Chapter 4
When they step out onto the street, Steve feels like he can’t quite catch his breath, like he's a kid again and his asthma’s acting up. This is happening. Whatever this is. Bucky. Him. Ice cream. Jesus.
Every impulse in him is screaming to grab Bucky’s arm and drag him home as quickly as possible, but Steve reconsiders when he looks over at Bucky.
Bucky looks full, like every step is a little uncomfortable. The curve of his tummy is visible under the fabric of his jacket, and he’s not even trying to suck it in—which Steve has noticed is a thing Bucky does now, sometimes, when they’re out. But not right now. Steve is pretty sure that Bucky couldn’t do it if he tried, at this point. He’s already breathless, gloved hand clamped to the side of his belly.
“You sure you can eat ice cream?” Steve says, leaning close to Bucky’s ear, slowing his stride to match Bucky’s. He wants to reach out and take his hand, but he isn’t sure what the rules are, where the boundaries lie, so he settles for being near enough that their elbows brush.
Bucky huffs. “’Course I’m sure, Rogers.”
*
When they get back to the apartment, Bucky shrugs out of the jacket and flops onto the couch, stripping the glove off of his metal hand. He plops his boots down on the coffee table and lies back, looking so bloated and hedonistic—and beautifully, breathtakingly gorgeous—that Steve can barely stand it.
“You gonna get that ice cream?” Bucky asks, not bothering to open his eyes.
“Are you using a rubber band to button your jeans?”
The left corner of Bucky’s mouth turns up ever so slightly; it’s almost unnoticeable, except that Steve notices everything about Bucky. Bucky reaches down and tugs at his waistband a little, shifting. “What’s it to you, Rogers?”
“Nothing.” Steve lingers in the doorway for a minute, watching Bucky’s round little gut rise and fall with each of his shallow breaths. “You should undo it, though, if you want ice cream.”
Bucky grumbles and tugs the button free, rubber band and all. Steve can’t quite stop his own intake of breath when Bucky’s tummy shifts forward, the zipper audibly sliding down.
When he comes back with the ice cream and a spoon, Bucky hasn’t moved at all—he’s just lounging there, looking indolent and comfortable and not the least bit nervous that his best friend is about to shovel ice cream down his throat.
“Hey, pal,” Bucky says. He doesn’t lift his head from the back of the couch, but his eyes track Steve’s movement across the room. “You all right there?”
Is Steve all right? He’s—he’s nervous, is what he is. He’s had sex. Natasha might think otherwise, but she’s wrong. He’s had sex. During the war and in this century. But—but he hasn’t had a lot of it, and he hasn’t ever done something like this, something that he wants so badly that his hands are nearly shaking with it, something that makes him feel like he’s about to burst into flames with wanting.
He’s never done anything with Bucky.
Steve nods, sinking down onto the sofa and prying the lid off the ice cream. He peers inside, and there’s maybe half the carton left. “You’ve already eaten half of it,” he says, stating the obvious.
“Don’t act surprised, bud. You replace that shit every time I finish one.”
“Every two days,” Steve murmurs, scraping up a spoonful of ice cream. He lifts it up a bit and then hesitates, not sure how to proceed, but Bucky just looks at him and nods, his eyes soft and wide.
“Go ahead, Stevie.”
It’s all the consent Steve needs, and he presses the spoon between Bucky’s pretty pink lips, soft and incongruous against his hard Winter Soldier self.
Bucky licks the spoon clean and waits, watching Steve calmly. When Steve’s hand shakes a little as he spoons up another bite, Bucky reaches out, his flesh hand landing lightly around Steve’s wrist. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
Steve blinks, feeling embarrassed that Bucky’s having to comfort him, embarrassed that he’s this affected by what they’re doing. It shouldn’t even be that big of a deal—it’s fucking ice cream, for god’s sake. It’s not even explicitly sexual.
Except it is, and they both know it. Bucky just seems much less fazed by it than Steve.
He takes a deep breath, steadies his hand, and spoons another bite into Bucky’s mouth. And another. And another. With each one, he feels a little more confident, a little less like he’s about to rattle apart from nerves and wanting. And Bucky—Bucky just eats, accepting every bite Steve spoons up, eating with the same efficiency he always displays now. His eyes are sharper, though, trained on Steve.
Eventually Bucky groans a little, shifting and putting both hands onto his round belly and squeezing a little, rubbing it. Steve keeps feeding him, but his attention is on Bucky’s tummy, which looks seriously swollen, like he can’t possibly be comfortable.
“Does it hurt?” Steve asks, still feeding him steadily.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder, rubbing his tummy a little more firmly. “Yeah—ate a lot tonight.”
“You look like you’re about to pop,” Steve blurts, starting to blush as soon as the words are out.
Bucky just breathes out a soft little groan of laughter, his eyes still glued to Steve. “Yeah? Think I should quit?”
Steve looks down at the container of ice cream, which is nearly empty, and shakes his head. “Finish this.”
“Thought you were worried I’d bust,” Bucky sasses, swallowing another bite.
“You’ll make it,” Steve says, directing a particularly full spoonful into Bucky’s mouth. “Couple more left and you’re done.”
Bucky nods, panting a little but obediently taking the last few bites.
Steve sets down the empty container and just looks, lets himself stare his fill at Bucky. Bucky, who has his head thrown back against the back of the sofa, both hands wrapped around his swollen gut. Bucky, who looks like seven kinds of sin, glutted and unapologetic. Bucky, who has one eye open and is peering at him, looking a little amused.
“Well, Rogers. Now what?”
Steve blinks. “We’re out of ice cream.”
“Christ, that’s probably a good thing,” Bucky says, cradling his tummy. “I can hardly breathe.”
Steve starts to reach out, wanting so badly to put his hand on the fat little ball of Bucky’s belly. He can’t quite bring himself to do it, though; it’s such an intimate thing, in ways Steve can’t quite explain. More intimate, somehow, than any of the sex Steve has had, either before or after the war.
“Touch it, Stevie. I know you want to,” Buck says, managing to sound nonchalant, like it’s a totally normal thing to want, to want to touch your best friend’s fat belly after you’ve stuffed him senseless.
Bucky sounds so calm and easy about it, though, that it puts Steve at ease somehow, too. In that moment, Steve realizes for the first time exactly how Bucky had been able to get his hands up the skirts of half the women in Brooklyn, back before the war. Not because he was handsome—although he was, of course. Not even because he was particularly charming—although he’d had that in spades back then, too. But no, it wasn’t any of that. It was this, this easy way he had that made you feel like everything was okay, like it was okay to want something, to indulge in it.
Steve reaches out, then, and rests his hand lightly, so lightly, on the grey cotton of Bucky’s sweater, where it’s pulled taut over his tummy.
Bucky inhales, shifts a little so that he pushes his belly up against Steve’s hand. “It’s okay, pal,” he breathes, and Steve believes him. Slides his hand under Bucky’s sweater and then just goes for it, reaching out with his other hand, too, and tugging the sweater up, exposing Bucky’s warm, round belly.
Bucky’s gut is firmer than he expected, stuffed full with everything he’s shoved down his throat tonight—and, uh, then the stuff Steve has shoved down his throat. When Steve had poked him the other day, teasing him about doing crunches, his belly had been soft, but now it feels taut, like a balloon. At least, it feels that way until Steve works his hands down to the bottom curve of it, where the flesh is still striped with red lines from Bucky’s too-tight jeans. Here his tummy is soft, all pinchable chub that Steve can’t resist jostling a little, just for the sheer joy of seeing it bounce.
Steve feels like he could get lost in this, rubbing Bucky’s belly, tracing the curve of it, hefting it in his hand to feel the solid weight of it. He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him, though, and he looks up, blushing.
“You gonna take me to bed, Rogers, or just sit here all night getting handsy with me?”
“Didn’t know you’d be that easy to get into bed,” Steve shoots back, relishing the comfort of their shared antagonism.
“Didn’t know you’d be such a weird fucker,” Bucky says, looking pointedly down at Steve’s big hands cupping his gut.
Shit. “You started it, buddy.”
Bucky snorts, leaning over until he’s flush against Steve’s side. “How exactly did I start it?”
“You—you ate a carton of ice cream every two days for a month, Bucky! Jesus."
Bucky laughs. A full, actual laugh that warms Steve’s heart. “The fact you think that counts as starting something says it all, Stevie.”
And before Steve can respond, Bucky’s kissing him. His metal hand is on the back of Steve’s neck, gently tugging him down, and he tastes like ice cream, sticky sweet, his mouth still a little cold. It’s a little awkward—they’re sitting side by side, and Bucky seems unwilling—unable?—to move much, so unless Steve straddles him, they can’t really get too serious about this. It’s just slow, lazy kisses, leaning into each other, Steve’s hands still grasping Bucky’s belly.
Bucky’s the one who finally pulls back, and Steve feels so dazed that he can’t quite figure out what to do next. Bucky looks at him for a moment, big blue eyes watching, scanning him for something, before he says, “c’mon, pal.”
In the bedroom, Bucky strips his sweater off and sits down, leaning forward with a grimace to unlace his boots. His little tummy pools forward, looking even fatter as he bends over it, breathless. An image flashes in Steve’s mind of Bucky much bigger, big enough that he can’t really reach his boots, belly grown too big for him to reach over without panting, and Steve swallows hard. Fuck.
Once his boots are off, Bucky lies down on the bed slowly, like he’s still so full he has to be careful. It makes Steve’s dick lurch, watching the way Bucky moves, all careful and ginger, like his exposed belly is tender, and Bucky watches him like he knows it, knows exactly what Steve is thinking and what is turning him on.
Steve whips his own shirt off without much care, dropping it aside and following Bucky onto the bed. “Want these off?” he asks, tugging at the open waistband of Bucky’s jeans.
Bucky nods, lifting his hips a little to help as Steve works the denim down to expose thick thighs. When Bucky’s down to just a pair of boxer briefs, Steve can’t help but pull back and admire him for a moment. He’s gorgeous, filled in and soft again, thick through the middle, from chest to hip just solid and stocky, capped off with a swollen tummy. His face has filled out, too—just like always, he carries weight in his face easily. He’s all cherub cheeks and a blurred jawline that shifts into an actual double chin if he looks down, a baby-faced killer.
“You too,” Bucky says, tugging at Steve’s jeans. Steve doesn’t hesitate, stripping out of them quick and lying down. Bucky gives him another one of those little lip curling half smiles he’s been doing tonight, and then they’re kissing again, more intensely now. With a purpose, like they both know it’s going somewhere.
Steve throws a leg over Bucky’s thighs, tangling them together. Eventually, he keeps making his way over until he’s all the way on top of Bucky, leaning down over him to find his mouth, when Bucky grunts a little underneath him. “Watch the belly, huh? It’s sore, champ.”
Steve pulls back, looking down at the swollen little belly between them. “You want to get on top of me?” he asks.
“God no. Too full for that,” Bucky says, pulling him into another kiss. “Just don’t lay on my guts, okay?”
They kiss until their lips are sticky with ice cream spit and Steve is panting, desperate to grind his cock somewhere—anywhere—on or near Bucky.
“Come up like this,” Bucky says, moving Steve’s big body around like it’s nothing, positioning him straddled over Bucky’s hips. “Gonna make you feel good.”
Bucky retrieves the Astroglide from Steve’s bedside table, pulling open the drawer with his metal hand and rummaging around until he finds it, like he just assumes Steve keeps lube there. Which is an accurate assumption.
Steve is still, letting Bucky take the lead as he shoves down the front of first his own underwear and then Steve’s. Steve grinds down a little, and Bucky thrusts up, and then—shit—their cocks are touching, and Steve feels like his brain is about to short out.
Bucky watches him with his sniper’s eyes, like he knows everything Steve is thinking, and he dumps lube out onto his hand and then—Christ—wraps his flesh hand around both of their cocks, holding them together, stroking up, twisting. The angle isn’t perfect—as technique goes, Steve could certainly jerk off faster and more efficiently alone—but the feeling is perfect, Steve’s cock sliding slippery and hot against Bucky’s.
Steve braces himself with one hand above Bucky’s shoulder and lets the other one grab onto Bucky’s soft side—his love handle, that’s the appropriate term and that’s exactly how Steve is using it—and just clings, feeling like he can’t catch his breath. He’s tense already, the buzz of an approaching orgasm tingling at the bottom of his spine, and it’s going to happen fast, embarrassingly fast. Bucky strokes a little more firmly and pants, “It’s okay, sweetheart.”
And just like that, it is okay, and Steve comes, hard, watching his own come land on Bucky’s belly. Bucky jerks him through it, keeps it up until it almost hurts, and then comes himself, eyes drifting shut when his orgasm hits him.
Steve wants to flop down on Bucky but doesn’t, sliding off to the side in deference to Bucky’s full belly.
“You’re a mess,” Steve says, dragging a finger through the cooling mess splattered across Bucky’s middle.
“You started it.”
Steve finishes it, too, fetching a warm washcloth from the bathroom and cleaning them both up, sliding the warm fabric over Bucky’s distended tummy gently, Bucky’s eyes on him the entire time. He’s silent—like always, now—but Steve can tell he’s relaxed, spent and full, and it makes Steve want to purr with contentment, to see Bucky at ease like this.
Steve wonders—worries—that Bucky will go back to his own room, but he doesn’t. Just eventually pads into the bathroom and then returns without a word, crawling into Steve’s bed like it’s his God-given right to sleep there. And it is, of course—they shared a bed a lot before the war, would push their little twin mattresses together every winter and huddle together. It was for warmth, ostensibly. That was always what they said. But that didn’t explain why sometimes, even in the summer, when Brooklyn was so hot it was almost unbearable, Bucky would still slip into Steve’s bed, just to be next to him.
Now, just like then, Bucky slides in behind Steve and manhandles him a little bit, rearranging him like a doll until Steve’s on his side and Bucky is spooning him, one arm thrown over Steve’s broad chest. It feels different than it had before the war, when Steve had been so small. The ratio is different, their bodies fit together differently. Bucky’s big tummy fits perfectly into his lower back, a warm round presence that feels so comforting Steve can’t help but press back into it.
“You feel good,” he mumbles. “This. This feels good.”
“Like home, huh?” Bucky says, and Steve knows that home doesn’t mean a place but a time.
Steve nods, though Bucky won’t be able to see it in the dark. “Always liked it when you held me like this.” Steve reaches an arm back and pats Bucky’s tummy lightly, just a couple of gentle taps. “You were skinnier then, but you still had a little pooch you’d press up against me.”
Bucky is silent for a moment, and Steve swears he can feel him raising his eyebrows against Steve’s shoulder. “Really?”
“Yeah. Felt warm. Safe. Still does.”
“So you’ve always been a kinky little shit, then.”
Steve snorts. “That’s not what I said. I just—you were always a little soft, before. Before the war. I’m glad it’s back.”
“Good.”
*
Steve makes pancakes the next morning. He doesn’t even think about it, just slips off into the kitchen while Bucky’s still sleeping and makes enough pancakes to feed a small army.
Bucky appears in the doorway, looking sleepy and rumpled in track pants and an undershirt. His boots are on, which hurts Steve’s heart a little, but otherwise he looks relaxed, morning-soft and a little sweet, if mostly incommunicado supersoldiers with metal arm attachments can look sweet. Steve thinks yes, they definitely can.
“Hungry?” Steve asks, and as soon as the word is out he can feel a flush rising to his cheeks.
Bucky just nods, coming in and fixing his coffee like always, creamy and sweet, more like dessert than a beverage.
Steve takes the liberty of fixing Bucky’s plate, giving him an enormous stack of pancakes and a couple of sausage patties. He hands it over, and then loses a minute watching Bucky carefully apply butter not just to the top of the stack, but in between each pancake, slathering it on generously before dousing the whole buttery mess with a flood of syrup. He eats the pancakes, then the sausage, and then refills his plate and repeats the entire process. Steve manages to eat his own breakfast while he watches, shamelessly eyeing the way Bucky’s undershirt clings to the fat around his middle, the way his belly button is clearly outlined.
Bucky looks up at him occasionally, but doesn’t bother talking. His mouth quirks up in the corner, though, whenever he catches Steve looking.