Chapter 11: The Dinner Feast
The air in Ashur’s dining room hung thick and fragrant, a delicious miasma of ginger, garlic, soy, and sesame oil wrapping around the warm glow of dozens of flickering tea lights scattered across the grand, dark wood table. Plush velvet curtains in deep burgundy swallowed any outside light, turning the room into a hushed, intimate cocoon. Steam still rose in lazy tendrils from heaping dishes: glistening stir-fried noodles tangled with vibrant vegetables, plump dumplings gleaming with oil, jasmine rice piled high like a snowy mountain, and glazed pork belly glistening darkly under the candlelight. It was a feast, an undeniable, unapologetic celebration of appetite, laid bare mere weeks after the sterile terror of the hospital.
Ling sat nestled into a plush chair, practically disappearing into the softness of a massive, dark grey cashmere sweater – one of Ashur’s, naturally. His long black hair was loosely tied back, tendrils escaping to frame his face, flushed pink from the warmth and the sheer effort. His green eyes, wide with focused determination, were fixed on the mound of noodles on his plate. His movements with the chopsticks were deliberate, practiced, a world away from the fragile hesitation of the fruit platter mornings. He speared a tangle of noodles and crisp bean sprouts, lifting them high, dripping shimmering sauce, before guiding them into his mouth. His chopsticks clicked rhythmically against the porcelain.
Beneath the soft drape of the sweater, the gentle, unmistakable curve of his belly pressed against the fabric. It wasn't the terrifying, taut distension of before. This was softer, rounded, a tangible testament to weeks of careful, chosen nourishment. It strained the cashmere just enough to create smooth folds where it met the waistband of his soft sweatpants. He chewed vigorously, swallowing with a small, happy sigh that vibrated in the quiet room.
Ashur sat opposite, leaning back slightly in his chair, one tattooed arm draped over the back. His golden eyes weren't fixed on the food, but on Ling. They tracked every lift of the chopsticks, every chew, the slight bulge in his throat as he swallowed. The usual sinful smirk was gone, replaced by an intense, laser-focused stillness. His own plate sat largely untouched, the food cooling. The restraint in him was a palpable force, vibrating just beneath his sun-kissed skin. His fingers, resting on the tablecloth near a dish of glistening dumplings, twitched minutely. He watched Ling reach for a piece of glazed pork belly, the fatty layer shimmering. Ling bit into it, closing his eyes briefly as the rich, sweet-savory flavor burst on his tongue, a small, involuntary moan escaping him.
"Good?" Ashur’s voice was low, a husky scrape that barely disturbed the air.
Ling swallowed, opening his eyes, a smear of dark sauce at the corner of his lips. "So good," he breathed, his voice thick with satisfaction. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The pork... it's perfect. Crispy and melty." He speared another piece, holding it up. "Want to try some?"
Ashur’s gaze flickered from the proffered pork to Ling’s sauce-smeared hand, then back to his face. A muscle jumped in his jaw. He shook his head once, a sharp, almost painful movement. "No. That's yours, sweetling. All yours." His knuckles were white where he gripped the arm of his chair. The hunger in his eyes wasn't for the pork; it was for the act, for the sight of Ling consuming it, enjoying it, growing from it. It was the hunger of a sculptor watching clay yield, tempered now by the memory of nearly shattering his creation.
Ling ate the pork, then methodically tackled the rice, mixing it with the glossy sauce pooling on his plate. He piled it high on his spoon, eating with single-minded relish. The roundness beneath his sweater seemed to settle more firmly with each bite. He pushed the plate away slightly when the rice mountain was half-demolished, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on his pale forehead. "Ohhh," he groaned softly, leaning back. His hand drifted down, resting almost unconsciously on the swell of his belly, pressing gently. "So full."
Ashur moved then. Not suddenly, but with a deliberate, almost reverent slowness. He pushed his chair back silently and walked around the table, the candlelight catching the intricate black tattoos snaking over his forearms. He stopped beside Ling’s chair, looking down at him. Ling tilted his head back, green eyes meeting molten gold. Ashur reached out, not towards Ling’s hand, but towards the small dish of tiramisu he’d placed earlier, off to the side. It was a modest portion, the coffee-soaked ladyfingers layered with creamy mascarpone and dusted with cocoa.
He picked up the small fork beside it. His hand, usually so steady holding a tattoo needle, trembled. Visibly. The tremor ran through his wrist, making the fork shiver in the candlelight. He didn’t try to hide it. He scooped up a perfect bite – a generous curl of cream, soaked sponge, a dusting of cocoa. He held it out, hovering near Ling’s lips. His golden eyes burned into Ling’s, asking a silent, fraught question.
Ling looked at the trembling fork, at the intense, almost desperate hope warring with fierce control in Ashur’s face. He remembered the fruit platter, the grape placed carefully in his palm. He remembered the hospital, the crushing pressure. He remembered gentle. He leaned forward slightly, parting his lips. He didn't take the bite; he let Ashur guide the fork into his mouth.
The rich, cool cream, the bitter coffee, the sweetness… it was decadent, heavenly. Ling closed his eyes, savoring it, a soft hum vibrating in his chest. Ashur watched, transfixed, as Ling’s throat worked to swallow. The trembling in Ashur’s hand intensified as he scooped up another bite. "Such a good Little Bird," he murmured, the words rough, stripped of their usual teasing purr, sounding almost broken with relief and desire. He fed Ling the next bite. "Taking it so well." Another bite. "Filling up so beautifully." His voice was a low, thrumming vibration that seemed to resonate in Ling’s bones. Each careful insertion of the fork, each small swallow, was met with a barely audible sigh from Ashur, a release of tension held too long. Ling reached up a hand, not to push the fork away, but to rest it lightly on Ashur’s wrist, feeling the tremor beneath his fingers, grounding him. Ashur stilled momentarily, his breath catching, then continued, slower, even more deliberate.
Ling accepted every morsel Ashur offered. He felt incredibly full, the rich meal and dessert sitting heavily and pleasantly inside the soft curve his hand still rested upon. But the fullness didn’t frighten him. It felt earned. Safe. Wanted. As Ashur fed him the last bite of tiramisu, the cocoa dusting Ling’s bottom lip, Ashur gently brushed it away with his thumb, his touch lingering for a heartbeat too long. Ling leaned back, utterly sated, the flickering candles reflecting in his heavy-lidded eyes. His breaths came slow and deep, contentment radiating from him in the warm, spice-scented air. Across the table, the lavish feast lay half-consumed, a silent testament to restraint and burgeoning desire. Ashur remained standing beside him, the empty dessert dish in his now-still hand, his golden gaze roaming over Ling’s relaxed form, the soft swell beneath the cashmere, the peaceful expression on his face. The hunger in his eyes hadn't vanished; it had deepened, transformed, focused with a terrifying, tender precision on the sleeping warmth of his Little Bird. He placed the dish silently back on the table, his fingers brushing against the cool porcelain for a moment longer than necessary, then rested his hand lightly on Ling’s shoulder, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. The silence stretched, rich and charged, filled only by the soft crackle of candle wicks and Ling’s deepening sighs. Ashur didn't move, his gaze fixed on the perfect, peaceful curve of Ling's cheek resting against the chair back, the shadows dancing across his closed eyelids. He was statue-still, a sentinel bathing in the quiet triumph of this fullness, the tremble in his hand replaced by a profound, vibrating stillness that seemed to fill the velvet-draped room. The feast could wait. This, right here, was everything.
The silence pooled around them, thick as the mascarpone cream. Ashur’s hand stayed warm and heavy on Ling’s shoulder, grounding him. Ling drifted in a haze of satiated warmth, the heavy fullness in his belly a comforting anchor, not an anchor chain. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pleasant pressure against the cashmere waistband. A soft sigh escaped him, more contentment than discomfort. The candlelight painted dancing gold patterns on the burgundy velvet curtains.
Then came the unmistakable sound. A tiny, muffled pop, like a cork easing free from an overfilled bottle. It wasn't loud, but in the hushed room, it echoed. Ling froze. His green eyes flew open, wide and startled. He felt it instantly – a sudden, distinct release of pressure against the soft knit of his sweater, right beneath his navel. The fabric that had been stretched taut, conforming snugly to the smooth curve, suddenly gave a fractional, yielding sigh.
Ashur’s hand tightened imperceptibly on Ling’s shoulder. His breath hitched, a sharp intake that cut through the quiet. His gaze snapped downwards, zeroing in on the front of Ling’s massive sweater. Where before the cashmere had hugged the firm swell with a smooth, unbroken line, there was now a subtle change. The precise point where the fabric dipped inward slightly to form the hollow of his navel had pushed outward. The tight-knit threads, stretched to their limit by the combined fullness of the feast and dessert, had surrendered. Ling’s belly button, previously an innie nestled securely within the gentle slope, had popped through the weave. It now formed a distinct, soft little outward bump against the grey wool, exposed to the candlelit air for the first time.
Ling stared down at his own midsection, his hand instinctively moving to cover the spot. His fingers brushed the small, unexpected protrusion through the fabric. It felt warm, vulnerable. A blush, hot and fierce, spread from his cheeks down his neck. "Oh," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, thick with a mix of shock and profound shyness. He looked up, meeting Ashur’s gaze, searching for… something. Disgust? Amusement?
Ashur wasn't laughing. He wasn't smirking. He stood utterly transfixed, his golden eyes wide, pupils dilated, drinking in the sight. His expression was one of pure, unadulterated awe, mixed with a fierce, possessive pride that stole the breath from Ling’s lungs. Slowly, deliberately, Ashur lowered himself to his knees beside Ling’s chair. The worn wood floor creaked softly. He didn’t speak. His hand slid from Ling’s shoulder, moving with infinite care towards the stretched cashmere sweater.
Ling held perfectly still, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Ashur’s fingertip, rough from tattoo work yet incredibly gentle, touched the soft wool precisely over the newly emerged navel bump. He traced its small, rounded shape through the fabric, a feather-light caress. His thumb brushed the area beside it, feeling the yielding warmth beneath. A low sound vibrated in Ashur’s chest, deep and primal. Not a word, not a laugh. Pure, reverent sound.
"Ashur?" Ling whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
Ashur finally looked up, his eyes molten gold in the candlelight, fixed on Ling’s face. Wonder warred with an almost overwhelming intensity. His thumb still rested lightly against the hidden curve. "Look at you," he murmured, the words husky, filled with awe. "Look what you did, Xiao." His gaze dropped back to the small, telling bump under the grey cashmere. "My perfect Little Bird." He leaned forward, pressing his lips gently, almost chastely, against the fabric where Ling’s navel pressed out. Ling shivered, a tremor running through him that had nothing to do with cold. Ashur’s breath was warm against his skin, separated only by the thin wool. The silence returned, deeper now, charged with the weight of this small, monumental change, the candle flames flickering over Ashur's bowed head and Ling's wide, astonished eyes fixed on the top of that golden hair. Ling’s own hand slowly lowered from where he’d tried to cover himself, coming to rest hesitantly atop Ashur’s head, fingers tangling gently in the messy strands. Ashur exhaled, a long, shuddering breath against the cashmere, turning his head slightly to press his cheek against the soft swell, his eyes closing. His thumb still traced absent circles around the newly prominent navel beneath the wool.
Ashur’s cheek remained pressed against the yielding warmth of Ling’s belly, the soft cashmere hiding nothing. His thumb continued its slow, worshipful orbit around the small, undeniable bump of Ling’s newly prominent navel beneath the wool. The air crackled, thick with the scent of soy sauce, sesame, and the beeswaxy perfume of dying candles. Ling’s fingers stayed buried in Ashur’s messy golden hair, feeling the slight tremor running through him. He felt suspended, hyper-aware of the heavy fullness inside him and the heat of Ashur’s face against him.
"Look what you did, Xiao," Ashur murmured again, his voice muffled against the wool, rough with something beyond awe. It was a low thrum of possession, of primal satisfaction. His thumb pressed just a fraction firmer against the navel bump. Ling’s breath hitched, a tiny sound swallowed by the velvet-draped quiet. "Filled yourself up so perfect. Took everything I gave you." Ashur tilted his head back slightly, just enough to look up at Ling through thick lashes. His golden eyes were liquid fire in the candlelight, holding Ling captive. "My good Little Bird."
Ling felt a flush bloom across his chest, crawling up his neck. The fullness felt different now, charged. Ashur hadn’t touched him like this since… since before. The hospital ghosted between them, a cold whisper, instantly chased away by the intensity in Ashur’s gaze. It wasn’t the old, driving hunger, not exactly. This was heavier. Hotter. More focused. Ashur’s free hand, which had been resting on his own knee, lifted. Slowly. Deliberately. Ling watched it, heart hammering against his ribs like frantic wings. Ashur didn’t break eye contact. His hand moved towards the stretched hem of Ling’s massive cashmere sweater, where it met the waistband of his soft sweatpants.
"Ashur?" Ling whispered, his voice thin. Ashur’s fingers found the soft knit, slipping beneath the thick hem. The rough pads of his fingertips brushed the bare, warm skin just above the waistband. Ling gasped. The touch was electric, shocking after the layers of wool. Ashur’s gaze darkened, fixed on Ling’s face, reading every micro-expression. His fingers pushed the sweater upwards, inch by careful inch, revealing the pale, smooth curve of Ling’s belly, stretched taut and round by the feast. The newly popped navel, a soft little button, was fully exposed now. Ashur’s breath audibly caught. His thumb abandoned the fabric and touched bare skin, tracing the delicate rim of Ling’s navel. Ling shivered violently, his grip tightening in Ashur’s hair. "Oh god," he breathed.
"Shhh," Ashur soothed, his voice a low rasp. "Just want to feel you, sweetling." His hand slid further under the bunched-up sweater, his palm coming to rest flat against the warm, firm swell of Ling’s lower belly. The heat of it, the sheer solidity, seemed to stun him momentarily. His golden eyes flickered closed for a heartbeat, savoring the feel. "So warm. So full. All because of me." His voice dropped lower, thick with reverence and a different kind of ache. His thumb resumed its circling, but now directly on Ling’s bare skin, around the sensitive navel. Ling arched his back slightly, a helpless press into the touch, a low whimper escaping him. The sensation was overwhelming – the heavy satiation, the intimate caress, the dizzying vulnerability of being so exposed. Ashur watched him, utterly transfixed, the candlelight dancing in his hungry eyes. His hand shifted lower, skirting the waistband of the sweatpants, fingers dipping just slightly beneath the elastic. Ling’s breath stopped. Ashur’s gaze held his, burning. "You deserve a reward, Little Bird." His voice was pure velvet sin now. "For being so perfect. For taking it all."
Ling couldn’t speak. Could only watch, trembling, as Ashur’s hand slid fully beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. The calloused fingertips found the soft thatch of hair, then lower, tracing the curve where thigh met torso. Ashur’s eyes never left Ling’s face, watching the dawning shock, the flicker of remembered fear instantly drowned by a tidal wave of sensation. His fingers brushed the base of Ling’s soft cock. Ling jerked, a sharp intake of breath hissing between his teeth. "Ashur… I… I’m not sure…" The words were thin, torn between the echo of the hospital bed and the electric current igniting under Ashur’s touch.
"Trust me," Ashur murmured, his voice rough but impossibly gentle. His thumb stroked a slow path along the underside of Ling’s soft length, a feather-light caress that sent sparks shooting up Ling’s spine. "Just a touch. For you. My reward." His other hand was still pressed firmly against Ling’s rounded belly, grounding him, holding him steady. The dual sensations were dizzying – the anchoring weight of Ashur’s palm on his fullness, and the teasing, deliberate stroke along his cock. Ling’s head fell back against the chair with a soft thud, eyes squeezing shut. A helpless moan, low and ragged, tore from his throat as Ashur’s fingers curled slightly, rubbing him with deliberate, circling pressure. His cock began to stir, thickening sluggishly under the intimate friction, responding to the possessive touch and the overwhelming feeling of being utterly claimed, utterly cared for. Ashur watched the transformation, the flush deepening on Ling’s pale skin, the parted lips, the tremors running through his slight frame. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to the curve of Ling’s exposed belly, just beside his navel bump, as his thumb continued its slow, insistent rub, coaxing Ling towards a pleasure built on the foundation of being fed, full, and finally safe.
Ashur’s lips lingered on the warm curve of Ling’s belly, the kiss a soft counterpoint to the deliberate friction of his thumb circling Ling’s thickening cock. The scent of soy sauce and sweet glaze clung to the air, mingling with the beeswaxy perfume of guttering candles. Ling arched, a ragged gasp escaping him as pleasure, sharp and unexpected, surged through his overfull body. His fingers tightened convulsively in Ashur’s hair. "Ashur... oh god..." The name was a plea tangled with disbelief.
"Shh, sweetling," Ashur murmured against his skin, his breath hot. His thumb pressed a fraction harder, finding a rhythm that made Ling’s hips jerk helplessly against the chair cushion. "Just feel it." His other hand remained a steady anchor on Ling’s rounded belly, grounding him even as sensation threatened to sweep him away. "You earned this." The words vibrated against Ling’s skin. "Every bite." Ling whimpered, his head pressing back into the plush velvet chair, the world narrowing to the heat of Ashur’s mouth on his belly, the rough pad of his thumb, the anchoring weight of his palm. His cock pulsed, fully hard now under Ashur’s knowing touch, the fullness inside him somehow amplifying the electric current coursing through his nerves. "Look at you," Ashur breathed, lifting his head just enough to meet Ling’s dazed green eyes. His golden gaze was molten, possessive, utterly focused. "Taking everything I give you." His thumb swept firmly over the sensitive head. Ling cried out, back arching sharply off the chair, stars exploding behind his eyelids as release crashed through him, wave after shuddering wave, leaving him trembling and breathless, pinned beneath Ashur’s unwavering gaze and anchoring hand.
Silence rushed back in, broken only by Ling’s ragged breaths and the soft crackle of dying wicks. Ashur slowly withdrew his hand from beneath Ling’s sweatpants, his touch lingering for a final, possessive stroke against the damp skin of Ling’s inner thigh. He watched Ling’s eyelids flutter, the flush high on his pale cheeks, the utter surrender in his slack posture. Ashur’s thumb gently traced the small, proud bump of Ling’s navel again, exposed above the bunched sweater. "Perfect," he murmured, the word thick with awe and satisfaction. He carefully smoothed the cashmere back down over Ling’s belly, hiding the soft swell and the vulnerable navel bump, his touch reverent. Ling sighed, a deep, bone-weary sound, his limbs feeling heavy as lead, the pleasant fullness inside him now underscored by profound exhaustion. The adrenaline of the meal, the intensity of Ashur’s touch, the sheer vulnerability of it all, drained away, leaving him boneless.
"Tired?" Ashur asked softly, his voice a low rumble. He brushed a stray strand of black hair from Ling’s damp forehead. Ling managed a faint nod, his eyelids drooping. "Yeah," he breathed, the word barely audible. "So tired." Ashur studied him for a moment longer, the flickering candlelight painting shadows across his face. The fierce hunger had banked, replaced by a deep, protective tenderness. He pushed himself up from his knees, joints protesting slightly. "C'mon, Little Bird," he said, his tone shifting to something practical, gentle. "Time for soft things." He slid one arm carefully under Ling’s knees, the other behind his shoulders. Ling instinctively curled into him, burying his face against Ashur’s neck as he was lifted effortlessly from the chair. The sudden movement made his full stomach slosh gently, a reminder of the feast, but Ashur’s hold was secure, cradling him against the solid warmth of his chest, the intricate tattoos on his arms pressing softly against Ling’s sweater. Ashur carried him through the hushed dining room, past the remnants of the lavish, half-eaten feast gleaming under the dying candlelight, the scent of ginger and sesame fading as they moved into the dim hallway. Ling felt weightless, suspended, the rhythmic thud of Ashur’s heartbeat against his ear a steady anchor. The cool air of the bedroom washed over them as Ashur nudged the door open with his foot. Moonlight streamed through the window, painting silver stripes on the rumpled duvet. Ashur lowered Ling onto the cool sheets with infinite care, the mattress sighing softly beneath his weight. Ling sank into the softness, sighing as the pleasant pressure in his belly settled comfortably against the mattress. Ashur pulled the thick duvet up over him, tucking it around his shoulders. Ling watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Ashur moved quietly around the room, extinguishing a small lamp, drawing the blackout curtains fully shut, plunging the room into near-total darkness save for the sliver of moonlight under the door. The mattress dipped beside him as Ashur slid in, his warmth radiating instantly. He turned on his side, facing Ling, one arm draping heavily over Ling’s waist, his hand settling possessively, protectively, over the soft swell beneath the cashmere sweater. His thumb found the spot where Ling’s navel pressed out, tracing its hidden shape through the wool in slow, soothing circles. Ling sighed again, a sound of utter contentment, his body relaxing completely into the mattress and the encompassing warmth of Ashur beside him. The fullness was a comforting anchor now, a testament to care, not coercion. Ashur pressed a final, soft kiss to Ling’s temple, his breath warm against Ling’s hairline. "Sleep," he murmured, his voice a deep vibration in the dark. "My perfect Little Bird." Ling’s breathing deepened almost instantly, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath Ashur’s arm the only movement in the quiet room. Ashur lay awake a little longer, listening to Ling’s soft breaths, feeling the solid warmth beneath his hand, the small, distinct bump beneath the wool a silent promise against his palm. The hunger was a low, satisfied hum now, banked but ever-present, watching over his sleeping prize. The darkness felt safe, complete.