Work Text:
Untrainable.
That was the first determination that Liu Qingge made watching a miserable excuse for a puppy shift from paw to paw in front of the wine-rich sofa. The dog had been told to keep still twice now, and still he moves and wiggles and shifts with an eagerness that doesn’t seem to comprehend the fact that he’s breaking his fucking commands.
Not that his owner seems to care.
The puppy kneels, nude but for a deep crimson harness framing strong, tan shoulders and crossing over a broad chest. A strap cuts over the puppy’s pectorals, creating a perfect hand-hold that someone should be using to discipline him. The dog sports a matching collar that wraps around his throat, and a pale-sage leash that is held firmly and pointlessly between his teeth. He looks the part, Liu Qingge can say that for certain. From the mound of loose, messy curls that bounce around his face in an almost boyish carelessness, sprouts two wide, proud brown-black ears. The fur at the base matches his hair with the sort of care and precision that speaks to custom work, lightening towards the tips to provide a softened dimension.
It matches the tail that swishes from behind him with each wriggle and sway of his hips.
Liu Qingge rolls his eyes as he sits beside the puppy’s owner on the long, unfurling sofa. It’s a comfortable, if slightly worn leather. Real, because if it weren’t it would be faded and cracked from the amount Liu Qingge is certain has been done upon it and cleaned up off it.
Beside him, Shen Qingqiu glances up from his book. How he reads in the dim, amber-tinted light of a fucking BDSM club is beyond him. It has been beyond him for months. “What brings you over to the sofa, Shidi?”
Liu Qingge huffs a breath from his nose. They’d agreed on terms as nicknames months ago, when Liu Qingge first startled at the sight of his friend and his friends fucking boytoy at the same club that he had chosen to occasionally frequent. When he felt like it.
Shidi came from Liu Qingge being an entire seven months younger than Shen Qingqiu and if Shen Qingqiu were the one to tell it he would say that his own Shixiong came from being a whole two inches taller than Liu Qingge.
It didn’t matter where they came from. Time set the score.
“Your dog isn’t behaving,” he says by way of introduction.
Shen Qingqiu hums and turns a page.
If it were anyone else, to broach another’s scene to critique the submissive partner would be a removed-from-the-site sort of offense.
But this is them. Liu Qingge critiques everything Luo Binghe does because Luo Binghe does everything wrong.
And he has permission from the couple.
That one goes a long way.
At their feet, Luo Binghe whines.
“He’s better today,” Shen Qingqiu muses, looking down over the top of his book. “That’s why he isn’t wearing the muzzle.”
Luo Binghe is giving him soft, warm puppy eyes and Shen Qingqiu dips his hand into the little cloth pouch he brings every time they play. Liu Qingge pretends he doesn’t know that the treats are the spicy-sweet rice crackers that he buys Qingqiu once a month at the market an hour outside the city. He pretends he doesn’t know he was the one who introduced them to Qingqiu. He pretends nothing is twisting in his gut as Luo Binghe’s front paws pat at the floor in anticipation of an un-earned reward. “There you are, drop the leash and take it,” Shen Qingqiu commands.
Leave it to Luo Binghe to only obey orders quickly when it involves a reward.
“He should get TNR’d.” Liu Qingge rolls his eyes as the wet, pink tongue laves out over Shen Qingqiu’s palm, collecting the coin-sized cracker and chasing the crumbs and dust from his fingertips. Luo Binghe takes two fingers into his mouth, only releasing them from his hollow-cheeked hold when Shen Qingqiu says: “Binghe!”
Even then, he waits.
Even then, he takes too long.
Shen Qingqiu looks down at his spit-slick fingers with a sigh. He’s wearing one of those beautiful, elaborate things he always wears to the pet play nights. There’s tight but flexible breeches—like the sort that a jockey would wear, despite not being near the ponies today—with one of those gauzy, loose blouses that collects in layers of spring-shoot green. He’s wearing a shirt under it tonight, white and stainless. Everything about Shen Qingqiu is pristine at these events, his hair is pinned up off his face in delicate twists and wraps—all held in place with a single hairpin—and his wrists and fingers are heavy with carefully arranged bracelets and rings. Liu Qingge feels underdressed next to him, in his casual dress-code-compliant black shirt and pants.
Underdressed beside him and overdressed beside Luo Binghe—who has since rolled on his back to expose his belly. His belly and the heavy, flushed cock that has never stopped making Liu Qingge’s stomach drop at the size. It slumps, hard and glistening, past his belly-button. Liu Qingge looks away.
Shen Qingqiu bends and pats his belly once.
“You’re encouraging bad behavior.”
“He’s hardly misbehaving, Shidi.”
Liu Qingge clicks his tongue. “He only obeys commands when you’re rewarding him.”
Shen Qingqiu leans back, sliding a foot out from under him. “He’s eager,” Shen Qingqiu says. “Are you staying for the end?”
There is a pulse of heat between his legs. Liu Qingge ignores it. He’s always been good at ignoring it. “Do you want me to?” It’s polite to ask permission, even if Shen Qingqiu’s question tastes like it.
Pale eyes watch him. “Stay there,” Shen Qingqiu says. “If you’d like, Shidi.”
Liu Qingge crosses a leg over a knee, ignoring the flex of his own thighs as he drinks in the other scenes around him. He ignores when Luo Binghe bolts up to his knees, he ignores when Luo Binghe shoulders him out of the way to clamber up over Shen Qingqiu.
He ignores when Shen Qingqiu barks ignored instructions to slow down and be careful and watch it!
There are ponies being shown off on risers and birds being tickled with feathers in nests of pillows and blankets. A few meters off, a kitten is getting their cunt and ass eaten out by two over-eager puppies that have made what looks to be a tremendous mess of all three of them. There’s a mouse being stalked.
Liu Qingge looks at all of them, a passing glimpse at each segmented space drawn into faux-privacy via the partitioning curtains. Anyone who wants real privacy is allowed the rooms that shut.
Anyone who wants fake privacy is allowed the open rooms.
Anyone like Binghe, who is first and foremost a whore for knowing people are watching Shen Qingqiu pay attention to him, gets the couches.
He watches the mouse be stalked by a large cat while Binghe and Shen Qingqiu devolve beside him, the eager sounds of a collar and tag clattering and clinking in time with Shen Qingqiu’s mixed order and praise.
“Such a filthy puppy humping his Shizun’s leg like this.”
Liu Qingges fingers tighten under the sleeves of his jacket. He’s wet. That’s not surprising.
It’s kind of hard to not be wet when there’s scenes all around him.
It’s kind of impossible to not be wet when there’s a scene happening on the same couch as him.
Luo Binghe’s tail brushes his knuckles on one particularly harsh thrust—the kind that leaves Shen Qingqiu scolding and gasping. Liu Qingge still doesn’t look.
“Is that all my puppy needs? To make himself messy off his Shizun’s leg?”
The cat catches the mouse.
The dogs eat the cat.
“Binghe! Stop biting! No biting, Binghe!! A—ah, have mercy on this Shen!”
There’s a pony that wins a big blue ribbon.
He tries not to pay attention to how soaked he is by the time that he hears the now-familiar gasping groan of Luo Binghe’s orgasm muffed by fabric and flesh between his teeth. It’s uncomfortable when he moves his legs, and even worse when he lets himself lean back. Liu Qingge tries to ignore it but he doesn’t think he could manage that one.
Beside him, Binghe keeps going—until Shen Qingqiu’s soft-puffed noises of pleasure wash out to meet his and the kitten is taken down from the table and the mouse is squeaking and hiccuping as the cat takes its time rending him apart and the pony reaps its reward of every single other pony.
And Liu Qingge sits, and he watches.
###
The worst part of petplay nights at the Cang Qiong Intimate Lounge is the fact that afterwards, at eleven-thirty in the morning, Shen Qingqiu always wants brunch.
It isn’t ever enough that Liu Qingge always sits, patiently, beside him on the sofa while his boy-toy puppy boyfriend humps his leg or his ass or the furniture. No, he has to witness that, then sit in a vinyl booth ringed in faux-wooden separators the next morning across from the very man who’s dick he can’t seem to stop seeing on nights like that.
They go to the same brunch place every time—after petplay nights and ropebunny nights and the monthly educational workshops that Shen Qingqiu loves to attend. It amounts to around every Saturday, if on the odd Saturday they aren’t at the club they end up traipsing around the morning farmers market—Luo Binghe carrying everything that Shen Qingqiu even glances at and Liu Qingge trying to pet every dog he can spot.
It’s one of those semi-nice places, upscale enough to avoid being a greasepit and casual enough that Liu Qingge feels comfortable running in the morning before a quick shower and a change into more relaxed athleisure than his actual athletics. The plants that weave between the lattices of the chipping booth dividers are fake, and the coffee is good.
Across from him, fully dressed this time, Luo Binghe decants a cup of water into Shen Qingqiu’s stout little cup.
“Shizun,” he sighs, despite the fact that they aren’t at the club. “You said last week that you were craving the caprese avocado toast?”
Shen Qingqiu looks over at Luo Binghe, as if Liu Qingge isn’t there waiting for his turn to pour himself some fucking water. “I was, but the one you made for me was so lovely. How could this compare?”
Liu Qingge rolls his eyes. The decanter is hardly down before he snatches it to pour himself a glass. “You like the berry and walnut salad with chicken. Just keep getting it.”
Berry and walnut salad with grilled chicken, the vinaigrette from the greek salad with it instead of the one it comes with, and a cup of green tea that he’ll complain about the whole time but not stop drinking.
Shen Qingqiu orders it every time. He orders it every time and then he steals a piece of toast from the side of Liu Qingge’s grain bowl and idly picks at whatever sweet offering that Luo Binghe adds onto his own breakfast for what Liu Qingge can only imagine has the sole purpose of being offered up as sacrifice to Shen Qingqiu.
Luo Bingghe huffs out his nose as he settles back in the booth. “Shizun, was I good last night?”
Liu Qingge chokes on his water.
In public? In public?
Across the booth, hardly perturbed, Shen Qingqiu hums. “You were better behaved than last time,” he acquiesces.
Liu Qingge considers it among his many, many victories. He orders for the three of them when the waitress comes around. She leaves them with the coffee and tea they didn’t order but were going to anyway.
“Was he?” Liu Qingge asks, slinking back into the booth.
Luo Binghe’s nose wrinkles as he all but bares his teeth in Liu Qingge’s direction. “Just because all you do is sit and watch other people play doesn’t make you a handler,” Luo Binghe bites. His eyes are doe-wide and soft when he looks at Shen Qingqiu. “You’re my handler, right Shizun?”
Shen Qingqiu pats Binghe’s head. “Of course I am. Liu Qingge has handled in the past as well.”
Binghe’s brows jump at the mention of—of it. Liu Qingge scowls down into his coffee. “I don’t do it anymore.”
“Then why do you come to the club?” Luo Binghe asks, with the pointed precision of a wrecking ball.
Shen Qingqiu hushes Binghe, but Liu Qingge answers anyway. “Because I fucking do. And just because I haven’t handled in a while doesn’t mean I don’t know what a misbehaving little mutt looks like.”
Something dark and warm sparks in Luo Binghe’s eyes and Liu Qingge knows what it looks like when he’s about to get into it with Binghe. Sometimes they can make it back to Qingge’s or Qingqiu’s place. Most of the time they make it back to the car.
“It isn’t misbehaving if my handler says I’ve been good.”
“He didn’t say you were good, he said you didn’t fucking claw the furniture this time.”
“Shizun—tell Shishu that I was being a good puppy,” Luo Binghe whines and—again—Liu Qingge’s molars grind together.
“We,” he starts. “Are in. Public.”
“He didn’t claw the furniture this time,” Shen Qingqiu says, again, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “Sh—Qingge, have you ever been a pet?”
Again, he wants to say, public.
His fingers slide, tremulous in his grip against the ceramic coffee cup. “No,” he bites. “But I already know I’d be a better one than him.”
###
No one has ever accused Liu Qingge of needing to watch his mouth.
No one has ever accused Liu Qingge of having a mouth big enough to warrant watching.
The thing about playing with someone—or even being in their scene—is there exists a boundary that Liu Qingge finds about as blurry as everyone else does between what is fine outside of the club and what isn’t fine outside of the club. Knowing that he’s seen his best friend get fucked up the ass by his boyfriend over a sofa while his boyfriend wears a knotted sheath—it makes it hard to determine, on occasion, if he should be confused as to why Shen Qingqiu sometimes fixes his hair.
Liu Qingge is pretty sure this is over that boundary.
He’s pretty sure, actually, that this is so far over that boundary that neither of them are looking down at the sand where the line they crossed even used to be.
Luo Binghe is back in nearly all of his gear. His ears are tucked up under his hair to hide the band, his collar is clipped into place, and his harness is stretched taut over the shape of his chest. The only difference between this afternoon and last night is that he’s wearing pants. And wearing pants means no tail.
Well.
That and the fact that Liu Qingge is kneeling, topless, beside him. He had rubbed awkwardly at the narrow, aged scars under his pectorals—a perpetually nervous motion he has the first time he dares to strip down in a place that isn’t the gym and had stared at the milky, cream-colored mid-pile carpet that fluffs up around the base of Shen Qingqiu’s long, boldly-eggshell chaise. The fabric is soft and velvety, Liu Qingge knows this because he’s laid in it. It sits near enough the matching sofa that—on the rare occasion he finds himself staying long enough at Qingqiu’s to relax he would find himself frequently chasing the soft edge of the fabric there.
But he isn’t laid out on the lounge this time, his head pillowed on his arms while some dumb arthouse flick Qingqiu had to rent drones on in the background.
This time he’s kneeling.
Shen Qingqiu had apologized, telling him that they didn’t have proper ears for him, but that he was a pretty puppy anyway. A fact that Liu Qingge had clicked his tongue over and absolutely under no circumstances flushed over. Not even a little bit.
He feels underdressed. He feels overdressed.
He feels—fucking… something.
Shen Qingqiu is lounged out on the chaise, one jean-clad leg tucked up under himself as he works the buttons of a loose blouse’s sleeves undone and then pushed up. “We can start simple, hm,” Shen Qingqiu says looking over the two of them. “Having two puppies is always a treat. But it means that we should make sure we go over the rules.”
“First,” Shen Qingqiu says, holding up a narrow finger. “I am not interested in training ill-behaved puppies. Good boys get rewards, bad boys don’t get played with.”
Beside him, Binghe wriggles and Qingge does his best to not think that this rule is a fucking farce.
“Two.” A second finger. “You only get to play when I say you can. Puppies who make messes have to be crated for the rest of the evening.”
Liu Qingge’s eyes dart towards the large crate set in the corner of the living room. When people were over, they always covered it with a tablecloth and made out like it was a lovely little table. Now? Now the rich red tapestry is rolled back and pinned over the wooden top that holds the candles and photographs. The inside is lined with blankets and pillows and Liu Qingge… honestly…
He doesn’t think he would mind being in there. Something about it tugs in the back of his mind, a soft and welcoming idea.
Shen Qingqiu follows his gaze.
“Three,” he says. “No hurting each other. That one’s new but if I have to clean blood off my carpet because you two couldn’t play nice—then that’s that.”
Liu Qingge nods at the same time that Luo Binghe yips in evident agreement.
“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu asks, his voice dipping softer and lower. “I’m going to run Binghe through his tricks. It’s important that puppies are comfortable with their crates, in case their owner ever needs some private time.”
The latter half of the sentiment is clearly intended towards Luo Binghe, but Liu Qingge takes the former as he shifts himself forward on hands and knees and crawls over to the crate. It smells like Binghe. The distant scent of his cologne mixed with the shampoo he uses. There’s the fresh scent of laundry detergent clinging to the pillow-covers and the soft, plush blankets that he sinks down into. The crate itself is large enough that Liu Qingge can fully crawl inside of it and turn around—with the base padded with an over-sized dog-bed covered in blankets and pillows. It keeps him from feeling the bars at the bottom as he turns and drops down onto his belly to watch—chin cushioned on his paws.
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t stand up to do this. He stays leaned back as he raises one hand up with a sharp: “Up.”
Binghe bounds up on his heels, straightening with his paws curled in front of his chest. His tongue even lolls, wet and red, from his mouth as he swishes his hips with excitement.
“Down.” With a snap, Shen Qingiqu points to the floor. Binghe drops, his stomach and cheek pressed to the carpet. He lasts almost a full second before his toes start to pull higher, his swaying hips pushing from the ground as Luo Binghe bends to present himself and— “Binghe! Did I tell you to yet? Down!”
With a whine and a terrible little huff of grief, Binghe drops again. Liu Qingge lets a puff of air escape his nose—something akin to a sigh of irritation more than anything else.
“Roll over.” And Binghe rolls, his back stretching as he does to rock his hips up against the nothing above them. Despite the fact that he is still, at least partially, clothed, Binghe’s arousal is evident. It pushes at the line of the sweatpants he’d changed into—a perfect shape of the deathly size of it imprinted against the dark, slate-grey fabric. Liu Qingge could count the seconds until there was a damp patch as he wriggles his back against the floor. One hand paws at the air above them.
Liu Qingge sniffs his direction. He could be better. He could do these.
He could roll over.
Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes. “Now sit.”
He could sit. He could sit faster than Luo Binghe does as he rolls back around and sits himself on his haunches.
“Paw.”
He could give his paw. He could give his Shixiong his paw and shake and he wouldn’t even lean his mouth down and cover the back of Shen Qingqiu’s knuckles in slick, starving kisses when he does. He wouldn’t be vibrating or wriggling when — “Beg.” —when he pulls himself up and whimpers and whines and presses his paws together to beg and plead.
He would be good.
He would be so good.
Shen Qingqiu pauses once the tricks are completed, his gaze leaving Luo Binghe as he feeds him his requisite treat. It’s almost funny, how pathetic Luo Binghe’s whines sound when he’s eating.
“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu says. “Come here and show me how well you do your tricks.”
When Liu Qingge pulls himself up—his forelegs going first so he can stretch the length of his back—it’s fucking absurd how wet he is. He can feel the mess slicking his thighs as he walks out to settle in beside Binghe’s still, staring form.
Shen Qingqiu sits up properly this time, extending a hand down to either of them. Luo Binghe’s cheek shoots into the cradle of Shen Qingqiu’s palm before Liu Qingge has time to consider what he’s supposed to do. He moves forward slowly, but easily. Shen Qingqiu’s hand is dry where it cradles his jaw, a softness that only comes from a man who’s labor has long-been artistic in nature and hoisted onto the shoulders of a man who gets off doing it for him. Clever, narrow-boned fingertips find their way to the space behind his ear, rubbing slow, soft circles in the sensitive skin buried under the fine hairs. Liu Qingge’s eyes fall half-lidded at the comfort.
He doesn’t know the last time someone’s touched him like that.
Maybe never.
The hand continues, pushing up the unbraided side of his hair to card through it—nails catching the edge of his scalp and making him shiver in return.
His mouth is dry.
Luo Binghe is laving Shen Qingqiu’s wrist in sloppy, wet passes of his tongue. Liu Qingge’s eyes fall near-closed as he dares—dares—the faintest touch of appreciation.
It’s quick, warm, and salt-sweet. Shen Qingqiu’s wrist tastes like the ghost of lotion and like warm, warm skin.
Shen Qingqiu does not chastise him.
He pulls his hand back and settles it in front of himself.
“Well then,” he breathes. “Lets see what you can do.”
Liu Qingge does the tricks.
He follows the orders.
And he does it fucking well.
###
The next time Liu Qingge comes over, it’s with the explicit understanding of what they’ll be doing. He came prepared. Change of clothes. Blanket from his place.
Stuff.
This time, there’s dark wolf-cut ears waiting for him, with ink-black bases and soft, languid grey on the ends.
This time, he watches as Luo Binghe strips down to nothing and this time he watches as Shen Qingqiu eases the steel plug of the tail into a willing, whining body.
###
The second time, he leaves the blankets there. No point in bringing them home. Really, it’s not like he’s using them right now anyway. It’s fine if they stay in the crate. Seriously. They’re just in his closet right now.
###
The third time, there’s paw sleeves, black to match his ears with pink silicone paw-pads to help get a better grip as he crawls himself up onto the wide, California king bed. They’re soft and comfortable as he lays across the foot of it, draped over Luo Binghe’s warm back.
He grooms Luo Binghe’s hair, paws and cheek pressed to the curls. He even strokes his tail, headless of the stomach-flipping sound of Binghe’s wrecked and quiet groans.
###
The fourth time, there’s a harness. Dark blue-dyed leather. Silver fixtures.
He wears it until he falls asleep draped out in the nest of pillows and blankets near the base of the sofa.
###
They don’t fuck. That’s the only thing.
Sure, Luo Binghe has a tendency to get off, showing off for Liu Qingge as he watches him grind off against Shen Qingqiu’s leg, or against some furniture or—in one particularly memorable evening—a pile of blankets while Shen Qingqiu chastised him for making a mess.
That isn’t to say that Liu Qingge doesn’t end every session wet and shivering. No, most scenes he starts that way. The second that Shen Qingqiu’s delicate, careful fingers finish adjusting his ears and tightening the silver fixtures of his harness into place—he can feel himself ruining another pair of fucking underwear.
He’s gotten into the habit of bringing two extra pairs. One to change into when he changes out of his gym shorts and into sweatpants at the end of a scene and one for when—inevitably—he ends up trying not to watch while Luo Binghe makes good on any promise to assist his Shizun with whatever else he needs doing.
It’s the fifth time they’ve done this — with the looming threat of next month's petplay night blinking like a warning in the night — that Liu Qingge starts to get the sense that something might be different.
He knocks, as he always does, at the door to the squat little corner-house at the end of the row of squat little houses. It has a big enough yard that Shen Qingqiu can garden and Luo Binghe can chase a ball around or whatever the fuck else he does when Liu Qingge isn’t there. The house is dark when he arrives, Shen Qingqiu sweeping the door open with as pleasant a greeting as ever.
“Is… we said six, right?” Liu Qingge asks, his fingers twitching where they rest on the strap of his duffel bag. There’s a box of tea in it, wedged between a sweatshirt that boasting the wearer as being a student of Qing Jing School of the Arts—something that Liu Qingge certainly wasn’t and didn’t smell like that Shen-Luo household anymore—and the two bags of rice crackers that Liu Qingge had picked up on his way home from work a few nights ago. Sort of.
It was only a couple hours out of his way.
Shen Qingqiu steps aside, letting Liu Qingge in. “And you’re five minutes early, as usual.”
“It’s rude to be late,” Liu Qingge points out, toeing his shoes off to slot into the rack by the door.
A thin-boned hand falls to the small of his back. “Why don’t you put your things down. Did you need anything before we get ready? Water? Tea?”
“M’fine,” Liu Qingge says, shivering at the touch already. It’s stupid, to feel himself shudder with little more than a commanding air and a gentle touch. But he does anyway. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“Luo Binghe is finishing some things for us.” A beat. “He’s on his best behavior tonight.”
Liu Qingge clicks his tongue in a mixture of disbelief and disinterest. “So what, he hasn’t bitten anyone yet? Let me know when your petplay involves getting him a rabies shot.”
Shen Qingqiu rolls his eyes. He’s standing behind Liu Qingge so he can’t see if he really does, but the pause in conversation always tends to mean he is. “It’ll last at least ten minutes.”
“The rabies shot or his behavior.”
“Yes,” Shen Qingqiu says, with the gentle gleam of affection.
Liu Qingge goes to the bedroom first, dropping his bag by the bathroom for when it’s inevitably time to change. He contemplates leaving his shirt on until he needs to take it off for the harness—but once he left a shirt here because he couldn’t fucking find it afterwards and didn’t find it again for a week, when he unburied it from the nest of blankets in the crate. He strips down to the gym shorts in the privacy of Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe’s bedroom, folding his shirt, leaving his borrowed sweatshirt on the dresser and taking the tea and treats to carry with him down to the kitchen.
Shen Qingqiu is waiting for him, whispering with an already-topless Luo Binghe.
Binghe’s eyes jump to Liu Qingge with a sharp gleam. “Shishu,” he sighs. “Are you ready?”
“Tea,” Liu Qingge says, setting the box on the counter. “And you were low on treats so… treats.”
The bags are next. Easy.
Simple.
Shen Qingqiu thanks him with a soft stroke of his shoulder and—and a gentle brush of lip against his cheekbone.
Maybe that should have been the first sign that something is different. Maybe something else should have been the first sign. Liu Qingge wasn’t certain.
The night progresses as they have progressed every single time for the last five nights. They have tea, they chat—idly and easily for two-thirds of the attendees—in the living room, tucked around the coffee table with Luo Binghe beside Qingqiu and Liu Qingge on the floor. Shen Qingqiu’s fingers fall into Luo Binghe’s hair first, coaxing his head down into his lap over the course of a few minutes until he’s there with his eyes half-lidded and his breathing low and even.
Liu Qingge is always next, leaning against the sofa as a hand drifts down into his hair for a soft, slow brush. Shen Qingqiu unweaves his braids, leaving his hair loose around his face and waved in the smallest brushes where it was still damp from his shower when he wove it into place.
He sighs, a deep-boned thing as he feels himself slip further and further from the tension of his own bones. His breathing steadies as he lays his cheek against the lounge, feeling the soft fabric shifting under skin that always so-suddenly feels hyper-sensitive.
The fingers combing through his hair stop to pet behind his ear, to scratch his jaw, under his skin until his face is lifted up from the couch and tipped up to face Shen Qingqiu.
“Are you ready to get dressed?” He asks, and Liu Qingge hates how quickly he loses the desire to speak at all the second he starts to slip.
He nods, following it up with a soft grunt of acknowledgement in lieu of a verbal confirmation.
Shen Qingqiu lays his head back down on the chaise as he rises, uprooting Luo Binghe and summoning him down to the floor with a quick pat of his thigh.
Liu Qingge watches, as he’s learned to, as Luo Binghe strips from his loose, baggy sweats and slinks down to his knees in a fluid motion. He’s already half-hard, his cock starting to fill between strong, stupidly-powerful thighs. Shen Qingqiu strokes the top of his head, earning himself a lick of contentment to the inside of his wrist.
“Good puppies stay still so they can get dressed,” Shen Qingqiu reminds him, a pointless endeavor, really. He makes Luo Binghe wait, however, crossing the living room to retrieve the waiting opaque plastic tub of toys. He brings it over, removing the lid and setting it aside before he starts to pick each piece out one by one. The seconds mount, and then the minutes and Liu Qingge thinks he can feel every single inch of his skin alight with the quiet roil of anticipation. Luo Binghe, by a quick glance, is worse off—vibrating and shivering as he kneels there. The faux-patience only lasts until the ears are on before Binghe is up on his haunches to steal a rough, biting kiss. “Down boy!”
And Binghe drops, again. His harness comes next, then the sleeves.
“Good dog,” Shen Qingqiu says, with the edge of a soft, low purr in his voice. He leans down and kisses Binghe between the two, fluffy ears before straightening out and collecting the matching tail. The plug is… well. It isn’t the smallest that Liu Qingge has ever seen. It isn’t the biggest either, but Shen Qingqiu says, “Present for your Shizun.” And Luo Binghe turns, facing his ass towards the pair of them, and drops his cheek to the carpet. His ass sways, muscled and defined.
Liu Qingge wants to bite it. He wants to bite it and he wants to shove Luo Binghe over and wrestle him into the ground. He wants to shove that stupid, puppy-eyed and sharp-tooth-grinning face into the fucking carpeting and mount him from behind and—
He shakes his head with a huff as Shen Qingqiu settles in on his knees behind Binghe. “Are you well, Liu-shidi?”
Liu Qingge nods, ignoring the flush that dusts over the rise of his cheeks. He wriggles down to lie on his belly, watching with his head cushioned on his paws. He can be patient. He can wait his turn.
He can not think about what he was thinking about. Luo Binghe spreads himself when Shen Qingqiu commands it, paws taking hold of each side of his ass so Shen Qingqiu can patiently slick the steel end of the tail with a decent amount of lube.
For all that Liu Qingge can say about Luo Binghe—and he can say a lot—of all the assholes he’s seen, Luo Binghe’s is almost almost not bad to look at. Liu Qingge internally takes it back when he swears he can see it twitch and flex in hungry anticipation when Shen Qingqiu clicks the cap on the lubricant back into place.
Liu Qingge has only seen this part a few times. He swallows, throat bobbing as he watches the glinting tip press against Luo Binghe’s entrance. He can see Luo Binghe’s muscles tighten, his shoulders stiffening at the chill as Shen Qingqiu pushes and pushes—flesh giving way to metal and insistence as he watches Luo Binghe’s hole stretch and stretch and stretch around the toy until it swallows it right down to the base.
Shen Qingqiu hums, his clean hand stroking Luo Binghe’s flank before giving it a soft pat. “Good boy, take your whole tail in at once. Would you like to show your Shizun and your Shishu how much you enjoy it?”
Quickly, the tail begins to sway, shifting with the movement of Luo Binghe’s hips as it wags with enjoyment.
(Liu Qingge doesn’t feel his own hole clench at the sight. Not at all. He doesn’t feel weirdly empty without a weight he’s never known. His stomach isn’t twisting. He isn’t wanting.
He isn’t.)
“Sit up.” And Luo Binghe sits up.
“Both of you.” Pale eyes find him and Liu Qingge sits up with a bolt.
Shen Qingqiu’s hand gets cleaned of the lubricant on the towel constantly refreshed and bleached, and he withdraws the familiar pieces of Liu Qingge’s slowly-growing kit. Ears. Harness. Paws.
A second box comes with it, shiny and polished. It’s big enough that it’s a decent weight in Shen Qingqiu’s lap.
Liu Qingge’s brows knit.
“Shidi,” Shen Qingqiu starts, gesturing for Binghe to join him. A fluffy head is pressed to his side without hesitation. “I defer to you and your comfort. You haven’t ever engaged beyond…watching.” Shen Qingqiu presses the word out with intention and Liu Qingge wishes he was there to provide a cover, to keep anyone from having to look at the way he drops his eyes askance. “But, if you are comfortable in fully undressing then Binghe and I felt it only proper that a good puppy as yourself…” Shen Qingqiu trails off as he sets the box down between them.
The lid opens towards Liu Qingge, keeping him from stealing a glimpse inside. But he doesn’t have to wait long. Shen Qingqiu withdraws in one hand a sleek, black tail from the confines. It’s dark with grey-toned fur at the very tip. Like—
Like his ears. The end does not have the same silver plug—instead there is a small flat metal end with a small hole in it.
In the other hand, a dark blue, knotted dildo fits into the shape of his palm—already fastened into a sleek, strong-looking black strap.
“Has his own tail and a knot. There is a plug end and a clip end, if you felt more inclined towards a belt rather than…” Shen Qingqiu clears his throat. “Well.”
Liu Qingge opens his mouth.
He opens his mouth and then shuts it as certain muscles in his body flex and tighten and release in anticipation. He shifts backwards slightly, swallowing as his looks between Shen Qingqiu and Binghe and back again and then—once more—to the tail.
The tail and then the dick.
His paws drop to the waist of his gym shorts. He has ruined his underwear. He can feel it. He has ruined his underwear and he’s pretty sure these shorts aren’t even going to be the same again. They go down over his ass—both at once—and then over one leg and another.
And he sits there.
And he sits there.
Liu Qingge closes his eyes, squeezing them shut as he hears two pairs of soft gasps. He’s naked. He’s absolutely naked.
He’s naked and he can feel how wet he is which means the soft curls are slick between his thighs and he wonders—for a half-second—if they can see how eager he is. If they can see the way the bottom growth has drawn his cock to prod between his folds when he’s turned on, if they can see how wet and flushed it gets. He settles back down on his heels, his knees spread slightly as his thighs shiver.
He can’t look—he can’t look at them. So he doesn’t. He stares up at the wall, like a puppy that hasn’t quite figured out how to behave yet.
“Liu-shidi,” comes Shen Qingqiu’s soft, affectionate voice. “Do you need help with your cock?”
Liu Qingge is not unfamiliar with strap-ons. He shakes his head as he takes the offered strap. He tries to ignore the fact that it’s the exact brand as the wildly-underused one he has at his place as he slips into it and adjusts the fall of the fucking generously sized dildo. It’s comfortable—with the sort of straps that frame the rise of his ass and leaves his cunt exposed enough for… well… whatever.
The strap is the easy part.
The strap is the familiar part.
“Shidi. Do you want the plug?”
One nod, curt and quick.
There’s movement. Fabric.
And a hand laid warm over his shoulder. It’s narrow and thin and comforting. Liu Qingge spares a glance to where Shen Qingqiu has moved forward, his hand rising to cup the side of his cheek.
Shen Qingqiu’s kiss is chaste and warm.
“Present for me, Shidi,” he says, lofty expression glinting with something warm and familiar.
Liu Qingge does—as he has always done—and follows his directions to a T. He turns, as Binghe has done, and presents himself to the cool air and soft sound of Shen Qingqiu’s breath.
“Show me,” Shen Qingqiu commands next and Liu Qingge swallows and drops a paw to himself. His face burns as he holds himself open, stomach twisting with the mortification that comes next. Luo Binghe is fucking whimpering.
He’s fucking whimpering as Liu Qingge feels a fever-blister well of slick starting to roll down the length of his cunt and threaten to roll down over his clit and drip into the fucking carpet. He’s a mess. He’s such a fucking mess.
He’s a mess and he isn’t expecting the press of cool, slick steel against his fucking cunt first. But Shen Qingqiu drags the thick, heavy side of it down the length of his cunt—pressing the steel against his drooling slit and rolling it in the mess as if—as if—
—as if he’s using Liu Qingge’s own fucking come as a secondary lube to the fucking Astroglide.
Liu Qingge gasps, an involuntary noise that only briefly drowns out the mouthy yips from Luo Binghe behind him.
“Don’t make me muzzle you,” Shen Qingiqu threatens before following it up with, “look at my Shidi. So beautiful for us. So beautiful for me.”
Liu Qingge feels himself darken again as the steel, warmed now from the heat of his arousal, pushes up against his ass. He forces himself to relax, sucking in a breath through his nose—pushing it out the second that Shen Qingqiu begins to push.
The lube helps, but the stretch knocks a gasp into his clenched teeth. He swallows around it as he feels himself stretch and stretch and stretch to accommodate the unyielding and unmoving steel.
“Nearly halfway,” Shen Qingqiu urges. “We’re almost at the thickest part.”
Almost?! He wants to bite before he feels himself stretch more to accommodate. It feels endless—splitting him in half before he feels it settle and—and it’s heavy. It’s heavy and he feels so—so full.
“Wag.”
It’s awkward, it’s strange, as he wags for Shen Qingqiu. The fur tickles against the backs of his thighs, sending warm-spark shivers racing down the length of his spine and coiling back up again. Heat into heat.
He wags for a bit, adjusting to the sensation before he hears the sound of Shen Qingqiu cleaning his hands.
“Both of you. We aren’t done yet. Up.”
Up.
It’s up and it’s ears. The change in position has gravity pulling the steel against him from the inside, a comfortable weight that makes him shudder and shiver with every idle sway of his hips.
It’s up and it’s paws—each one rolled down onto his hands with a command of, “Give paw” and a treat.
It’s up and it’s his harness, clipped into place as he struggles to open his eyes fully to look up at Shen Qingqiu.
It’s up and it’s…
It’s Luo Binghe’s collar, wrapped and fastened around his throat.
It’s up and—
And it’s something pressed into his hands.
It’s up and it’s—
It’s warm, black leather with grey rolling around the edge. It’s black leather with silver fixtures and a heart-shaped tag that says: LGQ in ornate, loving script.
Liu Qingge’s throat thickens.
He opens his mouth. He closes it.
“We can talk about it later,” Shen Qingqiu deflects. “Give it to me if you would like me to put it on.”
Shen Qingqiu doesn’t get to finish the sentence before Liu Qingge shoves the collar into his hands. The touch is delicate, when it’s clipped into place. Shen Qingqiu makes sure his hair isn’t caught or tangled.
It ends with a kiss.
Well—that isn’t totally correct.
It ends with Luo Binghe’s fucking paws on his shoulders and it ends with Liu Qingge on his back while a slippery, hot tongue laves over every fucking inch of his face. Liu Qingge gives Binghe the fucking decency of a warning growl before he shoves back at the broad shoulders—giving himself an opening to wriggle out from under him just enough to throw a shoulder into his ribcage.
Luo Binghe makes a noise that definitely is not a yelp and jerks backwards before hooking his arms around Liu Qingge’s middle to wrench him back down into place—fever-hot tongue turning into sharp and bruising bites down Liu Qingge’s fucking collarbone and Liu Qingge bites back a mind-numbing fucking groan before he whips himself around to dig his teeth into the meat of Luo Binghe’s arm.
He bites hard enough that Luo Binghe moans, a guttural and low noise that Liu Qingge can feel driving right down into Luo Binghe’s twitching cock.
“That’s enough,” comes Shen Qingqiu’s calm, commanding voice. And when it doesn’t stop Luo Binghe from biting at the space where Liu Qingge’s harness crosses over his chest, he tries again. “I said sit.”
Luo Binghe whimpers as he sits.
Liu Qingge doesn’t whimper when he sits.
Shen Qingqiu pinches the bridge of his nose. “If you’re going to play, don’t break anything or each other.”
This time, it’s Liu Qingge that gets the first blow. He takes Luo Binghe to the ground, the wrestling less intense that he’s used to—either as a result of the tails they both have in or the strap that Liu Qingge is still wearing. They twist on the carpet, still—shoving and elbowing and shouldering to get the upper-hand on one another until Liu Qingge manages to throw Binghe onto his back and toss a leg over his hips and— and he has no idea what to do next.
Panting, Liu Qingge stares down at the flushed puppy laid out beneath him. Luo Binghe’s eyes are dark—pupils shot and gleaming with something mixed between arousal and malice. His cheeks are dark, lips slick and wet with humid, sharp breaths.
Liu Qingge freezes, his strap bobbing against—against Luo Binghe’s hard, glistening cock. It slumps against the silicone, twitching and flushed.
He moves his hips just a fraction, grinding his cock down against Binghe’s.
Three things happen in rapid succession.
First: Luo Binghe groans, a deep and long noise.
Second: Luo Binghe’s paws drop down to Liu Qingge’s hips, taking hold of him in a bruising grip and flipping him hard enough onto his back that it briefly knocks the air out of Liu Qingge’s chest.
Third: Luo Binghe kisses him like he’s trying to devour him. Teeth clash against teeth and Liu Qingge doesn’t know how Luo Binghe manages to shove his tongue past his lips, but he does. It’s a mess of spit and lips and growling breaths grinding up against one another as Luo Binghe kisses him like he’s trying to rip through him. It’s a sharp and jagged thing, and Liu Qingge wishes he was above bending to it.
He wishes he was above throwing a leg up around Luo Binghe’s hips and he wishes he was above tangling a paw in Binghe’s hair and yanking until Binghe gasps—slick and wet into Liu Qingge’s open mouth.
He wishes he was above gasping as Luo Binghe wrenches his face away and pushes down Liu Qingge’s body and he fucking—he fucking wishes he was above bucking when Luo Binghe shoves his whole head between Liu Qingge’s thighs.
“Binghe,” comes the voice from the chaise—command and easy and clear. “Are you going to let your fellow puppy go unsatisfied? Or are you going to finish him off?”
Liu Qingge’s legs are forced apart by the strength wound in Luo Binghe’s shoulders. His thighs are shaking in earnest by the time Binghe’s tongue drags—uncoordinated and sloppy—into the slick, feverish mess between Liu Qingge’s legs. He laps at him, stupidly strong and stupidly solid tongue parting Liu Qingge’s lips and shoving up to curl against his slit without hesitation.
At once, Liu Qingge’s head whips back against the floor as hot, molten saliva mixes with the arousal drooling out of his cunt. He’s going to leave a stain on the carpet. He’s going to leave a pool on the carpet. He’s going to fucking soak through the carpet and the padding and his come is going to soak into the fucking wood. They’re going to be finding his DNA woven and remembered into the foundations of his house until the day it fucking decays.
And if Liu Qingge thinks it’s bad when he’s being fucking licked like this—it’s worse when Luo Binghe shoves his tongue down to the fucking root.
At once, he’s full of the flexing, curling muscle—pressing at his walls as he starts to fucking thrust his tongue into him without an ounce of fucking mercy. Liu Qingge twists, catching his hips halfway between pushing into the movement and wrenching himself as far away from Luo Binghe’s sloppy, wet enthusiasm.
He can’t get far in either direction, as Luo Binghe’s hand wraps around his cock—not his fat, swollen, fucking throbbing cock. No, Luo Binghe circles his hand around the thick, dark silicone bobbing from the thick black strap. He strokes in time with the shove of his tongue splitting Liu Qingge open again and again. It’s profane. It’s disgusting. It’s so fucking hot Liu Qingge thinks he might come just from this.
Binghe doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop until Liu Qingge thrashes against the floor, fucking his hips back against the slick mess he’s made of Luo Binghe’s face—smearing slick over his jaw and cheek and chin.
Binghe doesn’t stop until he wrenches his tongue out of Liu Qingge’s cunt and lets go of his cock for exactly the length of time needed to shove three fingers down the length of his soaking fucking cunt and bring them back—wet and slick with Liu Qingge’s own fucking come—back to the cock.
There’s hardly a moment left for incredulity before Binghe wraps his lips around Liu Qingge’s swollen, throbbing little cock and sucks. He sucks like he’s trying to rend and orgasm out of Liu Qingge’s body—like he can pull him inside out on nothing but the force of his mouth and the roll of his tongue over it.
It’s like getting fucking shot. Liu Qingge barks out a rough, gored noise as Luo Binghe draws back with hollowed cheeks before pushing down to mercilessly, bruisingly, suck his fucking cock again. The hand on his knotted strap doesn’t stop—moving in time with his tongue and his lips as Liu Qingge feels himself start to shake in earnest.
It feels like a lifewire burst open over his skin—electricity biting up from his core and unwinding and unsnapping until he feels himself split apart and unbecome all at once—it’s a rushing, fervent peak that slams through him. Liu Qingge feels himself tighten around nothing, squeezing and squeezing and he knows he’s soaking Luo Binghe’s fucking collar and he knows the spit and come is making a mess between them and he knows that he’s fucking howling with incandescent fucking pleasure rippling through him as Luo Binghe works his cock until Liu Qingge is so fucking over-sensitive he has no choice but to pull his foot back and kick him in the shoulder as hard as he fucking can.
Luo Binghe wheels back with a yelp, stumbling back onto his ass and—
And Liu Qingge has no idea what fucking comes over him.
(Yes he does.)
He is a dog. That’s all he is. A dog.
He circles and shoves his shoulder down under Luo Binghe’s back, forcing him up onto his side before a second blow carries it over to bring Luo Binghe onto his belly.
(Above them, Shen Qingqiu’s breath sharpens.)
All Liu Qingge is, is a dog.
He bites Luo Binghe’s shoulders, his back—vicious, bruising things (His.) that taste like salt and skin and salt and skin.
Luo Binghe’s hips rise by the time that Liu Qingge drops down far enough to grab a mouthful of deep, soft-brown fur and tug—slow and relentless—until the tail falls away and Liu Qingge can mount him.
“Good boy.”
It’s breathless, fevered and Liu Qingge burns with the praise as he slides the cock slick with his own come up against the already-stretched and readied entrance presented before him.
“Mate him.”
Liu Qingge is merciless when he buries the length of his cock down the knot. Luo Binghe keens beneath him, a hiccuping moan for each drive of Liu Qingge’s hips.
There is nothing graceful about it, there is nothing elegant.
They are animals, fucking for nothing but raw, arcane pleasure. He drives into Luo Binghe without pause, without consideration for the strain in his hips or the burn in his thighs if anything they only drive him harder and harder—the slap of skin against skin drowning out everything but the sharp pants of their breath and the sounds of consideration from the chaise.
It’s only when he knows that Luo Binghe is close, that the noises beneath him become more guttural, more growling desperation gnawing at the carpets beneath them, that he lets Luo Binghe feel the spread of his knot.
He lets him feel it, leaning forward and latching his teeth to the well-bruised and well-bitten line of his shoulders—and then buries it inside him. Copper bursts across his tongue.
Binghe comes without a paw on his cock, spending messily onto the carpets.
Liu Qingge is not cruel. He waits, panting and lapping at the bite on Binghe’s shoulder with idle washes of his tongue, before he withdraws his cock.
Luo Binghe whimpers, his ass wriggling.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s something in the fucking air, but Liu Qingge blinks and he’s laid out on his side, something warm and firm pressed against his back, and his face pressed into Shen Qingqiu’s thigh.
(Nothing but a dog.)
Shen Qingqiu is stroking his hair, the interest notable in his pants. Liu Qingge does not know what drives him there, (Nothing but an animal) but he leans into the bulge and presses his nose to the seam.
Above him, Shen Qingqiu’s breath catches.
###
They don’t talk about it that night. That night is far too busy, with Shen Qingqiu’s cock in Liu Qingge’s mouth and Shen Qingqiu’s fingers in Luo Binghe’s hair—pushing his nose into the puddle of his own come until he laps it from the fibers of the carpeting.
They don’t talk about it in the morning either. They don’t talk about it when Liu Qingge wakes, sticky and messy and sore in every fucking hole he has, pressed against Luo Binghe’s back like he’s the worlds most muscular body pillow.
They don’t talk about it when Luo Binghe makes them breakfast or when Shen Qingqiu braids his hair.
They don’t talk about it when Luo Binghe fucks Liu Qingge into Shen Qingqiu or when Liu Qingge idly kisses Shen Qingqiu while he sits astride Luo Binghe’s face.
They don’t talk about it.
But that doesn’t mean it does not come up.
It comes up in the dark, warmest afternoons—with pillows and blankets in soft, comfortable piles to ward off the coming chill of a coming storm. It comes up with Liu Qingge’s cheek resting on the small of Luo Binghe’s back, rising and falling with the tattoo of his breaths.
“Having a nap with your puppy-mate, are you?” Shen Qingqiu teases, on the soft and quiet afternoons.
Liu Qingge had whined, tired and comfortable, in response.
Shen Qingqiu had returned to his project—an idle knitting piece he had started months ago, around the third or fourth week of their mutual play.
It comes up in clubs, with Shen Qingqiu standing while two puppies stare at him from the floor—their eyes wide as he commands them for the showroom of eager onlookers.
“Are these your puppies?” Someone asks, passing through as Shen Qingqiu hand-feeds a treat to both of them, despite it only being earned on one’s behalf. Liu Qingge snaps at Luo Binghe. “Ah-ah! Feisty.”
Shen Qingqiu swats Binghe’s head, earning a whimper. “They are mine,” Shen Qingqiu says, with an affectionate rib. “For better or worse.”