Shen Qingqiu had known the moment he'd taken the pollen that Binghe was going to fuck him. Luo Bingge doesn't stop with a kiss; Luo Bingge takes what he wants, and certainly Luo Bingge doesn't open his legs for another man.1 And sitting in the lounge, alone, he'd wanted it—wanted the closeness and the feel of his skin, wanted to see and to touch the Heavenly Pillar, wanted to give Bingge as much pleasure as he could in the time allotted to him. But—he hadn't, actually, expected to enjoy the act itself.
Receiving, he'd always thought, was an inherently uncomfortable experience, even for the gayest of men. Men who wanted men had to make do, of course, but that wasn't what that hole was for, and he'd always thought about bottoming as an act of loving sacrifice, a trial by fire he'd go through willingly so that Bingge would hold him, after, and kiss him some more.
He has never been more wrong in his life.
Maybe it's the parasites, but he feels incandescent with pleasure, every slow thrust lighting him up from the inside. He feels surrounded, engulfed, Binghe so big and hot above him, inside him, his breath in his ear. He forgets that they're on the floor in a semi-public lounge. There is nothing in the world but the two of them, and the place they're joined, and the place Bingge touches him, deep inside, that makes Shen Qingqiu's pleasure ramp up, inexorable, every time he bottoms out. "Binghe. Binghe—"
1 You should ask about this one, actually, Shen Qingqiu. Just to confirm.
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Receiving, he'd always thought, was an inherently uncomfortable experience, even for the gayest of men. Men who wanted men had to make do, of course, but that wasn't what that hole was for, and he'd always thought about bottoming as an act of loving sacrifice, a trial by fire he'd go through willingly so that Bingge would hold him, after, and kiss him some more.
He has never been more wrong in his life.
Maybe it's the parasites, but he feels incandescent with pleasure, every slow thrust lighting him up from the inside. He feels surrounded, engulfed, Binghe so big and hot above him, inside him, his breath in his ear. He forgets that they're on the floor in a semi-public lounge. There is nothing in the world but the two of them, and the place they're joined, and the place Bingge touches him, deep inside, that makes Shen Qingqiu's pleasure ramp up, inexorable, every time he bottoms out. "Binghe. Binghe—"
1 You should ask about this one, actually, Shen Qingqiu. Just to confirm.