Chapter Text
“Is that-” Martin’s eyes dart up from his book, and whether it’s from the smell - salty and greasy, now wafting through the entryway - or from Jon’s entrance, he can’t be sure.
“Pizza?!” Martin finishes, setting his book aside and rising to his feet, positively beaming in a way that makes Jon’s heart beat faster.
“Er- yes, well, I thought it might be a nice change of pace,” Jon says. He gingerly sets the box on the kitchen table, as Martin hurries over and takes some bags from his other hand.
He’d been in the nearest town, still hours outside of Glasgow, to do some grocery shopping. Since returning to the cabin a few months ago to enjoy a quiet, deserved retirement, they’ve only really gone out for the necessities. There’s something about the restored world that just feels...precarious, to both of them, Jon knows. Well - he doesn’t know know, but sometimes he doesn’t have to.
Either way, they’ve spent most of the past few months holed up again, but by choice this time. Where before it was panicked, fragile, tainted with terror for what was happening to the world, now it’s - it’s safe. God, it’s bloody domestic. Jon never would have thought-
Martin presses a kiss to his cheek, interrupting his thoughts. “Have I ever told you I love you?” he says, beginning to open the pizza box with eager eyes, “Because I do.”
Jon smiles. “Once or twice, maybe,” he says.
Normally Martin would roll his eyes, or say something a bit cheeky, but he’s too focused. He actually gasps as he opens the pizza box.
“Oh, Jon!” he exclaims, “Sausage and pepper, it’s my favourite!”
Jon knows. Knows knows. He had gotten quite good at simply ignoring Martin in that way, that disturbing, nearly omniscient way, but - sometimes Martin just thought about something so loudly, that it was hard not to overhear. Shortly before running into Basira, in the domain of The Hunt, Martin had been lamenting over a sausage and pepper pizza from his favourite local place, thinking he’d never taste it again. Of course, once Jon realised he was listening in, he quickly switched his focus elsewhere.
Jon knew it wouldn’t be the same as whatever little London shop had been Martin’s favourite, but he’d hoped he’d still like it. He’d picked it up on his way out of town, and Jon’s certain that during the forty-five minute drive it’s gone from hot to merely a bit warm, but that doesn’t seem to be hampering Martin’s enthusiasm.
Martin’s already getting plates from the cupboard, and it’s only then that he turns and eyes Jon suspiciously.
“This is my favourite,” he says again, and Jon knows what’s coming, “How did you know?”
Jon looks away, ashamed. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so obvious, but they hadn’t had takeaway in - well, over a year probably - and he just wanted to do something nice for Martin.
“You had a...rather loud hankering for it, while we were in The Hunt,” Jon admits, “I-I stopped listening. When I realised I was listening.”
Martin makes a soft, frustrated sound. “What else did you overhear from me, back then?”
“Very little,” Jon quickly assures him. It’s the truth, anyway, “I was in better control then, than I ever had been. I just got a few...little things, like this,” Jon says, gesturing to the pizza again. Ugh, he’s so stupid, of course Martin wouldn’t appreciate-
Martin hums, walking back over to Jon, looking appeased. “Alright, then,” he says, taking a few slices out of the box and putting them onto his plate.
“You’re...not mad?”
Martin’s cheeks are pink as he admits, “Honestly...right now I feel like it was well worth it.”
Jon can’t help but laugh.
Martin elbows him, but he’s grinning, too, “Oh, shut up, would you? It’s my favourite, Jon.”
His voice creeps into a whine at the end, and Jon softens right up.
“I know,” he says.
_
Martin’s always been big. Since the first time Jon saw him he was big, and he had the look of someone who’s always been big. It’s clear that that’s just how his body is.
But, he’d begun growing a bit leaner after Jane Prentiss, probably from stress and fear, and grew leaner still during the apocalypse. It had been more or less necessary with the trek they had to do, what with Martin doing his best to keep up, and it’s not like they had the resources for a whole lot of overeating. Or even the biological need for eating at all.
Curious then, actually, that Martin had indeed seemed to slim down during that time. Perhaps it was simply all the foot travel they had done? Without the need for food, did metabolisms even still exist in that space? Or perhaps he hadn’t actually lost weight during the apocalypse and Jon’s brain was just filling things in that seemed like they would make sense - ah, it’s not worth theorizing. He could spend hours doing it, but he’s trying to remind himself that he can’t have the answer to everything these days. And he’s trying to be okay with that. He is okay with that.
The point is, Martin’s still big. Leaner, certainly, but he’d never lost enough weight to not be considered big.
And if Jon’s honest with himself - there’s something strangely melancholy about seeing Martin swimming in his old sweatshirts. It tugs at his heart, to see so visibly the toll this whole mess has taken on Martin.
Martin. It’s been a long while since Jon’s been in anything he’d consider even remotely serious, and their time at the cabin before was...less than ideal. It wasn’t exactly under warm and fuzzy pretenses, and while they had gotten together in that time, it hadn’t really felt like being together. More like they were balanced, dangerously, in that spot in time, just waiting to inevitably tip over the edge into the abyss, into the apocalypse he himself had wrought.
But now, things are normal, and they are together. He’s gotten to observe Martin, being normal, doing normal household things like cleaning, reading, stoking the fire, cooking. Eating.
It certainly shouldn’t come as a surprise, how much Martin eats. All bodies are different, naturally, but people don’t generally get to Martin’s size without eating a fair amount.
And he does eat quite a bit. He cooks up breakfasts larger than anything Jon’s eaten for the meal in years, he likes a midmorning tea with a snack or two, followed by what he likes to call a ‘light’ lunch, usually consisting of a sandwich and crisps, or leftovers, or whatever can easily be thrown together. Then he’ll munch on whatever’s around the cabin in the afternoon, and for dinner they tend to alternate cooking, but no matter the dish, Martin always manages to polish off more than Jon.
Conversely, it’s made Jon more aware of his own, admittedly a bit poor, eating habits, and they hadn’t escaped Martin’s notice, either. Over the past few years, he’s begun eating less and less, not that he was ever a big eater to begin with. It’s left him looking a bit...skeletal, really. He’s not particularly bothered by it, aside from knowing it’s probably not very pleasant for Martin to look at.
Martin fusses over him now, if he skips meals. He cajoles Jon into eating at least a little at mealtimes if he’s not otherwise inclined to, and it’s-
“Jon?”
“What’s that?” Jon startles, sitting up in his armchair, suddenly alert.
Martin’s shaking the rain off his coat, standing in the doorway, looking fond.
“Oh, wow,” Martin says amusedly, hanging his coat up, “You were really in your own head there, weren’t you?”
Jon exhales, leaning back in his armchair, “I suppose I was.”
Martin looks up at him as he kicks his shoes off. “What were you thinking about?”
They promised a while ago to never lie to the other, so he answers with a half truth of, “You.” Answering with the full truth of ‘your eating habits’ seems like...not the thing to say to one’s lover.
Martin’s eyes go soft. “Oh,” he says.
For a long time, Jon assumed Martin was unbothered by his weight. He should be unbothered as far as Jon’s concerned. He’s someone who is simply big, and is simply meant to be that way by nature. Jon firmly believes that. So yes, it never seemed to bother Martin, until they became more intimate. Or more accurately, during recent intimacy. Those weeks in the cabin during the apocalypse were desperate in the way that they held and touched each other, and full of hushed, frightened confessions. Martin hadn’t seemed to give his body a second thought. Neither had Jon.
(That may not be wholly true; Jon hadn’t expected to dislike it, but he was pleasantly surprised to find a naked Martin rather...stunning. Full of lush, soft curves, but also carrying an almost startling strength in his shoulders and legs. He quickly learned those nights that Martin’s quite a bit physically stronger than him, and Jon hadn’t expected to be titillated by that either, but he very much was.)
But now, since returning to the cabin, sometimes he just gets a bit...shy. A blush high on his cheeks when Jon leans into his side, absently placing a hand on the crest of Martin’s belly. Jon knows he did it a few times before (truthfully, he found the sensation a bit fascinating, as he’s never been with someone as heavy as Martin and it felt very novel, indeed), but the past few times, Jon actually thinks Martin sucked in his belly a little.
And that’s not all. He’s been blushy whenever Jon touches a part of him that’s particularly wide or wobbly, and he’s been making a point to put the lights out before initiating sex.
Jon’s been told by a few (admittedly, most) of his past lovers that he’s not attentive enough, so he’s always made a point to appreciate Martin’s body. He’s not the best at doing so verbally, but during intimacy, he adores looking at Martin, touching and kissing him everywhere. There’s so much of him, and Jon’s learning...he really, truly enjoys that. He enjoys being enveloped in warm softness when they embrace, when they cuddle. He enjoys the weight of Martin when he can convince him to climb on top-
“Earth to Jon,” Martin says, with a light laugh when he startles again, “You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?”
“I- uh.”
Martin walks over to him, grinning, and hands him a small, rectangular box. Jon opens it and immediately smells bound leather, pushing the tissue aside to reveal-
“A journal,” Jon says, flipping through the blank pages.
“I know you had gotten into the habit of recording your...thoughts. Your inner monologue, or whatever,” Martin says. What he leaves unsaid is that Jon’s been giving any and all tape recorders a wide berth lately. He’d used them a few times shortly after the apocalypse, because they are useful for organizing thoughts, of which Jon has a lot, but it just felt strangely like...a dependency. So he’d tossed them, and to his great relief, they hadn’t reappeared.
“I thought maybe writing your thoughts by hand might be a good substitute,” Martin finishes.
Jon doesn’t know what to say. He looks up at Martin and just hopes that his face portrays how much he appreciates this. “Thank you,” he says.
Martin smiles, and he looks like he knows how much it means to Jon.
Jon sets the journal back in its box, and places it on the table at the side of the chair. Martin’s come close enough for Jon to reach now, so he takes Martin’s hand and kisses his knuckles. Martin’s smile becomes more demure.
“Come here,” Jon says, tugging gently on Martin’s arm. Martin usually tries to turn the tables when Jon requests Martin climb on top of him, pulling Jon into his own lap instead. But with Jon already sitting, in an armchair no less, it’s not really an option.
Martin shifts, tethered by Jon’s hand holding his. Jon gives him another gentle tug.
“Oh, that’s...probably not a good idea, Jon,” Martin says, nervously chuckling, “I mean, we don’t know how old this furniture is…”
Jon fights the urge to chuckle back. Martin should’ve gone with something else, that’s a poor excuse, because, “Just last week we were both in this chair and it was fine.”
But it had started with Martin sitting in it, and Jon climbing into his lap.
“Yes, well - it was probably risky then, too,” Martin says resolutely.
Jon huffs. He doesn’t know how to - he’s bad at communicating, alright? That’s generally Martin’s thing, and Jon doesn’t know how to bring this issue up without potentially offending Martin.
“Fine,” Jon says, rising to his feet, causing Martin to take a step back. But Jon’s quick to reenter his personal space, pressing against him and looping his arms around Martin’s neck.
“Let’s take this to the bedroom, then?” Jon murmurs, standing on his toes to press a kiss to Martin’s soft lips. He knows what he wants, dammit, and he hopes he can cajole Martin into indulging him.
Martin’s wearing a shy grin and he nods.
Jon leads him by the hand and flops unceremoniously back onto the bed. Martin chuckles at him, climbing on, too.
“Gosh, eager, aren’t you?” he teases, before allowing Jon to pull his face closer for another kiss.
He maneuvers Martin, insistently, until he’s on top of Jon, straddling his hips. He’s still putting most of his weight on his own legs, but as they kiss, there’s not much Martin can do about the heavy belly pressing against Jon. It’s reassuring, comforting, how firmly held in place he feels. He’d brought Martin to bed because he’d been feeling soft and sentimental from his gift, but he’s quickly growing more aroused than anything else.
Martin departs from his lips with a dramatic sigh, sitting up more. Jon’s breathing comes a bit easier, with less of Martin’s weight on him, but it’s not exactly welcome as he had been feeling so delightfully warm and fuzzy. Jon’s hands go to Martin’s hips, where they’re so soft, and bulging nicely over the waistband of his jeans.
“Tell me if I hurt you, yeah?” Martin says, like he always does when he’s on top. Jon’s surprised he hasn’t tried to talk him into riding him. He’s glad though; that’s not what he wants.
Jon nods, “Of course.”
Martin eyes him. “You always say that,” he protests, “Sometimes I think I could crush you and you’d just lay there and let me.”
“Oh,” Jon sighs, “What a way to go that would be,” he says, almost sincerely wistful.
Martin snorts a laugh. “Seriously, Jon,” he admonishes, “You have to say something if - if I’m too heavy, alright?”
Martin’s never said it like that, and Jon feels like he would be remiss to ignore it, especially with what’s already been on his mind today.
“You’re not too heavy,” he says, one of the hands on Martin’s hips coming to rub the side of his clothed belly, where it’s pooching even further forward than usual from Martin’s hunched position.
“Hm,” Martin says, eyeing Jon’s torso where his shirt’s rucked up. He places a hand there, pushing it up further and rubbing along his just-barely-visible ribs absently.
“You’re such a tiny thing,” Martin continues, “I just - sometimes I worry that I really could hurt you.”
“I’m not that small,” Jon says, only a little indignant, “I’m eating better these days.”
Martin raises a playful eyebrow. “Are you now? Maybe when I’m around to make sure. What’d you have for lunch today while I was out, then?”
Jon opens his mouth, and shuts it. Martin grins and Jon huffs.
“Alright, alright, point made,” he concedes.
“Now do you promise to tell me if I’m hurting you?”
“Yes, sure, fine, whatever, can we just-” Jon tries to tug Martin down by his hips, but really, he’s quite a bit stronger and heavier than Jon and he doesn’t budge. “Please, Martin?” he all but begs, and he hears the desperation creeping into his voice.
Martin laughs delightedly. “Y’know, I never would’ve pegged you for a needy bottom.”
Jon glares at him, but it must be weak because Martin just keeps grinning.
“I’m not,” Jon says, trying to maintain some dignity, “And I’ll have you know in the past, I’ve mostly topped.”
Jon doesn’t think about what he’s said until Martin pauses, eyes surprised.
“Really?” he says, and Jon realizes just how embarrassing what he’s admitted is. Because yes, he wasn’t very interested in bottoming in the past. But bottoming for Martin is just...fantastic. It’s just different, in the very best way, than any time he’s bottomed before. He likes surrendering control to Martin, to have Martin over him, heavy and commanding. He much prefers it to topping. Every time Martin’s asked him to top instead he does, of course, although, according to Martin, he allegedly pouts about it.
Jon must look as embarrassed as he feels, because Martin finally leans back down to kiss him.
“Hey,” he says, “It’s okay. I...should be flattered, I think?”
“You should be,” Jon quickly agrees, haughty, but it fades as he continues, averting his eyes because there’s no way he can maintain eye contact through what he’s about to say, “I...like feeling you on top of me, Martin, it’s, er…” (ugh, why is this so hard) “It’s comforting. I feel...safe. In your arms. Under you.”
“Oh, Jon,” Martin says, and Jon finally looks back up, heart racing, he’s met with Martin’s misty eyes.
“Don’t - I just -” Jon flusters, before landing on, “I just love you. Everything about you.”
Martin nods. He’s biting his lip against a grin, and his eyes are still a bit watery, but he says, “Alright.”
He recaptures Jon’s lips, his hands coming to Jon’s waistband. Jon lifts his hips, and Martin tugs his trousers and pants off with swift, easy movements.
Martin’s own jeans take a bit more work just due to his girth, a fact that Jon appreciates with great enthusiasm. Martin has too much belly for his fly to be easily accessible, so Jon has to slip his hand beneath his underbelly, so warm and abundantly soft, to feel for the button and flick it open.
Once Jon has that much done Martin pulls back to kick his own jeans and pants off. He’s so much curvier than Jon so his jeans have a lot more to stick to and he has to wriggle a bit, and it makes his belly jiggle plainly through his jumper. Jon squirms where he’s laying on the bed, already fully and frustratingly hard. He takes the moment to pull his own shirt overhead, and soon Martin’s back, reigniting the kiss. Tragically, though, Martin neglected to remove his jumper, as well.
Jon tugs at the hem of his jumper impatiently after a moment, and Martin obediently backs up again and raises his arms so Jon can tug it off.
“God,” escapes Jon at the sight of Martin naked, and Martin meets his eyes. Jon shakes his head and says, “You’ve no bloody idea how hot you are, do you?”
A pleased, bashful grin splits Martin’s face. His eyes rake over Jon’s body, lingering on his cock.
“I could say the same, you know,” he says, moving to the bedside table to retrieve the lube. He settles between Jon’s legs, already eagerly parted for him. Jon watches with thinly veiled anticipation as Martin generously lubes a few fingers.
Or, judging by Martin’s knowing smirk and the way he swipes a teasing thumb over Jon’s hole, not-at-all-veiled anticipation. Jon bites his lip against a whimper that threatens to emerge.
Martin slips a finger in, and even biting his lip can’t suppress the groan that comes up through his chest. Martin hums, his free hand raising to Jon’s slim hip, rubbing soothingly.
Martin’s mostly out of reach like this, sitting on his knees between Jon’s thighs, which Jon hates because all he wants to do is touch. Martin’s eyes are focused while Jon’s examine every inch of Martin’s body; the curvy decadence of his belly, sitting far enough onto his thighs that he can’t see his crotch, decorated with plush rolls stacked on his sides. If he watches carefully (which he most certainly does), the weight Martin carries moves every time Martin shifts. Not jiggles - Martin has to be moving more seriously for that to happen, and that’s a lovely sight in itself - but as he shifts, making sure Jon is nicely stretched, the rolls at his side deepen or lessen with the changes in posture. The crease beneath his chest appears then disappears, and the wide breadth of his belly sways just so. It’s like art in motion.
Martin inserts another finger, and Jon moans. He needs Martin in him - right this fucking moment.
“Martin, Martin, please,” Jon says like a mantra, and Martin hums, moving from rubbing Jon’s hip to gripping it, knowing that being held tight can help anchor Jon.
“Hold on, sweetie, I don’t think you’re quite ready yet.”
A pitiful sound escapes him as he cants his hips against Martin’s fingers, trying to hurry him. Sweetie. There’s something about that pet name, one Martin doesn’t tend to use outside sex, that just cuts right through him.
He can feel the way his thighs tremble and he tightens them around Martin’s hips. Martin sighs, and his free hand moves from Jon’s hip to hold onto his thigh.
“Alright, alright. Lift your hips,” Martin instructs and Jon’s quick to obey. Martin slips a pillow beneath him.
“Tell me if I hurt you, yeah?” Martin adds again.
Jon’s not sure if he means his weight or his cock, but he nods all the same.
Martin lines himself up and Jon watches with great interest as Martin places a hand on his own belly, lifting it and repositioning it until he can line himself up and slide inside Jon.
Jon shivers, groans, and his eyes flutter shut.
He feels Martin above him then, and his eyes open again. Martin looks serene, gazing down at Jon. There’s a bead of sweat dripping down his rounded cheeks and the ghost of a breathless smile on his lips.
He leans down further when he sees Jon’s eyes on him, and kisses him.
A lot of his weight is resting on Jon now, and Jon feels alight with lust. The occasional rub of Martin’s tummy against Jon’s cock, the erotic breathlessness, the slow, gentle but increasing thrusts into him - it’s euphoric.
Jon kisses back with fervor, his hands raising to take greedy handfuls of Martin’s thick sides. He’s so bloody squeezable it’s insane - Jon moans into the kiss and Martin picks up his pace.
Martin sits back, just a little, to get a better angle into Jon. It breaks the kiss, but the slight position tweak lines up Jon’s dick, already so close to release, right up against the heavy press of Martin’s belly. Now that - the feeling of his cock, slickened with his own precum, sliding against pillowy belly fat - there is nothing better, nothing in the world.
Jon has an embarrassing habit when his mouth is unoccupied and he’s this close, though -
“Ooh, Martin, yes, yes, feels so good, so soft Martin, you’re so - you’re so -”
He manages to stop himself, biting his lip and throwing his head back with a choked whimper. He shouldn’t say what he really wants to, he shouldn’t draw more attention to Martin’s weight.
Martin sucks a bruise into Jon’s collarbone and Jon’s hips buck up, sliding his dick deeper against Martin’s belly.
“I’m - Martin, I’m -”
Martin sits up further, and soon Jon’s dick is rutting even more efficiently against Martin’s belly. Jon cries out.
“That’s good, sweetie,” Martin says, panting, “Go ahead.”