#arissilverfin

Martin Crieff wasn't good at a lot of things -- at least, in his opinion. He'd never done particularly well in school. He was passably fit, but far too small and nervous to be decent at sports. He never won at any games -- except when Douglas let him -- and although he was now a good pilot, he would never be a great one. Which is why it was so shocking when Martin turned out to be an absolutely phenomenal cook.

He and Douglas had gotten together about six months ago, a surprising and delightful turn of events that began in a shoddy hotel room in Dusseldorf and burned brighter each day. For all of Douglas' suavity and cool, he turned out to be quite smitten behind closed doors. Martin, for his part, couldn't stop blushing like a teenager in Douglas' presence. In very little time Martin had abandoned his horrible attic for the blissful comfort of Douglas' house, and the two of them had wasted no time making good use of every room.

Which is, in a way, how the cooking came about. It was Douglas' house, after all, and Douglas himself was a very fine chef. After a couple of months of sleeping in Douglas' lovely bed, watching Douglas' TV, and eating lots of Douglas' delicious food, Martin had started to feel guilty. He wanted to be able to contribute something, but he had nothing to give -- no house, just a shoddy van and a twelve-year-old desktop computer running MS Flight Simulator 1998.

He did the washing and cleaning whenever he could, but it still didn't feel like enough. Douglas was endlessly generous, and kept Martin so well-fed that he could scarcely believe that only recently he'd gone hungry almost every night. One evening, as he lay curled up with a sleeping Douglas in bed, feeling sated, cared-for, and altogether too lucky, Martin decided he very much wanted to return the favour.

"I'm cooking dinner tonight," he told Douglas the next morning.

"Oh, really, Captain?" Douglas raised an eyebrow as he buttoned his uniform shirt.

"Yes. You have cookbooks here, I assume?"

"Loads." Douglas grinned. "What's the occasion? Decided to be the next Heston Blumenthal, have you?"

"Not really. I -- I just, you cook all the time."

"I know." Douglas reached for Martin, pulling him in to run his hands along Martin's torso, which felt a bit more solid these days, thanks to Douglas' cooking. "You seem to rather enjoy it."

"I do enjoy it, quite a lot. But I just want to -- I don't know." Martin flushed. "Take care of you a bit."

Douglas' smile widened, and Martin could tell he was pleasantly taken aback. "Well then. Far be it from me to stop you in such an effort. I'll take a night off. Do your worst, Captain."

"I'm afraid that's all I can do," Martin admitted.

"In case of emergency, we'll phone for take-away. Cookbooks are on the top shelf in the kitchen. I'll use the time to get a bit of reading done."

"Put your feet up," Martin said, feeling a note of satisfaction. "Cookbooks are basically manuals, and I know how to read a manual."

"Of that I have no doubt," Douglas grinned.

* * *

Martin definitely knew how to read a manual. That first night he followed every instruction to the letter, and produced a surprisingly good roast chicken with potatoes. The skin was crispy and golden, the potatoes were perfectly seasoned, and the drippings were divine. Martin blinked in surprise when Douglas finally sat back and put a hand on his middle.

"I've got to hand it to you, Martin. That was an outstanding first effort."

Martin suddenly realised how full he was. Without noticing, they'd eaten the entire dish. He shifted in his seat, feeling like he'd just had Christmas dinner. "I -- thanks," he said, reddening. "I guess it wasn't too bad."

"It was excellent," Douglas said, reaching for Martin's hand. He squeezed it. "You can take care of me anytime."

Martin felt like he was about to burst. It might have been the food, but maybe... it was something like happiness.

* * *

Martin couldn't stop thinking about cooking. Something about the methodology of it suited his brain. There were procedures, just like in flying. Tactics. Techniques. Precision was crucial, but knowing how to improvise was also important -- again, like flying. In his spare time, he started working his way through Douglas' cookbook collection. He breezed through How to Cook Everything and The Joy of Cooking, his flight simulator program abandoned. Baking bread turned out to be fantastic fun. Puddings and desserts, even better.

Several weeks into this new endeavor, Douglas wandered into the kitchen as Martin was pulling a batch of scones from the oven. Martin automatically held one out in offering, but Douglas shook his head.

"Think I have to decline today, unfortunately," he said, and then patted his stomach. "I'm sure they're delicious, but you've been feeding me a bit too well lately."

Martin's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"I haven't got your metabolism, I'm afraid. I'm sure you've noticed."

Martin set down his tray of scones and studied his lover. Douglas was a big man -- undeniably a turn-on for Martin -- tall, with broad shoulders and a sturdy, strong frame. He'd always had a bit of a belly, but it seemed to come with the territory, middle-aged Sky God that he was. Now that Martin looked, it seemed Douglas' belly was looking a bit more generous than usual. 

"Not really," Martin said. "But, um. Now that you mention it." He looked down. "I can, um. Cut back, I won't cook so much.  I'll just -- you know. Stop."

Douglas chuckled. "Promise me you won't. I haven't seen you this excited about anything other than flying before. No, I'm just going to take it easy for a bit. But by all means, keep cooking. I'll step up the exercise."

"Step up? I didn't know you exercised, Douglas."

"Well, step up, yes. Step it up from... nothing." He smirked."I'm not bad at jogging. And I've been thinking of starting up again anyway, I should be in better shape to keep up with you."

"You're in fine shape."

Douglas winked. "Just you wait."

* * *

As weeks passed, Martin's skills improved exponentially. He cooked, Douglas jogged, and the meals kept getting better. It wasn't just the meals, though -- the sex kept getting better, too. Douglas seemed to find Martin's newfound expertise highly attractive, and constantly ambushed him in the kitchen, crowding him up against the counter to interrupt him with passionate kisses. Martin didn't mind one bit.

He was just tasting a particularly good marinade one morning when Douglas came up behind him, wrapping strong arms around him. Martin leaned into his embrace. "Hello," he murmured.

"The apron is a marvellous touch," Douglas rumbled. "You look entirely professional, Chef." He tightened his grip as Martin added salt to the marinade, then made a soft noise of surprise, followed by a low chuckle.

"What?" Martin tasted the marinade with a finger. "Not enough, do you think?"

"Oh, I think you've added plenty," Douglas said, a gentle tease in his voice. "And maybe a bit here as well." He gave Martin's belly a pat.

Martin glanced down at himself. The smooth front of his apron was pulling a bit, his middle poking out slightly just above where he'd tied the apron strings. Could it be that he -- No. He'd always been rail-thin. But... he prodded his middle experimentally. Definitely thicker, he'd noticed that much. But now it was bordering on.... round?

He felt himself flush. "Um -- oh," he stammered. "I -- I didn't --"

"Don't fret, Captain," Douglas said, the smile evident in his voice. "You were skin and bones for years. I'd say this is much-needed."

Martin shuddered as Douglas' hands roamed over his torso. "But -- I --"

"Hush." Douglas pressed a kiss to the nape of Martin's neck, and after that, it was hard to think about anything else.

* * *

After that, though, Martin began to notice. The softness at his jaw that hadn't been there before. The bit of extra padding his hips. The way his ribs faded comfortably into his broader chest. His appetite had perked up once he'd moved in with Douglas, and now that he was thinking about food all the time, it didn't show any signs of abating. He couldn't help eating until he felt full, but sometimes that meant second and third helpings. He was active enough with his van job, but it seemed his appetite was even more active. Or maybe it had finally decided to wake up after years of being denied. 

Whatever the reason, while Douglas seemed to have a knack for moderation, Martin couldn't help overdoing it. He had an actual hobby now -- something other than flying, for the first time in his life -- and he didn't want to stop cooking, or tasting the fruits of his labour. He and Douglas were getting along better than ever, and if anything, Douglas seemed to like Martin's body as it was. No, Douglas loved Martin's body -- he made that perfectly evident. So Martin kept cooking, and if his trousers were getting fractionally tighter, he put it out of his mind. There were far better things to think about -- like what sort of pie he was going to make on their next day off. And what he was going to do to Douglas when it was done.

Christmas was heavenly that year. Carolyn actually gave them an entire unprecedented week off. Martin went all-out and cooked a massive feast, collaborating with Douglas for the first time in the kitchen. The two of them worked perfectly as a team -- unsurprisingly, really -- and the resulting roast was so incredible, it was all they could talk about afterwards. They managed to totter over to the couch, full to bursting and pleasantly buzzed from the bottle of wine they'd split, and propped themselves in front of the telly. Martin felt like he might dissolve on the spot -- if he didn't pop first.

"God," Douglas said, changing the channel. "That was truly incredible. Dangerously so."

"Mmm," Martin agreed. "Dangerous how?"

"I might not be able to get up again." Douglas glanced over at Martin. He settled a warm hand on Martin's stomach, and his eyes twinkled. "Hmm. Look at this belly."

Martin reddened, but only slightly. He gave a tipsy smile and put a hand over Douglas'. "I s'pose I overdid it."

"Impressive, for someone so -- well." Douglas nudged him with a shoulder. "Diminutive."

Martin snorted. "Not so diminutive anymore."

"Not at the moment, anyway," Douglas chuckled, jiggling Martin's full tummy gently.

Then, Douglas reached for him, and they discovered just how deliciously sensitive a very full stomach could be.

The sensation turned out to be even more incredible than Martin could imagine. In the days that followed, Martin let his appetite take over, filling up on leftovers and inventing excuses to make more holiday dishes just so Douglas could ravish him when they'd finished yet another meal. The holidays passed in a hazy bliss of food and sex... certainly more of each than Martin ever had before. But Martin was far too content to care.

* * *

The morning after the New Year, they had a late afternoon flight. They lounged in bed, and for the first time in his life, Martin felt as if he had things he'd much rather do than fly a plane. He complained to Douglas, who laughed heartily and prodded him. "Back to work with you, then, Captain. You can have first shower."

As Douglas showered, Martin pulled on his uniform, which felt strangely uncomfortable after a week away. He tugged at his trousers, only to find that the sides didn't quite want to meet. Odd. He sucked in a breath -- which helped sometimes -- and pulled again. No luck.

"I think there's something wrong with the clasp on these," he said, as Douglas emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. He tugged at them again.

Douglas' eyes widened slightly, and then he smiled. "I don't think it's the clasp, love."

Martin's ears turned pink at the term of endearment. "What? Why?"

"Seems a new uniform might be in order." Douglas opened his closet. "Borrow one of my old ones for now, till we can get you one. How's your shirt?"

"My shirt?"

"You were looking a bit uncomfortable in it before the holidays."

Martin was already fumbling with the buttons. He got them closed, but when he straightened up, it seemed he could barely breathe. He looked down only to see his shirt stretched tight across his stomach. With an exclamation of surprise, he made for the bathroom mirror, and... looked.

He'd put on weight, quite a bit of it. That much was undeniable. Also undeniable: most of it had gone to his belly. His now-definitely-round, most-certainly-prominent belly. He turned to the side, and -- 

"D-Douglas, I -- I'm getting podgy."

"Martin." Douglas was watching him with a soft, fond look. "You're fine."

"I'm not, I -- oh, God." Martin put a hand on the new swell at his waist, then hastily began to undo his straining buttons. "I can't wear this bloody thing, now, can I?"

"You'll probably be more comfortable in a new uniform, yes. But honestly, the one you're wearing now is nearly child-size."

Martin shot him an irritated look. "Now wait a minute --"

"Calm down," Douglas said patiently. "It's not that much. Just a bit extra around the middle." He gestured at his bare chest, his own belly rounding out comfortably above his towel. "Look who you're talking to, hmm?"

Martin scowled. "You're different. You've always looked like that, it looks -- it looks good on you."

"Martin." Something warm flared in Douglas' eyes. "Trust me when I say: likewise."

Martin looked at him in surprise. "You -- you like me this way?"

Douglas smiled, then closed the space between them and began to help Martin out of his too-small uniform shirt. "Ever so much. I like you any way, but particularly this way." 

Martin blinked, watching Douglas' fingers. "Seriously?"

"You look happy," Douglas said quietly. "More relaxed. Like someone cares about you. I like that."

"Oh," Martin swallowed. "Um."

"And you know," Douglas continued, "you're always complaining about not looking like a captain? Well, I think this gives you a bit of extra..." He cleared his throat. "A bit of extra weight. In more ways than one."

"Oh," Martin repeated, going distinctly pink. 

"Now, shall we see about that spare uniform? Might be a bit large on you. You haven't put on that much, after all." His grin turned a bit wicked. "Not yet, anyway."

Martin smiled, the knot of anxiety in his stomach beginning to untangle. "Yes. That'd be... good." His eyes met Douglas'. "Thanks, Douglas."

* * *

"Martin needs a new uniform," Douglas said matter-of-factly, as Arthur practically bounced up to them at the airfield. "He's borrowed one of mine today. Think you can take care of that for us, Arthur?"

"'Course!" Arthur exclaimed, grinning at the two of them. "Something wrong with your old one, Skip? I turned mine purple once in the laundry, but Mum said no one would notice, because of my hat. And you've got an even better hat than mine."

"Nothing's wrong with it, Arthur," Martin said shortly, trying not to blush. "It was getting old, that's all."

Arthur nodded sagely. "Right. And of course, you're looking very well now. Like Douglas." He glanced at his own belly, round as always under his brightly coloured shirt. "And me! Mum's always saying I'm looking well, too. Now we all look very well, don't we?"

Douglas chuckled and clapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Very well, Arthur. You're quite right."

Martin couldn't help smiling. "Thanks, Arthur."

Arthur beamed at him. "No problem!"

"Shall I do the walk-round, then?" Douglas said.

"Sure," Martin said, feeling utterly distracted, and strangely... happy. He pushed up the baggy sleeves of Douglas' old uniform. "Say, Arthur. How would you and your mum like to come round for dinner on Friday night? I've been meaning to try out a new recipe."

"Martin's quite an accomplished chef," Douglas added, wrapping an arm around Martin's waist, and giving his side a quick squeeze. "I've been awfully selfish, keeping him all to myself."

Arthur watched them with a wide smile. "Really, Skip?"