Chapter 4: Morning Feeding Ritual
The first thing he registered was warmth. Not the flat, even heat of the sun through the blinds, but the living, breathing warmth of another body pressed close along his spine. An arm lay draped over his side, not loose with sleep, but heavy. Possessive.
Naruto blinked into the soft, dust-moted light. The room smelled of them—sleep, cotton sheets, and the faint, clean scent of Hinata’s sweat from last night’s workout, which she’d performed in the living room while he dozed on the couch.
The arm over him shifted. A hand, once small and pale, now broad-palmed with prominent knuckles and defined tendons, splayed across the soft plain of his stomach. It wasn't a caress. It was a measurement.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Hinata’s voice murmured into the back of his neck. It was lower in the mornings, textured with sleep and a new, quiet confidence.
She propped herself up on one elbow, and he felt the mattress shift with her weight, which was greater now, dense and solid. He rolled onto his back to look at her.
The morning light sculpted her. The delicate collarbones he used to trace were now bold architectural struts beneath her skin, framing the pronounced mounds of her pectoral muscles. Her shoulders were round, capped deltoids that flowed into thick, sinewy biceps. The tank top she slept in strained across her back, the fabric taut over the complex topography of lats and trapezius muscles. Her face, once softly rounded, had a harder, more defined handsomeness, her jawline sharp, her neck a strong, straight column. She was a monument in the making, and she was lying in his bed, looking at him with terrifying affection.
“You were sawing logs,” she giggled, but the sound had a different resonance coming from her deeper chest. She leaned down and kissed him, her lips soft but the press of her body behind them immovable. “I let you sleep. You looked so peaceful.”
“What time is it?” he rasped.
“Almost eleven.” She smiled, a flash of white. “No classes today. I thought we could have a lazy morning.”
Before he could answer, she swung her legs out of bed. The muscles in her back flared and settled like wings. Her quadriceps, thick and striated even at rest, tensed as she stood. She padded out to the kitchen, and he heard the familiar sounds of the microwave, the sizzle of something in a pan. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his body a languid, heavy thing anchored to the mattress. The ghost of Sakura’s protein bar seemed to coat his teeth. The memory of Ino’s cream puff sat like a sweet, guilty stone in his belly.
Hinata returned, a vision of domestic power. She carried a tray. On it sat a stack of pancakes the size of dinner plates, dripping with a viscous sheen of maple syrup and melting butter. Coils of bacon were woven through them. To the side, a small bowl held what looked like sausages, but they were split open and stuffed with a creamy white filling before being wrapped in more bacon.
“I experimented,” she said proudly, setting the tray over his lap. The weight of it, and the food, pinned him gently to the bed. She perched on the edge beside him, her thigh, hard as seasoned wood, pressing against his softer one. “They’re bacon-wrapped, cream cheese-stuffed sausage bites. For protein.” She picked up a fork, speared one, and brought it to his lips. “Open up.”
He obeyed. The flavors exploded—salty, smoky bacon, rich, tangy cream cheese, the dense, spiced sausage. It was delicious. It was a heart attack on a fork. He chewed, a moan escaping him involuntarily.
“Good, right?” Her eyes, pale and intense, watched his throat work as he swallowed. She didn’t wait for an answer. She cut into the pancakes, slicing through the fluffy interior soaked in syrup. She brought a laden forkful to his mouth. “The secret is buttermilk. And extra butter in the batter.”
He ate. Syrup dripped onto his chin. Hinata chuckled, a low, warm sound, and wiped it away with her thumb, then sucked the sweetness from her own finger. Her gaze never left his face, watching each bite with a focus that was both loving and analytical.
“You know,” she said softly, feeding him another piece of bacon-wrapped sausage. Her other hand returned to his stomach, rubbing slow, firm circles over the soft rise of it beneath his thin t-shirt. “I love seeing you like this in the mornings. All relaxed. Unclenched.” Her fingers traced the curve of his belly. “It’s so… soft. So adorable. It really shows you’re happy. Content.”
The word “adorable” hung in the air. It was not a word she’d ever used for his old six-pack. He ate another syrupy mouthful, the sweetness cloying now, mixing uneasily with the salty fat of the meat.
“You’re getting so strong,” he said, the words muffled by food.
Her face lit up. She flexed the arm that was feeding him, and the bicep swelled into a stark, veiny peak that seemed to ripple even after she relaxed. “You think? It’s slow. I feel like my lats are finally starting to pop, though. Wanna feel?”
She didn’t wait for consent. She took his syrup-sticky hand and guided it to her back, under her tank top. His fingers encountered warm, smooth skin stretched over solid, sloping muscle that fanned out from her spine.
His fingers traced the defined ridges, a landscape of disciplined power utterly foreign to his own softening body. "Wow," he breathed, the word sticking in his syrup-thick throat. "It's like rock."
"Hard work," she said simply, pulling his hand away and pressing it back over his own stomach, a deliberate contrast. She resumed feeding him, the fork clinking softly against the plate. "Eat up, baby. You need your energy."
Several days later, the pattern had hardened into law.
"Order the double cheeseburger with bacon," Hinata said, not looking up from her textbook. They were at a booth in a campus diner, the vinyl creaking under her weight. Her legs, thick and muscular in tight leggings, took up most of the space beneath the table. "And the loaded fries. And a chocolate shake."
"A shake too?" Naruto asked, his voice lacking any real protest. It was just a question. He’d stopped questioning her suggestions about a week ago.
"Extra protein," she said, finally looking at him. Her gaze was calm, unwavering. "You’re looking a little tired. The carbs will help."
He nodded, flagging down the waitress and repeating the order verbatim. When the food came, a towering, greasy monument on a platter, he ate it all. He didn't think about Sakura’s clinical portions or Ino’s secret pastries. He ate because Hinata watched him do it, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips as she worked through her own salad topped with grilled chicken.
That night, she led him to the bedroom. She didn't ask. She took his hand and pulled him from the couch where he’d been sinking into a food haze. "Come on," she said, her voice leaving no room for anything else.
In the dim light, the difference was undeniable. She stood before him, and for the first time, he had to tilt his chin up slightly to meet her eyes. The inches she’d gained in height from her straightened posture and thickened frame were now apparent. She looked down at him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Her thumbs rubbed the soft flesh where his traps used to be.
"Lie down," she instructed, her tone gentle but firm.
He did. The bed accepted his weight with a familiar groan. She didn't join him immediately. She peeled off her shirt, and he watched the play of shadow and muscle across her torso, the cut of her abdominals, the powerful line of her obliques. She was a sculpture poured over his old, rumpled sheets.
When she climbed over him, she didn't settle gently. She positioned his body to her liking, moving his limbs like arranging pillows. Her strength was a silent, overwhelming fact. She kissed him, and it was deep, consuming, a claim staked. He responded, his hands moving to her back, but the feeling was different. He wasn't holding her. He was clinging to a cliff face.
She guided him inside her, setting a slow, devastating rhythm that originated from the powerful flex of her hips. He was a passenger. Her breaths were measured, controlled, like her reps at the gym. His were ragged, helpless.
"You feel so good," she murmured into his ear, her voice a vibration against his skin. "Just like this. My sweet, comfortable man."
He climaxed at her pace, when her rhythm dictated it, a wave of pleasure that felt more like surrender than release. She followed, a sharp, stifled gasp the only sign, her body clamping around him with a vice-like intensity that made him see stars. Afterward, she collapsed onto him, not beside him. The full, dense weight of her pressed him into the mattress, a warm, sweating blanket of muscle he had no hope of shifting. He could barely breathe. He didn't try to move her.
He woke the next morning alone, as usual. The smell of frying bacon and something sugary, like cinnamon rolls, drifted from the kitchen. He pushed himself up, his body feeling sluggish and heavy. He caught his reflection in the dark television screen across the room—a pale, blurred shape, noticeably broader in the midsection than he remembered. He blinked. The shape just looked like him.
"Pancakes are ready!" Hinata called, her voice cheerful and strong.
He smiled, his stomach growling. He didn't think about the reflection, or the tightness of his pajama pants, or the sheer, unthinking ease with which he now obeyed every suggestion she made. He just got up, following the smell of food, ready to be fed.