Chapter Text
When he started his new job, Steve didn't have a lot of romantic notions about firefighting.
Most civilians probably pictured constant roaring blazes and collapsing buildings; blinding smoke and burning rafters crashing to the floor; children screaming, beautiful women fainting... And sure, Steve expected there'd be some of that. But the army had been about 80% sheer boredom contrasted with 20% sheer adrenaline, and he figured the fire department would offer up about the same ratio.
He wasn't wrong. For every conflagration, there was an old woman who'd locked herself out of her house, and for every frantic call, there was an hour of sitting around the firehouse playing video games or lifting weights. He preferred the interludes of action, but he didn't mind the downtime, and unlike some of the younger firefighters, he'd seen enough shit to understand that “heroism” was a complicated, tangled, even self-serving concept, better left unsought. He didn't join the FDNY looking for glory. He only wanted to help people, in any way he could.
But he had found glory just the same.
“No, forget glory,” he said. “I've found Jesus.”
“I'm Jewish,” said Craig Seidman, not turning from the stove. “Try a different compliment.”
Seidman was a funny little guy – short and broad like a bulldog, bearded face set in a permanent scowl, but at heart he was a real softie. And man, could he cook.
“I swear on the Torah,” Steve said, “this is the best goddamn mac and cheese I've ever had in my life.”
“Wait'll you try his brisket,” said Natasha Romanov, refilling Steve's glass of lemonade.
It was Steve's first week on the job, and so far it was about what he'd been expecting, save for one thing.
The food.
Nobody had told him about the food. Nobody'd told him that firefighters eat three meals a day together, sometimes going out, but more often pooling their money and sending emissaries to the grocery store for pounds of meat and piles of cheese and loaves of bread, all ferried back and delivered into the capable hands of the best cooks among them, cooks who strove each day to outdo one another and whip up enormous meals on the industrial kitchen range, meals that were at worst delicious and at best positively gourmet. One week in, and Steve was eating better than he'd ever eaten in his life.
“We do themed months,” Romanov explained as Steve helped himself to another enormous bowl of Seidman' mouthwatering mac and cheese. “This month it's Comfort Food. Next month is South of the Border. Then...” Romanov frowned, considering. “Hey, what'd we decide for October?”
“Butter,” said Clint Barton, from the other end of the table.
“Butter?” Steve said.
“Butter,” Romanov confirmed.
“You think Seidman is good, wait'll you try Hernandez,” Barton said, loudly, so Seidman could hear him over the clatter of ten people clattering spoons and clinking glasses. “Her pancakes put his waffles to shame.”
“She uses a mix!” Seidman said, whirling around, eyes nearly bugging out of his head with indignation.
“And her pasta sauce,” Barton continued. “Man, it's to die for.”
“It's from a jar!” Seidman said.
“No, she does something special to it,” Barton said. “Something... magical.”
“She throws in a couple pounds of ground beef!” Seidman said. “The shitty factory farm stuff made with sad cows whose hooves are all ingrown like toenails! You know I grow my own tomatoes, my own fucking basil, my own oregano? You know I make my own goddamn sausage?”
Steve hid a grin by spooning another huge bite of the incredible mac and cheese into his mouth. God, it really was amazing. Seriously rich, though, swimming in cream and cheese and buttery breadcrumbs. Two bowls in and he was already damn full – which was unfair, because there was still plenty of mac and cheese left, not to mention a few beautiful blueberry pies that were cooling on the countertop. He mopped up the cheese sauce in his bowl with a piece of Seidman's excellent homemade bread, and determinedly pushed his bowl away.
“More, Rogers?” Romanov said.
“No thanks,” Steve said.
“C'mon,” she said, heaping spoonful poised over the empty bowl.
“No,” Steve said firmly. His tone was directed more at himself than at Romanov, a self-monitoring reminder not to indulge, but he'd inadvertently used what his ex-girlfriend Peggy had called his “Commander Voice,” and Romanov looked taken aback at the peremptory refusal. “Don't want to waste all that work in the weight room, you know?” Steve said, softening his voice and patting his flat stomach.
“But it's okay for my hard work in the kitchen to go to waste?” Seidman demanded.
Steve was, literally, saved by the bell: the alarm rang through the firehouse and suddenly everybody was all action, dinner forgotten, bowls clattering as people pushed back their chairs and leapt to their feet, scrambling for their turnout gear and jostling one another on their way to the engines.
It turned out to be a 3-car highway collision, four people very seriously injured, one of them a six year-old girl who probably wouldn't make it. She had to be cut from her totaled car while her father screamed her name from his stretcher. Her blood was still smeared on Steve's jacket when they got back to the firehouse, and the crew was quiet as they changed out of their gear and trooped back into the common space. They sat disconsolately around the table, no one speaking.
“Pie?” said Seidman, at last. “There's ice cream, too, and if you give me a couple minutes I could whip up a fudge sauce no problem. We've got cocoa, butter, milk,” he was already rattling around the pots, “sugar, and I bet a little orange zest would bring the whole thing together beautifully. Whipped cream too, maybe?”
It was comfortable, Steve thought, and comforting, to sit around the table eating pie with his team, decompressing. He had a couple slices without thinking about it, and then, after a short mental back-and-forth, had another. He could run it off the next morning, he thought, licking ice cream from his spoon and trying to quash the guilt that was welling up with every bite. So he'd had three pieces of pie, so what? Being lax with himself wasn't putting anyone in danger, and there was no rule saying he had to stop at one serving. Barton'd had two, and even Romanov was reaching for her second helping as Steve watched.
“Eat, Rogers,” Seidman said gruffly, dumping a fourth slice onto Steve's plate without asking, and Steve couldn't bring himself to refuse.
:::
Like most firefighters, Steve worked about ten days a month – 24 hours on, then three days off. For the first few weeks, no matter the amount of sleep he'd managed to snag (or, as was more often the case, not) on-duty, he tried to stay awake and in his normal routine for the first day of his off-periods. He'd get off work at the firehouse at 8am and head home for a bowl of yogurt and his daily 5 mile run, followed by an hour of calisthenics and weight training, then he'd sit on the unfairly comfy couch in his apartment and try his damnedest not to succumb to the desperate need for a nap.
He lived in Bed-Stuy, in a building owned by none other than Clint Barton, who'd quickly become one of his favorite co-workers along with Seidman and Romanov. His studio apartment was just a little bigger than a closet, with a sofa, a TV, a bed, a teeny gas-range stove and a narrow green refrigerator that made hourly clunking noises, but he liked the tight quarters; in a bigger space he would've felt too alone, rattling around from room to room. He was used to living elbow-to-elbow with the men and women under his command, and it was strange to have a space that was only his, a life that was only his. He'd gone from being in charge of quite a few other people to being in charge only of himself, and honestly, the transition was more difficult than he'd expected.
“Rogers, this is just sad,” said Romanov. It was the first of their three days off, and she and Steve had met up at a taco joint for a late 3pm lunch; a lunch that Steve kept nodding off into, literally. He'd just dropped his head into the hand holding his third taco, and was bemusedly wiping salsa off his cheek. Romanov passed him another napkin. “Why don't you just taking a fucking nap?” she said. “I've been sleeping since the second I got home.”
“Don't need a nap,” Steve mumbled, blinking heavily, trying to keep his eyes open. “If I take a nap I'll never get to sleep on time tonight.”
“On time for what?” Romanov said.
Steve opened his mouth to respond, then closed it, considering. On time to wake up by 6 and get in his 5 miles, his 100 push-ups, his ab routine. On time to have his kale protein smoothie in the blender and down his throat by 9am. On time to be bored shitless at 10am, wondering what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his day. He pushed the last bite of taco into his mouth instead of answering, and shrugged.
“Cut yourself some slack,” Romanov said, nudging the uneaten half of her steak burrito towards him. Obligingly, he began picking at her leftovers. “Nobody's gonna know if you steal a little mid-day shut-eye,” she said. “And what's more? Nobody cares.”
Steve realized, with a sharp pang, that she was right. Nobody cared. He'd resigned his commission because he was sick of upholding the rules and laws of a government he wasn't certain he believed in, anymore; yet he'd upheld those rules until the very end, and to some extent, was upholding them still. In the army, his men and women had looked to him as an example, looked to him not only to tell them what to do, but to show them, to lead by action and not just word.
Nobody was looking to him anymore.
The realization was simultaneously freeing, and depressing. The thing was, Steve liked giving orders; he liked being in control. It was what he was best at. He loved being on a team, too, but he couldn't deny that part of what he loved about a team was knowing how his teammates relied on him, knowing he was necessary, looked-to. He'd known men who excelled at taking orders, men who surrendered their trust so beautifully it felt like a gift – one sergeant in particular came to mind, a pair of smoky-blue eyes focused intently on Steve, the nod of a dark head, the perfect attention with which Barnes had obeyed...
“Rogers,” Romanov said, snapping her fingers, and he jerked his head up, realized he'd zoned out on her completely.
“Sorry,” he said. “Jesus. Guess I am pretty tired.”
“No shit,” she said. Her green eyes were wry but there was concern in them, too, and in the tilt of her head, her red hair spilling over one shoulder. She was beautiful, Romanov; beautiful like a bird of prey, all power and grace. He'd had a brief, lustful crush on her, but he'd realized very quickly that she didn't need anything from anyone, and Steve, well, Steve liked to be needed.
Steve took the last few bites of her steak burrito, realizing as he did so that he was pretty full; chips and guac, three tacos al pastor, half a burrito, and an extra-large Coke'll do that to a guy, he thought, especially if the guy was half-zombified with exhaustion and not paying much attention to the signals from his body.
“Romanov,” he said. “You're right. I need a damn nap.”
:::
Later, Steve would find himself thinking that his first nap had opened some kind of floodgate.
He'd lain down on his couch tentatively and a little shamefully at 4pm, full of tacos and warmed by the late-afternoon light that shone through his scratched window. He didn't take his boots off, but he propped his feet up on the arm of his sofa and propped his head up with a couple of cushions, lay an arm across his full belly and stared at the poodle-shaped water stain on his ceiling. He listened to the sounds of the city outside his window, the busy clatter of a Brooklyn rush hour, and thought to himself: I'll never fall asleep like this.
Five hours later he blinked awake in a dark room, stomach growling. He stared in astonishment at the time on his phone, then swung his feet to the floor and stretched his cramped body, feeling amazingly relaxed and rejuvenated despite the late hour. Hungry, he called for hot wings and a large pepperoni pizza, then pushed open his window and sucked in a few lungfuls of fresh air, enjoying the cool night breeze on his sleep-heated skin. When the pizza and wings came, he opened a beer and set the box next to him on the couch and turned on the television, flipping around until he found an old black and white movie he remembered watching once with his mother, before she'd died.
Maybe it was the sense of indulgence left over from his nap, or maybe it was how quickly he became absorbed by the movie, but instead of stopping at three slices of pizza as he normally did, he kept going. He finished off the six wings – easy to excuse, they were all protein – and found himself putting away a fourth slice, then a fifth, then a sixth, carbs and cheese sitting heavy in his belly but the pizza was so good, so greasy and salty and perfect, and he felt so strangely unburdened by his nap, so uncharacteristically uncaring, that he polished off a seventh piece, too, and after that it was a matter of pride. He wasn't going to leave one measly slice alone in the pizza box, after all. No, when Steve Rogers committed to something he went all the way, and so despite the fact that he was uncomfortably stuffed, he picked up the final piece of pizza and folded it in half. He was sweating lightly, now, and it was a bit painful to take a deep breath, his muscled stomach packed so full that it bowed out slightly beneath his fitted t-shirt. He cracked his third beer, letting the cool liquid pour down his throat and into the hot crevices of his stuffed belly, and then he bit into that last slice of dripping pepperoni and polished it off.
“God damn,” he said aloud to his empty living room, impressed with himself. He'd never eaten a whole pizza before, not even on a cheat day. He'd never dared. Which was pretty funny, considering all the things he had dared to do. After what felt like a lifetime at war, eating an entire pizza wasn't exactly medal-worthy. Yet it felt like an accomplishment nevertheless. As if there'd been a wall in his own head, and he'd only just begun to learn how to knock it down.
:::
“You seem different,” Romanov said a few weeks later, eyeing him as he shoveled down his fourth serving of biscuits and gravy. They'd hit October, the Butter-themed month, and Steve was experimenting with himself, trying on a life without self-imposed rules. It was a life with a lot less running and a lot more sleeping; a lot less weight-lifting and a lot more eating.
“Different how?” Steve said around a thick mouthful. He reached out to spear another sausage with his fork.
Romanov exchanged a glance with Barton.
“You're, like, chill,” Barton said finally.
“I didn't used to be?” Steve said. He thunked a pad of butter onto one of his biscuits.
“Sir, no sir!” Barton said, in a pretty good imitation of Steve's Commander Voice, and Romanov raised a wary eyebrow, but Steve just chuckled.
“I'm not in the army anymore, you know?” he said. “Bout time I started acting like a civilian. Learn to loosen up.”
“Seems like your pants could use that lesson, too,” Romanov said teasingly, as Steve leaned back and tugged at the waistband of his jeans.
“Oof. Yeah,” he said, patting his stomach gingerly. “Mighta overdone it.”
“Overdone what?” Seidman said. He thunked an enormous butterscotch pie down right in front of Steve. “Better not tap out now, Rogers. This pie ain't gonna eat itself.”
Steve let out a heavy breath, feeling his stretched stomach expand heavily outwards, and he stared at the pie with mingled longing and uncertainty. Truth was, he was past full – and Romanov had a point about his pants. There was “loosening up” and then there was “letting himself go.” That morning he'd stared at himself shirtless in the mirror and tried not to panic over the fact that his abs undoubtedly had less definition than before his little experiment started. There was a tiny pinch of softness beneath his belly button he'd never seen before. It'd only been a few weeks, not even quite a month, and already his body was beginning to show signs of change. But he wasn't ready yet to return to his narrow world of alarm clocks and pedometers and counting reps. Soon; he'd start training again soon. But for now...
“Load 'er up,” he said resignedly, pushing his plate forward, and Seidman cut him an enormous slice. As he pushed the first delicious bite into his mouth, he caught a glimpse of Romanov from the corner of his eye. She was grinning.
:::
Fall sped by in a blur of butter, fire, and, surprisingly, parties. There was the station Halloween party, at which he drank quite a lot of beer and ate quite a lot of candy – so much, in fact, that he had to loosen his belt a notch mid-party, to Romanov's hoots of delight; then Seidman hosted an Octoberfest dinner, where Steve managed to polish off nearly an entire package of Bratwurst by himself; and in early November there was Barton's “the building that drinks together stays together” party, otherwise known as “the first time Steve Rogers got well and truly wasted since he was twenty-three.”
“Rogers,” Romanov said, when she found him swaying over the snack table, trying to scoop salsa onto a chip with a very unsteady hand. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Six pack,” Steve ticked off on his fingers, “three cupsa cider, some of that punch, s'good, you should try it, got some kinda sheber – sherba – sherbret – innit...” He hiccuped. “Buttered rum...”
“What's this?” Romanov said, taking his current drink from his hand and giving it a sniff.
“Hot chocl't,” Steve hiccuped. “With peppermint snaps. Snops. Schnapps.” He stuffed a handful of M&Ms into his mouth. Romanov gave him his drink back. “You look nice,” he said around the candy, because she did, all soft red hair and blurry curves.
“That girl from 4B was all over you earlier,” Romanov said. “You didn't seem to think she looked nice.”
“Not my type,” Steve said, chewing an Oreo.
“What, female?” Romanov said baldly.
Steve blinked at her, then shrugged. “Not too picky 'bout that,” he said. “She was... sweet.”
“You don't like them sweet?”
Steve wasn't so drunk that he couldn't manage a wink. “I like 'em sweet 'n salty.”
Romanov laughed at that, and then, unasked, she slid the last piece of pumpkin pie onto a paper plate and handed it to him. He beamed a thank you at her and dug clumsily at it with a plastic fork, though he was full up to his eyes with food and drink. He could feel the bloated stretch of his incredibly full belly, pressing up against the soft fabric of his t-shirt and straining uncomfortably at the tightening waist of his pants. It was sloshy with alcohol and packed firm with cake and pie and pasta and chicken and nachos and everything else he'd eaten that night, a little of everything, no holding back.
“Here,” Romanov said, as he licked his lips and put down the empty paper plate. He looked up blearily and found her holding out a huge stack of sugar cookies on an orange napkin, leftover from Halloween. He muffled a discreet burp with the back of his hand, then took the cookies, a little bewildered but unable somehow to turn down her offer. He ate them one by one, six in total, dunking them into the dregs of his boozy hot chocolate, hiccuping painfully between bites, his stuffed stomach lurching.
“Ugh,” he said, brushing crumbs from his fingers. Romanov was watching him, her own drink forgotten in her hand. “Full,” he offered, resting a careful hand on the throbbing curve of his belly – and it was a curve, he realized. He was so full it was an unmistakable arc. For some reason, it thrilled him a little to think that Romanov could see it, could see the effects of his indulgence, his laxity.
“You can really put it away,” Romanov said, her tone silky, admiring. “I haven't seen anyone eat like that since my last girlfriend. And that was only in the bedroom.”
Then, before Steve could even begin to process that, she'd disappeared back into the party, and the sweet girl from 4B was coming towards him with a plate of brownies, looking hopeful.
:::
It wasn't just that his abs were losing definition, Steve thought. It went beyond softened muscles, and into actual softness.
He was shirtless in front of his bedroom mirror, after a breakfast of waffles and whipped cream – plus a couple fried eggs, a side of hashbrowns, a glazed donut, and a bagel and cream cheese. He'd come home stuffed nearly to the point of pain, replaying the meal in his mind and trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. He'd ordered the waffles first, three of them, and had polished them off so quickly that he'd ordered the eggs and potatoes without thinking about it. He'd been full by the end of his second course, no doubt about it, but the waitress had told him the donuts had just come out of the frier, and who was he to turn down a piping hot donut?
It was the bagel that threw him for a loop.
He'd been walking home the three blocks from the diner, slow and sated, jeans button undone beneath his untucked t-shirt and heavy jacket, tummy packed tight and round, and he had passed his favorite bagel shop. He'd paused before the door, sniffing that doughy scent with appreciation, one hand patting the belly that was still gurgling in an effort to digest what he'd eaten so far, and he'd thought: Why not? Just, why not.
As soon as he swallowed his last bite of bagel, he knew it had been a mistake. His stomach, which before had been bloated and pleasantly aching, felt so stuffed that his lungs felt squashed, his breath coming short. The pleasant ache had turned into a cramping pain, and his unbuttoned jeans felt unbelievably tight, constricting. He'd dragged himself the last block in considerable discomfort, huffing a little, and he'd taken the elevator the three flights up to his apartment, which was a first even in his new lazy lifestyle. He'd taken off his pants even before he'd padded into his room to throw himself on the bed, gripping his stomach and rubbing it firmly as it creaked and moaned.
Now he was in front of the mirror, staring two months of pure gluttony in the face.
He'd put on weight. That was only to be expected, and he'd been prepared for his body to settle. He hadn't, however, been prepared for the sight of a real belly starting in, rounding out from under his pecs, hadn't been prepared for the way his hips now curved slightly over the waistband of his boxers, the way his chest was ever-so-faintly squishier. His arms were still huge with muscle, since he hadn't given up weight training at the station, of course, and when he flexed, his chest swelled impressively, but his abs were gone. It wasn't that noticeable when he was dressed, he didn't think, though his stomach had started to push out against his shirts, a faint strain to the material, and he'd found himself pulling them down more often; and his jeans were blatantly too-small, not only around his waist but around his thighs, too, pulling across his ass.
“Well, hell,” he said aloud to his reflection. His stomach looked particularly round right now, though he knew that was mostly bloat and would go down, and he palmed it gently, thumbed at his stretched belly-button. The skin was very warm and soft. He stood to the side, looking at the way his stomach was starting to bow out over his boxers, and figured he had two options, here.
He could go back to his rules, to his training and schedule and self-imposed limitations, and probably lose this incipient gut with a month of hard work – or, he could keep doing what he wanted, and accept the consequences as they came.
Even as he considered, he knew what he would choose. He had tasted freedom, quite literally, and the thought of going back to the way he had been exhausted him. He was happier now, and he thought he was a better friend, too, a better teammate when he wasn't holding himself to impossible standards.
“Looks like you're sticking around,” he said, patting his stomach ruefully. He was sure to plateau soon, anyway – he wouldn't just keep gaining forever. He knew he'd gained a little over fifteen pounds already, and he figured he'd max out around twenty, give or take. Twenty pounds was no big deal. He could accept twenty pounds.
:::
By the week before Thanksgiving, he'd gained twenty-eight. He knew because he weighed himself surreptitiously at the station, after he'd outgrown all his pants. He'd been 190 of sheer muscle when he'd joined the FDNY and was now was almost over 220, heavier than he'd ever been before. And it wasn't muscle, either. He'd bought new jeans but not new shirts, figuring that was a ways away, still, but just that morning he'd reached for his helmet on an upper shelf and when he'd lowered his arms, his t-shirt stayed stuck somewhere around his belly button. He'd had to tug it down redfaced before anyone caught sight of the pudging swell of lower belly it had revealed – not that his crew had missed his new pounds.
“C'mon, Rogers,” Seidman said at lunch. “Kill this last burger for me, would you? Add it to that spare tire you're working on.”
“Rogers, you'll finish off these meatballs, right?” Hernandez demanded. “A growing boy like you?”
“This gravy turned out kinda thick,” Barton apologized. “Like Rogers, here.”
“Ha ha,” Steve said good-naturedly, reaching for the gravy boat.
He had accepted Barton's invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at his apartment, where he'd been pleased to find that Romanov was in attendance, too, along with a crowd of people Steve recognized from around the building, and a few strangers. Barton's apartment was packed, and there was a mind-boggling amount of food spread out over the table – which was, in fact, four tables pushed together, every inch covered in hot dishes.
Steve had served himself a glorious plate heaped high with mashed potatoes, stuffing, turkey, and several buttered rolls, all of it covered in gravy, and he dug in with gusto.
“No green beans?” Romanov said, at his side. “No peas?”
“Nope,” Steve said. “Waste of space. I'd take some of those sweet potatoes with marshmallows, though.”
Natasha passed them over, and Steve added them to his pile of food. He was planning to cut back a little after Thanksgiving – not a diet or anything, and he certainly wasn't going to start working out as vigorously as he once had, but he was going to try and watch himself a bit more. Seconds, but no thirds, that kind of thing. So today was kind of his last hurrah.
It had to be, because he couldn't button his jeans.
They'd been too small for a few weeks, but he'd been able to get them done up by lying down flat on his bed and sucking in his belly, and while they hadn't been exactly comfortable, at least he could pretend they still fit, more or less. Then, just yesterday, he simply had not been able to get them closed. It was a feat of physical impossibility, and he'd sat up on his bed, a little dismayed, watching the way his belly rounded out between the flaps of his pants, like it was happy to be free.
Now he was in a pair of – very nice – black sweatpants, pulled lower than normal to accommodate his new pooch, and he was wearing his best sweater to compensate for the pants; a grey cashmere that had always showed off his slim waist and broad shoulders, but now was pulled taut across his middle and showed every wrinkle in the too-tight button-up he'd layered beneath it.
Three plates in, he was truly regretting the button-up. He could feel the buttons straining, and the stiff cotton was uncomfortably constricting around his belly, which was definitely a bit larger than it had been before he'd started eating. He swiped up the last bite of mashed potatoes with a piece of buttered bread, and sat back in his chair to tug at the waist of his sweats, which didn't do much good. It was his stupid shirt that was the problem – he could feel the marching seam of buttons digging into the curve of his belly. Under the pretense of adjusting his pants, he wedged his hand up beneath the shirt and gave his lower belly a subtle rub of commiseration, ran his thumb consolingly over a divot below his navel where the seam was pressing in.
“God, I'm full,” Romanov said, and pushed her plate towards Steve. “You want this?”
He dropped his hand guiltily and glanced over to see what looked like an untouched plate of food: a huge mound of mashed potatoes, a pile of stuffing, a glistening lump of cranberry sauce, several thick slices of turkey, and a cascade of gravy. A thickly-buttered slice of homemade bread perched atop it all.
“Eyes bigger than your stomach?” he asked, and let her set the plate down atop his empty one.
“Something like that,” she said, as he leaned forward to start in on the stuffing.
By the time he'd swallowed his final bite of turkey, he was flushed and short of breath. Fullness combined with his tight shirt made it difficult to breathe as deeply as he wanted, and he sat for a moment, sipping air unobtrusively, plucking hopelessly at his sweater, trying to get a grip on the shirt underneath to rearrange it somehow, but no cigar.
“Is that cashmere?” Romanov said. “Beautiful.”
“Thanks,” Steve said shortly, trying to conceal how out of breath he was.
“You've got that shirt underneath it, though,” she said disapprovingly. “When I wear cashmere, I like it right against my skin.”
Steve couldn't help but conjure up this mental image, imagining the softness of a sweater against the softness of her skin, sliding over the soft curves of her waist and caressing her breasts...
“It's hot in here,” he said, trying to explain away the blush he knew was suffusing his already-pink cheeks. “Are you hot? Too hot for two layers, you're right.”
“So take off your sweater,” Romanov suggested.
“Rather take off the shirt,” Steve said. “The sweater, uh, the sweater makes the outfit.”
“Right, cashmere and sweatpants,” Romanov said, poking his plumping thigh. “Fresh off the runway.”
Steve let out a breathless laugh, but even laughter was curtailed by the constriction of his shirt. “Fuck it,” he said, mostly to himself. Then to Romanov, “Be right back.”
He pushed his chair out from the table and climbed slowly to his feet, his stomach letting out a gurgle as he stood, though at least his tummy unrounded a bit and his shirt allowed him another inch or so to breathe. He plodded to Clint's bathroom, locked the door, and stripped off his sweater. He unbuttoned his shirt quickly, feeling more relief with every button he unfastened, his belly surging out as if it'd been waiting, and when he'd unfastened the last button he peeled it off his shoulders – too tight around his arms, too – and let it fall to a heap on the bathroom floor. There were red lines on his torso from where the tight shirt had bit into him, and he winced, took a moment just to give himself a good long bellyrub, fingers digging into the taut skin, helping him digest the tons of food he'd just put away. He had to make room for dessert, after all.
He put his sweater back on, shirtless underneath it now, and bent to hide his button-up in Clint's towel cabinet. Then he took a deep breath – much easier now – and faced himself in the mirror.
The sweater did absolutely nothing to conceal how full he was. In fact, without the confining effects of the button-up, his belly looked noticeably bloated, curved and round, his navel a shadow beneath the soft fabric, and his pecs looking thicker than normal. He looked unmistakeably chunky. But god, Romanov was right: the cashmere against his stretched skin felt amazing, luxurious, and so much more comfortable than his shirt. He was cooler, too, and the sheen of sweat that had misted his forehead during dinner had disappeared.
He went back into the dining room much happier, only to find that someone – or many someones – had cleared the table of dinner food and set out dessert. And what dessert there was. Pumpkin pie, pecan, coconut cream, carrot cake, apple crumble, quivering bowls of whipped cream, several gallons of vanilla ice cream... Despite how full he already was, and how bloated and round he felt, Steve's mouth began watering. He snagged a chocolate chip cookie as he headed back to his seat, and had already finished it by the time he lowered himself back next to Romanov.
She eyed him, then grinned. “What'd I tell you?”
“Feels great,” Steve admitted, smoothing his hands down his front, letting them linger a moment on his stuffed stomach. Then he reached for the pumpkin pie. The slice looked lonely sitting there in the center of his big plate, so he helped himself to a slice of pecan, too, and a couple scoops of ice cream. Some whipped cream, a chunk of apple cake. What looked like blueberry cobbler. Before he knew it, his dessert plate was stacked just as high as his dinner plate had been, and he hovered his fork around happily, not even certain where to start.
A couple slices of pie later, Steve gratefully accepted coffee from a young woman going around with a potful. He held the warm mug to the side of his belly, which was aching badly, and with his free hand he started on the cake, dragging it through the puddle of melted ice cream. He was out of breath again.
“Whew,” he said, and though he hadn't meant to speak aloud, Romanov glanced over.
“You all right, there?” she said.
“Fuckin' full,” Steve said, prodding his belly experimentally. It felt taut as a drum.
“Well, you're almost done,” Romanov said kindly. “Just a few more bites.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, eyeing the slice of cake and stack of shortbread cookies sitting innocently on his plate. He felt a little embarrassed by how much she'd seen him eat that evening – and a little embarrassed by how round his tummy looked just now, sitting pushed-out and proud beneath his sweater. “It's all so good, you know?” he said lamely.
“Have you tried the butterscotch cookies?” she said, and before he could answer, she dropped one onto his plate. “One more won't make a difference,” she said.
“Right,” Steve said, crunching into the big cookie. “Damn. That is good.”
“There'll be plenty left over, too,” Romanov said. “Don't forget to take some home.”
:::
Between Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving leftovers, and a stream of Christmas parties, Steve accidentally put on another ten pounds by the end of December. He ordered himself a few new pairs of jeans online as a Christmas present to himself, swearing even as he clicked PAY that he'd drop this weight and be back to his old size in no time, but even he didn't believe himself. He'd put on nearly forty pounds, now, and he couldn't hide it anymore – not from himself, not from his friends.
He could see people looking at him, glancing at his belly then quickly away, and he knew he should be ashamed... But he wasn't. He didn't mind. In fact, he almost liked it, the lingering glances people gave him as he ate twice what he should, the raised eyebrows when he put away three burgers in one sitting.
The extra forty pounds had settled all over his body, but he could feel it mostly in his belly, which was suddenly very prominent and called attention to itself even when Steve was alone. He wasn't used to thinking about his body as a jumble of separate parts, but his stomach seemed to have a mind of its own – it was a firm weight around his middle that had begun to sway him forward ever-so-slightly, nearly brushed his thighs when he sat down, was always bumping into things and catching crumbs and grumbling when it was hungry and groaning when it was too-full.
Usually, it was too full.
“You just ate half a pan of lasagna,” Romanov said, serving him another enormous portion. “A little more won't hurt.”
“Yes, it will,” Steve said fervently, but he forked himself a cheesy bite and couldn't help but hum with pleasure. He was at Romanov's house for dinner, just the two of them – Barton had bailed at the last minute, and Steve, in a strange fit of nerves at being left alone with Romanov, really had eaten half the pan by himself, plus about half a baguette smothered in butter. And oh, he was feeling the strain. He put down his fork for a moment and tugged at the hem of his henley, which was inching upwards over his packed tummy, and he used the motion as an excuse to give his stomach a soothing scratch. It was very firm, though there was a layer of softness that gave beneath his fingers, and as always he was surprised to find how much of it there was. “Jesus,” he said, almost to himself.
“Pretty full, huh?” Romanov said, flashing her small white teeth. She leaned forward to refill his wine glass, and he couldn't help but eye the hint of creamy cleavage that peeked from beneath her tight v-neck.
“Yeah,” Steve said, picking his fork back up. He resisted the urge to rub his stomach with his free hand, though he had a brief flash of fantasy: Romanov bent over him, those gorgeous breasts on display, her hand stroking his stuffed flesh, her sultry voice telling him to keep eating. He shook his head to clear it and took an enormous, distracting bite of lasagna. That wasn't the way you were supposed to think about your friends.
Romanov leaned back in her chair with a yawn, stretching her arms over her head like a satisfied cat, arching her back, and Steve forgot to chew for a moment.
The problem was, he needed to get laid. He'd had a few one-or-two night stands since moving back to New York, mostly off the internet – not that he'd ever had trouble picking people up in bars, but online it was easier to find like-minded people, and Steve was a man of specific predilections. He liked to be in charge. Vanilla sex was fine, but it never scratched the same itch for him, never filled him with the euphoria that came from domination, from telling someone what to do and watching them comply, completely at his mercy, a mercy that was strict and strong but tender, too. He loved watching someone come apart at his command. Loved giving another person a chance to surrender themselves completely, to cede all control, to grant him the greatest gift of all: trust. Steve Rogers had a bulletproof kink for trust.
Yet lately he'd been having fantasies that were completely new to him. Fantasies that involved submitting. Especially when he was so full, like he was now – as if the stretch of his belly rewired his mind in some way, rewired his cock. He'd sit alone in his apartment packing away a pizza and an order of wings and he'd imagine someone at his side egging him on, someone lithe and slender and strong, a little mouthy, maybe – someone who would tease him about how much he was eating, someone who would press more food on him long after he was full, someone who would put their hands on his full belly and ride him while he lay back, too lazy and stuffed to do any of the work himself. In these fantasies, he imagined himself giving orders... but he imagined taking orders, too. And that was a first.
Usually his fantasy partner was male – dark-haired, light-eyed, delicate and strong, bold but obedient...
But sometimes his partner was a curvy, red-haired women with narrowed eyes and a smirk on her full lips.
Romanov was smirking at him now, and Steve hastily swallowed the bite of lasagna that was sitting forgotten in his cheek. He shoved another bite into his mouth and let out a small huff of air that came out more like a grunt than he'd intended.
“You're coming in the for the calendar shoot at the end of the month, right?” Romanov said. “I think Barton's got you down as July. He was mumbling something about the American flag.”
Steve nearly choked. The Fight Fire With Fire Calendar was a yearly fundraiser, featuring twelve full-color pages of half-naked firefighters – and this year, Steve Rogers was supposed to be among them. He'd let himself be harassed into signing up last spring, and had completely forgotten about it until this moment. His horror must have shown on his face, because Romanov raised a delicate eyebrow.
“Cold feet?” she said. “Don't be nervous. The shoot itself is a lot of fun – our photographer really knows how to make people feel comfortable. I've been doing it for years.”
“I, uh,” Steve said. “I...” He was suddenly, shockingly aware of how full he was, of the uncomfortable constriction of his new waistband, of the bloated press of his stomach against his henley, and he glanced down automatically, noting with horror that his deepening belly-button was visible below the fabric and that his tummy was domed firmly over his jeans, obscuring the zipper, a teeny strip of bare belly pudging from below the tight hem. He tried to suck it in, and it barely moved. He knew he'd put on weight, forty whole pounds of it, and he knew his body was changing, but it wasn't until this moment that the shocking truth came crashing down around his shoulders. He was getting fat.
“I can't do the calendar,” Steve said, a little desperately. “I signed up this summer, but I... I don't look – I don't look like --” He stopped, flummoxed. He'd never been self-conscious before and wasn't certain how to deal with the feeling.
“You look fantastic,” Romanov said, with no hint of her usual smirk. She seemed utterly sincere. “I mean, sure, you've gained a little weight, but it looks great on you.”
“It's two weeks away,” Steve said, “I could probably drop some --”
“Steve, don't you dare,” Romanov said, eyes flashing, and Steve looked up, surprised. It was perhaps the first time she'd used his first name, and the sound of it sent a strange rush of blood through his body. “We've got plenty of abs. Mine, for instance. We need some beef.”
Despite his discomfort, Steve laughed. “And I'm the beef?”
“Are you ever,” Romanov said.
Steve leaned back in his chair, one hand straying to pat the side of his overstuffed belly, though when he realized what he was doing he dropped his hand hastily. “You'll be in it, too?” he said.
“I'm January,” Romanov said. “They're going to do something with white fur.”
Steve pictured a soft swath of fur over a full breast, and swallowed.
“Here, finish your lasagna, and while we eat dessert I'll show you the past calendars,” Romanov said, and Steve picked his fork back up dutifully, and dug back in.