Chapter 3: The Morning Feast
The smell hit Ling first. A thick, greasy, mouthwatering punch that dragged him up from the deep, heavy sleep he’d finally sunk into. Bacon. Crisp, salty, fatty. Underneath it, something sweeter, doughier – pancakes. Rich and buttery. It permeated the stale apartment air, cutting through the fading ghost of jasmine oil.
He groaned, the sound muffled by the pillow. Every movement sent a dull throb radiating from his core. The fullness. It hadn’t magically vanished overnight. It was still there, a heavy, insistent presence beneath the layers of Ashur’s hoodie and his own stretched charcoal sweater. He shifted gingerly, feeling the unfamiliar weight shift inside him, the ache in his stretched muscles. The memory of last night flooded back – the agonizing walk home, the oil, Ashur’s hands, his low voice murmuring perfect. Ling’s cheeks burned even in the dim morning light filtering through the grimy window beside the bed.
The sizzle intensified, punctuated by the clatter of a spatula. Ashur’s low hum drifted in from the kitchen alcove. Ling squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to burrow back under the covers. Too much. Still too full.
"Rise and shine, Little Bird!" Ashur’s voice cut through the haze, cheerful and dangerously close. Ling cracked an eye open. Ashur stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a faded, grease-spattered apron tied loosely over his bare torso. His golden hair was messier than usual, his golden eyes bright with an energy that felt obscene this early. The intricate black tattoos swirling over his tanned skin seemed to shift as his muscles moved. He held a plate. A huge plate.
Ling’s breath hitched. It wasn’t just pancakes. It was a tower of them – thick, golden-brown discs stacked precariously high. Runnels of dark amber syrup cascaded down the sides, pooling obscenely on the plate. Nestled against the stack was a heap of glistening, crispy bacon. A tiny, almost mocking bowl of sliced strawberries sat off to the side, looking absurdly virtuous. The smell intensified, cloying and rich, making Ling’s empty-but-not-empty stomach roil.
Ashur crossed the room, the smell intensifying with each step. He set the plate down on the cluttered nightstand, displacing an empty energy drink can that rolled onto the floor. He perched on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning. The bed dipped, forcing Ling’s body to roll slightly towards him, amplifying the pressure deep within his belly. Ling winced.
"Look at you," Ashur murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always made Ling’s skin prickle. His gaze wasn’t on Ling’s face; it was fixed lower, on the distinct, rounded mound beneath the sweater where the missing button left a gap. His hand, warm and smelling of bacon grease, settled there, not pressing hard, just resting possessively. The contact sent a jolt through Ling, a confusing mix of residual tenderness from the massage and fresh dread. "Still so round from last night. Beautiful." He rubbed slow, gentle circles, his thumb catching the edge of the gap in the sweater, brushing bare, sensitive skin. "Hungry?"
Ling choked. "Ashur... no. No. I can’t. I’m still... it still hurts." He tried to push Ashur’s hand away, but his own strength felt pathetic, his arms leaden.
"Shhh," Ashur soothed, easily capturing Ling’s fluttering hand and bringing it to his lips for a quick kiss on the knuckles before releasing it. His other hand remained on Ling’s belly, a warm, insistent weight. "Just a little something to settle you. Help things... move along." His golden eyes gleamed. "C’mon. Just one bite. For me? Look how perfect it looks." He picked up the plate again, holding it near Ling’s face. The smell of hot syrup and fried batter was overwhelming. Ling’s mouth watered traitorously, even as his stomach clenched in protest.
"One bite? Seriously?" Ling’s voice cracked. He eyed the mountain of food with horror. "That’s... that’s ‘one bite’?"
Ashur grinned, that sinful smirk that usually made Ling weak. "Start small. One bite of pancake. See?" He speared the topmost pancake with a fork, tearing off a manageable piece. It dripped syrup. He held it out, hovering near Ling’s lips. Ling looked at the glistening morsel, then into Ashur’s expectant, possessive eyes. The memory of last night’s surrender, the helplessness mixed with a strange, shameful contentment, washed over him. The heavy ache in his belly pulsed.
"You said... you said it would help?" Ling whispered, his resolve crumbling under the dual assault of scent and Ashur’s unwavering gaze.
"Promise," Ashur murmured, his thumb resuming its slow circle on Ling’s belly. "One bite. Easy."
Ling hesitated a second longer. The syrup gleamed. Ashur’s hand warmed the tight skin beneath his sweater. With a soft sigh that was mostly resignation, Ling opened his mouth. Ashur’s eyes flared with triumph. He slid the fork in.
The sweetness exploded on Ling’s tongue. Rich, buttery, impossibly decadent. It was soft, yielding, soaked through with the thick maple syrup. He chewed slowly, the simple act feeling monumental against the resistance inside him. He swallowed. It felt like adding a single pebble to an already overflowing sack. Ashur watched the bob of his throat, his expression rapt.
"Good?" he breathed.
It was... it was delicious. Horrifyingly so. Ling nodded mutely, the sweetness clinging to his mouth.
"Good Little Bird," Ashur praised, his voice thick. He didn’t move the plate away. He speared another piece, slightly larger this time, already soaked in the syrupy pool. "See? Helping already. Just one more." He held it out again.
Panic flickered. "You said one bite!"
"That was one bite," Ashur countered smoothly, his thumb pressing just a fraction harder into Ling’s belly. "This is the next one. C’mon. For me. Just taste the bacon this time? You love bacon." He snagged a crispy slice, holding it alongside the syrupy pancake piece. The salty, smoky aroma mingled with the sweetness, creating a heady, irresistible perfume.
Ling stared at the fork. His belly ached fiercely. He felt stretched, fragile. But Ashur’s hand was warm. His eyes were demanding. And the bacon smelled... incredible. The memory of the unagi, the otoro, the feeling of Ashur’s worshipful hands surfaced. A treacherous thread of that strange, needy contentment wove through the discomfort. His care. His attention.
His resistance was paper-thin. With a soft whimper that was part protest, part surrender, Ling opened his mouth again. Ashur fed him the combined bite – the sweet, yielding pancake and the salty, crisp bacon. Flavors collided, overwhelming. Ling chewed, eyes closing momentarily against the sensory overload. It was too much, yet he swallowed it down, feeling the new weight settle onto the old.
Ashur’s low chuckle vibrated through the mattress. "Perfect." He didn’t stop. He speared another pancake piece, dripping. "Just... one... more." The fork nudged Ling’s lips. Ling, caught in the current of Ashur’s will, the lingering taste, the possessive hand anchoring him, opened his mouth. Again. The syrup was sticky on his chin. Ashur swiped it away with his thumb, then licked it off, his golden eyes never leaving Ling’s face.
One bite bled into another. A piece of strawberry, cool and tart against the richness, offered as a "palate cleanser." Then another strip of bacon. Another syrup-laden corner of pancake. Ashur murmured constant praise – "So good," "Taking it so well," "Look at you," – his free hand a constant, warm presence on Ling’s increasingly sensitive middle. The plate, while still obscenely full, slowly lost its summit. Ling’s protests grew weaker, quieter, lost in a haze of enforced fullness, aching sweetness, and the terrifying magnetic pull of Ashur’s satisfaction.
He was still achingly full from last night. Now, a fresh layer of dense, sweet heaviness pressed down on top of it, a physical echo of Ashur’s relentless devotion. The single, flickering bulb in the kitchen alcove seemed to pulse, casting long, distorted shadows over the cluttered counter, the smear of batter, the open container of maple syrup. Ashur watched Ling swallow another bite, the curve beneath his hand distinct even through the sweater, fuller now, warmer. His Little Bird, beautifully rounded. He reached for the whipped cream.
Ashur’s fingers closed around the cool, pressurized can of whipped cream. He gave it a confident shake, the metallic rattle sharp in the thick, syrup-scented air. Ling watched, his green eyes wide with disbelief above cheeks flushed pink from exertion and sugar. The heavy plate sat precariously on his lap, the remaining pancakes a lopsided monument to his enforced consumption.
"You… you can’t be serious," Ling breathed, his voice strained. The borrowed hoodie felt like a furnace now, trapping heat radiating from his painfully distended middle. The ache was a low, insistent throb, amplified by every shallow breath. "Ashur, I feel like I’m gonna burst."
"Shhh, Little Bird," Ashur murmured, his golden eyes fixed on Ling’s belly, not his face. He popped the cap off the can with practiced ease. "Just the finishing touch. Makes it perfect." Heavier now, wasn’t he? Even slumped against the headboard, the curve beneath the grey sweater was pronounced, straining the fabric where it wasn’t bunched up. Ashur traced the taut line of Ling’s waistband through the wool with his free hand, feeling the solid resistance beneath. "Look how incredible you are. So full. So round for me. This is just a little… flourish."
He didn’t ask. He aimed the nozzle at the remaining pancake stack. A thick, snowy coil erupted, spiraling high onto the syrup-slicked surface. The clean, sweet scent of the cream mixed with the richer aromas of bacon and maple. Ashur added another swirl, then another, building a precarious white peak. He lowered the can, his gaze sliding back to Ling’s face, taking in the mingled dread and exhaustion. A sinful smirk touched his lips. "One last bite? The best one?"
Ling stared at the cream-capped monstrosity. His stomach cramped violently. Sweat beaded on his pale forehead. Too much. Can’t. The thought screamed inside his skull. But Ashur’s hand was a warm, heavy brand on his belly, possessive and grounding. His golden eyes held Ling captive, promising approval, demanding surrender. That treacherous flicker of need – to be cared for, utterly, even like this – warred with the physical agony. He remembered the jasmine oil, Ashur’s low praise, the absolute focus. The ache deepened, somehow entwined with a desperate craving for that focus again.
"No more," Ling whispered, the words barely audible. He pressed his own hand weakly over Ashur’s on his belly, as if trying to shield the swollen curve. "Please."
"Just this," Ashur coaxed, his voice velvet-smooth. He scooped up a generous forkful – a mess of fluffy pancake, dripping syrup, and a towering swirl of whipped cream. He held it out, close enough that Ling could smell the cold sweetness of the cream against the warmth of the pancake. "For me, Ling. Take it for me. You’ve been so good." His thumb rubbed a slow, insistent circle beneath Ling’s navel through the sweater. "My perfect, stuffed Little Bird."
Tears pricked at the corners of Ling’s eyes. It was impossible. His body screamed rejection. But Ashur’s gaze, the possessive touch, the memory of last night’s helpless yielding… they formed a current too strong. His resistance dissolved like sugar in hot tea. With a shuddering breath that was more sob than sigh, Ling leaned forward, just enough. He opened his mouth, an act of pure submission.
Ashur’s eyes flared with predatory satisfaction. He slid the fork in slowly, ensuring Ling’s mouth was utterly filled. The cold cream hit first, a shock against his tongue, followed instantly by the sticky-sweet heat of the syrup-soaked pancake. Ling moaned, a choked, desperate sound muffled by the mouthful. He forced his jaw to work, the textures overwhelming, the sheer volume unbearable. Swallowing was an act of sheer will, a painful constriction in his already overburdened throat. He felt it land, a final, heavy anchor dropped onto the sea of food inside him.
He slumped back, utterly spent, eyes squeezed shut. Tremors ran through his slight frame. The plate was empty. He’d done it. He’d taken everything Ashur offered. The victory tasted like bile and whipped cream. Ashur carefully moved the plate aside, placing it on the crowded nightstand with a soft clink. His gaze devoured Ling – the sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, the tear tracks glistening on pale cheeks, the incredibly defined swell of his belly even beneath the concealing layers. Possession surged through Ashur, hot and demanding.
"Perfect," Ashur breathed, the word thick with reverence. He leaned in close, his scent of bacon grease and sweat enveloping Ling. He didn’t hesitate. His lips found Ling’s temple first, a soft, lingering press. Then his jawline, tasting salt and lingering syrup. Ling flinched slightly but didn't pull away, too exhausted, too adrift in the tidal wave of sensations. Ashur’s lips trailed down, finally capturing Ling’s mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, possessive, tasting the remnants of sugar and cream and Ling’s surrender.
Ling whimpered into the kiss, his body responding instinctively despite the crushing fullness. Ashur’s hand, still resting on Ling’s belly, slid lower. It slipped beneath the bunched hem of the charcoal sweater, fingers finding the warm, stretched skin of Ling’s lower abdomen. Ling gasped against Ashur’s mouth, arching slightly. Ashur deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping insistently as his other hand moved with deliberate purpose. It dipped beneath the loose waistband of Ling’s unbuttoned jeans, past the elastic of his briefs.
His fingers found Ling’s cock. It was already half-hard, trapped and straining against the denim and briefs, sensitive and flushed. Ashur wrapped his fingers around it, a low hum of approval vibrating against Ling’s lips. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure sensation cutting through the fog of discomfort and exhaustion. Ling cried out, a sharp, ragged sound swallowed by Ashur’s mouth.
"Shhh," Ashur murmured against his lips, breaking the kiss only to pepper small, biting kisses along Ling’s jawline. "So good for me, Little Bird." His hand began to move, a slow, firm stroke along the length of Ling’s cock beneath the layers. The friction was intense, almost too much against the hypersensitive skin. Ashur’s thumb rubbed deliberately over the slick head, smearing the moisture beading there. "Look what you do to me. Look how you take everything." His other hand pressed possessively over the swollen curve of Ling’s belly beneath the sweater. "Full. So full. And still so hard for me."
Ling’s head fell back against the headboard, a choked sob escaping him. The conflicting sensations were overwhelming. The deep, heavy ache of his stuffed stomach, a constant, solid pressure. And now this, Ashur’s skilled hand working his cock with relentless focus, the pleasure sharp and insistent, cutting through the discomfort like a hot knife. He was pinned between agony and ecstasy, Ashur’s hands anchoring him to both. His hips jerked involuntarily into Ashur’s touch, seeking more friction even as his belly protested the movement with a fresh wave of pressure.
"Ashur… please," Ling gasped, unsure what he was begging for – stop, or don’t stop. Tears welled again, spilling over. "It’s… too much… both…"
"Just feel it, baby," Ashur murmured, his voice rough with arousal. He pressed his palm flat against Ling’s belly, feeling the taut expanse beneath, while his other hand tightened its grip, stroking faster now, twisting slightly on the upstroke. His lips found the shell of Ling’s ear. "Feel how full you are. Feel how good I make you feel. My Little Bird. All mine. Taking everything I give you." Ling’s breathing hitched, becoming ragged gasps. The coil inside him tightened relentlessly, the pleasure amplified by the forbidden intensity of Ashur’s words, the possessiveness of his touch on both his overfilled stomach and his aching cock. He felt stretched to breaking, body and will. A high, keening whine built in his throat as the conflicting pressures collided, the exquisite friction below warring with the impossible fullness above. Ashur watched his face, mesmerized by the tears, the flush, the utter surrender. "That's it," he breathed, his own arousal a heavy pulse. "Come on. Give it to me." The command was velvet-wrapped steel. Ling shattered. His body arched violently off the mattress, a strangled cry tearing from his lips as release ripped through him, hot and blinding. Ashur held him tight, hand still working him through the tremors, the other splayed possessively over the shuddering, rounded swell beneath the sweater, feeling the frantic flutter beneath the stretched skin. Ling collapsed back, utterly boneless, tears streaming silently down his temples, lost in the aftershocks, pinned beneath Ashur’s weight and the overwhelming, even fuller feeling deep inside. Ashur rested his forehead against Ling’s, breathing heavily, a fierce, satisfied smile curving his lips against the damp skin. His Little Bird. Perfectly full. Perfectly his. The distant hum of the fridge underscored the profound stillness that settled over them.
The hum of the fridge was the only sound, a low drone beneath Ling’s shallow, uneven breaths. He lay utterly still, pinned beneath Ashur’s warm weight and the crushing pressure in his belly. Sweat cooled on his temples, mingling with the drying tear tracks. Every tiny shift sent a fresh wave of discomfort rolling through his overstuffed core, a stark counterpoint to the fading tremors in his legs.
"Shhh," Ashur murmured, his lips brushing Ling’s damp forehead. His hand remained splayed possessively on the swollen curve beneath the grey sweater, feeling the frantic flutter beneath the stretched skin slowly subside. "Just breathe, Little Bird. Deep and slow." He shifted slightly, easing his weight off but keeping his body pressed close, radiating heat against Ling’s chilled skin. The scent of him – bacon grease, maple syrup, sweat, and that underlying trace of sandalwood and ink – was overwhelming, intimate. Ling squeezed his eyes shut, too exhausted to form words, too overwhelmed to protest the proximity. The ache was a constant, dull roar now, a heavy anchor in his gut. Ashur’s thumb traced lazy circles near his navel through the wool. "So perfect," he breathed, the words vibrating against Ling’s hair. "So full. All for me."
Ling whimpered, a tiny, broken sound. The profound stillness was suffocating. He felt fragile, hollowed out yet paradoxically bursting. The borrowed hoodie under him was bunched uncomfortably. He tried to curl inwards, a feeble attempt to ease the pressure, but Ashur’s arm tightened around his shoulders, preventing it.
"Easy," Ashur soothed. "Don’t fight it. Just let it settle." He gently pushed the tangled strands of Ling’s black hair away from his face, his touch unnervingly tender. "Look at you. So beautiful like this." His gaze dropped again, tracing the unmistakable outline beneath the stretched sweater where the missing button gaped. Ling flinched as Ashur’s fingertips dipped beneath the hem, finding the warm, bare skin of his lower belly. The touch was possessive, not probing, mapping the swollen territory. "Still so tight," Ashur murmured, almost to himself. "Like a drum. Can you feel it, Ling? How much you took?"
Ling managed a weak shake of his head. "Hurts," he whispered, the word scraping out. "Ashur… please… need to…" He trailed off, unsure what he needed. To move? To be left alone? To vomit? The thought made his stomach clench painfully. "Just… stop touching it."
Ashur chuckled softly, the sound rich and low in the quiet. "Touching helps, remember? Like the oil." He didn’t remove his hand. Instead, he began a slow, gentle kneading motion with his fingertips, avoiding the most tender spots near his ribs and waistband. It wasn’t the deep massage from last night; it was lighter, almost soothing, yet still inescapably intimate. "Helps things… settle." Ling tensed, expecting pain, but the pressure was faint, a counter-irritant against the deeper ache. A traitorous flicker of relief, miniscule but undeniable, unwound a fraction of the tension in his shoulders. He hated it. He sagged back against the pillows, utterly spent, letting Ashur’s hands do whatever they wanted. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the fridge’s hum and their breathing – Ashur’s calm and even, Ling’s still shallow and hitched. Ashur’s eyes roamed over Ling’s face, the exhaustion etched deep, the lingering flush on pale cheeks. His own satisfaction was a warm ember in his chest. His Little Bird, broken in, utterly pliant. Perfect. His gaze drifted past Ling to the cluttered nightstand and the greasy plate. A slow, thoughtful smile touched his lips.
"Thirsty?" Ashur asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the heavy quiet. Ling blinked, startled. Thirsty? His mouth felt cottony, sticky with syrup and cream. He gave a tiny, hesitant nod. "Good," Ashur said, shifting. He carefully disentangled himself, sitting up. The loss of his warmth was immediate, leaving Ling feeling exposed and strangely colder. Ashur stood, the mattress groaning in relief. He stretched, the muscles in his tattooed torso flexing, then padded towards the kitchen alcove, bare feet silent on the worn linoleum. Ling watched him go, a confusing mix of relief and dread warring in his chest. The pressure in his belly felt even more pronounced without Ashur’s distracting touch. He tried to take a deeper breath, but it hit a wall of resistance deep inside. He could still taste the sickly-sweet ghost of syrup and cream.
Ashur rummaged in a cupboard above the cluttered counter, displacing a box of stale cereal. He pulled out a tall glass, then opened the humming fridge. The light spilled out, harsh against the dimness of the main room. Ling saw the carton of heavy cream he’d bought this morning. Ashur grabbed it, then the expensive maple syrup, and finally, pulled out the milk. He set them on the counter beside the open tub of whipped cream and the mostly-empty pancake batter bowl. Ling’s eyes widened. "Ashur…?" His voice was faint, uncertain.
"Just fixing you something," Ashur called back, his tone casual, almost cheerful. He poured a generous glug of milk into the glass, then added a heavy splash of the thick cream. It swirled together, opaque and rich. Then, without hesitation, he tipped the maple syrup bottle, pouring a long, amber stream into the mixture. It sank, then slowly began to blend. He picked up the glass, swirling it gently. The concoction looked impossibly thick and sweet. He picked up the whipped cream can. Pssssht. A towering swirl of white landed precariously on top, melting slightly at the edges. He grabbed a spoon and walked back towards the bed, the glass looking obscene in his hand. "Here," he said, sitting back down on the edge of the mattress. He held the glass out. "Drink. Good for you. Calms the stomach."
Ling stared at the concoction. The smell hit him – sickly sweet cream, maple syrup, cold dairy. His stomach recoiled violently. "No," he whispered, shrinking back against the headboard. "Ashur, I can’t. Please." The very thought of putting anything else inside him was nauseating. "I’ll be sick."
"You won’t," Ashur stated, firm but not unkind. He nudged the glass closer. "Just small sips. It’ll coat everything. Help it all settle down." His golden eyes held Ling’s, unyielding. "Trust me." Ling looked from the glass to Ashur’s face. Trust him? After the sushi, the pancakes, the bacon, the whipped cream? After this ache? But the exhaustion was bone-deep, his will shattered. Ashur’s unwavering belief in his own plan was its own kind of force. He saw the expectation, the quiet command. The alternative – fighting, arguing – felt insurmountably heavy. He was so tired. His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers brushing the cold glass. Ashur guided it to his lips. The smell intensified. Ling closed his eyes, bracing himself. He took the tiniest sip. The cold, cloying sweetness coated his tongue, thick and heavy. It was like swallowing chilled syrup. He gagged, pulling back. "Easy," Ashur murmured, keeping the glass tilted. "Just little ones. Like medicine." Ling swallowed hard against the reflex. He took another minuscule sip, forcing it down. It landed like lead on top of everything else. Ashur watched him, his gaze dropping to Ling’s throat as he swallowed, then back to the pronounced swell beneath the sweater. "Good boy," he whispered. "Just a little more." He tilted the glass again. Ling, eyes squeezed shut, tears welling anew, obeyed. He surrendered.