“Christ, Steve, you fucking pervert.” Bucky tries to prop himself up into something slightly closer to a sitting position, but it’s difficult. His gut, stuffed full, is pinning him down, and he’s been sprawled on the couch for the last two hours, letting Steve slowly feed him a truly egregious amount of food. It had started with dinner—which had been less like a meal and more like an endless parade of Chinese takeout containers, entrée after entrée disappearing down his throat—and then segued seamlessly on to dessert. Dessert, in this instance, had been Steve bringing out a carton of ice cream and plunking it roughly on Bucky’s belly along with a spoon, as if he just expected Bucky to eat the entire thing in one sitting.
Which was not an entirely unreasonable thing to think, although Bucky’s about three quarters of the way through it and starting to flag. Not that his obvious discomfort is any sort of deterrent for Steve, who’s still shoving drippy spoonfuls into his mouth with the single-minded purpose that he brings to bear on everything he does, including weird non-sexual sex acts like stuffing Bucky to the gills.
“You know you can finish it,” Steve says, holding out another bite.
Bucky grudgingly wraps his lips around the spoon. “Fucking pervert,” he repeats, the words muffled by ice cream this time. “Do you know how much I’ve eaten already tonight? God, look at me.” He gestures idly to his own belly, the swollen and flabby curve of it. He can’t see the lower half of his tummy, but he can feel cool air on the flesh there and knows that his gut’s hanging out, his t-shirt pulled up to expose the softest part of him.
At his words, Steve’s eyes glaze over, drifting over Bucky’s gut, and he frowns, his eyes darting from Bucky’s belly to the carton of ice cream.
He wants to feed Bucky the rest of the ice cream despite his protests, Bucky knows. Steve’s been in a particularly bossy mood lately, pushing Bucky harder than he usually does, telling him what to do with a little more steel in his voice than usual.
It’s fucking hot, and Bucky loves watching Steve take what he wants. Most people—Steve included—would probably say that Bucky’s primary kink is being a fucking fatass. It’s a reasonable thing to think, but it’s not entirely true. He likes food—likes seeing his big belly pressed up against Steve’s abs—an awfully lot, but his favorite thing is sussing out exactly what Steve wants and making sure he gets it. And tonight, Bucky can tell, Steve wants to be in charge. Maybe more in charge than he’s ever been.
“You love it, don’t you?” Bucky asks in a mock-casual voice, allowing Steve to feed him another sloppy bite of ice cream and then running his hands over his belly and giving it a gentle little shake. “All this?”
Steve’s breath catches, and Bucky watches him closely. “It’s all your fault, you know,” he continues, still purposely casual. “That I can barely fit in any of my clothes again. I ought to start telling you no when you bring out the ice cream, Rogers.”
Steve’s eyes fly up to Bucky’s face, and he looks a little stricken, so Bucky lays it on even heavier. “I think that’s what I’m gonna do, Stevie. Start telling you no when you start trying to shove ice cream down my throat. We both know it’s all your fault I’m so fat.” That is, of course, a bald-faced lie. Steve is a contributing factor, but Bucky was fat as hell before Steve ever showed up on his doorstep.
Steve rolls his eyes, giving Bucky that look he always gives him when Bucky’s being mouthy, like he can’t decide whether he thinks it’s adorable or infuriating. Bucky grins, doubling down on the steady stream of bullshit he’s currently directing at Steve. “It’s kinky, Steve, is what it is.” He gives his belly a firmer shake, his eyes widening a little despite himself when he sees just how much his belly wobbles. Christ, he’s fucking fat. It still sneaks up on him, occasionally, how big he is. “What’s it do for you, all of this, hmm?” He peers up at Steve, widening his eyes. “Big handsome weirdo.”
“Shut up, Buck,” Steve says mildly, looking so fucking pretty and blond that Bucky can hardly stand it, that he can hardly stay in character for wanting to tell Steve how much he loves him.
But that’s how much he loves Steve—he loves him enough to push him right over the goddamn edge. And so he does. “Make me, Rogers.”
Finally, finally, Bucky gets a reaction. Steve’s shoulders tense momentarily, and his grip on the spoon falters for just a moment. Bucky steels himself for another huge bite shoved into his mouth, but it doesn’t happen. Instead, Steve inhales softly and then sets the carton down, along with the spoon.
“Make you?” Steve scans Bucky’s face, like he’s looking for something that Bucky can’t quite define.
“Sure, pal, if you think you can.” Bucky pops his dimples obnoxiously, a smile that he knows Steve associates with Bucky-before-the-war, Bucky-who-got-what-he-wanted, Bucky-who-charmed-everyone. A smile that he knows arouses and irritates Steve in equal measure, even seventy years later.
Something in Steve’s posture changes again, and a little muscle in his stupidly sharp jaw tics. “Fine.” He sweeps his gaze down from Bucky’s face to his gut and then back up, his expression suddenly sharp, almost harsh. “Sit up—if you can.” And something about Steve’s expression, that cool, focused judgement, brings a surprising flush of heat to Bucky’s cheeks as he obediently struggles to push himself up into a little more of a sit.
“Christ, here,” Steve grits out, roughly tugging Bucky up until he’s propped up partially against the arm of the sofa. Then his hand darts out, laser-quick, and tugs Bucky’s too-small shirt up even higher, exposing the entirety of his enormous belly. It wrinkles up at the top of his gut, catching under his pecs and his fat armpits, and somehow that makes him feel even more exposed than if he’d had no shirt on at all. Even more embarrassed.
“You want me to shut you up?” Steve’s voice is absolutely steady, almost without inflection at all. It might be like he’s asking Bucky about the weather, or if he’d like another beer.
Bucky nods, not quite trusting his voice.
Steve inhales again, a deep and even breath, and on the exhale he raises his palm and brings it down with an obscene smack right across the broadest part of Bucky’s exposed belly. Bucky gasps, a little shriek dying in his throat until he emits a strangled yelp.
“I’d put you over you my knee,” Steve says casually, and Bucky can’t believe it, but he’s raising his hand again, “but you’re too fucking fat for that, aren’t you?”
Apparently, Bucky’s not expected to answer, which is a good thing, since he can’t seem to find any words. “So this’ll have to do,” Steve finishes, and then he drops his big hand down again, a brutal slap right across Bucky’s gut. There’s enough force behind it that Bucky’s entire body seems to shake with it, not just the flab of his belly but all the way up to his chubby arms, all the way around his tubby sides and down to his thighs.
Oh god oh godohgod.
Bucky hasn’t even caught his breath before Steve’s hand comes down again, three more times in quick succession, and Bucky can’t stop himself from squirming. He can’t even tell if he’s trying to wriggle away from Steve or move closer to him. It doesn’t really matter, since he can’t seem to get enough momentum to pull himself up from under Steve’s onslaught, anyway.
“You asked for this,” Steve tells him, and he doesn’t sound like himself at all. He sounds stern, authoritative, and weirdly regretful, as if Bucky is a wayward child who’s pushed him to take this drastic—and weird, this really fucking weird—action. “Look at yourself, Buck. Look how fat you are.”
Bucky obediently glances down at the mound of his belly, sucking in a whimper when Steve slaps his hand down two more times. He strikes low this time, under Bucky’s belly button, and the force of it pushes his gut up and forward uncomfortably, forcing an involuntary little grunt from Bucky’s throat.
He opens his mouth to say something—to tell Steve he’s too goddamn full for this, or that it hurts, or that he actually didn’t ask for Steve to slap him across the gut until he left handprints on Bucky’s flab—but he can’t find any words. And, he realizes dimly, a part of him doesn’t really want to say anything. Doesn’t want Steve to stop.
Steve strikes him again, two more sharp smacks, higher this time, and then stays his hand. “I can’t believe you had the nerve to say it’s my fault you got so fucking fat,” he says, looking down at Bucky grimly. “We both know that’s a lie.” He raises his hand again, and this time he punctuates every slap of his hand with a word. “You. Are. Fat. Because. You. Eat. Too. Much.”
The last hit catches the side of Bucky’s belly and ricochets forward over the roundest part of his gut, and it’s too much. The sting of it, the burn, the humiliation, is overwhelming, and Bucky can hear a pathetic little whimper escape his throat. “Stevie,” he mumbles, and it sounds perilously close to begging, even to his own ears. “Stevie, please.”
Please, what? he sort of expects Steve to say, but he doesn’t. He just surveys Bucky for a moment, his big blue eyes impassive, and then clears his throat. “Ten more. Count them.”
Bucky’s cheeks burn with heat, both at Steve’s words and at the way that Steve’s free hand shoves Bucky’s tummy up—his grasping fingers rough against the hot, tingly skin—and grasps his cock. He slides his thumb over his slit, smearing precome roughly over his head, and Bucky can’t stop his hips from snapping weakly. “I know you can do it, Buck—I know you like it.”
Jesus fucking Christ. It doesn’t even sound like his Steve, saying these things.
His throat seems to close up again, because all he can do is nod. Agree.
“Count them so I can hear it,” Steve says pleasantly, and then wallops Bucky right across the gut with the back of his hand.
“Oh, fuck, one,” Bucky yelps, and he doesn’t even have a chance to recover before two, three, and four are delivered in quick sequence. He shouts out the numbers, feeling like he might die of embarrassment. His belly is rippling like jello.
“It hurts, Steve—“
“It’s supposed to,” Steve interrupts, and then five and six are branded across his tummy. “God, look at all that,” Steve says, watching the dough of Bucky’s belly jiggle with the force of the blows.
Bucky closes his eyes.
“Four more,” Steve says, and this time he sounds just slightly, slightly gentler. “Count them.”
Bucky nods, eyes still shut, and his voice is shaky when he counts seven, eight, nine in a whisper.
“One more. Open your eyes.”
Bucky does, and Steve’s last slap is feather-light, the kiss of his open palm on the side of Bucky’s immense belly.
“Ten,” Bucky chokes out, and Steve smiles down at him.
“Good, you did so good,” he murmurs, leaning carefully over Bucky’s belly to drop a little kiss on the corner of his mouth.
Bucky’s still panting, still feeling stunned, when Steve slides off the edge of the sofa to his knees and kisses down the huge curve of Bucky’s over-sensitive belly, his mouth leaving a hot, wet trail down his gut, across the sensitive pad of fat above his dick.
“So good,” Steve repeats, like he earnestly believes Bucky’s done something worth praising, just for lying there with his belly hanging out. Bucky wants, a little bit, to argue with him, or to say something, but before he can do it, Steve’s mouth is on the head of his cock, and then he’s swallowing him down, and Bucky can’t think, let alone speak.
*
In bed that night, Steve runs his hand carefully, so carefully, over Bucky’s belly. “Does it hurt?” he whispers, and his voice sounds absolutely like himself again, sweet and a little tentative, a little bit in awe.
Bucky huffs out a laugh. “Do you mean does it hurt because I’m full or because you fucking assaulted me?” He knows Steve can hear the smile in his voice.
Steve ducks his head. “Both? Either?”
“Stings,” Bucky says, pushing his gut forward a little more into Steve’s hands. “But it feels good, too.”
Steve nods in the darkness, dropping a few feathery kisses on Bucky’s fat side, in between the rolls of flesh stacked along his deeply-buried ribs.
Bucky’s nearing the point of falling asleep when Steve clears his throat. “Buck?”
“Mm?”
“I would never hurt you,” Steve says, and his voice is so damned earnest that Bucky’s heart lurches a little.
“I know that, Stevie.”
“And I—I would never tell you what to do if you didn’t want me to. You could always tell me to shut the fuck up, you know?”
Bucky rolls his eyes. “I know.” He can practically hear Steve’s brain whirling.
“I just—I don’t want you to think that I would ever try to take advantage, or—“
“Steve,” Bucky interrupts. “Shut the fuck up.”
Steve hitches out the tiniest hint of a laugh, pressing his face into Bucky’s thick side. He’s silent for a long moment.
“Did you like it, though?”
Bucky snorts. “Yeah, Stevie. I liked it. Me coming down your throat wasn’t a dead giveaway?”
“It could have just been a good blowjob.”
“Now who’s being fucking difficult?”
Bucky can feel Steve smile against his skin. “Night, Buck.”
“Night, Steve.”