Work Text:
At this hour, when the sun had dipped below the horizon just enough to stain the sky a bruised purple, when the dinner crowd had dispersed to their homes and the night crowd had yet to stumble in from their various misadventures… the tavern in Phoenix Drop held a stillness that Vylad Ro’meave had come to crave like oxygen.
He moved through the side entrance, surprisingly smooth for his size, his dark green tunic swallowing what little light remained. The fabric pulled taut across his midsection, strained by the generous swell of his belly, a softness he’d cultivated in secret, hidden beneath layers of clothing and the reputation of being a cold, unfeeling man. At five foot seven, he was hardly an imposing figure in terms of height, but he carried himself with the intensity of movement that came from years of combat training, of dying and being reborn, of serving a master he’d grown to despise.
The Shadow Lord. Even thinking the name made Vylad’s lip curl behind his mask.
He adjusted the dark grey fabric that covered the lower half of his face, ensuring his hood remained pulled low, shadowing his green eyes but still allowing him the mercy of sight. The suspenders crossed over his chest, dark grey against the forest green of his tunic. His brown gloves were soft, worn, perfect for the work he intended to do tonight; both the thievery that had funded this excursion and the far more personal indulgence that would follow.
The bartender, a heavyset woman who Vylad cared not for her name, has long since stopped questioning the strange masked man who paid in gold coins of questionable origin, merely nodding as Vylad slid onto his usual stool in the corner. The corner was crucial. It allowed him to face the door while remaining partially obscured by the dim lighting and a support beam. It allowed him to see anyone entering while keeping his own activities shrouded in plausible denial.
“Three of the venison burgers,” Vylad said, his voice flat, monotone, giving away nothing. “And a pitcher of ale. The dark stuff.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “Hungry tonight?”
Vylad’s eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, the closest he ever came to a smile. “What can I say?” He replied dryly despite his masked expression.
She snorted and retreated to the kitchen, leaving Vylad alone with his thoughts and the growing anticipation that coiled low in his gut.
He let his hand rest on his stomach, feeling the soft give of flesh beneath the tunic’s fabric. He’d been eating well these past months. Well enough that his trousers had grown snug, that his suspenders now dug slightly into the slope of his shoulders and the swell of his chest. He was fat, undeniably so, though the layers of clothing and his reputation for being a dangerous, unapproachable shadow knight kept anyone from commenting on it.
The first burger arrived, steaming hot, the scent of grilled venison and melted cheese and toasted bread hitting Vylad’s senses like a physical blow. He inhaled deeply, his eyes fluttering shut behind his mask, his stomach giving an audible, eager growl that seemed to echo in the nearly empty tavern.
No one here to see. No one here to judge. No Garroth with his disappointed older-brother stare, no Zane with his manic energy, no Aphmau with her relentless optimism and her inability to leave well enough alone. Just Vylad and his meal and the dark, shameful arousal that began to stir as he lowered his face mask and lifted the burger to his lips.
Juice ran down his chin, caught by his mask, but he didn’t care. He chewed slowly, methodically, letting the flavors explode across his tongue. The meat was rich and fatty, the cheese sharp and creamy, the bread soft but substantial. It was everything he’d been craving, everything he denied himself when others were watching.
Vylad Ro’meave, the stoic shadow knight, did not eat like this in public. Vylad Ro’meave picked at his food, took small bites, and maintained the illusion of control.
But here, in this corner, with no one to bear witness except for the occasional vermin scurrying past, he could be honest.
He devoured the first burger in what felt like seconds, his teeth tearing into the bun, his throat working as he swallowed nearly without chewing. His free hand found his belly again, pressing against the fabric, feeling it grow taut as he ate, as the food filled the empty space and made him rounder, softer, more of what he secretly desired to be.
The gas started almost immediately. A heavy, bubbling churn in his intestines that made him shift on the stool, his thighs spreading slightly to accommodate the pressure building in his gut. He didn’t try to hold it back. Here, alone, he could let his body do what came naturally. He could enjoy the sensation of fullness, of bloat, of the inevitable release that would follow.
A low, rumbling fart escaped him, muffled by the wooden seat and his trousers but audible enough in the silence. The smell hit him immediately. Rich, meaty, undeniably foul, the product of his greedy consumption and his body’s eager digestion. Vylad’s breath hitched behind his mask, his green eyes going half-lidded as arousal spiked through him, hot and insistent.
He loved this. Irene, he loved this. The way his belly ached with fullness, the way the gas built and built until it demanded release, the way each embarrassing, stinky fart made him harder, made him want more, made him want to keep eating until he was stuffed to bursting, until his tunic rode up and his belly hung free and heavy and then—
The second burger arrived. The keeper didn’t comment on the speed of his consumption, merely set the plate down and retreated. Vylad barely noticed. He was already reaching for the food, his hand trembling slightly with need.
He ate more slowly this time, savoring each bite, letting his free hand wander beneath the table. His fingers traced the waistband of his trousers, then dipped lower, finding the soft curve of his lower belly where it pressed against the fabric. He rubbed slow circles there, feeling the warmth, the give, the way his stomach gurgled and shifted as he continued to eat.
Another fart escaped, longer this time, a wet-sounding hiss that seemed to go on for seconds. The smell was stronger now, concentrated in his little corner, and Vylad had to bite back a moan as he shifted on the seat, feeling the pressure in his gut shift and move. He was so turned on he could barely think, his cock hard and straining against his trousers, his breath coming in shallow pants behind his mask.
He wanted to touch himself. Wanted to shove his hand down his pants and stroke himself while he ate, while he released the gas building inside him, while he imagined someone watching, someone seeing him like this, someone who would look at him with disgust and see past his hard exterior.
His hand crept higher, fingers finding the edge of his suspenders where they crossed over his chest. He traced the path down, down, until he found the center of his belly, the spot where his navel sat beneath the fabric of his tunic. His navel was his most sensitive spot, an erogenous zone that could reduce him to a moaning, writhing mess with the right stimulation. He’d discovered it accidentally as a teenager, pressing too hard on a bruise near his stomach, and the shock of pleasure that had rocketed through him had been both terrifying and addictive.
Now, alone, he let his finger dip into the shallow depression, pressing just hard enough to feel the pressure, the slight resistance of fabric and flesh. He imagined what it would feel like to have someone else touch him there, to have fingers probe deep into his navel while he was stuffed full, while his belly was round and taut and gassy, while he was forced to release embarrassing fart after fart in front of a witness…
A wet, bubbly fart slipped out, longer and louder than the others, and Vylad had to grab the edge of the table to steady himself as pleasure washed over him. He was so close, so close to losing himself completely, to shoving his hand down his pants and finishing himself off right here in the corner of the tavern—
The door opened.
Vylad’s head snapped up, his hand jerking away from his belly as if burned. His eyes went wide, panic flooding his system as he took in the figure silhouetted in the doorway against the dying light outside.
Tall and broad-shouldered. Tan skin marked by excessive amounts of time spent under the sun’s rays, muscular arms that strained against a simple linen shirt. Dark hair that fell in messy waves around a face that was almost unfairly handsome, currently split in a polite smile that Vylad knew was directed at the tavern owner but which made his stomach flip nonetheless.
Aaron Lycan.
Vylad’s blood ran cold even as his arousal somehow spiked higher, a contradiction that made his head spin. Aaron was no stranger to Vylad yet mysterious enough to where he couldn’t consider him anything more beyond a simple acquaintance. He was an ally, a protector, a hero.
And he was walking directly toward Vylad’s corner.
No. No, no, no. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Aaron never came to the tavern at this hour. No one did. That was the entire point of Vylad’s carefully constructed routine, his stolen moments of indulgence. He came when the tavern was empty, when he could be alone with his shameful desires and his gluttonous appetite.
But Aaron was here now, his long legs eating up the distance between them, his smile fading into something more neutral, more assessing as his eyes locked onto Vylad.
Vylad did the only thing he could think of in the spur of the moment, fueled by arousal he was trying to shove down. He grabbed the third burger and took a calculated bite, hoping to hide his flushed face, his obvious arousal, the way his belly pressed against the table edge. Maybe if he pretended to just be eating, if he played the exhausted warrior refueling after battle, Aaron would leave him alone. Maybe he’d get a drink and sit at the bar and not talk to him.
Aaron pulled out the chair across from Vylad and sat down.
The sound of the chair scraping against the floor seemed deafening in the silence. Vylad froze, burger halfway to his mouth, his eyes wide and trapped as they met Aaron’s gaze. Aaron’s eyes were dark, almost black in the dim lighting, and they held an intensity that Vylad had never seen directed at him before.
“Evening, Vylad,” Aaron said, his voice warm and rich and completely at odds with the tension brimming in Vylad’s gut.
Vylad swallowed his bite with some difficulty, his flat tone returning automatically, a defense mechanism he’d perfected over years of death and resurrection. “Aaron,” he replied, flat. “Fancy seeing you here. I figured that Aphmau had something for you to do around this time.”
The quip was automatic, dry, designed to deflect. Aaron’s relationship with Aphmau was the subject of much speculation in Phoenix Drop, and Vylad had learned that poking at sore spots often made people leave him alone.
But Aaron merely raised a brow in amusement. “Aphmau’s busy with council matters,” he said easily. “And I found myself with some extra gold after a fortunate transaction with a scaleswind merchant. I thought I’d celebrate with a drink.” His eyes dropped to Vylad’s plate, to the half-eaten burger, the empty plate that had held the first two, the pitcher of ale that was already half-empty. “Seems I’m not the only one celebrating.”
Vylad felt his face heat behind his mask. He wanted to snap back, to make some cutting remark about privacy and personal space, but the words died in his throat as Aaron leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his scent washing over Vylad.
Aaron was a werewolf. Vylad didn’t know this—not for certain. It was a closely guarded secret, known only to Aphmau and a select few. But as Aaron sat there, his dark eyes seeming to see right through Vylad’s layers of cloth and armor and carefully constructed indifference, Vylad felt the sudden, terrifying certainty that Aaron knew. Aaron could smell him. Could smell the arousal that Vylad had thought he’d hidden so well, could smell the sweat of his embarrassment, could probably smell the lingering traces of the gas he’d been releasing only moments before.
Vylad wanted to actually die this time. He wanted to sink through the floor, to disappear into the shadows that had been his home for so long, to never have to face the knowing look in Aaron’s eyes.
He couldn’t move. He was trapped, pinned by Aaron’s gaze like an arrow to a bullseye, his heart hammering against his ribs. His belly is too full and heavy and suddenly so aware of its own roundness, its softness, its vulnerability.
“How long have you been coming here?” Aaron asked, his voice dropping to a murmur that felt intimate, conspiratorial. “Eating alone in the dark? Stuffing yourself when you think no one’s watching?”
Vylad’s breath caught. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but the words sounded weak even to his own ears.
Aaron’s smile widened. He reached out, his hand moving slowly, giving Vylad every opportunity to pull away, and picked up the remaining half of the third burger from Vylad’s plate. He held it up, examined it, then brought it toward Vylad’s mouth.
“Open,” Aaron commanded softly.
Vylad should have refused. Should have stood up, should have stormed out, should have done any of a thousand things that would have preserved his dignity and his secrets. But his lips parted almost of their own accord, his body betraying him, his desire overriding his common sense.
Aaron pushed the burger past his lips, his fingers brushing against Vylad’s mask, against the skin of his cheek. Vylad bit down automatically, the flavors exploding across his tongue once more, but now everything was heightened, sharpened by the presence of his witness, by the humiliation of being fed like this, like he was some kind of whore.
“Good boy,” Aaron murmured, and Vylad moaned softly at the praise, at the condescension, at the way Aaron’s free hand found the table and then moved, slowly, inexorably, toward Vylad’s midsection.
Vylad tried to pull back, tried to shield his belly with his arms, but Aaron was faster. His hand pressed against Vylad’s stomach, feeling the way the tunic strained over the curve.
“Look at you,” Aaron said, his voice dripping with amusement and something else, something hot and heavy that made Vylad’s toes curl. “Stuffed full, belly all round and heavy. I bet you’re still hungry, aren’t you? You still want more. Still want to eat until you can’t move, until you’re so full you can’t do anything but lie there and let your body process all that food.”
Vylad made a sound behind his mask, a whine he would deny later, his face burning with shame even as his cock throbbed against his zipper. Aaron’s hand was warm and heavy on his belly, pressing just hard enough to make Vylad aware of every ounce of weight he carried, every pound he’d gained in secret.
“And the gas,” Aaron continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that Vylad felt in his bones. “I could smell it when I walked in. All that rich, meaty scent, all that pressure building up inside you. You’ve been holding it in since I sat down, haven’t you? Trying to be polite. Trying to hide what a gluttonous, gassy little thing you are.”
Vylad shook his head, but it was a lie and they both knew it. He was holding it in, his gut churning and bubbling with the need for release, the pressure building to almost painful levels. He wanted to let it out, wanted to relieve the ache, but he couldn’t, not with Aaron watching, not with Aaron’s hand on his belly, not with the way he was looking at Vylad like a predator.
Aaron’s fingers found the center of his stomach, pressing into the fabric of his tunic, searching for and finding the depression of Vylad’s navel. He pressed, just a light touch, just enough pressure to make Vylad gasp behind his mask, his body jerking as pleasure rocketed through him.
“Sensitive here, aren’t you?” Aaron observed, his thumb circling the spot, making Vylad squirm. “I can feel you trembling. Can feel how much you want this. How long have you been fantasizing about someone finding out? About someone seeing you like this, all stuffed and desperate, touching you right here while you eat?”
Vylad grabbed Aaron’s wrist, his grip surprisingly strong, his eyes darkening behind his mask as he glared at the taller man. “Stop,” he said, his voice rough, barely recognizable. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Lycan, but—”
Aaron moved faster than Vylad could react. His free hand shot out, capturing Vylad’s other wrist, and then with a strength that shouldn’t have been possible…or perhaps was very possible, if one was a werewolf—he stood, leaning across the table, and pinned both of Vylad’s arms above his head against the wall behind the corner booth.
Vylad’s breath left him in a rush. He was trapped, completely and utterly trapped, his arms immobilized, his body exposed. Aaron loomed over him, six feet of muscle and intent, his tan skin seeming to glow in the dim light, his dark eyes predatory and focused entirely on Vylad.
“Let me go,” Vylad said, but his voice lacked conviction, breathy and wanting.
“No,” Aaron replied simply. He shifted his grip so that one large hand could hold both of Vylad’s wrists, pinning them easily above Vylad’s head. With his other hand free, he reached down and resumed his exploration of Vylad’s belly, his touch bolder now, more possessive.
He found Vylad’s navel again, pressing harder this time, his finger circling the sensitive depression through the fabric. Vylad’s head fell back against the wall, a moan escaping him before he could stop it, high and broken and utterly humiliating. His body arched toward Aaron’s touch, his hips bucking involuntarily, seeking friction for his aching cock.
“So responsive,” Aaron murmured, his finger dipping deeper, pressing into the center of Vylad’s navel with just enough pressure to make Vylad see stars. “I bet I could make you come just from this, couldn’t I? Just from playing with your belly while you’re all full and gassy. Bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
Vylad shook his head frantically, but his body was already responding, already climbing toward the edge. He was so close, so sensitive, every nerve ending in his belly seeming to connect directly to his cock. And the pressure in his gut was becoming unbearable, the need to release the gas warring with his desire to hold it in, to maintain some last shred of dignity.
As if reading his mind, Aaron’s hand moved lower, pressing against the swell of Vylad’s lower belly, massaging the bloated flesh. “Let it go,” he commanded softly. “Stop holding it in. I want to hear you. I want to know exactly what kind of noises this greedy gut makes when it’s been fed too much.”
Vylad whimpered, his resistance crumbling. He couldn’t hold it anymore, not with Aaron touching him like this, not with the humiliation and the arousal twisting together into something overwhelming. He let his muscles relax, let the pressure release—
A long, wet, bubbling fart escaped him, loud and unmistakable in the quiet tavern. The smell hit immediately, rich and foul and meaty, the product of three burgers and half a pitcher of ale and Vylad’s own eager digestion. Vylad wanted to die, wanted to sink into the floor, but Aaron merely smiled, his eyes darkening with lust.
“Good boy,” Aaron said again, and Vylad trembled as another fart followed the first, then another, a series of embarrassing, stinky releases that he had no control over, each one making him harder and more desperate.
Aaron’s finger returned to his navel, pressing deep this time, probing through the fabric with a precision that made Vylad’s legs kick out, his body writhing against the wall. The pleasure was intense, almost painful, radiating from his belly button outward in waves that had him panting, moaning, completely lost to sensation.
“Please,” Vylad gasped while still trying to glare at the taller man, not even sure what he was begging for. For Aaron to stop, to never stop, to touch him more, to let him go, to fuck him right here in the tavern corner…
“Please what?” Aaron asked, his voice a purr. He withdrew his finger from Vylad’s navel, making Vylad whine at the loss, and reached for something on the table. When his hand returned, he was holding the last burger. The one Vylad had planned to savor slowly.
Aaron held it to Vylad’s lips. “Eat,” he commanded.
Vylad opened his mouth automatically, his body responding to the order even as his mind screamed at him to stop, to regain control, to remember who he was. Aaron pushed the burger past his lips, feeding him bite by bite, his free hand returning to Vylad’s belly, pressing and rubbing and occasionally dipping to tease his navel while Vylad chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed, his stomach growing fuller and fuller, the pressure building to almost unbearable levels.
He was going to burst. He was going to split open. He was so full he could barely breathe, his tunic riding up to expose a strip of soft, olive-toned belly, his suspenders digging into his tits, his trousers straining at the seams.
When the last bite was gone, Aaron didn’t stop. His hand moved higher, finding the edge of Vylad’s tunic, sliding beneath it to touch bare skin. Vylad gasped at the contact, the warmth of Aaron’s palm against his overheated flesh, and then gasped again, louder, as Aaron’s thumb found his nipple.
Vylad hadn’t mentioned his nipples. Had never told anyone, had barely admitted it to himself, but they were as sensitive as his navel, maybe more so. The slightest touch could reduce him to a desperate, begging mess, and Aaron—Aaron seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
He pinched, lightly, rolling the nub between his thumb and forefinger, and Vylad’s back arched off the wall, a cry tearing from his throat that couldn’t be muffled by his lowered mask. “Ah! Aaron—please—I can’t~!”
“You can,” Aaron said, his voice firm. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment, his other hand still holding Vylad’s wrists pinned above his head. “You’re going to take it. This is what happens to desperate fat boys who can’t control themselves.”
Vylad was lost. His hips were bucking uncontrollably now, grinding against nothing, seeking friction that wasn’t there. He was going to come, could feel it building, the pressure building at the base of his spine, ready to snap. Aaron’s fingers on his nipples were relentless, pinching and rolling and tugging, sending sparks of pleasure directly to his cock, while his belly churned and gurgled, another series of wet, embarrassing farts escaping him as his body reacted to the stimulation.
“Look at you,” Aaron murmured, his voice full of wonder and lust. “So beautiful like this. So open. All that coldness, all that distance, just a mask for this. For someone who wants to be fed and touched and taken care of. Someone who wants to let go.”
Vylad made a sound that might have been a sob, might have been a moan, his head falling forward as his body trembled on the edge of orgasm. He was so close, so close, just a little more, just—
Aaron stopped.
His hands withdrew, releasing Vylad’s wrists, pulling away from his body entirely. Vylad’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and desperate behind his mask, his body aching, throbbing, having just been denied the release it had been promised.
Aaron stood back, adjusting his own shirt, his face composed once more into that easy, friendly smile that hid so much. He reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of gold coins on the table. Enough to cover Vylad’s meal and then some.
“Consider it a gift,” Aaron said, his voice casual, as if he hadn’t just reduced Vylad to a trembling, horny, gassy mess. “For the company.”
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. His eyes dropped to Vylad’s midsection, to the obvious bulge in his trousers, to the way his tunic had ridden up to expose his soft, pale belly. “You might want to wait a few minutes before standing,” he suggested, his tone amused. “Wouldn’t want you to... lose control. In public.”
Vylad stared at him, his chest heaving, his body screaming for completion, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and arousal and shame. “Why?” he managed to choke out. “Why did you—why are you—”
"If I told you now, that'd just make things less fun. Wouldn't it?"
Aaron turned and walked away, his stride easy and confident. Left Vylad alone in the corner with his full, aching belly, his unrelieved arousal, and the lingering smell of his own embarrassing gas.
Vylad sat there for a long time, his arms finally falling to his sides, his body trembling with aftershocks and denied pleasure. He was so horny he could barely think, his cock hard and pulsing with built pleasure, his nipples still sensitive and peaked, his navel aching for more touch. He was gassy, his gut churning and bubbling, more farts escaping him in wet, helpless bursts that made him whimper with humiliation and need. He was confused, his mind racing with questions about how much Aaron knew, what Aaron was, what this meant.
His hand found his belly again, pressing against the roundness, feeling the food sitting heavy inside him. He thought of Aaron’s hands on him, Aaron’s voice in his ear, Aaron’s dark eyes seeing right through him.
He let out one last, long, wet fart, the sound echoing in the empty tavern, and rested his head back against the wall, a small, genuine smile curving his lips behind his mask.
He’d have to be more careful about his timing. More aware of who might be watching. But as he sat there, his body thrumming with unfulfilled desire and his belly round and full, Vylad found that he didn’t mind the idea of being watched. Not if the watcher was Aaron Lycan.
Not if it meant he might get to feel that way again.
He waited until his arousal had subsided enough to walk without embarrassing himself, until the worst of the gas had passed and his belly had settled into a comfortable, heavy fullness. Then he stood, adjusted his tunic and his mask, pulled his hood low over his eyes, and slipped out into the night.
The shadows welcomed him back, but now they felt less like a hiding place and more like a promise.
Aaron Lycan had fucked with his mind worse than any torturing could do in the Nether.
And Vylad, for all his coldness, for all his distance, for all the deaths and betrayals that had made him who he was, found that he was looking forward to the next time.
Whatever it might bring.