peaklordshen | open post: in a slightly hazy lounge

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open post: in a slightly hazy lounge

After a few false starts, Shen Qingqiu has found a proper place to test out Crowley's BL pollen vape pen.

He posts up in one of the lounges, close enough to the bar that anyone leaving there might find him. He's still in his braid and loose robes - no one else had noticeably started dressing gayer¹ when they took the stuff, intentional or not, so neither will he. He also brings snacks,² and the next book in the Blood at Dusk series, Moonless Midnight, in case it takes a while to kick in, or a while for anyone to come along to prove it has, anyway. If no one finds him here he will go looking, but roaming the Mansion's halls newly homosexual feels like a much more risky prospect than just staying put and seeing what happens.

He arrays himself on a couch, feet tucked up under him (although this might not be immediately apparent due to the robes), Crowley's pen tucked behind one ear so he can make more notes now that he has a glimmer of a chance that Binghe will forgive him,³ and takes a drag on the vape.

He coughs. It's smoke, not pollen—the blooms must be dried and then burned, like with tobacco—and has an odd, kind of greenish flavor. Not unpleasant, but not pleasant, either. He expected it to taste of, like. Cherry blossom, or something. Pink rather than green. Shit, maybe he is a little homophobic.

He takes another drag, and lets the smoke out of his mouth slowly this time, watching it curl up to the ceiling.

By the time anyone finds him, he will be staring unblinking at the opposite wall, book open on his lap to the third page of the first chapter.

[Threads with Sagramore and Luo Binghe are NSFW.]

¹ Please explain what you mean by this, Shen Qingqiu. I'll wait.
² Crowley did tell him to.
³ After he confirms that the pollen works. And goes to find Binghe. And kisses him. And— well. Maybe. After. He can raise the book club idea again?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bingge's touch is as sure and as powerful as the ocean, and Shen Qingqiu is being rocked by it, inside and out. He concentrates on exploring Luo Binghe's mouth because it's the only part he has any control over, right now, the rest of his body squirming and shivering without his permission. He brings up a hand to grip Binghe's jaw to keep him close, the tip of his tongue finding the tip of a fang, and how—fucking surreal; Shen Yuan in his first life had had so many opinions about Binghe's fangs, in fanart, had left long comments for artists he commissioned about not making him look too vampiric, but still keeping the suggestion of danger; the importance of including the fangs in art where he was smiling and happy because it made him extra cute.

And now that smiling, fanged, adorable, hot-as-fuck mouth is pressing to his, again and again; now Luo Binghe is working him open on searing, talented fingers. He groans, deep in his throat, and pulls Binghe closer, deeper, a silent demand for more.

"You tempt me shamelessly," Luo Binghe huffs. He doesn't want to go too fast and to hurt Shen Qingqiu, but with how responsive Shen Qingqiu is, how animated, it is getting difficult to ignore his own arousal—even rutting against Shen Qingqiu's thigh while he touches him is not enough.

Luo Binghe pulls back to look at him, captivated by the evidence of Shen Qingqiu's desire written across his face—his sweetly pink cheeks and bitten mouth, his eyes half-lidded and hazy with pleasure. He thumbs the corner of Shen Qingqiu's mouth. He has forgotten to guard his heart against this man, or perhaps he's never had that ability at all. There is nothing held back now, no way for him to extract himself from the grip Shen Qingqiu has on him.

He has wanted this so badly. He has stopped trying to escape the mansion, stopped thinking of his wives, stopped caring about Claudius or Janet or whoever else might try to take over. He has cut everything else out and left himself naked and unprotected, just for the slim chance of having this. He has wagered everything on the hope that this will be better.

"If any part of you still does not want me," he says, "tell me now." It's a request for permission to enter Shen Qingqiu, but in saying it, Luo Binghe means far more than that.

The faintest of all possible alarm bells rings in the hazy back room of Shen Qingqiu's mind. He wonders if it counts, that he's going to go back to being straight after this—does that mean there is, still, a straight part of him, preserved somewhere in a glass cube, repulsed by the way he's aching, the way he needs to be kissed so he remembers to breathe? He can't imagine it. The pollen is so effective it has erased even the reasons he could imagine a straight man disliking what Luo Binghe is doing to him right now. It's impossible to imagine anyone reacting with anything but complete and total pleasure to the press of Luo Binghe's mouth, the taste of his blood, the feeling of the heavenly pillar thrusting against his thigh.

It doesn't matter what he'll think tomorrow. Right now, in this moment, there is no part of him that does not want Binghe. But he is not so shameless as to ask Binghe to put it inside, even like this. He licks his lips, instead, and looks up at him, letting his silence provide answer and trying to put all his longing into his gaze so he won't have to beg.

Luckily for Shen Qingqiu, Luo Binghe knows exactly what it means when a blushing virgin gives him that look. Relief and affection rush through him so powerfully that he simply has to kiss Shen Qingqiu one more time before answering his silent plea.

He reaches for the pot of salve, so aflame with passion that he lingers over applying it, groaning at his own touch. He increases the activity of his blood parasites, forcing the necessary muscles to relax, then takes himself in hand and slowly pushes in. He's done his best to ready Shen Qingqiu, but it's still a tight fit; he scrambles for the salve and smears it more generously over the shaft, murmuring nonsense the whole time about how beautiful Shen Qingqiu is, how much Luo Binghe likes it and likes him.

Shen Qingqiu is being split in half. Bingge's fingers were nothing like this. His body is relaxed around it, thanks to the parasites,¹ but he's so impossibly full, the slow inexorable slide as Bingge takes him—more, and more, and more. He clings to Binghe's shoulders, gasping, barely processing the sweet nothings Binghe is muttering in a low, masculine growl. He catches enough for his heart to go tender, though, despite the position they're in,² and he frees up one hand to smooth his hair back from his forehead. "Binghe," he breathes, "Binghe," and brushes his mouth over Binghe's demon mark.

¹ For once, he's right!
² Despite??

Shamefully, Luo Binghe's eyes grow hot. His Shen Qingqiu—no, the Shen Qingqiu from his world, this is his Shen Qingqiu—believed Luo Binghe's huadian to be the mark of a monster too dangerous to be allowed to live. Since then, he has come to see it as a sign of power, a tool of intimidation, but no one has ever kissed it. He pushes himself as deeply as he can and then pauses there for Shen Qingqiu to adjust, burying his face in Shen Qingqiu's hair and breathing in the scent of his warm, clean scalp.

The poison has not yet dissipated. It adds an extra pulse of urgency, beyond that of Luo Binghe's aching arousal. What's needed to cure it varies—sometimes it's nearly instant, but sometimes Luo Binghe must finish inside, almost as if the poison adapts to what is least convenient for him.¹ "It's hard to hold back," he says, his voice shaking, expecting that Shen Qingqiu will answer as most of his wives do, with Then don't.

¹Or what's most dramatic for the narrative.

Edited 2023-11-02 01:00 (UTC)

Shen Qingqiu bites his lips, hard. He knows his line. He's read it a hundred times uttered by a hundred wives on a hundred pages. He'd had a spreadsheet, a bingo card, of eye-rollingly predictable stock phrases, and yet here he is, eyes rolling for other reasons entirely, helpless and eager, whole body thrilling to Binghe's every touch, and nothing else will get him to move.

He pets Binghe's head, breathing just for a moment against his ear, and sends a silent apology to women. "Then don't."

He braces himself over Shen Qingqiu and pulls out halfway, then drives back in hard. "Those are dangerous words to say to me," he breathes—it's the usual response, but in truth, he feels on the verge of frenzy.

Shen Qingqiu shivers, his mouth opening silently as Binghe thrusts. He knows it's not just bluster--the power Luo Binghe wields over him right now is nearly absolute, and that's not even counting the parasites. But there's something almost sweet about him saying it, anyway, like he needs Shen Qingqiu to know, to feel his power, to recognize him as a dangerous man. He runs his hands through Binghe's hair, soothing. "My emperor," he breathes. "You will not hurt me. Let go."

A little voice in his brain protests what are you saying, don't you feel how big he is to which he responds, yes, idiot, I can hardly feel anything else!!! It'll be fine. Most of the women Binghe fucks aren't even close to Shen Qingqiu's level of cultivation, and they survive the experience.

"Beloved wife—sweet treasure—" Luo Binghe kisses his hair, overcome with tenderness. How can he refuse? He loses himself in pleasuring Shen Qingqiu.

It's different than with his wives—different even than with Sagramore. He enjoyed himself with Sagramore, but this is so good he can hardly stand it—the hot clutch of Shen Qingqiu's body, the heaving of his chest, the artless movement of his hips. Despite his bold words, Luo Binghe goes slowly—but deliberately. He savors every thrust, making Shen Qingqiu feel every moment of it, and going as deep as he can. His muscles are weak with pleasure, and his mind is dizzy with love. He does not raise his head up to kiss Shen Qingqiu; it is the most he can do to breathe wetly against his ear.

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.

Luo Binghe groans at the sound of his name. "Yes—" he gasps. "Call my name—let everyone know who is taking you—who is making you writhe with bliss—" He nips at Shen Qingqiu's earlobe.

Luo Binghe has legendary stamina, and he is proud of it—sometimes he can make his wives finish multiple times, and never finish himself at all.¹ But Shen Qingqiu spent so long teasing him with his words and actions. Luo Binghe has been painfully aroused since he saw Shen Qingqiu on his knees. Maybe since he saw him lost in thought² on the sofa, looking soft and wifeable. He is impatient for release—but he will make sure Shen Qingqiu attains climax first.

He props himself up and takes hold of both Shen Qingqiu's hands, interlacing their fingers and pinning Shen Qingqiu's hands to the floor. He pushes against that leverage to drive into Shen Qingqiu hard. This leaves him without a hand free to stroke Shen Qingqiu to release, but he makes up for that with his blood parasites, increasing the thrum of pleasure and concentrating it where it's needed. On every stroke, he grinds his sculpted abs against Shen Qingqiu's cock, spurred onward by the wetness it smears there. "Show me—let me see how it makes you feel to be the favorite of the emperor—"

¹Hmmm.
²Stoned.

Shen Qingqiu is about to object, just a little—writhing with bliss seems a little strong, thank you!!—and then Binghe changes position, pinning him to the floor, and he absolutely does writhe, humiliatingly, and then can't stop writhing, into the sudden friction on his dick, back onto the pillar, hips moving with no intent at all, just more, more, until his brain whites out, head slamming back into the (thankfully cushioned, with both carpet and Bingge's robes) floor.

Luo Binghe follows him with an involuntary sob, made witless with lust—though he doesn't neglect to circulate his qi with Shen Qingqiu's, to make sure the poison is cured. Then he releases his hold on Shen Qingqiu's blood, releases his muscles, releases everything and lets himself fall onto Shen Qingqiu, trembling and gasping for air, entirely humbled and spent.

When Shen Qingqiu comes back to himself it is to a sudden and startling clarity of mind. The haze of BL pollen, the relaxation of it, is gone, used up by the level of homosexual activity they'd just engaged in—or maybe just cured, like everything else, by Binghe's magical healing cock. The magical healing cock which is still inside him—soft, but very, very present in his now-heterosexual body.

He doesn't know how to feel. His body aches with exertion, his mind awhirl with everything that had happened to him in the last few hours—not even just with Binghe, although that's certainly most present—but with everyone. Everything he'd done, everything he'd said, the joy, the shamelessness of it—his cheeks heat, and there's a heaviness at the pit of his stomach. His vision blurs, and he presses his lips together, tightly, so as not to cry; wraps his arms around Binghe and holds him, just as tightly, so he doesn't pull back and notice.

Luo Binghe is perfectly happy to be held. Despite everything, he feels as though he's never done that before in his life. He realizes now—he thought that he had already made the decision, to turn away from his previous life and embrace something new, but he had only been toying with the idea. But being with Shen Qingqiu has laid it brutally bare: he has never, before, loved someone he took to bed. Never before has he wanted to please them so much, or received so much pleasure simply from their attention. If this is what's real, then all of Luo Binghe's life has been a sham.

It's exactly what he feared—when he kissed Claudius and then flinched away, when he raged at the library book that seemed to know him better than himself, when he got drunk with Janet and said all that nonsense. This is what he was terrified to discover, and now he cannot ignore it. But it is worth it for Shen Qingqiu. He has never had this before, but he has it now, and the sheer wonder and joy of it makes everything he previously valued cheap by comparison. One hundred-some wives for Shen Qingqiu is an easy trade. He buries his face in Shen Qingqiu's neck, hoping that any wetness there will be masked by sweat, and that any shaking of his shoulders will be taken as recovery from exertion.

Shen Qingqiu takes a quick, wet breath, running a hand through Binghe's hair and down the long line of his spine. He should—extricate himself, thank Binghe for the good time, and slip off-page into obscurity like so many women before him. But—it wouldn't be in-character, for their little roleplay. And if he ever gets to be gay again, his gay self would have words with him for not getting the full wife experience, here.

Which—speaking of. They're still on the floor. Naked. In public. Another wave of shame rolls over him, this one much more targeted and immediate. "Binghe," he hisses. "Binghe—the door—"

Luo Binghe's heart thrills just to hear Shen Qingqiu speaking to him in that cute, fussy tone. He pulls back to smile wickedly down at him, bursting with delight. "Oh? Is the door open?" He feigns surprise. "And who was it, just a moment ago, who called my first name so intimately? You were so eager for the world to know that you have made a pet of the King of Demons himself?"

Shen Qingqiu might never stop blushing. His cheeks might just be permanently stained red; he might just exist in a permanent state of acute embarrassment for the rest of his life.

"Don't mock me," he admonishes; but there's no hint of cruelty in Binghe's expression, just open pleasure and wicked delight. He's back to thinking about Binghe in straight man ways, but his gay self would want to kiss him, again, for the look on his face. His gaze hooks on his mouth, just for a moment, before he lowers his eyelashes.

Edited 2023-11-02 18:07 (UTC)

Luo Binghe brushes the hair from Shen Qingqiu's face and gazes down at him, loose and giddy with affection. "I see, I see. So my wife wants me all to himself—he doesn't want anyone else to see this body he has claimed as his own. He wants his own beauty to be for my eyes only. An acceptable request." He flicks a hand, and shuts the door with a burst of qi. Shen Qingqiu could have done that himself if he were thinking clearly; he must have been so addled by Luo Binghe that he forgot. Luo Binghe dives back toward him, kissing his jaw and neck, not sensuously but just quick little pecks to express his fondness.

Shen Qingqiu bears the onslaught admirably,¹ kissing back when Binghe's pecks touch his lips,² still squirming and embarrassed. Having the door closed is better, but it hadn't really been what he meant, which is why he hadn't done it himself. If Binghe is going to keep referring to him as his wife, shouldn't they be somewhere a little more. Conjugal? He puts a hand up, finally, to stop Binghe's mouth. "I know, rightfully, this whole Mansion is yours to do with what you will," he says, delicately, "but—does my emperor not have quarters of his own?"

It's maybe a little pathetic of him, to angle for more time like this when he's not even gay anymore. Especially when Binghe hasn't just picked him up and taken him to bed already. If he really wanted Shen Qingqiu as his wife, surely he would have laughed off the door request and paraded them both naked through the halls, regardless of who saw. He should—let Binghe finish with whatever sweet conclusion he'd had planned for the encounter, not humiliate himself further. He hunches his shoulders, a little. "I mean. We don't have to—"

¹ Enjoys it very very much.
² when he cranes his head around to catch Binghe's mouth.

"Impatient." Luo Binghe kisses the corner of his mouth. "Of course I'll take you to my quarters. After serving me, my wife deserves to recover in luxury." And as much as he's wanted to join with Shen Qingqiu in body, he has been looking forward to this equally. It's his favorite part of sex—to lie around without a care, languid and indolent, in the arms of someone pleased with him.

Shen Qingqiu, with his thin face, probably would not like Luo Binghe to parade him through the hallways naked and debauched, no matter how much Luo Binghe might wish it. But neither does Luo Binghe want to stop touching him long enough for both of them to properly dress. Luo Binghe pushes himself off of Shen Qingqiu with another reassuring kiss to his forehead and finds his silk trousers, quickly pulling them on. Then he gently nudges Shen Qingqiu into sitting up, taking the rest of his clothing from behind Shen Qingqiu's head and casually disappearing it into his storage ring. That is all the clothing he intends to wear. Then he reaches for Shen Qingqiu's inner robe and drapes it around his shoulders, raising an eyebrow at him—daring him to be satisfied with only this to protect his decency. If Shen Qingqiu puts up another endearing display of being scandalized, all the better.

Shen Qingqiu wraps the inner robe tighter around himself, flushing even brighter red. It's not like anyone will mistake what they've been doing, with Binghe flashing his entire chest like this, displaying miles of muscle and skin, shining with recent exertion, so there's no real point in getting further dressed. He twists around, though, and finds the sleeve of his outer robe, dipping into it to grab the fan Binghe had returned to him. At the very least he can hide behind it so he doesn't have to make eye contact with anyone.

He stands up, and then sways at the unexpected weakness in his legs, steadying himself against Binghe's aforementioned very bare chest with one hand. "Ah," he says, more breath than word.

Edited 2023-11-02 20:06 (UTC)

Luo Binghe cannot stop smiling at him. He already wants to ravish him again—but there will be plenty of time for that. For now, he scoops Shen Qingqiu up into his arms, cradling him against his naked chest. "I understand," he says. "It is exhausting, to take me as hard and deep as I desire. Shizun did well." If he's a bit smug, a bit trying to fluster Shen Qingqiu on purpose, he thinks he's earned it. He has never been so happy to have satisfied a lover.

Shen Qingqiu yelps, a little, as Binghe picks him up, even though he'd known¹ it was going to happen. He wraps his arms around Binghe's neck, for stability, and buries his burning face in his chest. If only Binghe wouldn't smile at him like that, it would make getting his bearings back in his heterosexuality easier.

Somehow being back in contact with his skin reawakens the tears he'd managed to swallow down while Binghe was looking at him. He feels so foolish, and small, and grateful—for Binghe indulging him, giving in to his desires even if they were born of loneliness and selfishness rather than the purity of gay love. Binghe is so good, so pleased with him, despite how incredibly embarrassing he'd been when Binghe pushed inside him, despite how he'd barely done anything to make it good—hadn't even had a chance to wrap his hand around the Pillar, or try to take it in his mouth. He sniffs, pathetically, against Binghe's chest. No wonder wives lingered, forever, in his harem, long after he'd forgotten them; Shen Qingqiu would wait for years to feel like this again, held and cherished and satisfied throughout his whole body.

¹Hoped it would.

open post: in a slightly hazy lounge

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