#unbeta'd because I'm lazy

[thunderousavery]

Ocean-Blue Eyes Pt. 1 (Ghost x M!Reader)

A/N: Was bored thinking about dicks and masked men, so I thought of making a little story about one of my cutie patooties. This will have an eventual smut, I swear it's evident in the writing. I'm so bad at this though, so bear with it a little.

Summary: You're the Ghost and Soap duo's favorite bartender. You're harboring a secret crush for Ghost, and well, Soap annoys you about it. Main Pairing: Ghost x M!Reader Warnings: Cursing. More cursing. Vulgarity. And Soap being an annoying mohawk rat for the reader's taste.

Midnight of April. Saturday. A gentle warm breeze of the summer wafts in the air.

I work as a bartender at a little club in town somewhere in South America. I don’t know, but I like my job. It’s what kept me in a stable life nowadays, and I haven’t run into any financial problems with it. I please customers, and they give me tips; very opportunistic work if I could say so myself.

“The usual?” I asked my long-time customer and friend as he greets me with that charming smile of his before sitting down at the bar counter. I know his drink was more of a hard Scotch mix that I never make for others, so it’s pretty much very easy to remember.

He nods, setting his cap down, and ran a hand through his mohawk hair. “Aye. Ya know me so well, lad.”

I chuckled softly while preparing his drink, grabbing a few bottles of beverages from the liquor cabinet as I spoke, “It’s because you’re the only one who drinks shit like this, man.”

“Hey! It’s a specialty from Scotland. It ain’t shit,” he retorted, shooting me a playful glare.

“It’s shit. I tried it once, and it tasted like dog piss and water from the the fucking Amazon”

“Hey, now that’s just rude!” He pouts.

It’s always like this whenever Soap comes to the bar after a long day from military work; banters and laughter with him and a couple of shots of his shitty drink. We’ve been friends since he came here two months ago, and I have to admit that he’s grown on me for some time. He tells good stories, encourages other customers to buy drinks (especially his weird concoction that he keeps forcing me to make), and he also looks after me when I feel down.

He’s one good friend, I’d give him that. But I never get any other ideas than that.

Soap’s cute, but not cute enough for me to spread my legs for. That’s a gay shit that I won’t cross the line. Personality and appearance are both a big fucking check for an annoying Scotsman like him, but I don’t like him more than as a friend.

... Well, except for his ‘other’ friend.

“So, where’s Mr. Blue Eyes?” I asked with a soft smirk as I try to hide the eagerness in my voice while wiping the countertop.

“Ghost? He’ll be here soon,” he replies before taking a swig from his drink. He raised an eyebrow and broke into a mischievous grin. “Why ya lookin’ for him? Gonna fuck him with yer eyes again?”

I felt my cheeks erupt in red at his vulgarity before looking away and groaning in annoyance. “I-I’m not...” I trailed off, can’t seem to think of a good retort to that. Damn him.

“Oh, admit it, lad. Yer stares are enough to undress him well, and he hates getting cold. He gets all grumpy when that happens.” Soap chuckled.

“I-I wasn’t staring!” I tried defending myself, but I know it was no use.

“And ya know what they say? Denial is a river in Egypt, baby.” He grinned as he made the innuendo gesture on his hands, his finger pushing in and out on a little hole he made with his other hand. “He likes angry fuck, by the way.”

This is why he’s better off as my friend. We don’t take each other seriously, and he’s a fucking bully to me when it comes to my crush on his friend, Ghost.

Yeah, I like his friend. And yeah, Ghost is the type of guy that I’d spread my legs for if he allows me to. With just a single look from his piercing blue eyes, I’d call him ‘Daddy’ and beg for him in obedience. Gosh, I don’t even remember the last time I got laid.

But I’m not admitting that out loud. I learned my mistake by telling Soap, and he won’t stop being a bitch to me about it.

“Fuck you. I’m putting rat poison in your drink next time and I’d play that Ratatouille theme when you die.” I shoot Soap a glare while threatening to throw the dirty towel on his face as he held his hands up.

“Hey, quit it, (Y/N). No one’s poisoning anyone’s drink tonight.” A familiar gruff voice with a strong British accent vibrated in the air.

...

...

... Holy fucking twat, it’s Ghost! And he’s walking up here wearing something that I've never seen him wear before!

His typical skull-faced balaclava was on, but he was wearing a dark green sleeveless shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. With the way he moved and dressed like a fucking macho man, I could see every muscle on his tattooed arms flex. He has some light scarlet burn scars on the skin of his right shoulder, but it didn’t lower the fondness I felt for him at all.

He looks so scrumptious right now, and the way his ocean-blue eyes looked at me sternly makes me want to take a dive and drown in them.

“... You’re doing it again.” Soap decided to pop my thought bubbles and laughed.

“What’s he doing again?” Ghost asked him, clearly in confusion as he sits down and looked at me once more with curiosity.

“I-I’m not doing anything, Soap. Damn it...” I cursed under my breath as I busied myself again to wipe the countertop that I and Soap knows was already clean. I couldn’t look at Ghost; I’d fucking die and let the ground swallow me whole.

Soap continued to laugh it off before sipping on his drink one last time before he handed his mug to me, gesturing for one more. I could only glare at him silently before sighing and taking his mug to prepare his shitty drink again.

This night’s going to be a disaster...

Ghost eyed me for a bit before he pulled out his wallet and put some cash on the counter. “Scotch on ice, mate.”

“That same plain shit again? I swear, ya have sum boring taste buds, LT.” Soap chuckles as he took a sip.

“Shut it, Johnny. I’m just making it easy for the lad, unlike you who always wants some fucking weird shits in your drink.” Ghost snorted, and gosh how I’m proud to hear him put his friend in his place. He’s so aggressively British, I’d let him talk me down and destroy me—

“Eh, but why’d ya put for more than one glass? Tipping him the extra?”

... Huh?

I looked at the counter, and I had to blink a few times before I could register the fact in my head that there are a couple of dollars sitting right there. Even at this distance, I can already count that it can afford more than one shot of Scotch on ice. Not only another one but probably a couple more.

“I-I...” I gulped softly as I looked into Ghost’s piercing blue eyes that could stare right at my soul. “You... You’re tipping too much—”

“It ain’t. Have a drink of your own and join us.” If he ain’t smirking behind that intimidating mask of his, I’m having doubts now because of how his chuckle gruffly vibrated from his chest. “Or, it can be a tip if you wanna be boring, mate. You don’t seem to look too busy, though.”

It’s more than enough for one drink!

... However, there’s a bar policy; never drink with the customers. No matter how convincing they are or they offered to pay, never ever drink with them. Never entertain them too much because work always comes first. Failing to uphold this, you’ll find your last cut of salary and letter of expulsion in the boss’s office the next morning.

...

... I’m just kidding. There’s no bullshit like that here. This is the best workplace that I’ve ever been in.

“Yeah, and there ain’t even a single customer here other than us, lad.” Soap agreed, nodding with a soft hum.

“That’s because it’s only an hour before closing time.” I shook my head and chuckled. “But sure, I can join you guys.” I grabbed a glass for myself along with a couple of beverages and some lime. I made my favorite cocktail mix; Moscow Mule.

Who would’ve thought I’d get to have an excuse to drink with my British military soldier crush? Aren’t I so lucky?

“That’s the spirit.” Ghost lifts his mask a little, just enough to reveal his stubbled square chin and plump lips as he takes a sip from his Scotch. And, oh my god, I swear there was a damn smirk on his lips just before they touched the fucking edge of the glass.

Does he even eat ass with that mouth of his? I wonder.

“If stares could kill, someone could become a bloody murderer now.”

The impeccability of this fucking mohawk rat to just outright say such words is so darn bad, I just want to shove a whole empty bottle of Scotch up to his fucking ass. I glared at him silently while I finished making my drink, thinking carefully if I should throw a lime at his face and hope it would catch on his fucking eye.

“... So,” I spoke, trying to make a small conversation rather than having another banter with Soap. “When are you guys going on your next mission?”

“Classified detail.” Soap snickered when I gave him another deathly glare. But then he eventually answered, “In two days, I guess.”

“I see...” So, I only got two days left to get laid by some British hunk? “And you’ll come back in?”

“Depends on it, lad.” Ghost answered this time, and he didn’t bother to slide his mask back on to cover the lower half of his face. Thank goodness for that. “If we’re lucky and Soap doesn’t fuck up a single time, then we’re back in two days after as well.”

“Hey, I don’t fuck up on missions!” Soap pouts like a fucking rat, I swear it’s damn annoying.

But I like these two’s dynamics. A lieutenant and a sergeant. They look so close like two brothers with different blood and origin, and I remember Soap telling me some stories about how he hates Ghost but likes him at the same time. They respect each other at work, but Soap says he will always find time to annoy his lieutenant at some point. Typical brothers, I guess.

“—And they said Gaz would be... (Y/N)?” Ghost’s voice snapped me back to reality when his words trailed off and mentioned my name. He looked at me with a soft frown on his lips along with a concerned look in his eyes. “You okay, mate? You’re staring off.”

“O-Oh... Uh, y-yeah... I’m fine.” I smiled sheepishly before taking a sip from my drink. I didn’t bother to look at Soap because I know he had a damn smirk on his face right now.

“... If you say so.” He sighed before setting his glass down and put his shoulders on the counter, leaning forward a bit. “Enough about our work. I wanna know something more about you.”

If I still had my drink in my throat, I would’ve spat it out, probably aiming at Soap’s face. “W-What? U-Uh... What do you want to know about me?” I gave Soap a quick glare to make sure he doesn’t speak any dirty side comments.

“Hmm...” He rubbed his chin for a moment before he spoke. “... Are you hitting on Johnny here?”

...

“... Wait, what?” My eyes widened as the size of saucer plates. Did I... hear that correctly? I’m pretty sure he asked if I was hitting on—

“Hold up, why’d ya even think the lad’s hitting on me?” Soap laughed obnoxiously, almost tipping over from his seat as he found it also surprising that Ghost would jump to that conclusion. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the case, LT.”

“Then, why does he keep looking at you like you’re some piece of meat?” Ghost grinned.

I swear this is not the right time to show your pearly white teeth, Ghost! Oh my god, what has the world fallen into? I know Soap and I know that I’m already being obvious with my little gestures and looks to Ghost for quite a while now, but why the hell would he think I’m hitting on Soap all this time?!

Hasn’t he seen my heart eyes whenever I look at him? Hasn’t he seen the way I’d smile charmingly for him just to notice me? Like, what the actual fuck?! He was thinking I’m hitting on this fucking mohawk rat?!

I blushed softly nonetheless mostly because I’m finally running out of patience and sanity. “I-I... No, I’d never—”

“He’s hitting on you, LT.”

That was the last straw.

“Alright, where’s the fucking knife?!”

A/N: Will post part 2 as soon I finish it. Love lots :))

#ghost x male reader #ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soap cod #soap call of duty #soap being an annoying mohawk rat #no beta we die like men #unbeta'd because I'm lazy #cod fanfic #ghost x y/n #ghost

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Dumpling (@achubbydumpling) reblogged my chubby Bucky Orbeez belly post (x) with the tags:

#bear bear bear bear bear bear bear bear bear bear #I'm fine I swear just 😳😳 *bear* #and Steve's comments about him bulking for winter!!!

And it set off a bomb in my head. So, welcome back, Dumpling. You're already making me feral. Have this as an offering 😂

Warning for unbeta'd stucky belly kink ahead, lots of stuffing, bloating, tight clothes, talk of weight gain/eventual immobility, animal play (nickname "bear"), humiliation/teasing, etc.

It’s been a long day of training recruits at Stark Tower (Steve never liked the look of that building. It’s a big eyesore as far as he’s concerned. But, he’s at least come to appreciate the people in it more and more, especially now that he isn’t the ring leader, it’s Sam’s turn to do all that, making commands). So, Steve is more than happy to be home, shouldering his way through their front door, shrugging out of his leather jacket, shoes, and listening for any sort of noise that might indicate where Bucky is inside. He’s really looking forward to seeing Bucky again. Even 8 hours can feel like too long to be away.

There’s ambient noise from the TV, so Steve heads there first. When he gets there…

His boyfriend makes the perfect picture of sloth. Laziness. Lethargy. All of that.

It's clear as day, he hasn't moved in the 8 hours Steve has been gone. Clearly, he isn't aware that Steve's back yet, zoning out, staring at the TV. The light flickering and dancing over his face, highlighting the new fullness in his cheeks and the expanded softness underneath what once was a very sharp jaw. He's so invested in whatever show or movie is playing that he doesn't know how much he's eating. It wouldn't surprise Steve if he didn't know he was eating at all. There are bags and bags of snack food piled on the coffee table, a few settled next to his marshmallow soft thighs spread out, large and puffy, on the couch, and even a few bags overflowing onto the floor. Amongst all the processed crap from their well-stocked pantry (living through the Depression will do that to a man, making him stock up like a doomsday prepper) are trays and dishes of microwavable or oven-ready frozen food. The kind that tastes mostly alright but certainly aren’t alright if you're trying to watch your weight. Chalked full of sugar and fat and salt and chemicals that are better not thought about.

Worst of all, Bucky has zoned so far out, eyes trained on the TV, uncaring about everything else, that there's a true pile or crumbs on the top of his gut and speckling his round, girlish chest. His moobs.

He looks like a size 2 sausage in a size 1 casing… maybe a size 3 or 4, even with how his soft fat is bursting out of his poor clothes. Another Depression mindset there, huh, Steve thinks to himself, Bucky has had those (once loose) basketball shorts and that red Henley for months on months. They don't look comfortable, and they're worn out, but he's still crammed himself onto them. Steve knows from doing the laundry that the elastic of those shorts has long given up. It's so worn out and demoralized that the elastic has started to fray apart with strings and rubbery pieces crushed under the weight of Bucky's big belly and accompanying equally huge hips and love handles. The legs, as strangely loose and baggy as they seemed when first becoming acquainted with the future and new fashion, can hardly contain the girth of his thighs. Steve is surprised his legs haven't worn through the inside seams or that they haven't burst when he bends down with an overburdened groan to forage through the lower cabinets. His shirt, though, somehow, his shirt is worse off. It's probably because he's had it for longer. The fabric has been worn so, so thin, Steve can see the tone of his skin through parts of the shirt and… in other places he doesn't need to see through the shirt because the henley has risen up, not even bothering to try and cover his excess fat. Like right now.

Right now, Bucky is zoned out but he's continued to shovel food into his gaping maw like he's starving (far from it, truthfully) and so he hasn't thought to try and make himself decent. The stretched, worn fabric has given up the fight, rolling up to expose more than half of his dome-like gut. It's just… hanging out.

So achingly thick and fat, and marked deeply, lovingly with stretch marks that are so intense they look like he's been clawed at. Thick. Reddish purple. Flushed. He's getting so big! So fast! His skin (and the serum) can't dream of keeping up with his out of control appetite. Steve can hear Bucky's fuzzy tummy churning and sloshing with the unbearable amount of calories he's crammed down his throat from across the room, over the sound of the TV.

Bucky belches and Steve, Lord have mercy, can only stare at the way his belly jolts and quivers. The movement of his swollen, balloon belly is an earthquake that shakes his tits, too. He's so big. Swollen. Steve knows his chest, even though his struggling shirt contains it (for now), is also marked up. It’s literally bursting at the seams with how fat he's making himself. Uncontrollably eating and stuffing and growing. Putting on ample winter weight. But even if he can't see those stretch marks on his chest through his sad excuse for a shirt, Steve can see the engorged outline of his tits, smushed up against the neckline and begging to spill out. His stretched nipples, the cutest shade of pink, are hard and jutting out through the thin fabric.

Suddenly, Steve has to swallow, his mouth flooding with saliva. He licks his lips, imagining tonguing his sensitive nipples through his shirt, making them harder and forcing Bucky to try (and fail) to squirm away, his thick body jiggling in waves. He imagines pulling Bucky's shirt down. He would have to smack his buttery middle until he whimpers and finally sucks in so Steve can fit him back in his shirt. Then, Steve would tease his belly button through the shirt. Maybe he'd lick his belly button, too. Maybe he would bite the hang of his gut where his fat is the thickest and softest.

Steve shivers in place, finding that he can't just stand here and watch anymore. He needs to intervene in the session of gluttony his boyfriend is mindlessly plowing through.

As he walks into the room, getting closer to the mess that Bucky is and the mess he's made, the impulse to touch only gets worse. He's so delectable. Huge and fat. Radiating heat. The hair on his belly is fuzzy and the same deep brown of the hair on the top of his head. Steve is so fucking glad he's decided to let his body hair be. Steve’s developed a thing for Bucky's longer hair - he will never tire of watching Bucky pull it back into a bun. But he’s developed another thing, too. A thing for the hair on his chest, the hair on his tummy (especially), the hair on his legs, even on the hair on his forearms. He looks so… masculine. He’s got this great beer belly shape to him. He can't fool Steve, though, he's all sugar and sweets and food. None of that fat is hard, alcohol-fueled weight. It’s all junk. Anyway, he’s shaped like a big, excessively spoiled, fat man and he's hairy like a man. It's, actually, reminiscent of a teddy bear. Or a real bear - a brown bear. Heavy, fat, and lumbering.

To break him out of his food-coma and brain-melted-TV-coma state, Steve smacks the side of his belly the moment he can, standing in front of him, awed at just how dedicated he is to growing and getting stupid. No thoughts. Just TV. Just calories. Entertainment. Nothing else.

Bucky jumps as much as he can. Which, spoiler, isn't much. He's all bloated and weighted down.

“Look at this thing!” Steve smacks his gut again, the sound satisfying and the look even more satisfying. It's so unbelievably tight at the top. His stomach is undoubtedly stretched to the point of almost popping, but he's got so much fat that all of him still wobbles like extra firm jello. His hands still sink into inches of excess fat. It's all excess. He's excessive. Staying home and doing fucking nothing but adding to his widening ass.

Bucky, once he recovers from his initial shock of being snuck up on (some great assassin he makes), he squawks. Good naturedly offended.

“Is this what you’ve been doing all day, big guy?” Steve asks, sitting down next to him (ignoring the crunch of an empty chip bag (or two) under his ass, he'll pick up after his big butterball later), already knowing the answer and not bothering to wait for his reply. “You’ve been so lazy lately, Buck,” he scolds, gleefully watching how Bucky’s eyes slide shut like he’s savoring it. “The cold weather must be getting to you, huh? Making you crave hot cocoa, soup, and…” Steve looks around, licking his lips, “everything? You tryna get more insulated for the season or what? Goddamn. You are packing it on.”

Even though he really has been stuffing himself like he’s getting ready to hibernate, bedding down in a dim, quiet place surrounded by comfortable blankets and pillows but also a huge, fuzzy gut extending out from him, big enough to be its own entity, Bucky shakes his head insistently, talking through his latest mouthful of over-processed, crappy food, “nohh lazyy, ‘ard work!” He barely keeps all the food in his mouth, his cheeks pooched out, full and bloated. It should be gross. It isn't.

He's so fucking hungry he just can’t stop. It's hot.

Hard work, my ass, Steve thinks. But… also, Steve takes inventory of just how flushed he is and…

Maybe it is hard work.

His face is beet red, his blush diffusing up into his hairline and over his ears as well as spreading all the way down his neck. Hell, his chest is probably red, too. Hot to the touch like he has a fever instead of being too well insulated. His belly is definitely red, too. Steve can see it. There’s no need to imagine. That fucking thing is still hanging out and still bloating bigger. Stretched extremely. So packed and tight that all of his blood is being redirected to send the energy he needs to digest mountains of food. It’s hard work to metabolize through pure sugar and fat.

Bucky’s flushed head to toe and sweating terribly. Sweating like a pig.

Still, Steve shakes his head, letting out a single, “ha!” Before murmuring in sarcastic disbelief, “stuffing your fat face is hard work? Yeah, right, bear. Bulking comes naturally to you.”

Bucky shakes his head more frantically as he finishes chewing and swallows.

“It's’hard!” He protests.

Steve has a million jokes immediately. Hard. Yeah.

As Bucky shakes his head more, his double chin triples for a moment. Steve has to fight a moan from coming up. He's so soft.

Then, to show how much he means it - it’s hard work - he plucks at his barely surviving shirt, un-scrunching the fabric to reveal the crescent moon sweat stains from under his flabby, heavy breasts. Steve just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. So, next, Bucky lifts his arms clumsily - the wings of fat under his upper arms jiggling - to show that he’s also got wicked pit stains from getting so hot.

“You’re sweating? Pfft. Anything would make you sweat, tubby, you’re so out of shape.” Steve teases him, loving the reaction he’s getting. Hot and bothered. He's saying it to say it. Bucky has a lot of shape these days. Much better shape than the soldier he once was. “You can hardly lumber around the apartment without getting red in the face. Waddling from one room to the next means you need a minute to catch your breath like you've actually done something impressive.” Steve laughs meanly. “Honey, even the tuckered out, sore, and barely-trained new recruits I've been working with could beat you after a day of working out!”

“But my belly hurts!” Bucky protests again, whining, “my abs are all stretched out! ‘M sore, too!” He pouts, huffing, “‘s not fair to me either.” When he crosses his big (fat, not muscle, not anymore) arms over his chest, all he succeeds in doing is looking more adorably grumpy and giving himself deep, deep cleavage. It's not intimidating in the slightest.

Steve's mouth actually goes dry, eyes lost in his cleavage for a moment. That can't stop him, though. He's having too much fun with Bucky. Teasing him. What's he gonna do anyway? He can't fucking move. “Abs?” Steve recovers enough to draw a curved line down the front of his heavy, round belly where there used to be an impressive cut between rock-solid muscle. “Oh, Buck, honey, you don’t have those. They're all gone.”

Bucky whines, but the wiggle of his oversized hips says otherwise to his verbal complaints. He's enjoying this.

“You couldn’t even pull yourself off the couch if I tried to make you,” Steve lays it on thick, pinching all the extra flab he can fit between his four fingers and thumb. An overflowing handful. “There’s no way you’d be able to do a single fuckin’ sit up. Your abs are long, long gone.”

Bucky huffs at him, wiggling again, trying to prove him wrong.

Steve watches him, hot to the core, as he struggles to sit up straighter, less reclined into the soft couch with all his soft mass, then struggles to work around the ball of his tummy, trying to reach forward, leaning over the expansive thing, and do… something, anything. He can't. His fingers wiggle in mid-air, arms out straight in front of him.

Overall, he barely moves an inch. A sheen of sweat glistens above his upper lip.

Steve represses a shiver when he realizes his blue-grey eyes locked on target, that he's reaching for a box of snack cakes. Oatmeal creme sandwich cookies. A classic. He can't ever resist them. He’s got a tooth for everything, but especially sweets. And even with the feast spread out around them, it's a miracle any of the oatmeal creme pies are surviving in that box, let alone 4 of them. There were 12 in the box, that's only 3/4ths of it! He can do better. Steve will help him do better, like he always does. He's so nice.

Bucky flops heavily back onto the couch, panting impressively hard for having done no work at all. He blows a lock of hair out of his face. His chest and belly are heaving.

Without opening his mouth, just looking at him, Steve communicates, I told you so. He sighs, satisfied, and neatly and easily bends at the waist to reach the box himself, “you ate your way right outta that fit, little body, a long, long time ago, Buck. Now look at yourself.” He manhandles some of his big, big body. Jiggling waves of fat. Fuck. Before he gets too carried away, Steve shakes out one of the snack cakes.

And Bucky moans softly as Steve tears the clear plastic packaging of one of the cookies, opening it and positing himself to feed him.

Holding it to his lips, watching his pretty, white teeth and full, pink lips and wet tongue, Steve talks him through downing more calories on an already overfull stomach, “and, oof, baby, the way you’re going, you’re never gonna get that summer body back.” Shaking his head when Bucky takes another ravenous, large bite, he adds, “you're like a bear! Packin’ it on for winter, but…” Steve clicks his tongue, pretending to be disapproving rather than drooling over the mind-melting changes. All the weight. Piling on. Rolls on rolls on rolls. Inches added to his waist (and his everything). “Not even months of sleeping off all this food is gonna make you skinny again.”

Bucky finishes the snack cake. He burps.

“There’s not gonna be any seasonal fluctuations. You’re too greedy. You won't let that happen, will you, bear?” Steve smirks, smacking his tender belly hard enough to leave him whining. He shakes his head. Steve smacks him again. “No, you won't. You’re too fat! So fat. And you love it. All this winter weight, it's gonna stick around.”

Bucky shakes in place, both from the anticipation, imagining all that heavy, heavy, hot weight appearing on his body all at once. Ballooning. Expanding. Growing. Getting bigger and bigger and bigger now, putting on hundreds of pounds immediately. Now. Please. And from the more immediate threat of Steve opening another little cake. He’s relentless.

Bucky bites into it anyway. Eyes rolling back into his head.

“Next winter, you’re just gonna be bigger. Then, the winter after that, you're gonna be bigger, too.” Steve could coo at how Bucky nods, thoughtless and docile. “You're gonna be the fattest bear ever. Definitely the fattest I’ve ever seen with this fuzzy tummy dragging on the ground between your thick thighs and arms.”

Lips smacking, Bucky demolishes the last of the oatmeal creme pie, “more?” He begs, eyes soft and round. Just as soft and round as he is. Though it's hard to match…

Really hard.

His stomach is actively bloating bigger. Expanding like a marshmallow in the microwave. Steve lets his mouth run, smashing the next and next snack cake into him, feverishly rambling, “you're gonna be overheating in your cave, Buck. Too fat for winter, hmm? You ever heard of that?”

Crumbs on his face, hands on his overburdened gut, trying and failing to soothe the bursting-at-the-seams ache of his stomach and stretching fat, Bucky tells him no with another shake of his head. He's even redder now. Sweatier. Working harder. Panting. Moaning softly through every heaving, gasping breath. Too much. Too much. Not enough.

“Well, it's gonna be you, bear,” Steve growls, letting his boyfriend lick the remaining sugar from his fingers, wiping his hands on his stretched-out shorts, and then joining him to grab and massage and shake his gurgling, expanding belly, “you're gonna be a bear too big, with so much lard packed onto ‘im that he could survive winters back to back to back without having to bulk back up in between. Hell, how're you even gonna crawl in your cave and bed down, bear? You're too big for the entrance now, I bet. Can't fit through! What am I gonna do with you?”

Bucky groans, his head thrown back. His thick, pale, fat neck looks juicy and tempting. Steve wants to bite him, he wants to choke him, he wants to shove a hose down that throat and funnel calories into him to really blow him up.

“What. am. I. gonna. do. with. you?” Steve wonders, smacking and pinching and groping his sensitive belly to punctuate each word.

Miraculously, Bucky answers, crying out, “feed me! Feed me more!”

“More, bear?” Steve nearly chokes in disbelief, “how are you gonna fit more in you!? You're already so big! I don't think you can get bigger without exploding.”

“Wanna be,” he slurs, drunk, head lulling to the side and eyes glassy, “wanna be heavier.”

“You'll break our bed,” Steve whispers harshly, rubbing big circles on his massive belly. Trying to touch as much of it as possible at once. He fucking loves this jelly belly.

“Don't- don't care,” he pants, his poor, poor shirt has rolled up more, covering exactly none of his bear’s gut. It's aaaaaall hanging out. Flabby yet tight and marked. “You said! Too big for my den. Wanna be.”

“Ohh, you wanna get stuck in the doorway, hm? These fat hips too damn big to get through.” Steve chuckles to himself, playing with his body, fat and doughy all over, “gonna come home one day and find you like fuckin’ Winnie the Pooh, aren't I, baby? With your head stuck in a jar of honey, belly too wide to get outta the fuckin’ front door. But you're too dumb to learn your lesson aren't you? You'll do it again. Stuff yourself again. Bigger. Fatter. You just keep forgetting that you don't need to put on more weight.” He frowns theatrically.

Bucky whimpers. All needy and desperate. He's plush with extra weight. So touchable and firm and blubbery.

“Oh, bear, you're so stupid,” Steve coos, “it's precious. You're just so greedy, and you can't help it. It's instinctual. More more more. You just want more. You wanna bulk up and hibernate constantly, won't be happy until you’re one huge blimp.”

“Yea-h, yeahh, I can't, can't help it,” Bucky works out the words, still catching his breath. It's not helping that Steve is touching him like he's a giant stress ball. Squeezing. Groping. Feeling all that heavy, heavy food sitting in his poor, abused belly.

“I just don't know what to do with you, bear! You don't know what's good for you, and you're getting so terribly fat.” He clicks his tongue, “tsk, tsk, but I can't help it, either, just look at that sweet face! How am I supposed to say no to you? Even when you're too heavy to get off your fat ass and you're telling me to get you more…” he sighs, “I can’t help it. So. I hope you're ready to balloon, bear. ‘Cause there's no stopping you.”

“Yes!” Bucky moans through a hiccup, “bigger!”

#mylevisdontfitanymore #belly kink #text #stuffing #weight gain #bucky barnes #steve rogers #chubby bucky #stucky #animal play #bear

[trulybetty]

oct' x 12 - cornfields

Prompt: cornfields Pairing: sequins!joel miller x f!reader Word Count: 1,271 Warnings: 18+, P in V, this is an established relationship so assume conversations about protection are well spoken about between the two, wrap it up folks. Remember, unbeta'd here and barely read through - mistakes are my own. Summary: this took on a whole life of it's own and was not supposed to be this long. either way, you can thank @rhoorl for inadvertently picking the choices that led us here!

x. masterlist

“I used to come out here all the time, when I was younger,” Joel said, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you. 

It was a lazy Saturday, having spent the morning downtown checking out the flea market and now you were on your way home to enjoy the time off together..

“How much younger?” You asked, curious.

“Before Sarah,” he responded, giving you an incredulous look.

“So you and your buddies would bring back girls to the cornfields to what? Have sex?” You asked.

Joel turned to smirk at you before he looked back at the road ahead, “Perhaps.”

“Oh my god," you groaned, “you were the bad boy of the cornfields?”

“That makes me sound really corny.”

He didn't need to glance in your direction to realize you had just rolled your eyes, with the accompanying comment “You're such a dad.”

“Just fulfilling my duties,” he said smugly.

“So what was so great about sex in a cornfield?” you asked after a moment of silence passed between the two of you again.

“Well, considering at the time I was living at home and couldn't exactly bring a girl back without my mom murdering me, it was private for a start.”

“You're telling me you chose a cornfield over your truck?”

“It's a little hard when there's a group of you.”

“So sex in a truck with others around is a no, but sex in a cornfield while others are getting it on at the same time is okay?”

“You really need to stop applying logic to a teenage boy with raging hormones.”

Laughing you conceded, “Okay cowboy,” which earned a broad smile from him. The nickname you had given him when you first met still held a special place in his heart.

Joel chuckled, “You want me to show you?”

“Show me what?” you asked puzzled, turning to look at him from the group text you'd been trying to catch up on.

He looked at you with a raised brow, the smirk on his face said more than he needed to say, “Show you what I used to do out here in the cornfields?”

You were taken aback, not sure if he was serious. He continued with a grin, “We could pull over and could show you?”

You paused for a moment, your voice lost in the back of your throat, “Sure?” you managed to choke out with a laugh.

Without needing any more confirmation Joel turned off the main drag and pulled off to the side of the deserted dirt road he'd turned on to and turned off the engine. “We've got all the privacy we need out here.”

“I can't believe I'm doing this.”

Before Joel could answer there was a crack of thunder, you looked up to the sky through the windscreen. The weather hadn't called for rain, but here it was pelting down heavily, the sound echoing in the cab of the truck.

“Well, maybe this is a good thing.” Joel remarked as he watched the rain fall.

“How so?” you asked.

He laughed, “Because I really wasn't sure how my back was going to be okay rolling in some field, not exactly a teenager any more.”

His hand was on the keys to start the ignition when you reached out your hand to stop him, “Maybe all is not wasted?” he looked at you curiously, “it's private and we have this whole truck bench to ourselves,” you gave him a sultry smile, “would be a shame to see an opportunity go to waste.”

“That so?”

You nodded as you shifted closed, “I mean, in all of our time together, I'm surprised we haven't christened this truck yet.”

“Maybe we need to do that?” he said, winking at you.

“I think so.”

“So.”

“So…” you managed to trail out before your lips came crashing together as he pulled you tightly against him, your body moulding against his. Your hands gripped at his shirt pulling him closer as your kisses became more desperate.

The sounds of the outside rain fought against the sounds that came from the two of you as Joel frantically pulled off your jacket, while you pulled at his belt buckle so you could unbutton his jeans. Both now thrown to the back of the cab, Joel managed to turn you to lay you out on the bench. You'd never been more thankful he'd ignored Tommy's suggestion to upgrade to a newer model with a centre console.

“Jesus,” Joel cursed as fought against your dress as he tried to move it up your legs, “does this dress ever end?”

The teal maxi dress you'd chosen to wear under the denim jacket you’d had on had been a good idea for the sunny fall day that morning, now it was proving to be a hindrance.

“I may have to cut this shit off,”  he said as he continued to manoeuvre the dress around your thighs, you couldn't help but laugh.

“Let me,” you pulled up the skirt of the dress to your hips and Joel made quick work of pulling your panties down your legs.

The two of you stared at one another as you tried to catch your breath, your neck was already at an awkward angle and it didn't have to be said that Joel would be too tall to switch with you. Before you could ask what you should do, Joel was shimming both his jeans and boxer briefs down over his hips and motioning for you to get on top of him.

You somehow managed to position yourself above him with more grace than you thought possible, and sank onto his cock, holding on to the steering wheel for support with both hands. Your eyes nearly rolled back in your head as he filled you, your back pressed against his chest.

The sensation was overwhelming and you needed a moment to take him all in, your head thrown back rested on his shoulder and he trailed his lips over your jaw and exposed throat as you adjusted.

“Fuck,” you breathed out under your breath as Joel rolled his hips underneath you.

His hands had naturally moved to your hips as he helped you find a rhythm above him. Using the steering wheel as leverage as you bounced on his lap, each one met with a thrust of his hips. But soon he was reaching around and finding your clit, the sensation of his calloused fingers had you seeing stars and it wasn't long before you were on the edge.

“Fuck, I'm close,” you breathed out heavily as his fingers sent lightning through your body.

He dropped a kiss to the crook of your neck, “Come for me…” he breathed into your ear.

You did as you were told, you came hard against him as he continued to stroke you, every bit of energy you had left flowing out of your body as you collapsed against the steering wheel you'd been holding on to for dear life.

“I'm close,” he warned you, and you knew it wouldn't take long for him to reach his end as he struggled to catch his own breath.

You could feel his cock pulsing inside of you, and a few more thrusts and he found his end.

“Wow,” you breathed as you dropped your head back against his shoulder.

“Fuck, yes… wow.” He agreed as he nuzzled your neck.

“Does this beat your cornfield sex days?” You laughed as you tried to catch your breath.

You felt his chest rumble with a laugh before you heard it, “Darlin' there is no comparison.”

#october x 500 #autumnal offerings #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #sequins!joel x reader

[minisugakoobies]

Messy | KSJ

Pairing: Seokjin x Reader

Genre: smut, enemies to lovers (kinda), Brother'sBFF!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: swearing, unprotected sex (assume alternative BC), oral sex (f receiving), cum eating, Jin's mouth is as filthy as the rest of him

Word Count: 500 on the dot again

Disclaimers: NSFW, I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me

Summary: Your brother's best friend Jin is crashing on your couch. Things get messy.

Prompt: 40 “this isn’t what i had in mind when i yelled fuck you”

A/N: This one's for @hannahbee12719! Hannah, you are such a joy! I'm so glad I can call you friend. Thank you for always supporting me - and knowing exactly when to deploy a Jimin gif attack! 💜

Smut starts immediately after the cut, so gird yourselves.

Unbeta'd as usual. I’d love to know what you think - my inbox is always open! 💕

Milestone Celebration Masterlist

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I yelled ‘fuck you,’” Jin huffs, his long fingers digging into your hips, grinding you down onto him.

“Well,” you pant, “maybe this will teach you to watch your mouth!”

“Why don’t you watch it for me?”

“What does that even me-” He swallows your retort with a sloppy kiss.

Everything about the man inside you is sloppy. Your brother’s best friend has been crashing on your couch all weekend - not because he needs a place to stay, but because he’s too lazy to go home. And your apartment is a total wreck because of him.

You break off the kiss, head falling back as Jin thrusts up into you. His hands cup your breasts as you writhe above him.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans. “Wanna live in this cunt. Never leave.”

“Oh hell no, your messy ass isn’t moving in anywhere!” you hiss.

Normally, as long as your brother pays the rent, you don’t care where he goes or who he brings home. But Jin’s been the house guest from hell.

Beer bottles and snack wrappers lie everywhere. The tv blares at all hours. The hot water’s always gone before you shower. And this morning, you opened the fridge to discover he’d eaten the plums you’d been saving for breakfast.

He. Ate. Your. Plums.

That was the last straw. You laid into him about everything. He was all shrugging shoulders and flailing arms, shouting with those pouty lips, chest heaving as you stared at one another angrily.

Then his arms tugged you into his lap. You stopped speaking but your tongues and teeth continued to gnash as you kissed furiously. He grew hard underneath you, and his fingers found you wet and willing, and that’s how you ended up here, bouncing on Jin’s dick.

The only thing more irritating than the man currently fucking you is how much you’re enjoying it.

“Messy? You want me to show you messy??” Jin suddenly sits up, pounding into you with a renewed vigor as you gasp. “I’m gonna cover you in white. Your face, your tits, let it drip all over, hot and sticky.”

Despite yourself, his filthy promise makes you whine before you growl, “Don’t you fucking cum anywhere but inside me!”

That’s enough to push Jin over the edge, his rhythm stuttering as he moans, pumping away into you. With a final pinch of your clit, he brings you with him, and you wail loudly as pleasure consumes you.

Once you catch your breath, you slide off of Jin and lie back on the couch. “Well. Shit. You gonna clean up your mess now or what?”

Jin scowls. “Seriously? You want me to clean the apartment now?”

“I didn’t mean the apartment,” you inform him, thighs parting as you bite your lip. He quirks an eyebrow.

As you lace your fingers into his hair, you grin. “But you are going to clean this place up when you’re done here, too.”

© 2022-23 by sunshinerainbowsbts/minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.

#ksmutclub #ficscafe #bangtanarmynet #btscreatorscorner #btswritingcafe #kim seokjin smut #seokjin smut #bts smut #kim seokjin x reader #kim seokjin x you #seokjin x you #seokjin x reader #jin x you #jin x reader #jin smut #possumswrite #bts fanfic #kim seokjin fanfic #seokjin fanfic #fic: messy

[tinyleia]

Bit of fiction that tackles the popular theory that Arthur was conceived about a month prior to his parents’ marriage. I really enjoy the idea of Elizabeth and Henry as both partners in private but also in politics, with her guarding their reign steadily from the shadows so I incorporated that. Might not be entirely historically ‘accurate’ but I’m happy to discuss anything with anyone in a civilized manner ;)

After finishing this I also realized I always write them super vanilla? Because that’s just them imo, but for a next Elizabeth/Henry fic, I think I might try my hand at some darker themes.

#henry vii #elizabeth of york #i wrote something #unbeta'd because i'm lazy as shit #i can't even be bothered to beta my uni essays let alone a piece of ff lmao #forgive me if it gets really bad with the mistakes #hefiction

[mylevisdontfitanymore]

Fat fairy Steve is literally the hottest thing I’ve ever read lmao. I was just wondering (pls ignore me if you don’t wanna respond) do you think Steve ever asks Princess Natasha (or does she ever ask) to prod and nudge between his legs with her fingertip when he’s super full because being so full gets him so hard and it’s not like he can reach that part of himself anymore 🥺🥸

Good to know you enjoyed Fat, Fairy Steve!

Warning for unbeta'd SteveNat belly kink with microphilia, humiliation, name-calling, stuffing, grinding etc. under the cut

I-

😳😳

I read this and instantly thought of Princess Natasha teasing Steve with one perfect eyebrow arched up, pretending to be unimpressed or even bored as she lays a curled finger between Steve's jiggly thighs and under Steve's taut, hugely stuffed belly for him to grind his tiny, helplessly throbbing dick against. She sighs out a rude breath when he can't even lift his hips up a fraction of an inch because of the weight of his tummy, "jeez, Steve, you're about as spoiled as the disloyal parts of the kingdom accuse me of being. Look at you."

Steve looks down obediently, his tiny chin doubling and his plump cheeks turning red. His whole body glows, literally (fairy magic), with his embarrassment.

"You can't reach yourself and you can't even grind up against me when I try to help you!" She presses her finger more firmly against him as she speaks. Using her knuckle and leaving him with both pleasure and pain- pressing a little too firm against his sensitive parts. Then laughing when he makes a "ngh!" noise. So, so needy. So tiny but so swollen. Glutton. "You need me to do everything for you! I have to feed you. I have to carry you. I have to keep you safe because any other human would keep you caged like a bird- admiring you and draining you of your magic. And I even have to sate your urges. You're like my little spoiled prince! I'm just your servant practically!"

Steve pants softly around his massively stuffed tummy. It feels like every expansion of his body with his breath is going to pop him. He doesn't have the mental power to dispute her teasing with the truth of their friendship, he's too caught up in his overindulgence.

"All you're good for is looking pretty and eating anything you find like a rat, gorging itself on any and every crumb. Gluttonous little creature, well, not so little," she presses on his aching tummy.

Steve whimpers, high and thin, and tries harder to grind up against her finger.

Natasha does nothing to help. She simply uses her other hand, balled into a lazy fist, to rest her chin rather than helping. She's enjoying his struggles. Smirking as she says, still pretending to not be enthralled by the tiny, stuffed thing at her fingertips- the tiny, stuffed thing at her every whim, "and you'll be the size of a rat living inside a bakery soon. Not just acting like one of the gluttonous creatures but becoming the shape of one if you don't let up soon."

Steve whines. His little hands scramble over his expanded tummy, trying and failing to get the stimulation he craves. All he can touch is fat.

"Tell me to stop sneaking you crumbs from my every meal and tea time before you turn into a fat rat, Steve. Tell me to stop going to the kitchen every night so the servants don't ask what I'm doing with all my extra helpings. Tell me to stop overfeeding my pet prince. My fairy that's more greedy rat than magical, little fairy."

Steve shakes his head, moaning.

"No?" She asks, "no, you're not gonna tell me to stop, fairy?"

"N-no, Princess," her fairy gasps.

"Tsk tsk," she teases, "you've let the crown go to your head. And your waist." As she says that last bit, she flicks her finger delicately against his teeny cock and the large curve of his under belly. The smooth, hard surface of her fingernail is perfect against him. Leaving him gasping, jolting as he hits his peak. Stuffed with food from the royal kitchen and stuffed with the princess's words and attention.

#ask #text #stuffing #belly kink #romanogers #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #chubby steve #fat shaming #mylevisdontfitanymore #fat steve #microphilia