Chapter 2: Aftercare and Claiming
The worn springs of Ashur’s mattress groaned softly as he carefully lowered Ling onto the rumpled sheets. The stale air of the apartment, thick with the ghosts of countless energy drinks and long-cold pizza, enveloped them. The only light came from a single, dusty floor lamp in the corner, casting long, swaying shadows. Ling sank into the mattress, a low moan escaping his lips as the shift in position sent a fresh wave of pressure through his overburdened core. The borrowed hoodie, smelling overwhelmingly of Ashur’s sandalwood and ink, was a heavy, comforting shroud.
"Easy, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, kneeling beside the bed. His golden eyes, catching the dim light, scanned Ling’s face – pale, damp with a faint sheen of sweat, framed by the spill of inky black hair. Ling’s own charcoal sweater, stretched taut and gaping where the button had popped, still lay beneath the hoodie like a secret layer of distress. Ashur’s fingers found the zipper of the hoodie, the sound loud in the quiet room. He tugged it down slowly, revealing the strained grey wool underneath, then carefully pushed both layers of fabric up, past the swell of Ling’s ribs, bunching them beneath his armpits.
Ling instinctively tried to curl in on himself, embarrassment warring with the acute discomfort. "Ashur… don't..." he whispered, his voice thin.
"Don't what?" Ashur asked softly, his gaze fixed not on Ling’s face, but on the exposed expanse of his belly. It was a taut, high dome beneath the thin grey cotton of his undershirt, the fabric stretched so thin it was nearly translucent. The waistband of his unbuttoned jeans dug in mercilessly just below, a sharp line demarcating the intense fullness. Ashur traced the edge of the jeans’ waistband with a light fingertip, making Ling flinch. "Look at this, Ling," he breathed, his voice thick with awe. "Look at how full you are. How perfect." He reached out, his large, warm hand settling flat over the apex of the curve, feeling the unyielding tension beneath the cotton. Ling gasped, his body arching slightly at the contact, a mix of pain and something else entirely.
"Still hurts," Ling managed, his hand fluttering weakly towards Ashur’s wrist, not quite pushing it away.
"I know, baby," Ashur said. He leaned over, rummaging in the cluttered drawer of his nightstand, sending empty chip bags and loose game controllers clattering. He emerged with a small, dark glass bottle. "Jasmine oil," he explained, popping the cap. The delicate, sweet floral scent bloomed instantly, cutting through the stale apartment air. "Helps with digestion. And tension." He poured a generous amount into his palm, rubbing his hands together to warm it. The slick sound was intimate in the quiet.
Ling watched him, apprehension warring with a desperate need for relief. Ashur’s hands, glistening with oil now, returned to his belly. He pushed the thin cotton t-shirt up further, bunching it just below Ling’s collarbones, leaving the entire swollen curve bare to the dim light. Ling squeezed his eyes shut, mortified by the sheer exposure, by the undeniable, rounded shape of his own body, so unfamiliar and immense.
Ashur’s oiled palms settled gently onto the taut skin. The initial touch was cool, then instantly warm, sinking deep. He let out a soft sigh of satisfaction. "God, Ling. You feel incredible like this." His thumbs found the sensitive skin just below Ling’s ribs, pressing in with firm, deep circles. Ling whimpered, the pressure intense against the packed fullness, but Ashur didn’t ease up. He worked methodically, his strong fingers kneading along the upper curve, finding knots of tension Ling hadn’t known he carried. "Breathe into it," Ashur instructed, his voice low and hypnotic. "Let me work it out."
Ling tried. He sucked in shallow breaths, feeling the resistance beneath Ashur’s hands. The pain was still there, a deep, heavy ache, but it began to shift under Ashur’s skilled touch. The deep kneading strokes moved lower, tracing the contours of the distended belly. Ashur’s hands were mapping him, learning the new, enforced curve, the tightness, the way the skin stretched drum-taut over the sheer volume within. It wasn’t just functional; it was intensely intimate. Possessive.
"Remember the sushi?" Ashur murmured, his thumbs sweeping in broad, oil-slick strokes down the sides of Ling’s belly towards his hips. "That first piece of otoro? Melting on your tongue?" He pressed the heel of his hand firmly into the spot just above Ling’s navel, making Ling gasp. "That’s right there. The good stuff." His other hand slid lower, fingers tracing the deep indent where the waistband of the jeans had bitten in. "And the unagi… sweet and rich… settling low." He pressed down gently right there. Ling moaned, a sound that was half-pain, half-overwhelmed surrender.
Ashur’s gaze flicked up to Ling’s face, taking in his closed eyes, the parted lips, the flush creeping down his neck. His own breathing had deepened. He poured more oil, the jasmine scent intensifying as he smoothed it over Ling’s entire belly, from the base of his ribs to the strained waistband, coating the tight, pale skin until it gleamed in the lamplight. His touch became less about deep kneading and more about spreading the oil, caressing the curve, his palms molding to the swollen shape with reverence.
"Look at you," Ashur whispered, his voice rough. He shifted his weight, leaning closer. One hand remained splayed possessively on the lower swell, while the other rose to trace the delicate line of Ling’s collarbone, then down his sternum, coming to rest lightly just above the apex of the belly. "My Little Bird. So round. So full. You took everything I gave you." His thumb rubbed a slow circle over the stretched skin near Ling’s navel. "Every bite. For me."
Ling opened his eyes, finding Ashur’s molten gold gaze locked onto his belly. The intensity there, the raw hunger mixed with adoration, stole his breath more effectively than the fullness. This wasn't just about easing his discomfort. It was about Ashur worshipping the result of his own actions.
"It… it was too much," Ling protested weakly, his voice barely a thread. His hand moved instinctively to cover Ashur’s, but he didn’t push it away. He just rested his slender fingers over Ashur’s larger, oil-slicked ones.
"Never too much," Ashur countered, a ghost of his sinful smirk returning. He intertwined his fingers with Ling’s, pressing their joined hands down into the yielding yet firm swell. "Just right. Perfect." He leaned in, his lips brushing Ling’s temple. "Look how beautiful you are like this." His free hand resumed its slow, sweeping caress over the oiled curve, tracing the distended outline with feather-light fingertips, sending shivers across Ling’s hypersensitive skin. "My perfect, well-fed Little Bird. All mine."
Ling felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations: the lingering ache, the profound relief of the massage, the suffocating intimacy, the terrifying allure of Ashur’s absolute possession. The heavy fullness inside him felt like a physical manifestation of Ashur’s claim, a tangible anchor to this moment of vulnerability and surrender. Ashur’s hand kept moving, a slow, soothing rhythm over the oiled swell, his murmured praise a constant, possessive hum. The distant hum of the fridge faded. The shadows deepened. Ling’s eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion from the ordeal, the hypnotic touch, the sheer sensory overload pulling him down. He drifted, suspended between discomfort and a strange, deep contentment, held captive by the warmth of the oil, the scent of jasmine, and the possessive hands memorizing every curve of his overstuffed middle. Ashur watched him slip towards sleep, his golden eyes gleaming with fierce satisfaction in the dim light, his palm resting possessively on the warm, rounded prize beneath it. He’d won his challenge. And his Little Bird was beautifully, undeniably full.
Ling’s breathing deepened, evening out into the soft, rhythmic sighs of sleep. The harsh lines of discomfort smoothed from his face, leaving only a flushed exhaustion beneath the spill of dark hair. Ashur’s oil-slicked hand remained resting possessively on the warm, rounded swell of Ling’s belly, feeling the subtle rise and fall.
"Perfect," Ashur murmured again, the word a soft exhale in the quiet room. He watched the play of lamplight on the gleaming skin, the way the taut curve seemed to fill his entire vision. Carefully, slowly, he withdrew his hand, leaving a faint sheen on Ling’s skin. He reached for the bunched grey sweater and hoodie still rucked up beneath Ling’s arms.
Gently, so gently, he tugged the layers back down, covering the oiled skin, the stretched cotton undershirt, the vulnerable curve. He smoothed the oversized charcoal sweater over the prominent swell, the missing button a silent testament to the evening’s success. He didn’t bother with the unbuttoned jeans, simply arranging the hoodie to drape over them.
"Sleep deep, Little Bird," Ashur whispered, brushing a stray strand of hair from Ling’s damp forehead. His thumb lingered for a second. Ling didn’t stir, utterly spent. The profound stillness of him, the sheer fullness radiating even beneath the layers, sent a pulse of fierce satisfaction through Ashur.
He stood, joints cracking softly. The dim apartment felt charged, the air thick with jasmine oil and the lingering scent of their shared exertion. The clutter – the empty energy drink cans by the TV, the game controllers scattered near the console – felt irrelevant. His focus narrowed to the sleeping form on the bed and the task ahead.
Quietly, he padded towards the small kitchen alcove, the humming fridge a constant drone. He pulled open the fridge door, the light harsh in the dimness. Inside: mostly emptiness. A few wilting lettuce leaves in a bag, a half-empty bottle of dubious-looking hot sauce, two lonely beers, and a container of leftover… something… fuzzy and unidentifiable. Pathetic.
"Need fuel," Ashur muttered to himself, closing the fridge with a soft thud. He leaned against the counter, tapping a finger against the laminate surface. The conveyor belt sushi had been a spectacular start, a glorious proof of concept. But momentum needed maintaining. Ling’s shy resistance had crumbled beautifully tonight, replaced by a pliant exhaustion Ashur intended to exploit. Breakfast was crucial.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket. He pulled it out, squinting at the screen. A text notification from the 24-hour grocery delivery app blinked. Perfect timing. He swiped it open, fingers flying. He bypassed the healthy options immediately. His golden eyes scanned the baked goods section, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Click. A pack of double chocolate chip muffins, dense and studded. Click. A box of sugary, rainbow-sprinkled donuts. Click. Buttermilk pancake mix. The heavy-duty kind. Click. Real maple syrup, the expensive, thick stuff. Click. A tub of whipped cream. Click. A pound of thick-cut bacon. Click. A carton of extra-large eggs. Click. A pint of heavy cream – for coffee, obviously. Rich coffee.
He paused, thumb hovering. Ling liked fruit, sometimes. Ashur scrolled, found the berries. Click. A small container of strawberries. A concession, a tiny island of perceived virtue in the sea of planned indulgence. He added it to the cart. The total blinked, significant. He didn’t hesitate. Confirmed. Delivery ETA: 90 minutes.
"Excellent," he breathed, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He glanced back at the bed. Ling hadn’t moved, lost in the deep sleep of the utterly stuffed. Ashur pictured him waking tomorrow, belly still heavy, maybe tender. He pictured presenting the feast. The initial reluctance, the flush, the eventual surrender spoonful by syrup-drenched spoonful.
He walked silently back towards the bed, crouching beside it. Ling’s lips were slightly parted, his face serene in sleep. Ashur’s gaze dropped again to the distinct mound beneath the sweater, even more pronounced now Ling was lying flat. He traced the curve lightly through the wool with a single fingertip, careful not to wake him.
"My Little Bird," Ashur murmured, the possessiveness in his voice thick and warm. "Just you wait. Tomorrow… we build on perfection." The hum of the fridge filled the silence, a backdrop to Ashur’s quiet anticipation. He remained there, watching the slow rise and fall of Ling’s breath, the shape beneath the sweater, already mapping out the morning’s campaign against Ling’s slender frame. The delivery would arrive. The kitchen would smell of bacon and pancakes. And his Little Bird would be coaxed, challenged, and adored into taking just… one… more… bite.