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Warly’s third autumn in the Constant has not come without its ups and downs. A sudden hound attack killed a nearby herd of grass geckos, Bearger destroyed their bee boxes, and an unfortunate sea stack sank their best boat. But on the bright side, Bearger is dead, the boat brought back plenty of resources before sinking, and the base is shockingly peaceful. The crops are thriving thanks to the diligent efforts of Wormwood and Ms. Wickerbottom, and if Warly wasn’t a superstitious man, he might say that autumn is going well.
This unexpected bounty is ripe for culinary experimentation. The salt box is well stocked, the drying racks full, and they have food to spare. It’s a shame about the geckos, but a good chef is nothing if not an opportunist. He’s excited to experiment with so much leafy meat and honey, and after hours toiling away at their makeshift kitchen, he can step back and survey his work.
Towering aspics, seared veggie steaks seasoned with a dash of chili powder, tossed salads with garlic. It’s a fine spread, topped off with an enormous gelatin that would make any chef jealous.
He’s quite pleased with the work. The camp is not.
“This is nöt meat! What föul veggie trickery is this?”
“Florp, isn’t veggie either.”
“Gross.”
“I DO NOT TRUST THIS.”
“It’s not all bad,” Wanda reassures. “It’s very. Um. Moist. But it’s good!”
“No offense Wanda, but I don’t trust your opinion on food after you told me you dip your fishsticks in custard.”
“It’s a good combination!”
Wolgang and Ms. Wickerbottom trot to the table, backpacks laden with supplies from the caves.
“What is this?”
“Monsieur Wolfgang! Madame Wickerbottom! Good to see your safe return!”
Wolfgang surveys the table and makes a noise of approval.
“Food looks very tasty!”
“EAT UP, DISGUSTING FLESHLING. I REFUSE TO EAT THIS.”
“Yeah, not to agree with WX, but it’s looking kinda gross.”
“It isn’t gross, Madamoiselle Willow, it’s–”
“Kholodets!” Wolfgang shouts, delighted, gesturing towards the leafy meatloaf.
“Huh?”
Wickerbottom nods sagely.
“An aspic dish common to Eastern Europe. Though the leafy meat is hardly traditional.”
“Very delicious! And good for scrapes! Here, have light berries.”
Wolfgang unceremoniously dumps out dozens of glow berries on the table, and Warly’s eyes light up brighter than the berries themselves.
“Why, this is— I was just thinking to make glow berry mousse for the next expedition to the ruins!”
Warly beams at both of them, gesturing to the table.
“You may eat all that you’d like, Monsieur Wolfgang. And you as well, Madame Wickerbottom.”
Wolfgang takes a theatrical bow, delicately pulls out his seat to sit, and begins to devour the food. It must be said that despite his table manners, Wolfgang’s obvious enthusiasm is infectious, and soon the starving survivors fidget at the sight of the food.
“I guess it doesn’t look that bad,” Willow muses.
“I’ve suffered worse than a gourmet meal, why not?”
“Mmph—phis is akfually pho good!”
Cautiously, the survivors begin to sample the spread, and soon a merry party has formed at his table, eating and laughing.
Something glows in his chest, and he smiles at the feeling.
Warly is polishing his utensils when Wolfgang comes to his tent.
He looks guilty. It’s typically a look reserved for when he has to ask for health food, and Warly mentally prepares for the request for pierogies.
“I have question for you.” Wolfgang says gruffly, averting his eyes.
“Ask away, mon ami. What do you crave? Fishsticks? Dragonpie?”
Wolfgang shakes his head.
“You made kholodets for camp. That was very good, I have not had for long time. My mother made this, when I was young.”
An interesting start. Wolfgang looks askance, avoiding his gaze. Their resident strongman is many things, but bashful is not one of them.
“Could you make other foods like kholodets? Foods from home?”
Warly’s expression softens and the change sends Wolfgang backtracking.
“If you cannot do, is okay. Was silly question—
“It is no weakness to be homesick, non? Food can take us back to that place.”
Walry smiles at him
“I would be glad, mon ami.”
“Will not tell my mother, but your kholodets is better than hers.” he whispers, sotto voce.
“I’m sure Maman Wolfgang’s cooking could not have been HRRKK–”
Wolfgang sweeps him up into a crushing hug.
“Many thanks, tasty food man!” he shouts.
“Not a problem,” he chokes out, head spinning from lack of air and a distinct flip in his stomach that he elects to ignore.
“Mon dieu, what have I gotten myself into now?”
For as long as he could remember, Warly loved to feed people.
A way to care for those around him, while also making delicious food. It’s a perfectly normal path into becoming a chef.
Warly can also be a man of eclectic tastes. Years of studying in Paris opened up his mind to a world of hedonistic possibility he couldn’t have imagined at home on the island. Many discoveries were made, but among the more strange was his interest in feeding others.
But now he has to make Wolfgang a meal.
The strongman is one of the few survivors in the Constant who has an appetite that rivals his, and gladly makes his appreciation known. All of the survivors have heard Wolfgang extolling the virtues of “tasty-making man,” and his dishes. Almost all of them have seen Wolfgang wiping through hordes of enemies with the power of chili flakes. Willow once called him a “pierogi powered killing machine,” and Wolfgang laughed and clapped Warly on the back so hard he nearly dislodged a lung.
Wolfgang could probably crush his head like a grape. It also cannot be overstated that Wolfgang does not bathe nearly as much as he should, and his hygiene is questionable at best. But somehow, it’s not an unappealing smell.
It’s not selfish, he tells himself. He’s simply letting Wolfgang enjoy a good, hearty meal. And if he looks wildly attractive after the meal, he won’t make eye contact and will think about it later. And maybe stuff a hand into his trousers and finish himself off while the rest of the camp sleeps.
Finally, after a few botched attempts at making pinecone jam and one charred honey cake later, he’s settled on a menu. Woodie was kind enough to carve a rough hewn table a short distance from camp, mostly so he wouldn’t get awkward questions or attempts to steal food from the spread. Chef’s pouch in tow and crock pot tucked beneath his arm, he sets out to prepare.
He’s setting up the gramophone for atmosphere when Wolfgang, surprisingly punctually, arrives to the table. His eyes light up seeing the spread, and Warly is surprised that he doesn’t float towards the aroma.
“Did not eat for whole day! Very excited for this meal.”
Warly clucks and shakes his head.
“Mon ami, what have I told you about starving yourself? Your body needs the food, and we have more than enough. I know you’re more than capable of cooking yourself.”
“Meatballs do not taste the same unless you make. You are artist with food!”
The praise sends pleasant butterflies to his stomach that he frantically tamps down.
“Oh, c’est facile! Use large meat rather than the morsels, and always add an egg! Garlic or an onion works well, and—”
Warly shuts his mouth at Wolfgang’s blank stare, and waves his hand.
“Ah. While I’m cross that you didn’t eat, I’m glad you came with an empty stomach. This is large meal, even for me.”
Even that is a misnomer. It’s a feast for the ages. Another leafy meatloaf, this time with small chunks of meat to taste. Piles of pierogies, garlic seasoned roast potatoes, and his specialty asparagazpacho. He’s quite proud of the dry aged steaks (meat he took off the drying rack before it became jerky) and its sea salt rub, with a side of potato puree. For desert, a batch of crisp pumpkin cookies, sprinkled with honey crystals. And finally, a nicely complex sweet mead, made with the help of Ms. Wickerbottom’s apicultural expertise and Wilson’s chemical knowledge.
Wolfgang pours two hearty glasses of mead, sparkling golden in the sun, and raises his enormous cup in a toast.
“На здоровье!,” he declares.
“Santé,” Warly responds, and settles to watch the feast begin.
Warly marvels at how easily Wolfgang can eat. Most of the time when he sees the strongman, he’s shoveling food into his mouth before thundering into battle. He eats with great vigor, but is surprisingly neat, using the napkin liberally.
With the steak, he doesn’t even bother with the knife. Spearing the entire thing with his fork, he brings it to his mouth in its entirety and bites. He moans, almost orgasmically, as he chews. He desperately hopes Wolfgang is occupied enough not to notice his staring.
The food goes at a decent pace, not devoured but savored. The first two batches of pierogis go somewhat quickly, and then the aspic. Wolfgang hums happily the moment he tries it, a wave of nostalgia crossing his face. They talk, gossip, laugh about the recent garden mishaps with WX and the watering can.
“How can you stand a plain potato, mon ami? I’m disgusted by the thought!”
“We ate roast potatoes all the time in my family! Good, filling food, perfect on inside and outside!”
Faintly, Warly notices that Wolfgang has begun to sweat. He wonders how he’d taste if he kissed him.
“Hah! And then, great cave worm came to eat us! Book lady was prepared with bee army, killed it quickly!”
“I wonder if Madame Wickerbottom’s grumblebees could make honey for us now the bee boxes have been gobbled up? I must ask the next time I see her!”
By the time he reaches the garlic potatoes and his fourth glass of mead, Wolfgang has begun to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Warly is trying his damndest to be polite, but he can’t help but glance at how Wolfgang’s belt strains against his plush stomach. If it was up to him, he’d want nothing more than to drop to his knees and squeeze. But he was raised better than that, and it’s his job to be an obliging host. Besides, it’s a foolish fantasy. Wolfgang is a friend, nothing more, and he’d like to keep it that way.
“Are you all right, my friend?”
Warly coughs, realizing he’s gone too long without saying anything.
“Yes, I’m all right, just getting full.”
It’s a bald faced lie and he prays Wolfgang doesn’t notice it. To his relief, Wolfgang simply nods and, to his shock, goes to unbuckle his belt. Wolfgang arches his hips and heaves a great sigh, rubbing contentedly at his stomach.
“Much better,” he announces. Warly feels as though he might combust.
“Have not been this full for years,” he laughs, “not even before I came here.”
This is how I die, Warly thinks. Embarrassing myself in front of a handsome man because none of my blood is in my brain.
“Is something wrong?” Wolfgang asks, putting his brows knit. “You stare.”
“No,” he says hastily, and gestures back at the food. “Please, eat.”
Wolfgang squints at him, shrugs.
“I feel like I will. Hm. Go boom.”
He yawns and stretches, exposing a sliver of nipple and beautifully hairy chest.
Warly’s breath hitches.
Wolfgang looks at him for a moment, and something dawns across his face.
“Oh. Ohh.”
“What are you—”
“Does tasty man see something he like?” he asks slyly, and hooks a finger at the collar of his shirt.
“I–”
“May not be smart, but Wolfgang has eyes,” he says simply. “Besides, is nice to have someone look at you this way.”
Warly averts his eyes, face hot.
“I don’t know what you–”
“What do you want, little man? Tell me truth.”
Warly flounders. What does he want? Why did he agree to this, even if he knew it was a foolish notion?
“You’re drunk,” he rambles. “It is—I—“
“Pah! Would take more than this to get Wolfgang drunk!”
He knows what he wants. He doesn’t want to say it.
“I don’t wish to be selfish, mon ami,” he says softly. “Or ask too much of you.”
Wolfgang cracks a rakish smile
“Am man of mighty passion,” he rumbles, and Wolfgang’s enormous hand palms against the stirring hardness beneath. Warly feels suddenly lightheaded at the sight. “I can show, if you want me?”
The table feels like it’s miles wide. Here they are, teetering on the precipice of something, and Warly has no idea what he should do. Refuse, even though it’s been several lonely lifetimes? Agree, even though a fallout could damage the camp? Agree and ruin a friendship that he’s wished he could ruin for an eternity?
He nods, ever so faintly. Wolfgang beams.
“Do not be afraid, little man. Wolfgang will take care of you.”
The first kiss is barely more than a brush of lips.
Warly makes an undignified sound when Wolfgang takes his tongue into his mouth and sucks, pulling away with a cough.
“Mon dieu,” he breathes. “You kiss like you intend to eat me.”
Wolfgang’s ears flush pink.
“Sorry, no good? I can—“
“Non!”
Warly clears his throat awkwardly. “Um. No. C’est. très bien. Please, continue.”
Cautiously, Wolfgang brings their faces together again and kisses him again, albeit slower. Warly can feel himself melt like butter into the kiss, and when he breaks away to mouth at the strongman’s neck, Wolfgang whimpers.
Warly has heard that sound before when Wolfgang is alone in the dark or beset by night terrors. Never has he heard it like this. And he’s taken by how ravenous it makes him.
“Wait,” he croaks. “The food will go cold, let me put it away—“
“I eat it.”
When Warly sends him an incredulous look, he shrugs.
“We did not waste food in war, or here. I want your food.”
His smile goes softer.
“You know what we say for you? ‘Warly takes cares for us, give us food, makes us strong. Does so much.’ You need someone to care for you.”
Warly, for all his bilingualism and French education, can’t think of a single word to say.
Struck dumb, Wolfgang’s go half lidded and he stares at him that strangely coy look again,
“Besides, I know you like this. Mighty Wolfgang is big, strong man.”
He slides a hand over his rounded stomach and grins when Warly’s jaw drops.
“You want me to become bigger, yes?”
Wolfgang is more perceptive than he lets on. Warly takes in an unnecessary breath and nods tightly.
“It is a lot of food,” he says delicately. “I did not expect you to finish.”
Wolfgang scoffs, beating his chest with a fist.
“Of course! Food will not beat the mightiest strongman in the world!”
Warly can feel his resolve crumbling in real time. setting aside the last batch of pierogis.
“I am sure it won’t, mon chou. But humor me?”
Wolfgang grins. He knows a challenge when he sees one.
“Try me.”
“Merci, mon beau. Let the games begin.”
Now aware he’s performing for an audience, Wolfgang is nothing if not a gracious entertainer. At one point, he looks Warly in the eye, licks his lips, and winks. It’s crass. It’s unbelievably arrogant. He loves it.
“Hah! You think–” Wolfgang huffs for breath. “You think this is enough to fill me? Is barely anything at all!”
“More talk like that and I’ll make you eat another dessert course.”
“Ah! I joke! Just a joke!”
By the time they reach the asparagazpacho, Wolfgang needs to take more frequent breaks. But the soup is perfect for a moment like this. A thin and cool broth, cooked to cut through the richer food and soothe the stomach. Somehow, as swollen as he looks, Wolfgang, obliging, tilts his head up to drink.
“I need—small stop. Please.” he pleads, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
While he does enjoy this, Warly’s no sadist, and reaches down to soothe circles into his stomach. He rubs absently, fascinated by the softness of his belly contrasted with the taut stomach beneath. He’s never fed anyone this much, and he’s surprised Wolfgang hasn’t burst. Frankly, he wouldn’t be surprised if the Constant implemented that as a punishment for gluttony.
“While we wait, may I kiss you again?”
Wolfgang’s answer is grabbing his collar and mashing their faces together.
Wolfgang is a sloppy kisser, all teeth and tongue, and Warly can taste his own cooking as he licks into his mouth. He’s far from an inexperienced virgin, but the kissing and rough groping alone are enough to make him embarrassingly stiff.
He pulls away with a gasp, grinning.
“Mon beau, do you think you can eat more now?”
Wolfgang’s eyes are nearly watering as he glances at the final covered dish, but he nods. Warly unveils it with a flourish.
While many of the dinner’s events were unexpected, he planned the courses to perfection. Crisp and light as a delightful textural contrast to the heavy meal, the pumpkin cookies are the ideal finish for the feast.
It’s a plate of ten cookies, but it might as well be a mountain.
Immediately Wolfgang protests.
“No, no–I can’t–”
“I know you can,” Warly says firmly. “It’s only ten.”
Wolfgang looks so miserable that it gives Warly pause.
“You know,” he says, sotto voce, “you don’t really have to eat everything. I’ll pack up the rest–”
“No!” Wolfgang declares. “I will eat it!”
He defiantly beats a fist against his chest and immediately doubles over. He waves Warly off when he rushes to his aid.
“Bad idea," he coughs. "But you understand.”
It was already satisfying seeing Wolfgang’s lips closing around a fork, but even more to see and feel it around his own fingers.
The first cookie goes easily, as well as the second. The third and fourth go slower, and by the seventh Wolfgang begs for a break.
“No,” he says firmly. “You’re almost done.”
The eighth is eaten painstakingly slowly, washed down by sips of mead. The ninth is eaten slower still, until–
“Done,” Wolfgang croaks, and slumps against the table.
Warly is at his side immediately, stroking his head and cooing praise.
“There you go, You did so well, mon ours, taking it all. Now let me take care of you, s’il te plait.”
Wolfgang practically lunges to kiss him, his mouth honey sweet, dragging him down to straddle his leg. Warly makes an undignified sound when he starts to grind his knee into his crotch, gasping between the kisses. He reaches down, snaking his hand down Wolfgang’s leotard to return the favor–
“Wait–”
Warly stops and Wolfgang clears his throat.
“I am not… handsomest of men,” Wolfgang says apologetically, looking askance. Almost bashfully, he strips himself of his leotard, kicking it beneath the table.
He’s never seen Wolfgang naked before, and he looks like desire made manifest. He’s perfectly hairy, muscular and toned, with an adorable paunch on his stomach, now rounded and taut from the meal.
It’s one of the most arousing things Warly has seen in his life, and he’s dropped his knees before he even realizes it. But nothing registers on his mind except the need to suck bruising kisses to Wolfgang’s inner thigh. Wolfgang yelps when he nips at him, quivering as Warly spreads his legs wider, like putty in his hands.
“Mon beau, what are you talking about?” he demands, “I won’t stand for you saying such things.”
Wolfgang fidgets when Warly inhales deeply of his scent, and writhes when he bites into the meat of his thigh.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasps, his own voice unrecognizable. “I could devour you whole, and still I’d be unsatisfied.”
He urges Wolfgang’s hips forwards, and Wolfgang whines, his breath coming fast and unsteady.
Wolfgang’s cock is short but frighteningly thick, twitching hard against the shelf of his belly. Just from glancing at it Warly knows he can’t take it in his mouth. Roughly, he mouths at the sides of Wolfgang's cock, licking off the rivulets of precum dripping from his tip.
“So wet,” he marvels, “like une pucelle, with a man between her thighs for the first time.”
Wolfgang makes a wrecked noise above him and covers his face, beet red. He’d be concerned if he couldn’t feel how his cock throbs in his spit-slick grip. The sheer scent of him is overwhelming, musk and sweat and unadulterated Wolfgang.
“What a sight you are,” he coos in French, and chuckles at how Wolfgang squirms. “Utterly adorable.”
Wolfgang’s breath is coming fast and unsteady as he strokes him, lapping at his drooling tip.
“Look at you, so eager, so beautiful,” he praises, and he doesn’t miss how Wolfgang shakes. “Perfect.”
He redoubles his efforts, his fist a blur.
“Come for me, mon amour—“
And he’s spilling over his fist, shaking beneath him, a broken sound bursting from the deepest part of his chest.
Once the spasms have ceased and Wolfgang slumps against his chair, Warly laps off the spend from his fingers. He doesn’t miss how Wolfgang’s cock does a valiant twitch at the sight.
“Tres magnifique, mon beau,” he breathes, “You truly are a wonder.”
As he stands up to wipe the dust off his pants, Wolfgang clamps a firm hand on his shoulder.
“You did not finish,” Wolfgang says, eyeing the bulge in his pants.
He waves his hand dismissively. It’s nothing he can’t take care of later.
“Ah, it’s fine, you do not have-OOH!”
Seizing him by the hips, Wolfgang stumbles from his chair and falls to his knees, eyes dark and pleading.
“Please. Please, I—let me taste—“
Shakily, he nods, and Wolfgang tears at his fly, flinching when a brass button bursts from its stitches.
“I fix later,” he swears, and immediately takes him to the hilt.
Warly likes to think he’s decently sized, but his cock barely brushes the back of his throat, not even gagging. Even as his hips begin to jerk against him, he suckles at his cock like he was made for it.
Warly’s thankful Wolfgang can’t understand the filth he’s babbling, how damnably good his mouth is, how pretty he is all filled out with his food, how incredible it is to have such a beautiful man on his knees before him, how next time (next time!) he’d like to fuck him properly.
He comes off embarrassingly quickly, gripping Wolfgang’s skull flush to his hips. Wolfgang, amazingly, obediently, swallows.
They sit there for a moment, gasping for breath, until Warly slumps to sit beside him on the ground, still breathing hard.
“So,” Wolfgang begins conversationally. “Tasty little man wants to fuck me next time?”
Warly does a double take.
“Tu– tu parles français! All along?”
Wolfgang shrugs and laughs.
“Oui, juste un peu. When I was circus, learned from trapeze lady.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Did not know you had such rough tongue. Wolfgang is very flattered.”
Wolfgang laughs heartily and claps his back when he turns red, and it stirs something molten in the pit of his stomach.
Wolfgang grins. It feels like a challenge.
“So, when is next time?”