Chapter 3: The Claim
The air shattered.
Flins’ ragged plea – Just put it in me – hung, raw and exposed, in the dim quiet of the chamber. It wasn’t eloquent, not remotely gentlemanly, but it was pure need, stripped bare. Varka froze, the careful, questioning touch on Flins’ hip stilling. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto Flins’ face, searching. The coiled tension in his massive frame vibrated, a bowstring pulled taut.
Then, like a dam bursting, he moved.
Not with the earlier chaotic violence, but with a terrifying, focused speed. His hand, still splayed possessively over the plush swell of Flins’ lower belly, slid down. Calloused fingers hooked into the loosened waistband of Flins’ dark trousers and the thin underclothes beneath. In one fluid motion, he hauled them down, fabric rasping over plump hips, thick thighs, and off completely. Cold air kissed Flins’ exposed skin – thighs, the softness of his inner legs, the dark thatch of curls, the vulnerable heat he’d just begged to be filled.
Flins gasped, the shock of cool air meeting slick heat making his entire body jerk. He felt terrifyingly open. His soft belly curved gently upwards, the red welt from the belt stark against his pale skin just above the dark curls. His thighs, softened from weeks of rich tavern fare, pressed together instinctively, a futile shield.
Varka didn’t allow it. He gripped Flins’ plump thighs just above the knee, his fingers sinking into the yielding flesh. He spread them wide, effortlessly, bearing him open to the sliver of moonlight slicing through the high window. The scent of Flins’ arousal bloomed thick and musky in the parchment-scented air, mingling with leather and sweat. Varka’s gaze raked down the exposed center of him – the glistening folds, the swollen nub already peeking out. A low, rumbling groan tore from his chest, a sound of primal satisfaction.
"So wet already," he growled, voice thick with unmistakable approval. The words vibrated through Flins’ core. "Begging so pretty, and your cunt’s already weeping for it." His thumb, rough and broad, found the slick heat not to plunge inside, but to brush deliberately, almost lazily, against the swollen bud of Flins’ clit.
Electricity. Pure, white-hot lightning forked up Flins’ spine. He cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound, his back arching off the silk sheets, his hips jerking upwards against the maddening touch. "Varka!" It was half-protest, half-desperate plea.
Varka chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. He kept the pressure light, circling the unbearably sensitive nub with the pad of his thumb, slow and deliberate. "Sensitive little thing," he murmured, watching Flins’ face contort. "All that softness…" His other hand slid back up Flins’ trembling side, over the curve of his hip, and came to rest heavily, possessively, on the soft swell of his lower belly. He pressed down, just enough to feel the yielding flesh give beneath his palm, anchoring Flins as his thumb continued its torment. "Does this ache too? This little bud?"
"Y-yes," Flins gasped, the word tearing from him. Tears pricked his eyes again, a confusing mix of overwhelming sensation and the sheer vulnerability of being held open, touched, seen like this. His body was a traitor, hips rocking minutely, seeking more friction from that circling thumb. Every nerve ending screamed. The deep, hollow need pulsed, slickness gathering, dripping. Varka’s thumb was a brand, lighting a fire that threatened to consume him. "Please…"
"Please what, little Lightkeeper?" Varka teased, his voice a low vibration against the tense air. He increased the pressure fractionally, dragging the rough pad over the slick peak, then back. "Please stop? Or please… more?" His hand on Flins’ belly pressed down more firmly, emphasizing the curve he’d nurtured, holding him still. The contrast – the grounding weight on his belly and the torturous, exquisite friction on his clit – was maddening.
Flins thrashed his head against the pillow, a low moan escaping. His hands scrabbled weakly at Varka’s forearm where it pinned his thigh open. He felt drunk, not on ale this time, but on sensation. "More," he choked out, the admission raw. "Gods, Varka, more."
Varka’s triumphant growl was immediate. "Thought so." He shifted. The hand on Flins’ thigh released its grip only long enough for him to fumble urgently with the laces of his own trousers. Flins watched, dazed, as Varka shoved the heavy fabric down his powerful hips just enough to free himself. What emerged wasn’t just impressive; in the dim light, it looked almost dauntingly thick, jutting hard and flushed against the dark curls at its base. Flins felt a fresh jolt of fear mixed with liquid heat surge through him. It mirrored the monstrous outline he’d felt grinding against him earlier, but seeing it…
Varka leaned forward again, his weight pressing Flins deeper into the yielding mattress. His broad hand returned to Flins’ inner thigh, pushing it wider still. The head of his cock, hot and blunt, nudged against Flins’ slick opening, pressing, not entering. Testing the give. The sheer size of it, the pressure against that unbearably sensitive, stretched-tight entrance, stole Flins' breath. He whimpered, high and strained.
"Easy," Varka murmured, though his own breathing was harsh and ragged. The predatory edge was back, but tempered now by a fierce, focused intensity. His thumb returned to Flins’ clit, rubbing firm, demanding circles this time, distracting, coaxing. "Made you soft," he breathed, his gaze locked on where they were joined, watching the thick head press insistently against the yielding entrance. "But here…" He pressed harder with his thumb on Flins’ clit, making him cry out and arch, his body clenching helplessly. "...need you open. Need you slick and ready for all of me. Take it deep, Flins. Take what you begged for."
His thumb worked mercilessly, drawing slickness up to coat the swollen bud, sending jolts of almost painful pleasure through Flins’ core. The pressure at his entrance increased steadily, a relentless, stretching insistence. It burned. A deep, internal burn that warred with the fireworks exploding from Varka’s thumb. Flins panted, tears slipping down his temples into his hair, his hands fisting the silk sheets. He felt impossibly full already, stretched impossibly tight around that broad crown. Varka’s other hand pressed firmly down on his soft belly, feeling the internal pressure as if measuring it.
"Good," Varka gritted out, his voice strained with his own restraint. He leaned down, catching Flins’ lips in a hard, biting kiss. "So damn good. Squeezing me already." He pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss to watch, transfixed, as the thick head began to stretch Flins open. "Look at you," he breathed, awe mixing with hunger. "Taking it. Soft belly trembling…" His thumb pressed harder on Flins’ clit. "Cunt sucking me in. Made for this. Mine."
He pushed. Not a full thrust, but a powerful, deliberate surge of his hips, burying another thick inch inside. The burn intensified, a white-hot ring of pressure that made Flins gasp. Yet beneath the stretch, deeper, the ache… it shifted. The terrifying fullness started to echo the desperate hollowness that had plagued him for weeks. Varka’s thumb was a lightning rod, grounding the chaos, sending sparks directly into the heart of the pressure. Flins felt his body yield, slickness easing the way as he instinctively pushed back against the invading pressure, seeking… more. Seeking the terrifying, impossible completeness promised by that impossible thickness.
Varka groaned, a deep, visceral sound of satisfaction. He was watching, utterly absorbed, as Flins’ body slowly, slickly, accepted more of him. The plush mound of Flins’ belly strained with the internal pressure under Varka’s anchoring hand. His soft thighs quivered against Varka’s hold. Flins felt split open, claimed, the line between pain and pleasure blurring into a single, overwhelming current. Varka’s thumb circled relentlessly, his breath hot on Flins’ sweat-dampened skin.
"Feel it," Varka commanded, his voice gravel-rough. He pushed again, another deliberate inch, stretching Flins further, deeper. The bed frame creaked softly under their combined weight. "Feel that thickness filling the hollow I made. Filling you up… just like you needed." His gaze snapped up to meet Flins’, blazing with possessive triumph. "Say it. Say you feel it."
Flins stared up at the Grand Master, the knight who’d dragged him from the tavern, pinned him, snapped his belt, and now stretched him impossibly wide on the hardest part of himself. Fear warred with a terrifying, intoxicating sense of rightness. The ache was being filled. Not with ale and trenchers, but with this. With Varka. His hips lifted minutely, a silent plea for more of the invasive pressure, more of the grounding weight on his belly, more of the electric torture on his clit. The words tore from him, ragged and true.
"I feel it," he gasped, the confession ripped from his core. "Varka… I feel you… filling me."
The raw confession – filling me – hung hot and thick between them. Varka’s gaze, burning with possessive triumph, locked onto Flins’. A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating through the hand still pressing down on Flins’ soft, trembling belly. He felt immense, impossibly deep, stretching Flins wide around that daunting thickness, the burning pressure echoing the hollow ache he’d carried for weeks.
"Exactly," Varka gritted out, his voice rough with strain. "Filling the space I carved. Taking every inch." His thumb, calloused and demanding, pressed relentlessly against Flins’ slick clit. The dual assault – deep, stretching fullness and sharp, electric friction – pulled another ragged cry from Flins’ throat. His hips jerked, seeking more, seeking relief, trapped between the mattress, Varka’s weight, and the hand pinning his belly.
Varka began to move. Not gently. Short, powerful thrusts, withdrawing only an inch before slamming back in, burying himself impossibly deep again. Each drive punched the air from Flins’ lungs, making his plush belly jiggle against Varka’s palm. "Feel that, Lightkeeper?" Varka demanded, watching Flins’ face contort, his own breath coming in harsh pants. "Feel how deep you take me? How that soft belly trembles?" His thumb circled faster, harder. "Made for it."
Flins could only gasp, a high, desperate sound. The stretch was intense, a burning ring of pressure, but beneath it bloomed a terrifying, undeniable pleasure. The deep ache was being filled, stretched, satisfied in a way trenchers and ale never could. His body clenched instinctively around the invading thickness, slickness easing Varka’s brutal rhythm. "Varka... please..."
"Please what?" Varka growled, driving into him again, the bed frame groaning. He leaned down, his beard scraping Flins' cheek. "Need it harder? Need me to ruin this perfect soft cunt I made?" He punctuated the crude words with a sharp twist of his thumb on Flins' clit. Stars burst behind Flins’ eyelids.
He couldn't speak. Could only feel. The shock of the cool air hitting his exposed heat was sudden, brutal. Varka pulled out entirely, a slick, obscene sound echoing in the quiet room. He reared back onto his knees, straddling Flins’ plush thighs. Flins felt cold, empty, clenching around nothing, bewildered by the abrupt loss. "W-what…?"
Varka ignored the broken question. He was breathing hard, sweat sheening his powerful chest. Moonlight caught the thick length of him, glistening wetly. Not just with his own arousal, but slick and dripping with Flins’ essence, mingling into a single, gleaming sheen. He groaned, a sound of pure, visceral appreciation, staring down at where Flins lay spread open, thighs trembling, soft belly heaving, his own folds glistening and swollen.
Slowly, deliberately, Varka angled his hips. He didn't push back inside. Instead, he slid the slick, broad head of his cock through Flins’ drenched folds. Up. Down. The thick ridge dragged slowly, excruciatingly, over the sensitive, swollen lips, gathering more wetness. The friction was maddening, different from the deep stretch – a hot, slippery rasp against nerve endings already screaming.
"Gods," Varka breathed, his voice thick. He repeated the motion, sliding up, then dragging the heavy shaft down the length of Flins’ slit, the underside dragging directly over the taut, hyper-sensitive nub of his clit. "Look at this… dripping for it… soaking me."
Flins whimpered, a high, thin sound. The sensation was overwhelming. After the intense, deep pressure, this external friction was too much, too direct. His clit throbbed, a raw, exposed point of near-pain. His hips bucked wildly, trying to escape the unbearable stimulation or press into it, he didn’t know. "T-too… too much," he gasped, tears pricking his eyes again. The belt welt stung sharply as his belly contracted.
Varka just moaned, lost in the sensation. He settled into a slow, deliberate rhythm, rocking his hips, grinding the slick, hard heat of his cock against Flins’ folds, the head bumping against his entrance but not entering, the thick shaft rubbing relentlessly over his clit with every pass. Up. Down. Slow, dragging pressure. "So soft," Varka murmured, mesmerized, watching his cock glide through the slickness, the swollen folds yielding, the clit peeking out, flushed deep red. "This little bud…" He angled his hips to press down harder with each downward grind.
Flins cried out, arching off the bed. It was too intense. The slow, deliberate friction was a brand on already screaming nerves. His clit felt raw, electrified, each grinding pass sending jolts of sensation that were tipping from pleasure into sharp, agonizing overstimulation. His legs thrashed weakly against the mattress, pinned only by Varka’s weight on his thighs. "Stop! Varka, please, it’s too—!"
He couldn’t finish. The next grinding pass, slow and deliberate, Varka’s thick shaft pressing down firmly on the swollen peak, ignited a white-hot explosion behind his eyes. Not pleasure. Pain. Sharp, searing, overwhelming. Flins screamed, a raw sound ripped from his throat, his body locking rigid as the unbearable sensation detonated through his core.
The scream tore from Flins, raw and ragged, his entire body locking rigid against the silk sheets. Agony lanced through his core, sharp and white-hot, radiating from the overstimulated nerves Varka’s grinding had ignited. Stars exploded behind his clenched eyelids, a supernova of sensation that felt like his frayed nerves were being scraped raw. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, only feel the devastating echo of too much, too direct, too now.
Varka froze instantly, the slow, deliberate grind halting. The predatory focus vanished, replaced by startled concern flashing across his sweat-sheened face. "Flins?" His voice was rough, breathless, but laced with genuine alarm. He lifted his hips immediately, withdrawing the maddening pressure completely. His large hands, instead of pinning, came up to frame Flins' face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down his temples into his hair. "Flins, look at me. Breathe. Easy now. Easy." His touch was surprisingly gentle, grounding.
Flins gulped air, ragged and shuddering. The searing pain ebbed slowly, leaving behind a deep, trembling aftershock and the persistent, demanding ache of his own neglected need. He blinked, vision swimming, meeting Varka's worried gaze. "Too… intense," he managed, voice cracking. "After… after inside… it was too much. Felt like… burning."
"Shit. My fault, little Lightkeeper," Varka murmured, his thumbs continuing their soothing strokes. "Got lost. Forgot myself." He leaned down, pressing a surprisingly tender, almost apologetic kiss to Flins' sweat-damp forehead. "Saw you spread out… dripping… lost my damn mind." He shifted his weight carefully, still straddling Flins’ thighs but no longer grinding against him. His gaze drifted downward, tracing the curve of Flins’ body – the heaving soft belly, the glistening heat between his plush thighs. "Gods, look at you though."
His voice shifted, roughening again, but not with the earlier violence. It was a low rumble of pure, awestruck hunger. One large hand slid slowly down Flins’ trembling side, over the soft swell of his hip. His fingers didn't just rest; they dug in, possessively kneading the pliant flesh, blunt nails scraping lightly, leaving faint trails on the pale skin. "Feel this," Varka breathed, his eyes darkening, fixed on where his fingers sank into the yielding softness of Flins’ hip. "Like velvet over warm dough. The way it gives. So much more… plush. Softer than before." He squeezed, testing the malleability he’d cultivated. "Remember how taut you were? All sharp angles."
Flins whimpered, the kneading touch sending conflicting signals – possessive, grounding, yet reigniting sparks along his sensitized skin. The comment about his ‘before’ body pricked his insecurity, but Varka’s tone held no judgment, only raw appreciation. "Varka…"
"Shh, feel it," Varka insisted, his other hand mirroring the possessive grip on Flins’ opposite hip, both hands now cupping the pronounced curves, fingers digging in, holding him steady. He leaned forward, his breath hot on Flins’ ear. "When I was rubbing against you… just grinding… gods." A low growl vibrated in his chest. "Your cunt… soaked through for me. So fucking plush now. Malleable. Yielding. It wrapped around my cock like warm silk, Flins. Not like before. Before it was… tight, but thin. Sharp. Now?" He squeezed the hips again, emphasizing his point. "Deep softness. Absorbing every ridge, every pulse. It’s… perfect. You’re perfect like this."
The words, crude yet reverent, washed over Flins. The possessive kneading of his hips, the way Varka’s blunt nails pressed just enough to mark, to claim, sent shivers down his spine. The unbearable sharpness had faded, replaced by the deep, familiar ache – amplified now by Varka’s fervent praise. He felt it. The sensations were more intense, fuller, resonating deeper within the softness he’d gained. Like his entire body was more alive, more responsive. The stars hadn't completely faded; they shimmered at the edges of his vision like distant fireflies.
Varka’s eyes blazed, reflecting the sliver of moonlight. That familiar warmth was there, the knight Flins knew, but beneath it roared something wilder, untamed. "This body," he murmured, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above where his fingers dug into Flins’ hips. "What I made… it’s unleashed something, Flins." His voice dropped to a rough whisper, charged with primal energy. "Thought I knew hunger before. Knew the chase. Knew the fight. But this softness? This abundance?" He leaned closer, his breath hitching. "It calls to the beast. To the Wolf Knight in the marrow of my bones. Makes me want to devour. To claim every soft inch. To bury myself so deep in this plush warmth I forget the North Wind ever blew cold." He punctuated it with a gentle nip at Flins’ earlobe, surprisingly tender despite the ferocity in his words. "You did that. You."
Flins shuddered, the mix of tenderness and raw, carnal hunger short-circuiting his thoughts. The ache between his legs pulsed, hot and slick. The possessive pressure on his hips felt grounding, necessary. "Varka," he whispered, his hand lifting weakly to grip the thick muscle of Varka’s forearm. "The ache… it’s still there. That deep place. The hollow you filled with trenchers…"
Varka’s answering growl was pure satisfaction. He shifted his hips, the thick, slick heat of his erection nudging against Flins’ entrance again. Not pressing, just reminding. "Good," he rumbled. "Good. Let me fill it properly now. The way it’s meant to be filled." His grip on Flins’ hips tightened fractionally, blunt nails pressing, holding him perfectly still. "Gently, this time. Like I promised." His gaze locked onto Flins’, fierce but earnest. "Let the Wolf Knight feed his prize." He angled his hips. The broad, slick head kissed Flins’ entrance, a slow, deliberate pressure. "Take me deep, little Lightkeeper. Let me feel that perfect softness wrap around me." He pushed forward, just a fraction, a slow, stretching glide, his eyes never leaving Flins' face. "Give me everything."