Chapter 6: Chapter 6
The Flagship Tavern hit Flins like a wall of noise and heat. Roaring laughter, clashing tankards, the frantic scrape of fiddle strings, and the thick, greasy scent of roasting boar assaulted his senses. He stood just inside the doorway, momentarily blinded by the shift from cool night air to the smoky, sweat-laden fug. His soft belly, straining against the waistband of his borrowed trousers (Varka’s, several sizes too large just weeks ago, now snug), felt heavy, a constant reminder. But tonight, the weight felt different. Not just softness cultivated, but fuel. Potential.
He scanned the packed room. There. Back corner booth. Varka. Leaning against the worn leather, tankard in hand, already deep in conversation with a burly knight. Commanding the space effortlessly. Flins’ breath hitched. The memory of sticky porridge skin, Varka’s thumb pressing into his FUPA, the belt notch… it coiled tight in his gut. Not shame. Not anymore. Fury. A hot, reckless surge.
He didn’t think. He moved. Shouldering past laughing patrons, ignoring startled glances at his flushed face and determined stride. The thick air clung to him, the press of bodies making his hips brush against tables, his soft thighs protesting the hurried pace. He reached the booth. Varka looked up, a flicker of surprise, then that familiar dark amusement lighting his eyes. "Flins? Bit early for—"
Flins lunged. Not graceful. Not controlled. A desperate, heavy tackle fueled by weeks of pent-up confusion and simmering rage. He threw his entire body weight forward, aiming for Varka’s broad chest. He connected with a solid thump, knocking the tankard from Varka’s hand, sending ale spraying. The knight opposite swore, scrambling back.
Varka grunted, caught off guard, shoved back into the leather padding. Before he could react, Flins was on him. Not straddling him conventionally. Smothering him. He planted his soft belly squarely onto Varka’s face and chest, driving the air from the Grand Master’s lungs in a surprised oof. His thick thighs pinned Varka’s hips to the seat. His own chest, heavier now, pressed down onto Varka’s abdomen. Flins felt Varka’s muffled shout vibrate against his belly flesh.
"Feed me!" Flins demanded, his voice rough, breathless. He shifted his hips, grinding the soft swell of his ass down onto Varka’s lap. He felt the hard ridge beneath the fabric instantly. Good. "Nod Krai hot dogs! Now! A whole plate!" He glared at the stunned knight across the booth. "You! Fetch them! Loaded!"
The knight blinked, frozen. Flins leaned more weight onto Varka’s face. "Do it!" he snarled. The knight scrambled out of the booth like a scalded cat, heading for the bar.
Beneath him, Varka struggled. Not violently, but testing. His hands came up, grasping Flins’ hips. Flins braced, pushing down harder with his torso, burying Varka deeper into the leather and his own softness. He felt Varka’s fingers dig into the yielding flesh of his hips, thumbs pressing near the FUPA Varka loved so much. A tremor ran through Flins. Not fear. Anticipation.
He shifted his hips again, deliberately this time. Grinding his ass back against the hardness trapped beneath him. He didn’t need to see Varka’s face buried in his belly to know the effect. He felt the answering jerk beneath him, heard the choked, muffled groan vibrate against his skin. Flins reached back blindly, fumbling with Varka’s belt buckle, then the laces of his trousers. His fingers were clumsy, hampered by his awkward position pinning Varka down. He got them open. Shoved fabric aside. Found hot, hard flesh. Thick. Familiar.
He didn’t hesitate. He lifted his hips just enough, positioned himself clumsily over the straining cock, and sank down. Hard. Taking Varka deep inside him with one heavy, wet slide. He gasped at the sudden stretch, the familiar burn-pleasure igniting instantly. Varka bucked beneath him, a sharp, involuntary thrust muffled by Flins’ belly.
Flins groaned, low and guttural. He settled his full weight back down onto Varka’s torso, pinning him utterly. Only his hips moved. A lazy, deliberate roll. Grinding down onto Varka’s cock, using his own ass and thighs as leverage. The soft flesh of his belly, his hips, his chest – all of it pressed Varka firmly into the seat. He was a warm, heavy blanket, trapping Varka while fucking him slowly, deeply. He felt his own body jiggle with each downward grind, soft flesh swaying against Varka’s trapped form.
The knight returned, slamming a heaping plate of glistening Nod Krai sausages, dripping mustard and kraut, onto the table beside them. He stared, wide-eyed, at the sight of Flins pinning and rhythmically riding the Grand Master. Flins ignored him. He reached out, grabbed a sausage without looking, and brought it to his mouth. He took a huge, messy bite, grease dripping down his chin. Chewed noisily, his gaze fixed on the top of Varka’s head buried beneath his belly.
He swallowed thickly. Lowered the sausage. Not to his own mouth this time. He pressed the slick, mustard-smeared end against Varka’s lips, pushing it past the barrier of his own soft flesh. "Eat," Flins commanded, his voice thick with food and exertion. He ground down hard on Varka’s cock as punctuation. "Feed me."
He felt Varka’s lips open beneath the pressure of sausage and belly. Felt the tentative bite. Flins shoved it deeper. "All of it." He took another bite himself, moaning around the hot, spicy meat as he rocked his hips, taking Varka impossibly deep. He alternated – bites for himself, shoving the sausage down for Varka to consume beneath him. Grease smeared Flins’ chin, his fingers, Varka’s face pressed against his belly. The tavern noise faded to a dull roar, the smell of sausage mingling with sweat and sex and leather.
Flins leaned forward slightly, shifting the immense weight pinning Varka’s chest. He dipped his head, finding Varka’s mouth slick with mustard and grease. He kissed him. Hard. Possessive. A messy clash of tongues, the taste of sausage and submission. He pulled back, breath ragged. "Mine," he growled, low and fierce, echoing Varka’s own words. He kissed him again, shorter, biting Varka’s lower lip. Then he straightened, resettling his weight fully, and grabbed another sausage.
He focused on the rhythm. The deep, lazy grind of his hips. The stretch and burn inside him. The feel of Varka utterly pinned beneath his softness. He shoved the new sausage towards Varka’s trapped mouth. "More," Flins demanded, his voice rough, his own arousal coiling tighter with each heavy thrust of his hips. Beneath him, Varka’s muffled groan vibrated against his belly, a sound that wasn't protest, but something far darker, far more satisfying. Flins shoved the sausage deeper, feeling Varka take it. "Keep feeding." He rolled his hips, a slow, deliberate wave that made his entire body shudder. "I'm not done." The plate was still half-full. Varka’s cock pulsed deep inside him. The tavern roared obliviously around their private, sticky, suffocating war. Flins took another bite, grease shining on his lips, his eyes fixed on the booth wall, seeing nothing but the feel of ownership beneath him.