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The thing, Shen Qingqiu was realising as he sat in this room, watching his husband (demon) and his…
Well, if one was being generous, though Shen Qingqiu was often not generous in such estimations, because the man was usually making things worse , you might call him his best friend - anyway.
His husband (demon) and his (maybe) best friend’s (“best friend”’s) husband (also demon) clearly, ah… enjoying themselves, the thing, he was realising, was that things so often happened far, far too quickly.
It had been an… idea? An idea from Shang Qinghua (all of his idiot thoughts didn’t deserve the title of ‘idea’, quite frankly, but it had to be called something ) that had been overheard by Luo Binghe without Shen Qingqiu’s noticing their eavesdropper, and then passed to Mobei-jun, and then it was a matter of several awkward discussions involving four people in two completely (...or, at least, formerly completely) discrete relationships about who wanted what and who was okay with what and really, who was okay with what, because if you weren’t okay with something, you needed to say so, and all of that felt as if it only took a few minutes instead of a few weeks of back and forth discussion, as if this were one of the sex scenes in Proud Immortal Demon Way and Airplane-bro was skipping all the important bits to get to the papapa!
Either way, now they were here, where here meant “with Luo Binghe and Mobei-jun, and both of them were stripped down to their inner robes, and they were wrestling but there was too much teeth,” and Shen Qingqiu's fairly certain that all Shang Qinghua had done was manage to sign one of their death certificates (Mobei-jun’s, of course, Shen Qingqiu thought with some pride - there was no way the protagonist of the world would lose to Mobei-jun!), and yet they seemed to be enjoying themselves. It was meant to be sexual - or, at least, that was the agreement the four of them had made, but…
Mobei-jun’s inner robes were scored over his hip, revealing flashes of too-pale skin and occasionally glimpses of a cock not as big as Binghe’s but altogether too large anyway - Binghe’s were torn over his chest, one nipple occasionally peeking through when he’d pull back. Binghe’s pink irises surrounded red pupils - as did Mobei-jun’s blue ones. Their lips were pulled back in something a mix of savage snarl and grin, sharp nails sharp teeth flashing in the light; blood dripped down their skin, staining the once pure white robes in crimson in abstract patterns, wounds healing as soon as they were inflicted.
It should have been terrifying.
And yet, when Binghe lifted one hand, the nails still dipped in Mobei-jun’s blood, and carefully wrapped his slightly too-long tongue about the nail to lick it clean, when the pair of them launched at each other and connected into a kiss with a click of teeth audible from where Shang Qinghua and Shen Qingqiu sat, all he could think was that it was… rather hot?
Binghe bit Mobei-jun’s lips, drawing a snarl, the blood quickly smearing between them, dyeing their lips the same color as their robes, mixing when Mobei-jun returned the favor; the excess slid down their chins, as if the juice of a particularly ripe fruit - heedless, Binghe swiped his tongue over Mobei-jun’s chin, savoring the taste as he did so, eyes fluttering closed.
Like this, it almost simply looked as if it were lipstick, but the scent of iron in the air spoke to its true nature. It should have been disgusting, yet Shen Qingqiu had begun to palm his clothed dick at some point, all the same, despite the frustration that brought - he could feel the solid presence of the cockring that would keep him from cumming at any point - and glancing over at Shang Qinghua proved that he wasn’t alone, though the other was leaning forward as if to see better, to better note each and every detail of the way their husbands bit and clawed each other.
Black nails are stained red with blood from scratches as Binghe pulls back; he forces a finger into Mobei-jun’s mouth, though growls when it’s bitten down upon, not nearly so much as to break a bone - he yanks his hand away from those bloodstained lips to cradle his jaw, instead; he holds that face in his hand, squeezes, pressing their lips together again.
At some point, Luo Binghe and Mobei-jun have come together, closer and closer; their cocks touch, Mobei-jun’s having come free of that slice in his robe from Binghe’s nails. Mobei-jun’s nails dig into the shoulder and hip of the other; punctures are clear in the material and blood slowly wells around them, staining the cloth further in circles that slowly grow and blend together. It really is art, these inner robes - but suddenly Binghe’s hips thrust forward, enjoying the slide of their frottage, the brief friction, a growl coming from his throat that is less human than anything he thinks he’s ever heard from him.
Shen Qingqiu is too used to his husband as the one who obeys, who follows him and agrees to whatever is said because he genuinely does not mind as long as it is him who orders it - but like this, here, it is obvious that no matter what, Binghe does not intend to submit to the other demon. The ferocity (though both demons knew the other’s limits, both demons used what could be considered kiddy gloves when compared to their full strength, both demons kept a careful control of the damage inflicted to shallow scratches that would heal within moments of being made) made that comparison all the more powerful, what Binghe trusted him with. Even like this, he could see the subtle hints between Luo Binghe and Mobei-jun, the way between bites and scratches they sought eye-contact, nodded so very slightly to confirm that no boundaries had been crossed - to an outside observer, it would certainly look like mindless savagery, but to Shen Qingqiu, he could see the artistry, the give and take, the dance of it.
See, when Binghe’s hand snaps out to hold Mobei-jun’s throat, the way the other demon freezes - the way Binghe freezes, as well, the way to others it might be a stalemate, might be sizing each other up - and it is, but not for a fight. Binghe’s hand doesn’t move, exerts no pressure, until Mobei-jun relaxes for a moment, until the struggle begins in the same carefully controlled way it did before. Fingers press on those veins in his neck as Mobei-jun’s hand twists, finds Binghe’s chest - these fingers turned so that nails don’t bite into sensitive flesh, he pinches that nipple peeking from the rends in the robes, twists, pulls.
Binghe’s fingers tense, tighten for a moment, watching the way Mobei-jun’s face reddens from the restricted blood flow, before he makes them relax a bit. Mobei-jun smirks as he tugs harder on the nipple, heedless of the press of their bodies, the heavy weights of their cocks pressed together, the growing wet spot of precum from both of them staining it, smirks wider when Binghe makes a noise, as if it were his victory - but, too quick, Binghe shifts his weight in order to pull his knee up, press it into the other’s erection, grind up with a force that for a human would be uncomfortable - but for Mobei-jun seems to be just right; his mouth moves in a quiet phrase that Shen Qingqiu can’t quite hear - but whatever it is, it goads Binghe on.
The turn of the fight is more sexual than aggression, now, both striving to pull moans from the other’s mouth, both more or less ignoring the way that their husbands tend to their own needs, as if nothing more than voyeurs. Shang Qinghua, in particular, shameless as he is, has stripped nude and used the lube to ease two fingers into himself, neglecting the cock that is so limited by the ring around its base. Red and swollen, it looks uncomfortable (not that Shen Qingqiu is looking! He has no interest in that! But his own is bigger.), though he suspects he looks no different. Still possessing some shame, he only palms himself over the robes, hips rocking into his hand.
Binghe keeps grinding his weight down on the cock under his leg; he lays them down, moving to be atop him, shifting to straddle his waist and push his weight down, pinning him in place. He finally releases Mobei-jun’s throat, licks the spot where his fingers had dug in, bites to draw blood under his teeth, hard enough to bruise even once the teeth-wounds heal. The hand that had been choking Mobei-jun moves instead to grip one horn firmly, hips rolling together to take his own pleasure.
“Suck,” Binghe orders flatly - Mobei-jun seems amenable, so Binghe moves his weight forward, one leg on either side of Mobei-jun’s shoulders; he doesn’t waste time taking his inner robes off - he simply shreds them, freeing that far, far too large cock (Shen Qingqiu looks at Shang Qinghua, thinking Do you see what you’ve done to me?! ) to stand proudly, exposed to the air.
“Suck,” is more clearly an order, and a tongue flicks out against the head, too teasing, goading a reaction. The fist tightens on the horn, holds him steady, willing to trust Mobei-jun to not bite (willing to be trusted in return, that he wouldn’t hold in so long he couldn’t breathe-) enough to fuck into his mouth, pressing his hips down until he feels a cold nose against his skin, feels the throat spasm around his length, resisting him - yet, when Binghe looks, Mobei-jun doesn’t try to fight back more than that, breathing through his nose when he’s able to.
When he pulls out, Mobei-jun displays the length of his tongue; it slides out of his mouth and is clearly at least ever so slightly prehensile, for it wraps around even Binghe’s overly large cock, even sliding over its length - somehow both handjob and blowjob at once. It is… distressing, how curious Shen Qingqiu is, how it would feel, the warmth and wet of it - Binghe’s tongue isn’t so long, but… ah… perhaps. Instead, for now, he simply watches the - the tonguejob , as it works over the length for a long while, before the tongue retracts, making sure to swipe over the precum beading at the tip as if it were all he had ever wanted.
“My lord,” Shen Qingqiu hears Mobei-jun this time, hears how his voice is already hoarser than it was from Binghe’s rough treatment and a cock in his throat, yet there’s no request for him to stop - he breathes the address, then allows his mouth to be slack. It seems to work again on Binghe, who changes his mind about the position.
He slides back a bit, grabbing a robe to shove under Mobei-jun’s head to give him a bit more leverage - but still, he resists moving for himself, blue eyes permissive despite the fire in them, laying there and allowing Binghe to use the horn still in his grip to move Mobei-jun’s head. The thrusts are slow, rolling his hips when a nose is pressed to his pelvis, trying to make him take more; the sensation of the contrasting heat of his own body and Mobei-jun’s far, far cooler mouth nearly addictive.
Shen Qingqiu is, from his vantage point, able to see the way Mobei-jun’s cock bobs when Binghe chokes him - are all demons Ms under it all?! Everything Shang Qinghua said, it sounded as if Mobei-jun was a sadist, and yet..?! Was he really this stupid? There was, after all, absolutely no way that Mobei-jun wasn’t enjoying what was being done to him, his jaw made to stretch around cock, having to steal breaths only when Binghe allowed him to, with how placidly he allowed it, how clearly he had permitted it.
Shen Qingqiu is, also, fairly certain that Shang Qinghua isn’t breathing. He’s moved onto using three fingers, instead, legs sprawled wide to allow him better access, as much access as he can possibly have like this, slumped in the chair - frankly, if possible, he looks more into it than either demon. He certainly looks more depraved, something rather impressive given the blood that stains their robes, their skin, given the fact that Binghe has torn away most of the bottom of his own in his rush to make Mobei-jun pleasure him, but - he’ll admit - that might have something to do with the fact that Shang Qinghua is well within arm’s distance with this shameless display!
He takes his focus away from that, though he is hardly unaffected, weight shifting against a familiar presence that he’d made sure accompanied him to this… arrangement, back to the way the muscles of Luo Binghe’s ass flex and tense as he forces his cock into the contrasting temperature of Mobei-jun’s mouth and throat; he watches as he leans back instead, one hand still tight around the branching horn that arches back from his temple, the other reaching back, sharp nails careful in how gently they barely brush down the over sensitive skin, danger inherent in the brush. But even that little contact, lacking even the warmth of Binghe’s skin, lacking anything but those four sharp points trailing teasingly down his cock, are enough to have Mobei-jun’s hips pressing up, demandingly, remaining thrust into the air as his cum covers his stomach and Binghe’s hand alike. It’s only a few moment more until Binghe pulls Mobei-jun’s head until he takes the entire length and holds them there while his thighs tremble, gives him no option but to swallow.
Which had been the whole idea behind letting the two have their ways with each other, letting them tire out their overly impressive stamina until they wouldn’t exhaust their human husbands; each orgasm, each movement, therefore, was one more step towards Binghe freeing him from this damn cock ring and letting him cum… but it wasn’t yet, judging by the way Binghe leans further back to coat Mobei-jun’s length with cum, the way he used the salve meant as lube to press fingers into himself rough enough that it was clear to Shen Qingqiu that he had done it before - wait? What?
Why was he fingering himself? Surely he didn’t -?
But Binghe’s only intent seemed to be making sure his earlier preparation - whatever it was - was sufficient. Despite both coming, neither of them seemed to be flagging at all; he grips the base of Mobei-jun’s cock to hold it steady and lowers himself onto it in one fluid motion. He closes his eyes, tightly, mouth hanging open as he leans his head back.
Did Binghe mean it that much when he had said he wanted Shen Qingqiu to do him? He’d agreed eventually, when he was persistent, but he hadn’t realized the desire was so… sincere. There was no denying this, though, the way Binghe’s breaths were just gasps, the way he braced himself and rolled his hips - he liked this, wanted this, craved this.
“My lord,” comes from Mobei-jun again - Shen Qingqiu isn’t sure if the term of address is sarcastic or genuine in the least; he doesn’t know this other demon well enough to read him - but Binghe doesn’t revert to aggression or even seem irritated; he even doesn’t react as Mobei-jun shifts to allow himself to sit up, instead, hips twitching up into the welcoming heat that was all but addictive. At this new angle, he can latch his mouth onto his skin, his jaw and neck - he doesn’t try to break skin; his bites aren’t meant to inflict damage but to mark, to leave signs of his presence, genuinely seeming as if it were a form of worship. Even across the room, hand around his cock (because he had to give in, despite the building pressure because he couldn’t cum), Shen Qingqiu can see where the bruises are already reddening, marks on the flawless planes of his neck and shoulders.
Binghe’s nails dig into Mobei-jun’s shoulders, not stopping him - encouraging him, in a way, Shen Qingqiu can tell. Impatiently, he rolls his hips, fucking himself with how his thighs bunch so powerfully to lift himself and let himself fall, demanding the friction, his hips shifting angle as he seeks his own prostate, but the rhythm stutters when Mobei-jun’s too cold mouth moves to give attention to Binghe’s nipple - he traces his tongue over the scar that remains on his chest as he passes over it, the sensation rather like the trail of slowly melting ice slipping over skin as he moves downward.
He presses the flat of his tongue against it, feeling how Binghe’s whole body jerks just slightly, the way the colder temperature makes the nipple harden, nearby skin marked by gooseflesh as the cold breath fans over his skin. By the time he teases it with sharp teeth, returning the slight sense of fear and danger of points near sensitive skin, Binghe has recovered himself and moves to regain his pace.
Both of them know when Binghe has found the ideal angle; both of them suddenly moan quietly, likely because how hard Binghe had tightened around Mobei-jun, and Binghe stills for a moment before forcing himself to recover his pace, angling himself to repeatedly brush his own prostate.
As Mobei-jun moves instead to suckle on the nipple he’s lavishing with attention, Binghe’s thighs clench around Mobei-jun’s hips, breathless and noiseless for the moment, still as a statue other than the ever so slight way that a few of his muscles are tensed so tight they tremble. For a moment, Shen Qingqiu is certain that one or both of them have cum (is, finally, really praying they have so that he can be freed and receive his husband’s attention, is filled with this inexplicable fire in his heart that Binghe is getting all of this pleasure without him, so close but out of reach - he wants to be free. He wants to touch and be touched!) but there is no evidence of it; Binghe begins to rock his hips again and Mobei-jun rolls his hips upwards, voice low and dangerous and cold as ice when he speaks - so cold it almost feels as if it burns .
“Take your pleasure, my lord,” he says, and he can feel the way Shang Qinghua jerks, as if cumming despite the fact that he can’t.
“Br- Shen Qingqiu,” he hisses, soft and quiet. “We need to - we need…”
At least he’s finally pulled his fingers out of himself, Shen Qingqiu notices when he looks over, but he looks as thoroughly debauched as if Mobei-jun had fucked him instead of him fucking himself on his fingers.
“Need what?!” Shen Qingqiu wants to watch, not talk about whatever this is - but there is no answer. At least… not in words. Shang Qinghua simply launches forward, captures his lips in a kiss as messy as it is clumsy, as Binghe had been before Shen Qingqiu had taught him anything. It is lacking in skill and subtlety, their teeth clacking, Shang Qinghua sucking on the tongue that tried to make this kiss more skillful - he nips at it, too, though not nearly so hard as Binghe did. Their kiss is long and sloppy, Shen Qingqiu well and breathless, able to feel the saliva that threatens to slip from the corners of their mouths. He makes a noise, a half surprised moan, as Shang Qinghua jostles him, presses their hips together, already seeking friction.
He wants to make some comment, but it’s hard with the easy glide of their cocks making him painfully aware of the fact that he can’t cum, that this isn’t Binghe anyway, that he wants Binghe’s presence, that he really doesn’t hate this, Shang Qinghua’s proximity - he closes his eyes and pulls back enough to hiss lowly, before moving back, trying to keep better control of the kiss, give it some level of thought rather than the mindlessness that Shang Qinghua had thrown himself at him with. His hands move to Shang Qinghua’s hips, trying to hold him steady because each movement sends electricity up his spine in waves that make it dreadfully hard to think about anything except how to get it again, how to feel it again, the tension building tighter and tighter in the pit of his stomach.
When he pulls back again, lips feeling bruised from how hard Shang Qinghua had pressed in, how hard he had nipped at his lips, he glances over the other’s shoulder. Binghe faces away from them, still, thighs still working as he rides Mobei-jun (whose still hips had finally begun to move, too, rocking up into Binghe when he lifts his weight), but Mobei-jun’s eyes are intent upon the two of them, curiosity and something darker sparking in the depths of the red pupils.
Ignored again, Shang Qinghua moves instead to mouth at his neck, nipping and sucking again, bringing blood to the surface; the beginning of a hickey - he’s tempted to push him away, smack him upside the head, but the intensity of Mobei-jun’s eyes freeze him as solidly as his physical presence can.
Shang Qinghua looks up, knowingly. Voice low from where he’s nipping the junction his neck and shoulder, he murmurs, “Is my king watching?”
… Was this some kind of suicide mission? Was he trying to make him jealous? To get them both killed?! He nods, anyway, finally breaking eye contact. Perhaps the instinctive fear is obvious (not that, he knows, Binghe would let Mobei-jun lay a hand on him), because Shang Qinghua elaborates between hickies downwards, still rutting their hips together, “Don’t you want - ah - them over here?”
… Well, he does.
“My lord,” he hears from Mobei-jun, before his voice dips so low that he can’t hear the words, even with his usually sensitive hearing, but their effect is clear enough - Binghe falls completely still, a soft growl, as he drives himself harder.
Shen Qingqiu thinks that he very well might regret this, which intensifies when Binghe looks over his shoulder at him, at the robes pushed off his shoulders, chest bare, at the red marks blooming on his skin.
His focus is stolen back by Mobei-jun’s mouth on his nipple again, cold even despite the intensity of his attention. There is an eagerness to his movements, now, and Shen Qingqiu can tell (between the moments where he glances down at Shang Qinghua, mimicking his ‘king’ in how he nips and sucks and laves a nipple, insistent and impossible to ignore, his chest arching up to meet him, to encourage more -) that he is clenching down, steady pace becoming more and more erratic and harsher with each moment.
Shen Qingqiu rocks his hips, shame crumbling in the face of Shang Qinghua’s refusal to leave him be - the tiniest noises fall from his lips, more shameful mewl than anything, but he can see how quickly Binghe’s composure and pace immediately crumble. Mobei-jun’s hands which had, until then, rested on his thighs or his lower back move to grip Binghe’s hips and hold him in place, while he fucks into him; Binghe is pliant, permissive, still; his voice can be heard in quiet little gasps and the tiniest moans.
Surely, he must be oversensitive, judging by the trembling in his thighs and back, but he simply allows Mobei-jun to fuck him until he cums as well. And then - oh, then - how quickly they abandon each other, Binghe scrambling off to stand on legs that seem weak from exertion or pleasure or both, Mobei-jun standing up immediately after, and their targets are clear - the far colder presence of Mobei-jun moves close first, arms wrapping around Shang Qinghua and immediately pulling him off of Shen Qingqiu and into his arms, as if he weighed nothing. He was about to say a silent prayer for him when another pair of arms, far too familiar, lifts him up as well, presses him to a familiar chest radiating a familiar heat.
Which would have been - disconcerting, but fine, save for the fact that! One arm was behind his knees! The other arm as around his chest! Yes! For some reason! Binghe! Was! Princess! Carrying! Him!
If that weren’t embarrassing enough, that arm behind his knees was resting on his ass! And Binghe had such a calculating look! Shameless! Shameless, realizing he was shameless! Shameless squared! He really wasn’t going to make it!
Especially because! With each step! That hand on his ass! Jostles him! And! He! Couldn’t! Help! But! Moan!
He buries his face in Binghe’s shoulder, latching his mouth onto a patch of skin very near the pulse in his neck - he bites harder than he needs to, sucks more roughly than ordinary, and is rewarded when his husband hisses and shivers - only to startle when Binghe places him on the bed. It seems, perhaps unfortunately, as if Mobei-jun and Luo Binghe had some form of agreement, for they’ve both laid their lovers on the very edge of the bed and set to stripping them, though Mobei-jun does have a slight advantage in having arrived first and in how undressed Shang Qinghua had already been, which is why he can see clearly, as Binghe works to strip him, that Mobei-jun had knelt between Shang Qinghua’s gladly opened legs and was -
He looks at Binghe, as if begging him to confirm that was not to be, but Binghe looks back really far, far, far too innocently, as he pulls the rest of his robes free. No! No!! In what world was this going to be allowed to happen! He thinks to tell Binghe no, but - … but Shang Qinghua is squirming and making these breathy noises that go right to his cock (he is never, ever, going to say this!) and he… well, he wants to know! He isn’t really opposed, it’s just!
It’s just, as Binghe kneels between his legs and carefully rests both over his shoulders, as he leans in and there is a flicker of a too-hot tongue against his hole - it’s just that Binghe was refusing to take out the..! The “jade pillar” he had left! Inside! To prepare!
He had anticipated Binghe being too energetic and enthusiastic to put the appropriate effort into fingering him and hadn’t wanted to be in agony (or deal with the accompanying tears!) in front if Shang Qinghua and Mobei-jun, but he hadn’t anticipated Binghe would simply enjoy the sight! How was he going to face anyone now! How could he ever look Binghe in the eyes again! How was he going to-
“Husband, you were this excited for me?” comes Binghe’s voice, smooth as silk and sinfully low, making shivers rock his spine, not helped by the way Binghe grips the base of the - dildo, okay! - and slides it out only enough to be able to press the tip of his tongue to where he’s stretched around it. Shen Qingqiu’s moan comes out half broken as his hips rock, worse when Binghe presses it back in and shallowly fucks him with it. “Did you do this to yourself? Thinking about this?”
The answer was yes, okay! Of course he had, how could he not have! Binghe doesn’t stop the slight, teasing movements, occasionally licking with the smallest little presses of his tongue, entirely too delicate for what he was doing! He can feel Binghe’s intense gaze upon him, waiting, and he struggles to swallow some of his pride so that he can nod. It’s obvious that is what he had been waiting on, because the free hand immediately moves to stretch the ring still around his cock (and why were there such advanced sex toys! Why had you put so much fucking effort into - into the fucking, huh!? Were these your kinks all along?! Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky was into edging all along, huh! Is that how you got that height on it?!) and slide it free.
It’s really almost shameful how the second Binghe angles the dildo to brush his prostate, Shen Qingqiu cums. It’s only almost shameful because it is, in fact, possibly the most intense orgasm he has ever had, to the point where it doesn’t occur to him that the noises that sound almost like sobbing are his , or that he should be ashamed of anything.
When he comes back to fully, he’s got one hand currently claimed by Shang Qinghua, who is holding it tight - no, wait - he’s the one holding his hand tight, as if he could keep himself in one piece with it. At least Shang Qinghua lets him hold onto it, though that may be because (when he glances over), Mobei-jun is carefully pulling the almost-elastic ring free, without even hesitating to stop fucking into Shang Qinghua very obviously with his tongue.
… Was that what he sounded like?! The blood that was no longer trapped in his cock rushes to his face as he listens to Shang Qinghua’s moans as he cums, sounding totally wrecked - he was this shameless! He covers his face with one hand, mostly his mouth and nose, but tries, as best he can, to lay it over his eyes, too. Binghe’s stands, though immediately leans over, causing Shen Qingqiu to panic - he knows Binghe had done it for him, but he really didn’t want to kiss him right now! There was something about that that was far too far even for him in this situation!
… But, instead, Binghe leans down to lap at the cum splattered over his stomach and all the way to his pecs, cleaning him really too diligently and intently. After a moment, he instead shifts to lave his tongue against one stiff nipple, angling his head to carefully scrape one of his sharp tiger teeth against it - sparks of fear and arousal flash in his stomach, despite how much he trusts his husband, back arching to demand more… and yet, every nerve in his body is alight, screaming too much, too much!, he wants more. It doesn’t help that Binghe's still toying with the dildo inside of him, masterful in how he fucks him with it.
He keeps his mouth on Shen Qingqiu’s nipple, alternating sucking with gentle breaths to soothe the irritation, seemingly ignoring the way Shen Qingqiu is slowly devolving to sobs. Shang Qinghua is no better - his thighs are clearly wrapped around Mobei-jun’s head, keeping him tight against him; the noises (the ones he can hear over his own horrible ones!) coming from where Mobei-jun is clearly tongue-fucking him are… obscene; he can remember that long tongue, imagines it inside Shang Qinghua, able to move so precisely while fucking him open. He doesn’t want Mobei-jun - only wants his husband - but he - well, he wants that tongue inside of him, wants it spearing him open, wants, wants, wants. Shang Qinghua’s stomach is painted white with his cum, his noises little better than breathy whimpers.
Binghe finally kneels, again, finally, finally, pulling that damn toy free, much as he then hates it - after so long filled, it’s horrible how empty he feels. How much he wants to beg Binghe for more, anything to ease it - but before he can, he can feel the hot wetness of Binghe’s tongue, intently lapping at where Shen Qingqiu’s hole flutters, seeking something - anything - and he promptly stops thinking.
His hand tightens around Shang Qinghua’s; his legs wrap around Binghe’s shoulders, refusing to let his head stray far, keeping him pinned to where he can feel Binghe’s nose nestled into his skin, hot breath fanning over his skin.
Who was he, acting like this, this shamelessly, this wantonly. But it was - so good, even as his body screamed for the sensation to end, he kept Binghe pinned against him, seeking more and more, heedless of the sobbing breaths and the tears that blinded him; he wasn’t really thinking at all.
Too soon, Binghe carefully and intently pries the thighs locked around his head free, until he can pull back. As he stands up and moves forward, he trails the very tip of his tongue over the still soft cock. Binghe’s lips are shiny with saliva as he continues moving up, almost too in time with Mobei-jun. Shen Qingqiu expects, almost, to be fucked like this, legs dangling off the bed, Binghe standing, heedless of the angle and the discomfort of it for all of them, but he is instead lifted and spun so that he is on his knees.
It takes him a second to realise that he is… facing Shang Qinghua, whose eyes are glazed and unfocused, shiny from tears, body trembling slightly all over, mouth hanging open and lips more swollen now from where he must’ve bitten them.
Really, did he look like this, too? That was really too much! Binghe had never said anything about how thoroughly - thoroughly wrecked he looked! He wanted to bury his face in his hands, but Binghe too quickly grabs his wrists to force him to arch his back; Mobei-jun is doing the same for Shang Qinghua, forcing their chests out, their spines arched.
“My king, my king,” Shang Qinghua murmurs, voice hoarse, thoughts going nowhere as he tries to move back into Mobei-jun, demanding more - and focusing on Shang Qinghua’s shamelessness lets him ignore his own, the way he tries to press back into Binghe’s warmth, into the huge cock (he doesn’t fear the press of it, welcomes it, waits for it -) until Binghe thrusts into him, careful and slow in a way he usually isn’t, which makes Shen Qingqiu want to cry. Why is he being so careful now? Today, the first time that Binghe could thrust as roughly and quickly as he wants without tearing something and he treats him as if he is made of glass?
Before too long, though, the familiar sensation of being filled makes his mouth drop open, attention stolen from everything else except the burn and pressure he is well accustomed to, the way his body is caught between too much and not enough, the tightness in his chest as if Binghe were that large, the tears that squeeze from his eyes and clump his lashes - he doesn’t even notice that Mobei-jun’s far rougher thrusts have already pushed Shang Qinghua forward, ‘til their chests are touching, Mobei-jun’s thrusts forcing their chests to rub together; Shen Qingqiu can’t help but make the worst sort of moan at the press of a sore nipple into the hard planes of Shang Qinghua’s chest, a noise that amplifies and shifts to moans that are half sob of relief when Binghe gives up on restraint and slams into him, rough and fast.
His head lolls forward, resting on Shang Qinghua’s shoulder, breaths ragged and heaving, tears leaking steadily onto the other’s already sweat damp skin. It’s hard to think about - anything.
He hears Mobei-jun’s voice, though the sounds mean nothing as wrecked as he is, as pleasurable as the slide of Binghe’s cock is this time, as precisely as Binghe rubs his prostate with each thrust; he doesn’t have any idea what’s said, or that it has anything to do with the way Binghe pulls on his arms to drag him upright, or that it has to do with the way Shang Qinghua cries out and presses forward to smash their lips together. Saliva, tears, and sweat make the kiss so much sloppier than the first. Each particularly violent thrust has them pressed bruisingly hard into each other, teeth clicking together, bright spots of pain drawing Shen Qingqiu out of the pleasure to at least be - aware, aware of how sloppy this press of lips is, the way his tongue is overly forceful in how it presses into Shang Qinghua’s mouth, how Shang Qinghua sucks on it, aware of how their nipples slide past each other with each jostle, the stimulation on his sore chest just this side of too much.
“Ah, ah, Binghe-” he doesn’t know what he is asking, what he would even want to ask, demand, request. There is nothing except pleasure that he had truly not been aware could exist, mind-numbing.
Binghe, at least, responds with slowing down, thrusts deep and still too mind-shatteringly precise. He releases Shen Qingqiu’s arms, finally, knowing that the pair of them will remain together, having seen them now that they were forced to confront each other and further wreck themselves. Still, the change in pace and the way his arms are now his to move aren’t enough for him to regather his senses, to feel any kind of embarrassment about the kiss that he and Shang Qinghua fall back into, too often broken by one or both of them pulling back just far enough to moan, breaths fanning over the other’s face; Shen Qingqiu isn’t sure whose hand finds the other’s cock first, but the other isn’t far behind in reciprocating. Their breaths are ragged pants, stolen between kisses, and it will embarrass him shortly how shameless he is, how far gone, the demanding way his hand works over Shang Qinghua’s cock and his lips chase the other’s when he pulls back to breathe.
He is seeking every point of contact imaginable, every press of a warm, living body against his, the hand not around the other’s length gripping his forearm, holding him tight and close; he needs the sensations to keep him here and present - well, he isn’t present, he knows, but - he gives up on trying to think when he presses his wet lips to Shang Qinghua’s neck, sucking a similar mark to the one that Shang Qinghua had left on him - his teeth sink into the skin, there, not hard enough to break it; he isn’t Luo Binghe or Mobei-jun, wanting to taste blood, but he wants a reminder, something physical - Mobei-jun, however, growls when Shen Qingqiu’s teeth sink into the tender skin of Shang Qinghua’s neck; he thrusts harder into him, those sharp nails digging into his hips, blood beading from under his nails.
Shen Qingqiu isn’t any more fortunate; his hips are the same, not punctured but bruises are certain in his future, perfectly shaped to Binghe’s fingertips, a reminder of what was done here. But all of them are tired; Shang Qinghua’s hand is insistent, grip firm as he jerks him off, and Shen Qingqiu sobs when he cums, vision blacking out - though, of course, that may well be because he closed his eyes at some point, riding out the orgasm. By the time he comes to again - unaware of how much time it’s been, though Binghe is still fucking him mercilessly hard and deep - he notes that Shang Qinghua has cum as well.
The nerves in his body are practically on fire, his eyes hot and vision blurry with tears, as he shakes rather like a leaf in Binghe’s hold. At some point, he and Shang Qinghua have started to make out again, even less skilled than before, all sensation and no tact or talent, mostly moaning into each other’s mouths rather than actually kissing. He just tries to withstand the onslaught of sensation as Binghe fucks him, uses him to take pleasure, until he thrusts into the hilt and cums into him.
All at once, the hands holding him up let go of him, and Shen Qingqiu almost falls to the bed, exhausted, barely conscious, save that Binghe lowers him gently and carefully. Mobei-jun lasts a bit longer, but it isn’t too much that Shang Qinghua is laid down next to him as well, in equally as bad a state. Shen Qingqiu can feel the coldness from Mobei-jun’s body, a contrast to Shang Qinghua and Binghe’s weight. Fully sated, able to trust that these two will keep him safe, there's no hesitation as he falls into exhausted oblivion. The last thing he feels before sleep is a hand clasped around his and Binghe's arms so tight around him.