Work Text:
🍰
Shavuot is the last nail in Jack’s coffin — or rather, the last notch in his belt, so to speak.
See, his gut ain’t budging no more. Not that it ever really did after forty, but g-ddamn, he doesn’t even have a chance anymore.
His waistbands don’t forgive the way they used to. His buttons take an extra second, a suck-in. He bends to tie his shoes but finds himself holding his breath just to get over the hill of his personal watermelon. He needs a little extra support off the couch now, by which he means both hands on his thighs. Robby has commented many many times now, often while slipping his hands beneath them to cop a feel of the Jell-O mold gut he’s sporting — that his shirts don’t hang anymore so much as cling. He ain’t sure when his gut lapped his husband’s, but he ain’t exactly overjoyed about it.
Then it’s Shavuot and Jack’s always been a sucker for dairy. Cheesecakes multiply on the countertops, as if they’re fucking like rabbits. There’s a lasagna layered so thick with béchamel it should apply for zoning approval with the HOA, blintzes folded fat and smug with sweet cheese, kugel that jiggles when you put it down, much like what’s happening to Jack’s freckled, fuzzy belly. You’d think Jack was sporting a baby gut with how much Robby is always on him now, grabbing handfuls of creamy belly spillage now instead of at Jack’s nipples when they’re playing tonsil hockey. Ricotta everywhere. Actual heavy cream everywhere. Milk in the fridge like they’re preparing for a plague that only affects calves. Robby goes hard for Shavuot the way Jack goes hard for Chanukah. He plans menus days ahead, gets quietly flustered when the grocery store doesn’t have the right farmer's cheese, and hums nervously while stirring sauces that absolutely do not need that much attention. He offers food with a hopeful, almost shy glance, like he’s bracing himself for a critique even after all these years. To be fair, those were years that Jack did try to diet — but now, it’d be like shoveling the driveway in a blizzard.
Jack complains anyway though, naturally. He pouts, staring at the table. “You tryin’ to put me in the ground before I’m sixty?”
Robby pushes his glasses up his nose with a roll of his eyes. “It’s Shavuot, Yankele. It’s practically a mitzvah.”
“Oh, now it’s halachic,” Jack grumbles. “Fantastic.”
He eats it anyway, of course, he does. He grumbles as all middle-aged men must, but he doesn’t slow down. He eats standing at the counter, fork in one hand, the newspaper tucked under his arm, stabbing at leftover noodle kugel straight from the pan like it might escape him. He eats late. Eats because it’s there. Eats because Robby made it and because it’s good and because he’s not about to argue with béchamel that creamy. Fuck, life’s taken enough from him; he’s not giving up cheesecake on principle. But that night, as Jack pats his belly in bed — the poor thing is too full to jiggle — Robby’s thumb moves, slow and absentminded, to stroke that warm overtaxed skin. He looks pleased with himself, but he’s clearly trying not to be obvious about it while Jack has the worst overfull bellyache. “You’ve been eating my cooking,” He says, nonchalant. Jack can practically hear the I grew this, in his proud tone. I grew this belly.
Jack scoffs. “Oh, now it’s your cooking. When I gain ten pounds, suddenly we’re a chavruta?”
“Thirty or forty pounds more like,” Robby drools. “—of just belly.”
Jack’s old reflex twitches — the voice inside him, that sounds remarkably like his father and says tighten up, cut back, do better. It barely gets a word out though, before he shoves it aside. He looks at Robby instead, who hasn’t stopped going gooey-eyed over Jack’s lard gut the way Jack does over turtle cheesecake. He wraps an arm around his husband without thinking, hand settling naturally at Robby’s plush waist. He looks down at his own middle again and makes a conscious choice to relax, let it push out. It’s his gut, after all. Robby grew it.
“Don’t get smug,” Jack groans.
Robby smiles, small and bright. “Too late. We’re getting older.”
“Yeah,” Jack says, kissing his bald spot, palm resting over both their bellies like he’s counting blessings. “And heavier.”
Robby hums. “Baruch Hashem.”
Jack smiles into the dark. “Amen to that.”
🍰
After a big meal, Robby gets grabby hands — or, well, grabbier hands.
He can’t help it, okay?
They’re back from the diner — the good one, the kind with cracked vinyl booths and laminated menus and a waitress who calls everyone honey regardless of religion, politics, or cholesterol — and the condo smells like cinnamon and frosting they absolutely did not need but ordered anyway, because the night felt unfinished without it. Robby’s stretched out on the couch, shoes kicked off somewhere, hands folded loosely over his own belly. It hangs heavy and relaxed beneath his fingers, pulled south by age, his sweet tooth, and years of yo-yo dieting. His stomach feels content, like it’s done everything asked of it and is now requesting rest. He’s only happy enough to give it.
Jack, meanwhile, is still parked by their bag of leftovers on the counter — spoon in hand, brows furrowed with a purpose. The takeout container of bread pudding sits open, steam still curling faintly into the air, vanilla sauce glistening. Robby watches him with open affection. Jack just doesn’t know when to give up. His poor belly is at the brink, flushed red and shaped like the capital letter B. His lower pudge is the mark of meals past, how well-fed he is now that Robby keeps tabs on him. The top is packed to the brim with their dinner, guarded by a not-so-thin layer of its own pudge. He’s really coasting to the edge of bursting with these last few bites: the top hemisphere of the globe has finally eclipsed the belly-button equator. Jack eats it standing up, spoonful after spoonful, because the dessert isn’t finished and therefore neither is he.
“You must be sore, baby,” Robby pouts. “C’mere and rest.” He holds out his arms.
Jack grunts around a mouthful. “We ordered it, damn it.”
“I know.”
“I’m not lettin’ it go to waste.”
Robby smiles, eyes tracking the subtle way Jack’s belly shifts with each breath, as one solid mass. That poor tummy is at its limit, and probably way beyond it, Robby has a feeling he’s going to spend the rest of the night with a very unhappy belly under his hands and a whimpering Jack sucking hickeys into his tits. So, he lets his husband have his way for now. Robby props himself up on one elbow, “How do you have any room, bubbeleh?”
Jack lets out a low, nauseated hiccup. “‘Cause I ain’t done yet.” He scrapes the bottom of the container, then finally sets it down. He also groans immediately after, both hands coming up to cradle the aftermath of his stubbornness. “Ow.”
Robby sighs, “Oh, motek, that belly.”
Jack limps over, holding his gut with both hands, and lowers himself carefully into Robby’s arms. The couch creaks under their combined weight and back meets belly when Jack leans into him. Robby can’t help but tap out a little drum solo on Jack’s double-layer snare. It produces a soft little belch and a very annoyed pout from his grumpy husband. Jack hiccups and grumbles as he burrows into Robby like a bean-bag chair. “Good bread pudding.” He defends himself weakly and Robby rolls his eyes. See, Jack gets this face when he’s eaten past sensible and refuses to acknowledge it on principle. His tough-guy stoicism, just applied to indigestion. The old Southie martyrdom of a man who would rather suffer quietly than concede the bread pudding may have won this time around.
Robby shifts closer, already reaching out. “It hurts, huh?”
Jack huffs. “No, it’s just sittin’ heavy.”
“Mmhmm,” Robby hums, unimpressed. He places his wide hand squarely on Jack’s belly. “Feels like a tummyache to me, doctor.”
Jack grumbles. “You didn’t stop me.”
“We ordered it,” Robby says sweetly. “Damn it. Besides, you do this every time with bread pudding.” He does this every time with anything sweet.
Jack pouts. “It was good.”
“It was very good,” Robby agrees. “But a serving for four could have waited for the morning with coffee, fatty.”
Jack lets out a low laugh that turns into a groan halfway through. “Careful, tubby,” He grunts. “You’re talkin’ real bold for a guy whose belly’s still digestin’ three courses and a milkshake he didn’t need.”
Robby snorts. “Oh please.”
Jack gives him a look, but he’s already melting into the cushions, heavy and pliant. Robby nudges him gently, fingers sliding to Jack’s hip to cup that lower belly pudge properly. Oh, the poor thing is so damp and sticky with sweat. “C’mon. Turn over for me.”
“What, so you can say ‘I told you so’ from a new angle?” Jack mutters, but he complies, rolling with care, a man maneuvering a waterbed that happens to be attached to his torso. He lands on his back with a soft oof, belly taking up most of the space between them. It ripples as one giant mass. Robby grins, delighted at the sight. He lifts Jack’s thighs onto his hips, stuffing a pillow under his husband’s overworked pelvis and smooths his wide boxy hands over that tight, overworked B belly, the tips of his fingers scratching idly at the purple stretch marks that have formed cradle his motek’s precious weight gain over these last few months. “Look at you,” He huffs fondly. “All puffed up.” But, as it turns out, that belly isn’t the only thing puffing up. Fuck, Robby is always hard the minute he gets a hand on his husband, be it physical or mental. But Jack has a thing for pain. He always has. Turns out a tummyache is enough to tip him over.
“Don’t,” Jack groans. His face has gone a little pale, eyes half-lidded, mouth pulled down at the corners. “I’m concentratin’ on not throwin’ up on you.” His dick is growing however and pressing against Robby’s own belly, as it seems to disagree with that statement.
“Nu, then I’ll be gentle.” Robby taps the belly experimentally with his fingertips again, then again, harder. Tap-tap. Jack’s poor belly sloshes with a deep, waterlogged sound. Oh.
Jack’s eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck, Robby.” He gets harder.
Robby laughs and then starts in earnest, drumming lightly, alternating hands, on that taut drumhead of a stomach, the top of the B belly, just enough to make the skin quiver. The sound is obscene in its own way, hollow and full at the same time. Jack lets out a strangled noise that might be a protest or might be a plea.
“Ow,” Jack says, breath hitching. “That’s — ugh.” He’s red in the cheeks and belches, tiny and unsatisfying. “Ow.”
But Robby presses down hard. Jack’s belly resists him like the stretched drum it is, ridiculously overfull, taut and burning under his palms. He leans in a little, brows knit with mock seriousness. “Maybe we should remember this the next time we glut ourselves, hm?”
Jack sucks in a breath through his teeth, a sharp little hiss, then lets it out in a shaky laugh that immediately turns into a groan. “Ow, easy,” He yelps, hands flying to Robby’s wrists on instinct. His face screws up, the color high on his cheeks now, queasiness and affection warring it out. “You’re — mmph — provin’ a point.”
“That’s the idea,” Robby eases off the pressure just a hair, thumbs spreading. He can feel Jack’s breath under his palms, shallow and stubborn, the belly rising anyway like it refuses to be cowed. “You never listen when I say ‘maybe later.’”
Jack opens one eye and shoots him a look. “I listen. I just disagree.”
Robby huffs a laugh. “Of course you do.” He presses in again with both hands, more of a firm hold than a push, as if he’s containing something precious and unruly. Jack writhes under his hold, groaning between forced tiny burps. “Then you end up like this. Poor thing’s workin’ overtime here.”
Jack swallows, jaw flexing. “It’ll pass.” His belly gurgles.
“Mmhmm.” Robby’s voice goes soft despite himself. He slides one hand up, the other staying put, tracing a slow, calming arc over the stretched skin. “You say that every time and every time you get that look, like you’re negotiatin’ with your poor kishkes.”
“I’m winnin’,” Jack whines, though the words comes out breathy. He shifts under Robby, trying to get comfortable, belly wobbling just enough to make Robby’s hands adjust automatically, protectively. “Mostly.”
Robby keeps one palm on the crest of Jack’s cherry red globe and the other slides lower down to jiggle the pudge at the bottom, wiggling his fingers. Jack squeaks, eyes squeezed shut.
The belly takes its time settling with every tiny poke, like it’s deciding whether or not to behave. There’s a last lazy sway to it that follows each little snap of his finger, a residual wobble that travels from the softer, older weight beneath, to the tight little cherry up top. Robby’s top hand stays pressed into that tighter top of the B. He presses, releases, gives a careful little nudge to one side and then the other, watching how the mass answers him up there. It’s not quick. It’s not eager. It lags behind his touch, obedient but stubborn, like it’s got momentum all its own. So tight it simply can’t jiggle. Robby smiles, unabashed. He lifts his bottom hand and traces a small circle around Jack’s navel, then flicks the pad of his finger just enough to set the whole thing trembling and wobbling again. This time he really studies it — the way the jiggle spreads outward in concentric waves and just as Jack belches again, Robby’s two dry fingers slam into him, and Jack wails.
He simply can’t arch, his belly is too heavy, but Robby feels the muscles tremble and give way as he massages inside. He eventually reaches into the side table to grab a bottle of cherry lube but makes sure Jack feels the pain first. Not enough to do any damage, but enough to make him rock hard against Robby’s belly, desperate for more sensation.
Jack leans in on instinct too, wanting all the attention, chin tipping up, mouth already shaping for a kiss, and then he stops short with a soft, surprised huff. His lower belly presses into Robby’s soft midsection before Jack can get close enough for anything else. Jack tries anyway, but all it does is mash his gut more firmly between them. Robby feels it immediately. The contact draws a quiet, pleased sound out of him, low in his throat. He looks down, then back up at Jack, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Stuck?” He asks gently. “Too big? Were you too greedy, baby?”
“Shut up,” Jack pants, his face is pink, deeper now, the color creeping down his neck. He makes one more valiant attempt, but that only makes the pressure worse. His belly bunches, round and stubborn, nudging Robby back a fraction of an inch.
“Oh no,” Robby adds another finger with a wide stretch. “You don’t want to kiss me?”
Jack squeals, Robby can feel the plastic toes of Jack’s artificial foot digging into his ass. He just watches as Jack tries to shift, engaging overworked muscles out of sheer stubborn habit — and just immediately stalls out. His shoulders barely peel off the cushions before the weight in front of him drags him right back down. Robby’s eyebrows lift. “C’mon,” He teases. “Just do a sit-up, Army boy. Then you can kiss me.”
Jack whimpers as cherry lube drips out of him. “Asshole.” Robby considers tipping him more backwards, letting Jack’s gut block his view of Robby entirely. But it seems too mean.
“Mm,” Robby says instead, amused, grabbing a handful of belly and shaking it. “I’m motivating you.”
Jack moans, steels himself, and tries again. His face tightens with effort, chin tucking, abs firing out of long habit — but the belly drags him down, a plush anchor. It presses back into Robby’s hand as Jack strains, and all that happens is a faint wobble at the edges. Jack drops back with a huff, cheeks burning. “Nope,” He pants. “That ain’t happenin’.”
Robby laughs softly, delighted, and gives the belly another tiny, traitorous jiggle that makes Jack groan and slap a hand over his eyes. “Wow,” Robby huffs out. “You’re really stuck here, motek.”
“Don’t say it like that,” Jack whines. “Fuck.”
“But you are,” Robby insists fondly. He leans down closer, so Jack can feel his breath on his face now, but still just out of reach. “All trapped under there.”
Jack opens one eye, glaring up at him. “You put this here.”
“I know.” Robby smiles, unrepentant. “And now you can’t even sit up for a kiss. Guess I’ll have to help.” His hands scoop under Jack and slide him into home, tipping him forward in one go. Robby buries himself in his husband as Jack’s wrecked tummy slams into his own with far too much force, also trapping Jack's own rock-hard dick between them.
“Ah! Fuck!” Jack roars, belching at the pressure and panting and clenching around Robby’s length. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Fuck!”
“Naughty boy.” Robby pants into whatever bit of skin he can reach. “So full. Should have listened.”
Oh. Jack whimpers and burps, his poor belly rubbing red and raw against Robby’s thicket of chest and belly hair as his vision whites out.
Full is right.
Jack does love being full.
🍰