough, nevermind that they all sign NDAs. Besides, they probably wouldn't see much, judging by how Bucky's wide reflection stares back at him, covering and overflowing from every angle. His dick has been buried for a very, very long time. He could do that. He should do that.

However...

If he stops wearing clothes, then he loses the pleasure of moments like this, right now, barely propped upright on a reinforced stage in the middle of a room of mirrors, unable to see Steve himself, unless he uses one of the many mirrors, because Steve is sweating and grunting, on his knees, struggling to stuff Bucky's oozing fat body into clothes that he had custom fit to his ever-expanding frame just last week. And it looks like he's already outgrown them. A new record.

Bucky sighs.

Steve growls at him, pinching some roll of fat - one of the many, many, many - and, oh, would you look at that, even in the mirror, Bucky can't see where his hand is. Steve's big, calloused hand has disappeared under the excessive overflow of Bucky's sagging gut. His rolls are hiding his other rolls. Fuck, he's fat. "You could at least try to help," Steve roughly says, muffled, pressed up against his big, big body in quite the undignified position. "I know the concept is, ugh," he pants, out of breath beneath the weight, despite his fantastic stamina and athleticism, "unfamiliar to you, but a little bit of effort w-would be appreciated right now. Suck in, fatty."

Bucky tries. Nothing really happens, though. His muscles are pushed too far out and are far too atrophied from a lifetime of no work whatsoever. Bucky's been feasting since he woke up this morning, same as always, and he just finished his second lunch before his tailor rushed in to notify him that he just finished with his latest work, so... yeah, it's not his fault his gut won't budge.

Steve extracts his hand from Bucky's rolls to smack his gut harshly, staining his soft, lotioned, un-stretch-marked, un-cellulite-ridden skin red with a perfect handprint and Bucky's knees tremble. Oh, he's going to need to sit down soon. He can't hold up all this weight for much longer. He feels feverish. He may faint. He's so full.

He feels every inch of his divine fullness, Steve is trying very hard to massage and smooth and sculpt him into his clothes. He's tucking his fat back into his clothes, testing the limits of seams that have been reinforced intentionally and held together with extra-thick thread, struggling to breathe evenly as he heaves the sides of his button-up shirt together. Fitting his thighs and ass and hips into his slacks took an unprecedented about of time. Bucky doesn't keep track exactly, his life revolves around him, but he knows it was a long time. And he now knows, too, that no matter how much Steve squishes himself into his fat belly, turning his face to the side and still being nearly totally enveloped in soft blubber, he can't get his arms all the way around him.

Bucky's knees tremble harder. His face has gone very, very red with strands of hair around his face sticking to his skin. God, Steve might think he doesn't understand effort but he does, it's plenty of effort to just stand here and not fall face forward onto the floor, his body pulled by the weight of his bloated gut. Bucky sweats more.

With a victorious grunt, Steve slides one and then two buttons into their appropriate catch. They stay for all of half a second before Bucky breathes out and -

Pop!

Ping!

There they go, flying at high velocity across the room, colliding with the mirrors at the far side and making a sharp sound covered over by Steve's groan of defeat. Hastily, he gets up, standing toe to toe with Bucky but not - he can't get that close to him, their bodies are separated by Bucky's thick fat, rounding out from him from every angle but especially in front of him. His tummy is its own entity. It's that big. Bucky somehow always forgets just how big it is even though it's attached to him. Jesus. It feels like there are miles between Steve's disciplined, hard muscular body and Bucky's excessive, soft body.

Steve takes half a step away to grab the silk robe Bucky had been wearing before, hardly enough fabric to cover him, and throws it at him, "just fucking put the robe back on, fatty, I give up."

Bucky is slow to react, he doesn't catch it. The silk hits him lightly in the chest, dragging over his huge moobs and sliding down his round gut like water. It lands on the floor soundlessly. Bucky doesn't even twitch to move like he's going to grab it, he's not sure if it's physically possible for him to bend over anymore with his belly in the way, he just pouts at Steve, half-dressed and barely holding his own fat up.

"Jesus Christ," Steve grits out, bending neatly at the waist, snapping up, and ripping Bucky's clothes off of him before replacing it with the silk robe. "You are a helpless, fat baby," he tells him, breathing hot and angry and... something else... on the back of his neck.

Quickly and effortlessly light on his feet Steve flits around him, smacking his ass, making his whole body wobble arousingly, then spinning to his front to twitch the robe mostly closed over his front, tightening the belt of the robe too tight on purpose, so tight Bucky feels the food inside him slosh and churn, heavy and digesting into more, more, more fat. Bucky can barely groan, oof, before Steve's fingers grab his chin, not his double (or forming triple) chin that's just chub, but his actual divot-ed chin so he can speak right to him, telling him -

"You wouldn't survive without me, princess."

Bucky whimpers, his eyes tearing up with humiliation. He's right. And he loves it. He needs Steve. He needs him so badly. He needs Steve almost as much as he needs to gorge himself until it hurts. He likes it when it hurts, he likes it when Steve's mean to him, slapping him around and getting rough with all his plush, soft fat.

-

Hours have passed, dripping away in viscous ribbons of the thickest, sweetest clover honey that money can buy, tipped off the edge of a silver spoon onto thick, freshly cut bread to be eaten, consumed ravenously when it should be savored. And the day has dripped past in such a sweet, lazy way because Bucky has been fed by hand all this time, taken care of by his army of servants for these hours. The symphony of flavors fed to him swelling him up into a heavy, heavy ocean of fat. All that fat wobbling and jiggling in front of him means that his own body presses him into the over fluffed day-bed crowded with pillows and blankets and crumbs that he was helped into, waddling impressively slowly, after outgrowing his oversized settee, his body too large to fit the other piece of fine furniture. Soon, he may be large enough that he will only fit on the floor, spilling out in all directions. He is more voluptuous and pillowy than a pillow itself. His body could be a mattress, it's so thick and wide.

To go along with the luxury of being filled with treats and riches, Bucky is being hand-massaged. Always. Steve is here more than not. Each day, no, each hour, Bucky grows more and more dependent on his masseuse. He can't help it. All his fat needs tending to. He can't fathom doing it alone. Who would do it alone? Only a pleb. Bucky is rich-fat, not poor-fat.

Rich-fat.

Fatly rich.

God, he's engorged.

Between every bite of food, he's gasping and moaning, food is more important than breathing, though, so he doesn't stop to breathe. If anything, he inhales food, not air. He sucks it in almost too fast to taste it. Fuuuck. It's good. He's stretching. Expanding. He's gasping and moaning because food is pleasure, but also because Steve is hard at work, slaving and sweating over his blubbery belly.

In order to get close enough to his big, big tummy - needing to reach it over the valleys and hills of blankets and pillows and fat rolls that make up the daybed in Bucky's elegant glass sunroom - Steve is straddling his body. Yet, Steve is straddling just one of his two hugely fat thighs because Steve no matter how athletic and flexible he is, it is just not possible these days for Steve to spread his legs wide enough to span both of Bucky's thick, thick thighs. It's much more comfortable for Steve to split his legs over one of Bucky's resting on his thigh like a delicate bird resting on top of the lumbering, clumsy, out of control beast that is Bucky. Steve is an oxpecker picking bugs off of a hippo.

Bucky's a hippo.

He's so thick and fat and he keeps grooooaning. There's so much inside him. He feels the food crammed into his stomach, he feels the fat crushing his overfull stomach, all that weight, he feels his skin stretched to contain it, he feels everything. He's so fat and his body weighs so much itself, that Bucky doesn't care about Steve straddling his thigh. Anything to make his belly feel better.

It huuuurts.

He won't stop eating. He can't. He can't fucking do it, it's impossible, he swears, nothing has ever been harder than not stuffing his fucking face until he's making sounds that illustrate just how much he feels like he might burst. He. is. voracious. Unfathomably greedy, always filling himself.

His belly aches and his jaw throbs, too, but it doesn't matter. The pain adds to the excessive pleasure that he's piling up. More. Being stuffed and massaged at the same time is the most heavenly of pleasures - Bucky would know, he's done so much, felt so much, spoiled as he is, and this is it. This is the best. It's good for him and he prides himself in being so gluttonous and pleased that it spreads to everyone else. You could not come within the walls of his mansion and not feel some of the pleasure radiating out of Bucky. Bucky is too spoiled to care if others feel good or not, he's far beyond that, but he wallows in the showmanship of it all. Yes, that's him, yes, that's his life, yes, he's so enveloped in his ecstasy that everyone else is aware of it. They have to be. He's that excessively excessive.

It's heaven as Steve kneads his thick fat, literally crawling all over him, straddling his thigh and kneeling up to reach out and try to span all of his fat (his wingspan isn't broad enough to do it) sinking his hands into his inches thick blubber that makes Bucky desperately, feverishly hot at all times. He rubs and squeezes, kneads and gropes, pinches and wobbles. The way Bucky's fat shifts like waves when he grasps him, taking overflowing handfuls, makes Bucky feel dizzy. He is an ocean of fat, he rocks with waves of fat, his knees weak, trying to walk on the deck of a ship being thrown about by the currents. Except, he's not walking. He's just lying back and he's rocking and jiggling. He can't feel anything but his own fat body. He can't see anything but his own fat. He can't taste anything but his ruinment, all those calories piled up, rich on his tongue. He knows he is a spectacle, he is unbelievable, Steve is lucky to get to touch him, oiling him up and playing with his taut fat, working it until it's soft and malleable.

Bucky moans so loud it vibrates his entire massive chest.

Steve, for all his effort, grunting and making his plush fat move, bites back a smile, pinching a thick, thick chunk of flesh somewhere between his massive tummy and round moobs, sounding dangerously affectionate as he teases, "you fat fuck."

-

Steve is part of Bucky's staff, Bucky employs him, Bucky is thus allowed, encouraged even, to bring up things to Steve that are bothering him about his work and how he goes about it. That's how performance reviews work, right? Bucky has no real idea about how those work in the real world but he's pretty sure those are a thing. He wouldn't exactly know, though, he's never had to work and whenever he has real problems with the help, he simply fires them and hires someone else. No skin off his back. Worry isn't good for his skin. He doesn't need wrinkles. Just rolls. But. Bucky has completely lost his mind and he likes Steve and all his pushy-shovey-roughness with him. So, he attempts to put in the effort to review him.

Does it matter if the review is nothing but a whiney complaint that sounds like it has nothing to do with Steve and everything to do with Bucky? Bucky thinks so. Again, though, he doesn't know better.

So, what he does is just complain, pouting and huffing, crossing his fat arms over his fat chest to make his pecs look girlish and cleavage-like, as he whines about his hips. They've been feeling all throbby and stretched out lately. He needs more massaging attention to them and if he gets stretch marks from the lack of lotion and rubbing to smooth them out and keep his skin perfect then... then... then! He doesn't actually know what he'll do to Steve but he'll figure something out!

"And what's that, princess?" Steve snarks back, "what are you gonna do, honey? You can't move on your own last time I checked and I know for a fact you haven't lost weight since then so... I think I'll be alright."

Steve does end up putting his attention to his fat, door-spanning hips, though, obliging his sulky, spoiled demands. Eventually. He makes Bucky whine for it for a while is all. He has to do some work.

Although, when he gives in, it turns out, that it doesn't really work the usual way they go about things with Bucky on his front, sweating and panting underneath his barrel gut, while Steve towers over him and teases him as he dissolves all that tension he holds in a big, round knot right at his middle. Steve, as strong as he is, gets tired too fast to rub his hip like that, lifting his flabby love handles up to get the front, side, and back of them is strenuous manual labor. After another short break, Steve and his muscles pushed tightly up against Bucky and his plushness, Steve vaults off of Bucky with suspicious ease for someone apparently so tuckered out by working around his body -

"Turn over for me, Mr. Barnes," he says, making it a demand not to be argued with, no matter how much of a spoiled brat Bucky is.

Bucky attempts to do as he's told with a lot, lot of effort. He could be melting with how much sweat is pouring out of him, straining himself to roll over on all fours, jostling and wobbling, his fat shifting as he groans and grunts and pathetically complains, "ow!" or"ohh!" or huffs, huffs, and pants, or "I'm too heavy!" or finally, his pink chubby cheeks wobbling, near tears, as he begs or help, "I can't do it, Steeeve, Steve, please, help me. I can't. I can't."

Steve steps in to help with a single, hard, well-placed shove, rolling him onto all fours. Bucky goes totally ungracefully. He's like a walrus, blubbery, ungainly, and flopping on land.

Steve can get at the rolls around his sides, his hips, and his back rolls easily this way. Gravity is helping him, shaping Bucky's blimp-fat, blobby body into something easier to work with.

However, when Steve tries to transition back into massaging Bucky's tummy (because the overgrown, over-spoiled, overfed boy is stuffing cookies into his mouth as Steve works, getting crumbs all over his bed and not caring because he knows it will be the help's problem to deal with), Steve finds out that he can't fucking do it. He can't reach as much of Bucky's tummy as he needs to this way because he's so fat that the front of it touches the creaking, dented surface of the mattress beneath his massive body.

His gut literally reaches the floor, touching and spilling out.

Jesus Christ.

He's overflowing and sweating like a true pig, just from holding himself up. It won't be long before he's more than trembling under his own weight and is vibrating, then collapsing face-first into the bed. When Steve's prediction comes from, he can't keep the smugness out of his voice, pinching and slapping him gleefully, telling him, "get back up, fatty." Already knowing what's going to happen next. He's so predictable.

Bucky bellows in arousal and can't.

He can't move.

He's too hungry and too exhausted.

And, God, they both love to see him like this.

[wotvagyok]

My thoughts are currently consumed by Trans Steve starting T and getting all kinds of thicc because of it.

At first noticing the changes, how he’s filling out in all the right places, the little stretch marks on his new belt, on his arms, his thick love handles. It’s all dense and doughy, he’s so sturdy now, so chonky.

And then a couple of years in, a few self discoveries later, sat between Bucky’s thighs, so stuffed and bloated and round, Bucky’s hand in his skin-tight and torn boxers, pressing into him, holding another bite to his lips.

Steve’s lax, pressed against his chest, head lying limp against Bucky’s shoulder. His brain his empty, eyes glazed, as he opens his mouth to keep eating.

“Good boy.” Bucky whispers to him as he bucks his hips in desperation. “Gettin’ so fat,” a hand slides down to the blushing swell of his stomach, sitting in his lap now, and rubs soothing circles across the taut skin. He reaches for another few fries and holds them to Steve’s mouth when he finishes chewing. Steve takes a gasping bite. “Such a good, greedy boy.”

[welldonebeca]

about offices and feelings (3)

Summary: When Steve is stuck in an elevator with his office crush, he is forced to face his feelings about her. Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader WC: 3.5k words Warning: Smut. Dirty talking. D/s dynamics. Unprotected sex. Body worship.

masterlist

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There was almost a little angel and a little devil on each of Steve's shoulders as he followed you with his car.

His mother had raised him so much better than that. She would have smacked you right over the head if she even heard that he was going to have premarital sex with a woman who wasn't even his girlfriend yet, what kind of catholic was he supposed to be?!

On the other hand - and shoulder - Bucky would kill him if he found out he even thought of walking away from this chance, especially after he heard him speaking of you the way he did since you two had met.

And Steve really, really wanted you.

He could take you on a date tomorrow. If you let him stay over, he could get up early and make you two some nice breakfast, and then take you out to lunch.

There, now he had solved the "not dating" problem.

Did he have condoms?

Fuck, he didn't have condoms.

To be fair, he didn't even have reasons to carry around condoms.

Maybe you had them?

But fuck, the idea of fucking you raw and stuffing you with his seed...

It would be so irresponsible and he couldn't ever suggest it to you. What kind of man would do that?

He followed you into your building, parking right behind your car, and you looked way calmer than him when you met in the garage.

"I want to take you to lunch," he told you the moment you even looked at him. "Tomorrow."

You stopped, a bit surprised.

"Okay," you agreed. "Tomorrow?"

"Or dinner," he added. "Maybe both, and the two days in a row. I don't mind."

You smiled, surprised, almost laughing.

"I'd go anywhere with you."

Steve chuckled, relaxing.

"Lead the way," he asked you.

You took his hand, guiding him to the stairs, and he couldn't help the laugh that left his lips as you climbed up.

"No chance of another elevator breaking with us inside today," he joked.

You laughed with him.

"I don't think I'll ever get into an elevator without fearing it'll break again," you confessed, leaving his hand and digging for something in your bag.  "Can I have your licence?"

He frowned, a bit confused, but grabbed his wallet and took it, offering it to you.

When you two stopped at the top, you took a picture and gave it back to him, typing something on your phone.

"If I end up dead or hurt, you got two lawyers and a very good tech dude who know where you work and your full name," you told him playfully. "Hope you don't mind."

He put it back in his wallet and pocket.

"Whatever keeps you alive," Steve shrugged.

You put your phone back and finally took your keys, and he stood quietly as you unlocked the door, waiting for an invitation to come in.

Your place wasn't big. He could see a small corridor, a kitchen that shared its space with the living room without making it too small, and two doors that he supposed were your bedroom and your bathroom. It was cozy, and it did have some personality.

He could see a few paintings hanging around and surrounded with pictures of you with other people, on occasions that seemed very important to you.

And he would love to ask you about them, the story behind them and who those people were, but he was there for a reason.

"Do you want to eat or drink anything?" you offered. "I have fruit snacks, tea, some actually really nice little-"

"You," he turned around quickly.

You looked at him, wide eyes and confused, and at least five inches shorter.

"I want to eat you," he decided simply.

You grinned loudly, and you simply dropped your shirt down.

Steve took one big step and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and kissing your lips, and this time it wasn't calm or sweet. Instead, Steve kissed you hungrily, the way he'd been wanting to do it for a long, long time.

He moved his hand to your hips, holding you and sighing into your lips at the soft feeling of your flesh in your hands.

Fuck, he wanted to kiss you all over, bite and worship your whole body.

He angled himself, and you pulled back from his lips.

"You don't have-" you tried to protest.

Steve didn't let you completely, and picked you right up.

He wished he could burn the way you gasped and held onto him right in his brain so that every time he did it he could remember how cute it sounded.

"Steve!" you squeezed his shoulders.

"The day I can't carry my woman to bed will be the day I know I'm not doing things right in the gym," he said simply.

And it wasn't even a struggle. Carrying you was way nicer than the weights he had to place around in the gym.

You let out a little giggle, hiding your face in his neck and clenching his middle with your delicious thighs, and he didn't even realise his slip-up - and maybe you hadn't either.

He walked the two of you over to your bedroom, holding you with a single hand on your back to open the door, and moved his lips receptively when you went back into kissing him, fingers reaching up to tangle themselves into his hair.

Steve sat down with you right over him, not even embarrassed by how hard his cock was already, using his hands to pull your clothes and push your skirt up at the same time, although frustrated when instead of finding your soft thighs under it, he was met with more fabric.

"Off," he mumbled, trying to tug on it, and you giggled into his lips.

He didn't want to let you go but did, and you stood up, adjusting your shirt as he watched you.

"Off," you parroted, moving your hand back and unzipping it.

Steve watched rather hungrily as it fell around your legs, he could see that you were wearing some kind of shorts underneath, which kept your undershirt tucked, and he waited patiently as you pushed it down, finally revealing your thighs, and they were jsut as beautiful as every bit of skin he had seen of you.

Impatience filled him as he watched you go, and he stood up on his feet, taking off his shirt and undershirt already, and when he got to look at you again, he stopped.

There you stood in front of him, in bra and panties.

They didn't quite match, the bra just looked very basic - black, fitting, with thick straps - and the panties were blue with flowers.

"Not that sexy," you giggled, looking a bit nervous. "I wasn't expecting anyone to see it."

Somehow, that made him even hornier.

Steve pushed his pants down without much patience, stepping out of them and pulling you again.

"You're so beautiful," he exhaled as you spread your thighs around him, caressing your warm skin from your knees to the roundness of your hips, and you gasped a little when his hand traced the line of your panties over your belly. "Wanna know what made me mad today?"

You shook your head, and he sought your lips again, kissing you as he moved down and down and down, until he found the gusset.

They were so modest, so professional, just like you. He wanted to make them drenched and messy.

He bit your lower lips when you gasped, and smirked as he looked for your clit.

"Steve" you panted, rubbing your nose over his.

Oh, you were all breathless already.

So pretty.

"That tight little skirt," he told you. "Could see lower your belly on it, all pretty... wanted to touch it, kiss it."

You closed your eyes, and he pushed his fingers a little, finding your entrance and circling it.

"I just wanted to spread you on the table and bite it," he hissed. "Almost couldn't concentrate on the meeting, could barely stop looking at you."

You whined in response, moving your hips, and he moved up to your clit, rubbing it in circles.

"Didn't know you even looked at me like that," you fell into his neck.

He chuckled, moving back, giving your lower lip a little lick.

"Would you let me, little miss?" he teased you. "Bite and kiss that belly that has been tempting me for days?"

The way you looked at him... oh, he wanted to take a picture to hang it.

"Yeah," you whispered. "I would."

Steve smiled, lifting you up and putting you on the bed.

He took one long look at your body ont he bed. Your big tits, the rolls of your belly, the thickness of your thighs.

Steve wished he could touch everything at once, kiss everything at once, bite everything at once. He could spend hours and hours worshipping even inch of delicious soft skin, exposed just for him.

But if he had his way, then he would have time.

You moved to the centre of the bed and he knelt in front of you, kissing your lips again before moving down. He kissed and bit and suck on your neck and jaw, moving his nose over your breasts, promising himself he would come back to them soon.

At last, he reached your belly, and was happy to move his hands to it, caressing your sides as he moved down and down, kissing the soft flesh.

Oh, he loved the idea of painting it with his cum, marking you. It would be beautiful.

Steve followed his objective, settling between your legs and slowly, very teasingly, pulling your panties down to the curve of your hips, uncovering your belly.

He kissed along the line it made on your skin, very carefully, so he was sure it wouldn't hurt you, still slow to try and pace himself, to savour everything.

Slowly, he ran his teeth over your skin, earning a little whimper, and ran his knuckle over the gusset of your panties, playing with you.

"Please," you pleaded breathlessly. "Steve. You said you were going to bite."

He laughed a little, lips still on your skin.

"Impatient much?" he teased you.

But you pouted.

"You said you'd been thinking about it the whole day," you retorted. "And now you got me thinking about it."

He laughed a little, and moved his lips down, down and down, and bit you right down your belly button, earning a gasp.

"Like this?" he hummed, moving his hands to hook his finger on the side of your panties, pulling just enough to ease a finger into your cunt.

He kissed along the line it made on your skin, very carefully so he was sure it wouldn't hurt you, still slow to try and pace himself, to savour everything.

Slowly, he ran his teeth over your skin, earning a little whimper, and ran his knuckle over the gusset of your panties, playing with you.

"Please," you pleaded breathlessly. "Steve. You said you were going to bite."

He laughed a little, lips still on your skin.

"Impatient much?" he teased you.

But you pouted.

"You said you'd been thinking about it the whole day," you retorted. "And now you got me thinking about it."

He laughed a little, and moved his lips down, down and down, and bit you right down your belly button, earning a gasp.

"Like this?" he hummed, moving his hands to hook his finger on the side of your panties, pulling just enough to ease a finger into your cunt.

And you were drenched.

Steve moaned into your skin as he bit you again, enjoying the feeling against his teeth, the softness and plushiness.

Yes. That, that was what he needed.

You moaned in a long exhale when he started fucking you with his finger, kissing, biting and sucking you. He wanted to mark, for you to remember him every time you looked at yourself in the mirror.

Your walls squeezed around his finger when he caressed a special spot, and Steve looked up at your face, finding your lips parted and your eyes closed.

God, what a beauty.

He pushed a second finger as he left suck-and-bite love marks on your skin, licking whichever stretch mark he found from start to fish, every little skin mark, every little patch.

"Steve," you pleaded, sounding needy. "Please."

Steve kissed your skin gently.

"What do you need?"

You shuddered.

"Inside me," you spread your legs. "Want you to fill me up."

His cock throbbed as he pulled away, taking his finger from inside you, and sucked onto it happily before taking your panties and pulling them down your legs, moving away from the bed to take off what was left of his clothes - including his socks.

You sat up to watch him, taking off your bra, and Steve had the pleasure of seeing you licking your lips as the sight of him.

Oh, but he would fuck that smirk right off that beautiful face of yours.

He climbed back to the bed, kissing your lips briefly and moving right to your tits, his hands aching to squeeze them and see how much spilling from his hands there would be.

His thumbs caressed your nipples, finding them already hard and pointy, your tits spilling from the grip of his fingers as you whined adorably.

"Steve," you pushed your fingers into his hair. "Need you."

He spread your legs, taking his cock in his hand and stroking himself before setting himself in place, rubbing the head up and down your pussy, letting your wetness coat him.

The moment he pushed into you, both of you moaned.

Fuck, yes.

"Gonna take all of my cock, won't you, pretty miss?" he grunted. "All of that big cock in your wet cunt."

"Yes," you moaned, tossing your head back. "Give it to me, Steve. Want it all."

He reached up, pinching your nipple and twisting it, earning another beautiful sound from you.

He didn't know if he would be able to ever look at you and not think of those beautiful little sounds, little moans and mewls as he pushed into you, patience and nice, and you cunt swallowed him down.

Steve pulled back a little bit, careful, and pushed in again, fucking you slowly.

You were having none of it, though.

"Harder," you pleaded. "Steve!"

But he clicked his tongue.

"I don't want to hurt you," he insisted.

Still, you raised your legs, trying to wrap them around his waist, and he held them down firmly.

"No, little miss," he scowled, taking his sweet time. "You're gonna be good and take what you're given."

You whimpered beautifully, squeezing his cock a little more and he raised his eyebrows.

"Do you like it, little miss," he moved a little more, fucking you slowly. "When I'm all bossy with you?"

You nodded, covering your face a little bit, and he pulled your hands away.

"Don't ever be ashamed of how I make you feel," he whispered. "I want to hear everything."

You nodded, looking all soft on the face, and Steve pushed the last inch of his cock right into you, burying himself in your dripping cunt.

"Steve," you moaned.

"Feels good?" he panted, caressing the way down your belly before moving to your cunt, searching for your clit and finding it stiff.

He gave it a circular rub, testing to see how you liked it, and you let out the hottest of sounds, gasping, cunt squeezing around his cock deliciously.

"Yes," you cried. "Feel good, please. Please, Steve."

So, so impatient.

Steve clicked his tongue, fucking you ever so patiently, controlling himself as he rubbed you, focusing on your pleasure.

He wanted you to cum on his cock, wanted to watch you cry and feel you cream.

"What kind of gentleman do you think I am, little miss?" he teased you. "To just use you without making sure I've given you pleasure?"

Fuck, you felt so good. Warm and wet and slicky, welcoming him so nicely.

"What kind of good man would I be if I didn't make you cum before I even thought of myself?" he asked.

You moaned more, arching your hips as his finger picked up the pace on your clit.

"Yes," you panted. "Gonna cum, Steve, just like that."

He continued with his pace, hand on your hip and fingers on your swollen bud, his eyes trained on your tits for a moment. Fuck, he could make them bounce so beautifully.

But he moved his eyes up, focusing on your face.

"Look at me," Steve whispered. "Wanna see you cum for me, wanna see your eyes."

You opened them, giving him the sultriest look he'd ever seen, the sexiest expression on your face. Your sounds filled the room as you came and he had to hold himself back for a moment, your spasms on his sensitive cock, the sight of you and the sounds from you making him feel nearly inebriated.

You were still coming down when he finally, fucking finally, let himself move faster.

He slammed his hips against yours, and you fucking loved it.

So he did again, grunting as your tits bounced, as your moans came out in little staccato breaths, your cunt never ceasing to milk him.

With each moan of his, you seemed to adore everything, and he was glad to oblige.

"Yes," you tossed your head back when he rutted into you, hipbone brushing your clit each time he slammed into you, and he didn't know if he would rather drag your pleasure and make you mad and needy or overflow you with it. "Steve."

He leaned down, sucking on your nipple, groping your breasts, squeezing and playing with them eagerly.

You crossed your legs behind his back like you'd tried to do before, and Steve focused even more on your pleasure when your sounds grew.

"You're going to cum again, baby?" he pulled on your nipples, playing with both with his hands. "Hm? Gonna cum on my cock?"

"Yes," you cried. "Yes, Steve."

Your cunt fluttered deliciously around him, closer and closer, wetter and wetter.

"You want me to rub your clit?" he offered. "Play with you, hm?"

But your shook your head.

"Your... hip-" you moaned. "Fuck, just don't stop, don't stop, please, please, please-"

He didn't. Steve fucked you, trying to keep doing exactly what he had been doing before, and watched with pleasure as you came, feeling himself too close.

And just then, it dawned on him that he hadn't put on a condom, that you two hadn't even talked about it.

"Fuck," he grunted, raising himself.

But your cunt was so good, so slick, so delicious.

He was just going to fuck you a little more, just a bit more, he could hold it, he could-

Steve pulled himself from inside you quickly, taking his hand to his slick-covered cock for what felt like a second before he came, his cum coming out in quick spurts painting your beautiful torso over his teeth marks, pearly white against flushed skin.

You panted as you watched him, looking down at your body and where he had painted you, and Steve outrightly whimpered when you ran a finger over some of his cum and straight up tasted it before sitting up and kissing him hungrily.

Slowly, it became softer, sweeter, and Steve manoeuvred the two of you, laying down on your bed.

"I guess we should have talked about that part before we fucked," you chuckled, looking at his face.

Steve smiled, moving his hand to your face, pushing your hair back.

"I'm sorry," he told you. "I should have stopped, and we should have talked about it."

You gave him a cheeky look.

"I didn't hate it, though," you told him. "I mean, I have recent tests. I always want to make sure. And I have an IUD, so if you wanted to cum inside..."

He tossed his head back. Fuck, if he was a few years younger, he would certainly give you that later tonight.

"First we rest," he told you anyway, taking your hand. "We have an awful long night."

That made you chuckle.

"We did," you agreed. "And I distinctly remember being offered a lunch and a dinner date."

Steve's heart leapt a beat. So you still wanted him.

You played with his fingers a little bit.

"As long as you don't make me ear liver," you added emphatically. "I think I want to cash on one of those dinners tonight."

He grinned.

"We can share a relaxing shower," he offered you. "And I'll make you something great with whatever you have in your fridge."

You looked at him, smiling beautifully.

"I like that," you decided, and lowered your eyes a bit, looking suddenly shy. "And you can... you know. Spend the night. If you want to."

"I do," he said quickly. "Very much so."

You seemed to relax, smile still as beautiful and sweet.

"Okay," you whispered. "That is very nice."

…

“about offices and feelings” was posted on my Patreon in June. To have early access to my works, subscribe to my page! It’s just $2 a month, and I post 6x a week.

If you liked "this "about offices and feelings", you might enjoy IT'S A BAD IDEA, RIGHT? Summary: The worst idea a waitress in Mama Stefka can have is to fall in love with a man in Hydra. They aren’t supposed to even talk! It doesn’t stop Betty, though. BRATTY BABY Summary: When you act out, Steve and Bucky teach you, their bratty baby, a lesson.   (It’s just porn. There is barely a plot holding this together.)

. . .

…

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[comicwaren]

From Ultimates Vol. 4 #006

Art by Juan Frigeri and Federico Blee

Written by Deniz Camp

[bucksangel]

this isn’t aimed at anyone in particular but i really hate reading fics with chubby/fat characters and the author saying something along the lines of “they were chubby but still beautiful” heavily implying that being fat/chubby is Bad and Ugly when it is exactly the opposite. people who are fat and chubby are beautiful, and that includes their weight. it’s not an add on, it’s not a “i love them even though…”

i understand not everyone might be aware of the wording of their writing because society has taught us that being anything other than a socially acceptable weight is wrong, but im begging y’all to please fight it and showcase it in your writing.

[fandomfluffandfuck]

Ykw... I rlly thought all those images and gifs of Steve were edited but his lips rlly are just THAT pink and plush in the movies huh

related to this

Oh yeah, fuck yeah, Chris Evans has unfair DSLs editing or no editing 😮‍💨😮‍💨

Motherfucker

[thattripleabattery]

I just took a James Bond class in college last semester and it made me realize how male body standards in movies has changed especially me being a big fan of super hero movies

For instance James Bond portrayed by Sean Connery in the 1960s

His character is shown as a bombshell ladies man

When in modern day films portraying a desirable male body shows dehydrated unhealthy bodies which makes me so upset

[chubthings-by-georgie]

Finally have a place to organize my chub fics!!

A short oneshot depicting the lovely and peaceful life of Steve and Bucky one year after marriage and how happiness and Bucky’s cooking habits have affected Steve’s waistline.

[shawtythatluvsurgut]

Could y’all drop in my inbox or in a reply to this some weight gain story prompts that I could write for this requested Stucky wg story? I don’t wanna post a Stucky weight gain prompt that I’ve already written because I don’t want to expose my own desires completely 🤭🫣 but I’m blanking on new weight gain ideas to write about. So please help ya girl out and recommend some feeder/feedee prompts! I usually make Steve the feeder and Bucky the feedee, but lately I’ve been doing a lot of fat Steve writing so I’m willing to write either/or. (And also please not the fat boss prompts because those are written so often and i’m not into the bossxemployee subgenre. That power dynamic weirds me out.) Big thanks to anyone who replies to this! Muah 💋

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

I hear you want to write but are having a hard time answering prompts. Don't feel obligated to answer this one either, this is free labor, you never have too!!!! But maybe it would help by giving you a free space. What's eating at you [pun intended hehe]?

Me and this anon be like:

You are so thoughtful, thank you! ❤️❤️❤️

And you know what has been eating at me 😂 for whatever reason, I have no idea what turned me onto this idea, or why I can't stop thinking about it but there is something about the idea of completely, entirely spoiled Bucky that's been heavy on my mind.

Unbeta'd stucky belly kink under the read more, complete with lots and lots of stuffing, weight gain, and teasing/fat-shaming, too.

I'm talking about silver-spoon, generationally wealthy Bucky. He never has known what it is to want, yanno? Everything he could ever dream of, he gets immediately. He's never had a job other than learning what fork to use during meal times and which to use during dessert.

He looks like Wakanda, Jesus Bucky in spirit.

His hair is lush and shiny but his is proper, high-society style. So, it's cropped short at the sides and marginally longer at the top, coiffed back into stylish, fluffy waves. His face is clean-shaven, not beared, but his skin still glows and his marble-carved bone structure has been filled out by good food and constant pampering. He's always in the latest fashion, too. He looks the part of his high-maintenance, rich lifestyle.

When he was a kid and then a teenager it was totally fine that he fit so, so well into his lavish upbringing - including his taste for excessively sweet food and excessive amounts of food - because he had a speedy metabolism and the whimsy of a child, always running through his parent's expansive mansion or spending hours in the endless, deep green lawns playing by himself or roping one of the servents or his tutor into his games. His parents always were too busy with their socializing to raise their own messy child, instead passing responsibility off to someone, anyone else.

For a while, Bucky also took an interest in polocrosse, so he stayed slim for his elegant, equestrian sport. Loping through open, well-manicured fields on horseback, going after the ball with his racquet. But, as he grows and matures into a snooty young adult, with his twenties comes a slowing of his hummingbird metabolism and a boredom of sport. He has more important, more luxurious, relaxing activities to attend to than riding some beast that he doesn't even pick up after or care for - that's what the help is for. Besides, the medals mean nothing to him. He knows he's deserving and is a blue-ribbon winner without the physical reminders. Naturally, it's in his genes, he may as well be a hot-blooded, thoroughbred himself.

Bucky's metabolism slows and his activity level wanes but neither can be said about his appetite - not slowing, nor waning.

His hunger was one of those wants he's always, always had met through his generational wealth. His dire want for sweets. When he was younger, he always got a slap on the wrist for gorging himself on sugary sweets - pastries, candy, and the like - but never truly punished. His love affair wasn't tamed no matter how often he "spoiled" his own dinner, charming the cooks to feed him more than he needed, secretly getting their driver to go and retrieve him something from the city's candy shop, or even simply tiptoeing into the well-stocked pantry at night to give himself a tummy ache.

Now, his appetite is insatiable and he is growing more and more unfit seemingly like the hour. All because his days aren't spent working - he's never had to lift a finger for anything - but, instead, his hours are filled to the brim (and then some) with wine tastings, occasional tours of the winery grounds, cheese samplings, fine dining reservations or world-class chefs inhabiting his home for a few nights, and more. As soon as he's allowed by Mommy and Daddy, he moves off the sprawling family property to buy his own. He comes in and sweeps up a swath of land, putting a huge, pretty house on it and filling the rooms with staff. Most of the time, he doesn't leave his home. His driver's chauffeur experts in drink and food back and forth, bringing waves of delicious, expensive delicacies straight to Bucky's beautiful abode from the private airport nearby.

He. is. spoiled.

As he grows, he becomes rich fat, not poor fat - which becomes an important, prideful distinction in Bucky's spoiled, snobby mind. He is high society. He is well taken care of. So, of course, he's large.

Rich fat is fat that's undeniably plump and round with perfect curves. Rolls. Pale and smooth. No cellulite. No stretch marks. No blemishes. Just milky, pale swells of flesh that are soft but still firm and high. Something of a cherub straight from a masterful Renaissance painting.

His body tells the truth of his life - he doesn't lift a finger. He's practically a Roman Emperor, lounging on his side, draped in a sheet that barely fits over his bulging, excessive curves, fed the finest wine and offered peeled grapes that he lazily consumes until he's so full and drunk that he has to stop his servants by lifting a dainty hand, breathily moaning. No more. He can't take anymore now, he's so full that his fat, normally plush, soft belly has swelled to be as firm as a drum. But... give it an hour and he'll be snapping his fingers, rolled onto his back, under the weight of his belly, needing more. He won't even bother to get back up unless his servants help him, at that point, all he wants is more.

Always more.

Bucky becomes so insatiable with his life of luxury orbiting his round belly (rapidly transforming to be so large and spherical that it might be its own planet with a gravitational pull, keeping his hands to it at all times, unable to stop rubbing and touching his big body), that he hires someone new to live on his estate with him.

A masseuse.

Bucky becomes accustomed to eating until he feels fit to pop, stuffing down delicacies as if they're commonplace. Then, when he's so achingly tight, it's only natural to crave hands on his belly. He needs all the help digesting that he can get on a steady diet of peeled grapes, chocolate-coated strawberries, and other delicate fruits alongside the finest cheeses in paper-thin slices (but so many of those slices that he may as well have eaten the entire wheel by biting hunks off rudely) paired with jam and honey and bread and meats cured and prepared just so, plus bubbly champagne to wash it all down. That excessive diet leaves his tummy churning, groaning, and gassy. He has to stifle his burps behind one hand while the other works to soothe himself - it's instinctive, those rubbing motions.

Working? Aching? That just won't do. Bucky isn't dumb enough to expend energy when he doesn't have to. His private education afforded him better common sense. And he often goes to the spa, so he's familiar with massages. One plus one is two. Bucky needs a masseuse to rub his belly.

His masseuse is a tall, broad man - muscular and handsome with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. He has a pleasantly pale complexion with freckles but his nose that like it's been broken once or twice, bumped in the middle, and his hands are certainly the hands of a working man. He has obviously worked hard to get where he is with veins obvious in his arms and the backs of his hands and callouses on his palms. Even with all the lotion and oils, his hands are just the slightest bit rough thanks to those callouses.

If he weren't so handsome and hadn't proved himself to be so good at his job, Bucky might not keep him around. Thoughtlessly he could fire him, or any of his staff, and hire someone else.

Bucky doesn't like anything rough. He likes simple, easy, and luxurious. He likes softness. He reclines in overstuffed chairs and couches, expensive and sink-into-the-softness, and sleeps (and eats) on a perfectly swallowing-up bed. His body is currently being transformed into the same type of sensation - plush, soft, overstuffed. He likes that. He's becoming as excessive as his lifestyle - shaped perfectly for it.

He doesn't enjoy roughness.

He doesn't enjoy the bit of resentment on his masseuse's face and weaved secretly into his voice when they first meet.

Steve is a good worker, though, and Bucky appreciates that. He's accustomed to throwing money around, but he only throws it when it's what he wants or something he needs that he's having done his way. If a gardener, cook, or tailor doesn't work as fast or as hard as Bucky thinks they ought to - they're gone. Simple as that.

Steve works hard, Steve works fast, Steve is... interesting. He doesn't approve of Bucky's lifestyle, that much is clear, so he must need the money. But also, he doesn't complain. Not really. He does tease Bucky, though. It seems they both know their differences and there's something there. Something exciting. They both have their tastes and the clash of their differing tastes becomes electric.

Bucky learns to enjoy a little bit of roughness because of Steve.

Steve is called in to support Bucky either nearing the end of a massive meal or after his meal has been finished. His job title is "masseuse" and he does massage Bucky but, just, one part of him -

His belly.

His job is to aid Bucky's body in digesting after a splurge... if you can call his gorging meals and oversized snacks that happen every day, multiple times a day like clockwork "splurges." Splurging implies you don't do it all the time. Bucky is consistently stuffed to the gills. The only time he's not full is when he wakes up, first thing in the morning, and that's not always a guarantee - Bucky has gotten especially fat recently, it's why he needs Steve, and now, he can't always make it through the night without a snack. If he needs one, he snaps his fingers or rings the little bell he keeps by his bedside, rousing his live-in servants and making them retrieve a "light" snack for him from the kitchen. If he's had a midnight snack, his belly might still be firm and bloated when he wakes up. Regardless, Steve helps settle his belly.

At first, when Steve was hired, he did his job without comment. Now that they know each other a little better and each of them is rubbing off on the other with Bucky enjoying a little bit of roughness and Steve learning to embrace comfort and a taste of luxury - now, Steve prods and pushes verbally while he does the same physically. He rubs big circles on his big tummy, presses into the parts where he's the tightest to release pockets of gas and make him more comfortable, giving him more room (that he often immediately fills with more food), and kneads his soft flesh, using lotion and oil to keep his flesh supple and stretch-mark free. He lets his mouth run, too.

In low tones, just for the two of them to hear, he murmurs roughly about how he's never had so much to work with. Bucky knows under those sugar-coated words, he's calling him fat. Then, he goes on to say that Bucky feels especially tense today, is there anything particular on his mind? That's Steve telling him he's bloated as fuck, just a bit of sting behind his "polite" tone to communicate, oh my fucking god, you're a blimp. Or, he asks how his tailor is doing, the vague way to ask how he fits into any clothes at all. It's a damn mystery to Steve, after all, he only ever sees Bucky when he's naked with all of his soft, pale, thick fat on display. Round. Firm. Ready to be massaged until he's not so tight he could burst which, to Bucky, means he's ravenous. Bucky has no understanding of hunger. He doesn't remember what it's like to be empty, so when he isn't gasping in pleasure and pain, so full that his stomach is strained and there's food packed into him all the way up his esophagus to the back of his throat, he thinks he's starving.

Bucky savors those comments in a way he doesn't savor food - he just shoves it down. More.

More.

Bucky starts eating even more, pushing himself further, to make sure he can see Steve regularly. Weirdly, for someone who's never needed a damn thing from anyone else, he aches to impress this guy. It's strange, how much he wants to preen and parade around. He makes even more of a gluttonous mess of himself just so Steve can come in and berate him underneath his professional, light tone. It's embarrassing. Bucky has never been able to deal with humiliation or shame or anything other than resounding acceptance because of his high status, so it's strange for him to go after it now but...

God, is it good.

Steve commenting on needing another set of hands to reach and work on all of Bucky's glutted tummy sends a shiver down his pinned spine in spirit, in reality, he can't fucking move. He's so fat. Bucky almost moans at the thought of more hands groping and kneading his fat, working his cramps and burps out of him, easing the way for those calories to smoothly transform into more fat but, strangely, he only wants Steve to do this. He's used to hiring more help, having so many people around him, watching and aiding him in even the most intimate, private moments. This feels too intimate to share, though. He just wants Steve's big, strong, rough hands on his fat. He wants it bad. So, of course, he gets it.

He feasts on multiple rich, large courses. Steve massages him. He snacks on foods that would be enough for a meal if he were anyone else. Steve massages him. He gorges until he's hiccuping, whining, and curled around his fat belly like he can hold himself together, preventing himself from bursting at the seams with too much, too good of food. Steve massages him. He wakes up, belly gurgling with digestion that he can delude into being hunger, so he stuffs himself late at night into early morning. Steve massages him. Steve massages him through it all, witnessing him at his fullest and watching, judging, as he packs on more and more weight.

Bucky has been drilled to follow etiquette and be polite, but with Steve, he slips. He's just so full. And Steve's so good at his job. He can't deny himself the pleasure of moaning and burping loudly as Steve works.

"Buuuurpp-"

"Hic! Ah! Oh! Hic! Ouch! Hic! Hup! Oww!"

"Ooooohhh, yess. That's good."

"Uuuuuuurp!"

"Yes! Right there, press there, it's so tight, oh, oww-"

"Hnnnn-"

"M-mmmph- more. More pressure. Yes! Like that! Oh-uuurp!"

"C-cahhh, careful, I'm, oof, I'm soo full. Mmngh, I might - hic! - pop!"

Steve might disguise his interest well under a judgy, almost resentful exterior - which is truthfully how he felt when he got here, like, look at this fat asshole, Steve grew up struggling with a single mother making tough decisions between feeding her child, buying the medicine her child needed badly, or keeping the heating on to keep her child from getting sicker, no good options and no compromises - but he is interested. Bucky is miles and miles of plush flesh that jiggles and ripples. So much for Steve to sink his hands into. He's just fat. That's all he is. Greedy and oversized. He deserves a little shit for it. It's fine. He can squeeze a little harder than necessary, he can relentlessly push down on the part of his tummy that hurts the most just to hear him groan through a painful yet releasing burp, he can see his face pinch in pain when Steve goads him into finishing the last scraps on his plate despite having called Steve in expressed because he's too full for more, he can make comments about how he's getting fatter, bigger, and more spoiled. He can snidely inquire if Bucky has gotten his bed reinforced yet or wonder out loud how his personal tailor keeps up with his expanding waistline, actually, how does his tailor measure his waistline these days? Does he have to make a custom tailors tape or have they given up on numbers by now? He can pretend to be a little weaker than he is, just for an excuse to call the other staff into Bucky's master bedroom, "needing" help with rolling his big, voluptuous body or sitting him up as much as possible under that heavy, fat belly that overflows his lap.

It's fine for Steve to look over his shoulder as he leaves, his job well done, to smirk like a shark at one food-drunk Bucky moaning through a bite of buttery, flaky pastry, telling him off, "haven't you had enough, Mr. Barnes?"

He's the only one willing to challenge Bucky. The other staffers suck in shocked breaths and duck their heads, embarrassed and trying to stay out of the way, assuming Steve's about to be fired. It's going to get ugly. Right?

But it doesn't.

Bucky likes it. His stomach is groaning - only barely soothed thanks to Steve, complaining with heavy sloshes, deep gurgles, and loud glorps - but Bucky doesn't care. All he cares about is more. More food, stuffing his gob. More of Steve's merciless touch, his mean words, and his judgemental eyebrows. More.

"Nu-uh," Bucky moans petulantly.

"Only you would think that," Steve's eyes flick down to his gut like the big, round thing is offensive, "isn't enough."

Bucky crams the rest of his pastry into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks and dusting crumbs down his double (closer to triple) chins and heaving moobs, it's a challenge.

Steve rises to it, stepping back into his bedroom to slap his blubbery belly hard.

Even though all the others have scuffled away, leaving the two of them alone, they must be able to hear the clap of his hand against his fat. That, or, they hear the guttural way Bucky moans. His white, pale flesh is stamped red with Steve's handprint.

"You just have to ruin my work, don't you?" Steve sneers, sitting on the side of the bed next to Bucky's immobilized form of rolls and curves, pinned in place by too much fattening, sugary food. "Nothing is ever good enough for you, so you just keep going, don't you? You're gonna pop, you know that, you fat, spoiled brat? You need to learn you have limits. You need to learn restraint. If you don't learn your lesson by yourself, you'll force my hand to teach it." Steve threatens, his hand raised again, on the cusp of slapping his tender, overstuffed tummy again.

Bucky whimpers, pouting at him, his bottom lip crumby and stuck far out, "don't need your help," he argues, mumbling, just to be contrary. He really does need him. He wants him too. So badly.

"You do, princess. You need me whether you like it or not," Steve teases. "You can't do anything by yourself, not with this-" Steve rears back to slap his belly hard a handful of times until Bucky's whimpering and squirming around like a turtle flipped onto its shell, inelegant and stuck "-in the way."

Bucky moans loudly. It hurts! But it hurts like it does when he pushes himself over his limits, his gut too full.

"I'm gonna put you on a diet," Steve threatens, "teach your spoiled, fat ass what restraint and hard work is the way Daddy and Mommy didn't, they just shoved a silver spoon in your mouth and called it a day 'cause you shut up."

It's terrible. It's awful. Bucky likes it.

"Please-!" The word falls out of Bucky's mouth for maybe the first time. He's Bucky Barnes. He doesn't beg. He has everything he wants and more! He's never had anything he had to plead for, he always just demands.

With one last hit right to the top of his belly, where the bulging is the worst, where he gets the tightest, Steve knows all too well, Steve leans in. His smile is all teeth. "Good boy," he rumbles, "that's a start. I might be able to whip you into shape after all, God knows you need some shape, too," he unkindly grabs a handful of fat, shaking it and thus sends jiggling ripples throughout Bucky's entire, fat body. He's all lard. "'Cause right now you're just a blob."

Bucky says it again, as it turns out, it feels good to say, "pleeease."

Steve gives him a dark look and despite what he was saying about shaping up and slimming down with a diet, he wastes no time reaching over to the tray of fine French pastries perched on Bucky's elegant nightstand, selecting one at random and shoving it into his face.

Bucky moans his way through every chew and swallow. With Steve's relentless force, massaging and now feeding, too, he's due for a growth spurt like he's never seen on his own. He's gonna outgrow his king-size bed in no time 🥵🥵

[welldonebeca]

about offices and feelings(2)

Summary: When Steve is stuck in an elevator with his office crush, he is forced to face his feelings about her. Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader WC: 1.7k words Warning: Dirty thoughts. Pining.

masterlist

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Eight minutes.

That was when the fire department was expected to show up, in eight minutes.

An eternity, in Steve's opinion, considering you two were stuck in an elevator, which had just been falling with you inside, broken.

The building's security team had someone who looked at the thing and assured him that it wouldn't move and that you two were safe, but it didn't help calm either of you down.

"Are they sure?" you asked, sounding frightened still.

Steve turned to you, finding you right in the same spot he had left you, unmoving.

"That we won't fall more?" you added.

Oh, goodness, you were shaking!

He forced himself to nod. Was he? No. But he wouldn't tell you that, of course.

"Elevators have... uh..." he looked for words, trying to remember what he had learned in the last security and evacuation protocol - which he imagined you hadn't gone through yet, considering it was a yearly training, and it was a few months away. "A braking system, you know? They stop it from falling, and... eight cables hold it in place, each able to take the full weight of the elevator. I think."

He wasn't sure of any of it but was certainly clinging to it, and it seemed to relieve you.

"Really?" you asked, looking a little less tense already.

Steve nodded quickly, and you swallowed down, patting around for your bag, but it was a little too far, and he knelt in front of you, making you nearly jump.

"Don't!" you gasped. "Don't move too fast!"

He slowed down, tense.

"Of course," he agreed quickly. "I'll... slow down."

Steve picked up your bag and opened it in front of you, setting it on your lap.

He watched as you picked up a big steel cup, drinking from a straw with big gulps, and closed your eyes, breathing in and out slowly.

"It's okay," he assured you. "It's okay, we are safe."

You nodded, still breathing in slowly.

"This is not how I thought I would start my Friday night," you laughed nervously.

He sat down by your side carefully, and you followed him with your eyes.

"Did you have any plans?"

You grimaced a bit, still not looking completely like your usual confident self.

"Hm... well,"  you seemed to look for words. "Alone time. To decompress from work."

Steve nodded along a bit.

"Long week?" he asked. "It mustn't be the easiest thing to work for Tony."

You looked away from him, looking suddenly flushed.

"Yeah," you mumbled. "That's... that's what I need to decompress for."

He sat silently there, rolled his sleeves up, feeling a little warm, and looked over at you when you fanned yourself with a hand.

"Hot?" he asked.

You looked at him with wide eyes.

"Yeah," you squeaked. "I got... a few layers."

Oh?

"Like an undershirt?" he asked.

"For modesty," you mumbled. "Buttons can be a little tricky to wear."

His eyes automatically fell on your tits but caught himself just as quickly, and you didn't seem to notice.

"You can..." he gestured, looking away. "I mean... I will."

He tugged on his own shirt, half-assed unbuttoning it.

Steve didn't want you to be uncomfortable, after all.

He rolled his sleeves as high-up as possible and opened the shirt, and would have kicked off his shoes if he wasn't over-worrying about his feet smelling bad.

To his surprise, when he looked over at you, you had both taken off your full shirt - wearing just a thick top in the same colour - and were staring at his forearms, looking decidedly pleased.

Oh?

He flexed his hand, and you inhaled deeply, clearing your throat and looking away.

Oh.

"Sorry," you mumbled.

"It's fine," he assured you. "I... hm..."

What would he even say?!

You chuckled nervously.

"Lots of muscles for an office job," you joked.

He laughed out, relaxing a bit more.

"I mean, have you ever seen the amount of product we get through in my department?" he joked back. "Gotta be able to carry it up and down."

You giggled.

"Yeah, I mean... lots of marketing products," you teased. "I'm sure the boss is the one who picks up most stuff."

Steve raised his eyebrows, squinting, and you covered your face with a hand.

"Sorry," you said quickly. "I didn't think it would come out mean. I know you work a lot, just less visibly."

"Like you," he added. "Tony can't function without an assistant."

You snorted.

"You tell me," you snorted. "At least it's good pay."

Again, you two fell into silence.

"Is that how you decompress?" you asked. "Gym?"

He nodded.

"Sometimes," he shrugged. "I used to be a pretty skinny guy when I was young, so I got into fitness to help with my health problems, and then it became more about how much I liked doing it."

You nodded a bit, looking a little uncomfortable.

"Yeah, good thing," you agreed.

Steve frowned a bit. Why were you looking so bothered?

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Waiting for the moment when you'll bring some health issue you probably think I have to tell me that the gym is going to solve it," you spoke, sounding very annoyed.

It surprised him for a moment.

"How would I know anything about your health? I'm not your doctor," he shook his head. "This... I wasn't.... I didn't think about weight. I mean..."

He was both confused and annoyed. Did people bring up that with you all the time?

That was rude.

"I had asthma and arrhythmia," he told you. "Heart palpitations, high blood pressure, scoliosis... flat feet, constantly had sinusitis..."

You were positively shocked.

"Wait, lifting weights fixed all of it?"

He chuckled.

"A bit," he told you, reaching for his work back and taking his inhaler from inside. "I still have to carry this around. But it helped with my heart and the stuff related to it, and with the allergies that caused the sinusitis."

You nodded along, very impressed.

"Oh, and I had chronic anaemia," he remembered. "Which is why I focus a lot on my iron intake. Lots of liver."

You grimaced.

"Oh, poor you," you half-laughed, looking genuinely icked.

He giggled a bit.

"I guess making you dinner at my home is out of question, then," he spoke, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could even stop himself.

You turned to him fast and wide-eyed.

"What?" you gasped

He swallowed down, embarrassed.

"What, what?"

"I'm sorry," he spoke quickly. "That was unprofessional of me."

You two stared at one another, and you let out a long breath that seemed like a mix of laugh and shock, which embarrassed him.

Was the idea of going out with him that bad?

"No," you spoke quickly. "No, no. I mean... that wasn't... I..."

You covered your face with your hands, looking absolutely embarrassed.

"I didn't mean it like that," you said quickly. "I'm just surprised. That is it. I mean... I- I... I..."

He wanted to calm you down through the stutters, but he was just as surprised and confused.

"I thought I saw you looking at me," you squeezed out of yourself. "And I... I-I thought you were judging me. Every time you did."

Steve raised his eyebrows in shock.

"Judging you?"

"This big, beefy gym guy," you told him. "Practically following me with his eyes, I thought you thought..."

But you didn't complete your train of thought.

"I mean, wanting to take me out for dinner was the last thing I'd think you were thinking about."

And once again, Steve let out something stupid.

"Well, I was thinking a great many things, miss."

And to his surprise, you outrightly grabbed his hand.

"Like what?" you asked, staring right at your face.

And it took everything in him not to just show you exactly what he wanted to do to you.

"We are in an elevator, probably being watched by whoever takes care of security," he half-whispered. "I'm not sure it would be considered polite to speak and do the things I want to."

You swallowed down, flushing in response.

"I'm not the only one, then," you looked at his face, all coy.

Steve had to will himself to stay proper.

Still, he leaned in closer to you, giving you space to come closer.

A kiss.

Just one kiss, and he could keep everything proper with you.

You met him halfway, pressing your lips to his and cupping his face with a hand.

It was sweet and warm, your lips were just as soft as he thought they would be, and Steve did his best to keep it appropriate.

You, though, weren't sharing the same thought, and just as you pressed your tongue to his lips, the elevator shook itself and the lights came on, making the two of you jump in surprise.

The two of you stood up, but the elevator didn't stop, just moving down as if nothing had happened.

He helped you gather stuff, and by the time you go to the existing floor, you had your shirt over yourself and your purse in your hands.

"There you are," someone spoke as the door opened.

The firefighter's team.

"We are sorry for any delays," the chief started talking. "It-"

"We are safe and fine," you said quickly. "It's great. Thank you for saving us, but we gotta get going."

Steve turned to you in a bit of surprise, but you just grabbed his hand.

You did?

"We have a prior engagement we are very late to," you told them. "Thank you."

And what else could he do but blush and follow you along?

You guided him down to the garage without even seeming to think much, and you stopped right as you go to the empty lot, and you finally looked at his face.

"I might be about to embarrass myself," you decided. "And this is going to be so fast. But I really want to fuck you."

Oh. Good, good.

Steve was a bit stunned for a moment, but not unhappy at all.

"I live nearby," you told him. "And I have two garage spots."

He nodded quickly. Good, then.

"I'll follow you," he decided. "Lead the way.”

…

“about offices and feelings” was posted on my Patreon in June. To have early access to my works, subscribe to my page! It’s just $2 a month, and I post 6x a week.

If you liked "this "about offices and feelings", you might enjoy IT'S A BAD IDEA, RIGHT? Summary: The worst idea a waitress in Mama Stefka can have is to fall in love with a man in Hydra. They aren’t supposed to even talk! It doesn’t stop Betty, though. BRATTY BABY Summary: When you act out, Steve and Bucky teach you, their bratty baby, a lesson.   (It’s just porn. There is barely a plot holding this together.)

. . .

…

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[bigtreefest]

ESSIE! Stop writing chapter 14 of the The Rainmaker when you haven’t even touched chapter 8 yet!!!! 😭😭😭👿👿👿

[mistyhibiscus]

I want this

Okay but imagine this: You're a knight hunting for what you thought were the last of the orcs. You follow the few footsteps into a cave. When you reach deep enough you've realized your mistake. It was a trap. One orc you could easily strike down with an arrow until another one comes from behind. You find yourself in a cave, naked and sandwiched between not one but two orcs (stucky) stretching you to the max. Your legs flail with each violent thrust. There's a prominent belly bulge too.

Ok, I didn't expect this to happen, but here it is 🙈

Pairing: orc!Stucky x knight!Reader

Warnings: non-con, obsession, overstimulation, breeding, allusion to kidnapping.

Words: 726

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You're exhausted to the point you can barely understand what's happening: your head is empty, but your womb is full of orcs' seed; all you feel is hot, muscled bodies of two nasty orcs, covered in sweat and mix of their cum and your juices. You don't know what they've done to your body since your ass and pussy would never take their scary 10 inches cocks, but now your holes are stretched just perfectly around them, sucking them in despite being full of hot sticky seed. Fuck, you're spent to the point you can't even move your tongue, but orcs keep going again and again. Apparently, all those stories about their stamina were true.

You've never been kissed so deeply before, but you like it when one of these monsters stuffs your mouth with his long, slimy tongue, licking yours, claiming your mouth till you can't breathe and your eyes roll down to the back of your skull. His cock tears your asshole apart, and you like it so fucking much.

The other orc leaves his marks on your neck, though you don't think there's a place that they have missed, covering your skin in hickeys, bruises and a few bite marks they left when you tried fighting them. Other orc's cock is buried in your abused core to the hilt, cum constantly leaking out of it.

"Bucky, I wanna have her." The orc with blonde hair whispers gently, kissing you on the lips and caressing your cheek.

The other one smirks: you can feel it on your skin. "But she's such a brat. You wanna have a bratty wife?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna teach her how to be good to us." Steve murmurs against your lips, his warm chest pressed into your back. "You gonna be good, honey? Tell Bucky you'll be a good girl for him."

You don't think how you ended up here, sandwiched between two monsters with their huge, fat cocks inside your holes; you don't remember being a proud knight sent to clear this cave from orcs, filthy disgusting creatures you swore to banish from these lands to protect your king. The only thing on your mind is how nice these monsters fill you up, rubbing all the right spots, making you cum your brains out while they pleasure you again and again. Yes, your belly is round and heavy with their seed, but it's alright, you think. Maybe you'd give birth to a couple of pretty little orclings, what's wrong with that?

"I'll be your good girl." You mewl, your tongue barely moving when Bucky forces his hips forward particularly hard, thrusting his cock so deep inside your pussy you come again with your mouth open. Grinning, orc gives you a deep kiss, too, pinching your poor nipples he and Steve sucked so much as if you already have milk.

"That's why a woman should never be a knight, sweetheart." He laughs, caressing your hair and smiling to Steve. "Your place is the sack, you see? Shit, look at that dumb bitch's face, Steve, we've fucked her silly."

Dark haired orc makes you take out your tongue and licks just its tip, slowly sucking it inside his mouth and feeling how small it is comparing to his, licking his tusks. Your cunt is milking him again, and soon Bucky cums in you with a grunt, cursing and closing his eyes for a couple of seconds. Steve murmurs something softly in your ear and stills behind you, too, filling your ass up, shooting hot ropes of his sticky seed inside your abused hole. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you love it, you love it so much you wanna spend your life serving these monstrous cocks, having them stretch you wide and cum buckets in you, suck them every morning and every night, polish these heavy balls with your kitten tongue and-

"We're going to keep her." Bucky finally exhales, his hand gently cupping your bulging belly. "I wanna breed this bitch till she gives us plenty pretty kids."

"You gonna be a cute little mommy." Steve smiles warmly at you, his hand also on your sensitive belly as he strokes it lovingly, peppering the top of your head with kisses. "Don't worry, we'll take care of you, sweetheart. Just open your legs and be a good girl to the both of us."

______________

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