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It’s the shifty little curl of shame that does it. Even Wei Chen knows that. That’s the only reason he’d said yes. If he actually did say yes, with actual words, that is. He’s—less than clear on the more insignificant details, at this point, to be honest. Which is probably what happens when there’s this much magic punching through a guy—inside him—holding him down and taking him, breaking and un-fucking-making him, reducing his mind to goddamn salt while his captive dick strains, rigid—
Fuck.
Curse Yu Wenzhou and his clever, placid smile. Curse Huang Shaotian and his endless puppy eyes. Curse Wei Chen and his pathetically guilt-fuelled dick, most of all.
If Wei Chen hadn’t been so—
If he weren’t such a goddamn—
If he didn’t—
(Choices have consequences, okay, and fuck you and your grandmother too if you think he isn’t aware he’s made some goddamn Choices.)
If only—
Wei Chen can’t think about it. He really, really can’t. He doesn’t fucking dare, not with the scald of Yu Wenzhou’s quiet attention blazing across him, not with the bright perspicacity of Huang Shaotian’s gaze cleaving him open. Anyway; the magical tendrils holding Wei Chen in place have been busy for a while now, and his brain is a haze—a hush—(hush, rush, lush)—an embarrassing, godawful moan as he struggles to shift, struggles to maintain his silence, struggles not to feel—
Wei Chen knows the shape of his Death’s Door, inky-dark and sanguine, but is this even that, at this point? Is this even his, any more, with the hot sting of Yu Wenzhou’s magic bound within it? Alongside it? Overtaking and threaded in with every push, every thrust, every tendril seeking release in-on-around Wei Chen’s body, and Wei Chen—
Nobody’s expecting us back yet—that’s what Huang Shaotian had said. Post-skirmish. Wei Chen’s mind still caught on battle. The shock of Huang Shaotian’s fingers touching (caressing) the tendrils still furling from Wei Chen’s Death’s Door had been enough to shut down Wei Chen’s capacity to hold a fucking thought. It’s been battle plan, strategy, tactics for months, Huang Shaotian had said, or something like that. And now there’s a Death’s Door right here just begging for some sexy fun times. I’ve been good enough for it—right, Captain? Right, Laoda? I’ve been so really, really good—?
That was the stupid bait Wei Chen had let himself be hooked with. A Death’s Door begging for some sexy fun times (what the shit), and a Huang Shaotian begging too.
Well, that and the goddamn curiosity. The mere suggestion that Death’s Door, that most beautiful, deadly tool in Wei Chen’s arsenal, could be fuckable. Worse, the jealousy that had flickered through him at the idea of Huang Shaotian knowing this while Wei Chen—walking tome of warlock know-how—did not.
Worst of all, of course: Yu Wenzhou’s smile-curved beatitude, all patient indulgence and not a hint of surprise.
(Yu Wenzhou’s fingers, reaching down to touch beside Huang Shaotian’s, stroking tendrils like dicks.)
Wei Chen, of course, had blustered. Wei Chen had grown loud. Wei Chen had deflected, and joked, and laughed about it.
Wei Chen had folded like paper.
He’s just about choking on it, now. The weight. The enormity. Not the magic, even. Not solely the tendrils fucking in between his lips. The rest of it. The whole, entire, goddamned fucking—
Anyway, it had been easier to swallow—ha—when Huang Shaotian had simply been calling the shots. Tendrils writhing, stroking, slipping deep and shallow at Huang Shaotian’s cheerful request. Who knows how many—pricking heat through Wei Chen’s skin as they hold him upright—tangling wrists above his head, spreading knees—holding him open, on display, blood-dark cock in a choke hold against pre-come matted belly hair—
There had been something more palatable to it. Something more acceptable, in a fucked-up way, to have his dignity fucked out of him while Huang Shaotian made happy suggestions and palmed his cock beneath his armour’s tasset.
Wei Chen has always been able to take his punishments like a man, at least if he can’t manage to escape them entirely. He’s always been able to bear the consequences when they finally catch him, and he—
It’s too much, like this. Too much, since Huang Shaotian had grinned like the summer itself, shucked off his armour like a man tossing aside crab shells (consumed) (sucked clean), and stepped into the Death’s Door’s writhing range.
Huang Shaotian’s breath is humid against Wei Chen’s shame-itched skin.
Huang Shaotian is naked and happy, and Yu Wenzhou’s power is threading hotter, and there’s this rushing horror to the unforgivable throb of blood, swelled to aching in Wei Chen’s leaking, selfish cock—
Wei Chen is fucked if he thinks about consequences right now.
Wei Chen is already—ha—
Fuck, but Huang Shaotian’s hands are everywhere. Huang Shaotian’s lips and teeth (talking) (biting). Huang Shaotian’s cock—bobbing, proud and easy, within the dark caress of Wei Chen’s Death’s Door’s hold—
Huang Shaotian’s back—god help him—(beautiful, sweat-gleamed)—arches like fucking art as a tendril of Wei Chen’s magic works its way in between his legs and pushes deep.
The rolling pressure of Yu Wenzhou’s attention (constant) (sharp) sparks even harder when Wei Chen chokes on the perilous knowledge that Huang Shaotian takes being fucked up the ass with a devastatingly joyful kind of ease.
When Huang Shaotian drops his face against Wei Chen’s shoulder and takes a second tendril, he’s saying something about wanting to kiss Wei Chen. His words drift mid-sentence—shuddery, hot-wet, groan-gasped against Wei Chen’s salt-slick skin. His tongue lolls, breathless, as Yu Wenzhou takes up talking for him, instead (low-voiced, beautiful), telling Wei Chen (or the field) (or the sky) about the third tendril now teasing at Huang Shaotian’s balls. Telling Wei Chen how gorgeous Huang Shaotian looks, right now. How gorgeous the both of them look.
Huang Shaotian’s spit runs in a hot line down Wei Chen’s shoulder. Wei Chen’s eyes sting. Huang Shaotian’s hand settles, (scalding, fantastic) against the side of Wei Chen’s neck; he squeezes down, gripping tightly, as he too shifts to kneeling.
Huang Shaotian’s hand is the hand of a man. A warrior. A threat, sometimes. An ally, mostly. Broad. Strong. Calloused.
Huang Shaotian’s face, in contrast, wears the expression of a child delighted to realise he’s avoided a scolding.
Fuck, but Wei Chen shouldn’t be seeing this.
(He’d tried closing his eyes once. He hadn’t needed a second attempt.)
It’s only the tendrils keeping Wei Chen upright when Huang Shaotian’s grins, bright-fierce, and starts riding Wei Chen’s magic properly.
The Death’s Door shimmers darkly beside them. Its tendrils curl and stroke. Hold. Clutch. Push in with the desperate hunger of Wei Chen’s own pathetic greed. Thrust, thrust, fuck.
Fuck and fuck and fuck.
Wei Chen’s mind is fizzing, fuzzing, floating. He’s lost count of how many times he’s been pushed, light-headed, to the edge of climax, only to be pulled back with an agonising precision. He couldn’t say how many tendrils are shifting between his legs. He knows they’re fucking him slower, now, than when Huang Shaotian had been calling the shots; so much slower than the ones Huang Shaotian is riding—working him slow and deep, fist-fucking at his prostate like they want to milk him to death, except that the tendrils death-gripping the base of his cock and balls are stopping him from coming.
It’s been Yu Wenzhou’s magic curling alongside Wei Chen’s, yes. But now it’s more clearly Yu Wenzhou—this tender curl of control (this devastating focus)—making Wei Chen’s Death’s Door hum as though Yu Wenzhou himself had cast it. Making Wei Chen’s vision blur.
Wei Chen can’t think about it. Wei Chen really cannot dare to think.
Huang Shaotian, of course, is harder to avoid. The tendrils have been making sure Wei Chen cannot see Yu Wenzhou, but Huang Shaotian is right here. Anyway, nobody has ever accused Huang Shaotian of being subtle, and surely nobody could be surprised to find he fucks as vociferously as he fights: a sea of dirty little noises, gasped snatches of filthy praise, narration, desire, desire, desire.
Wei Chen is choking on that, too: Huang Shaotian’s delight. Huang Shaotian’s passion. The enthusiasm with which Huang Shaotian swings his hips and jacks his cock and tosses his head back (throat bare and beautiful) (voice overjoyed) whenever he catches Wei Chen staring.
The utter fuckability of this junior, whom Wei Chen has very carefully never considered like this—
The utterly inescapable suspicion that if Wei Chen were to be honest—if Wei Chen were to so much as to hint the unacceptable truth—Huang Shaotian would forgo the tendrils in a heartbeat and ride Wei Chen instead—
Wei Chen couldn’t bear it.
‘Really want to kiss you,’ Huang Shaotian is saying. ‘Do you think he’d let me kiss him, Captain?’ (Fingers holding Wei Chen tighter as he fucks the tendrils harder; wet mouth turned toward Yu Wenzhou; panting, happy.) ‘Laoda, please; please, please let me kiss you.’ (Breath like fire as he turns back to Wei Chen; lips grazing across Wei Chen’s beard, desperate and gasping.)
Wei Chen grunts, or groans, or maybe sobs. His hips snap and fuck, harsh, against the tendrils restraining him, onto the tendrils fucking him. He sucks the one in his mouth like his life depends on it.
‘That’s a yes, right?’ Huang Shaotian murmurs, loud and eager. ‘That’s a yes?’ The hand at Wei Chen’s neck tightens its grip. Huang Shaotian’s other hand drops down to toy with the sharp little spurt of come Wei Chen’s traitorous dick has managed to spit across their skin.
‘Your cock sure wants to kiss me, wow. Oh, wow, yeah, your sexy, sexy cock wants to kiss me so bad.’
Wei Chen chokes on the tendril mouth-fucking him. His stupid, suffering dick spurts again.
Huang Shaotian crows in delight, smearing the leaking mess around before bringing his hand back up, fingers slick and shiny. Everyone (Huang Shaotian) (the tendrils) (Yu Wenzhou’s humming, fucking power) makes sure Wei Chen is watching before Huang Shaotian slips his tongue between his fingers—curling, licking; smirking when Wei Chen’s dick strains and dribbles further at the sight.
Wei Chen and Yu Wenzhou moan in chorus—one caught roughly around a mouthful of magic, the other low and aching.
‘Laoda tastes pretty good,’ Huang Shaotian declares, excited, and then—jiggling harder on the tendrils still writhing inside the both of them, announces, in Yu Wenzhou’s direction, ‘He tastes much better than we thought he might! All that smoking hasn’t totally ruined him after all.’
If Wei Chen’s mouth were free, he’d definitely be swearing. Maybe begging Yu Wenzhou to just put him out of his misery already.
Or else just begging Yu Wenzhou to come over here and fuck him directly already, who the hell knows.
Yu Wenzhou’s laughter burns as brightly as Huang Shaotian’s gaze, all raw fondness and knowing heat. ‘That’s good,’ he says. And then, ‘I think Captain Wei might need the opportunity to speak, however, if you’d actually like his answer to your kissing question.’
‘I want it! I do, I really do.’ Huang Shaotian stuffs the pre-come slicked fingers all the way into his mouth, sucking them down to the knuckles before wrapping them back against the side of Wei Chen’s neck. He wriggles even closer. His cock is leaking on Wei Chen’s held-in-place knee. Wei Chen can feel the steady shift of the tendrils wrapped around Huang Shaotian’s cock as they jerk him in an almost absent-minded kind of way, each stroking pass rubbing against Wei Chen’s leg hair. ‘Will you let me kiss you?’
Huang Shaotian’s fingers, the ones not caught at the intersection of Wei Chen’s neck and shoulder, now slip—salt-sweaty, spit-damp—up into Wei Chen’s hair. His lips part, wet and wanting, when the tendril in Wei Chen’s mouth slips free.
Wei Chen swallows roughly. His jaw aches. His chest aches more. His mind is fucking swimming. Everything is tendrils and magic, guilty pleasure and edged frustration, and insurmountable, never-flagging shame. Everything is Huang Shaotian’s hopeful, eager eyes, and Yu Wenzhou’s humming, brilliant power, and Wei Chen’s leaking, longing cock.
The weight of both of their attentions on him is making his mind shake.
Wei Chen is going to fucking die once they’ve let him jizz his brains out. If they ever let him jizz his brains out.
He opens his mouth to say no, of course not! what’s a bit of fucking between friends or ex-colleagues or current allies, I guess, or whatever we are, what’s that, who cares, I fuck all the time, fucking’s fine, right? but kissing! kissing is something different, you gotta draw the line, you gotta know you don’t actually want me, you gotta know you can’t just go around—
Huang Shaotian’s shining eyes start to swim with salt. His gaze begins to shutter. Yu Wenzhou makes a soft, low noise.
‘Sweetheart,’ Wei Chen whispers. ‘It’s not that I don’t—’
His voice is rusty. Cracked. He has no idea what he’s saying, no idea who he’s saying it to. (He has every idea.) (He knows it with a hateful precision.)
Huang Shaotian’s answering whine is high and raw. His mouth is pure heat, undiluted need as he takes Wei Chen’s foolish, foolish bullshit as permission to dart forward and seize a kiss from Wei Chen’s mouth.
Wei Chen grunts, and moans, and loathes himself. Also, he kisses Huang Shaotian in return.
Who knows when the tentacles release Wei Chen’s hands. Who knows when Wei Chen catches them at the sides of Huang Shaotian’s face, instead, and thumbs—self-flagellating and so turned-on—at the tears he finds there. Who knows when he begins to rest his weight more heavily, welcoming the burn of Huang Shaotian sucking too sharply on his tongue while he strokes a hand down, down through the shifting mess of tendrils between them, to fight for purchase on Huang Shaotian’s cock.
When Wei Chen wraps his hand around Huang Shaotian’s arousal, there’s a pulse of magic so strong it makes Wei Chen’s ears pop. Huang Shaotian, in contrast, simply moans and drops his head forward, curling close and holding tight even as he grinds his jizzing cock up—hard—into the tight sheath of Wei Chen’s quick-moving fist.
‘Want,’ Huang Shaotian babbles, ‘want—’
Wei Chen wants, too. His mind is awash with the burst of excess magic, with the hot spill of Huang Shaotian’s come across his arm, his chest.
He wants to orgasm, fiercely, maybe three hundred times in a row. He wants to put Huang Shaotian on his back and fuck his cock into him, wants to take the place of the tendrils the guy has been riding and rail him hard. He wants to put Huang Shaotian on his hands and knees, and leave the tendrils there, and fuck his cock in beside them, too. He wants to tell Yu Wenzhou to stop watching, for fuck’s sake; wants him to hurry up and come over here already so Wei Chen can lick between Huang Shaotian’s legs while Yu Wenzhou fucks between Wei Chen’s; wants him to fuck Wei Chen’s mouth while Huang Shaotian puts his hand up Wei Chen’s ass; wants the pair of them to break him apart together (punishingly harsh) (brutally gentle)—
He wants to be done with this. He wants to never be done with this at all, actually.
‘Yeah,’ Wei Chen agrees, ass so full but somehow starving. ‘Yeah, please.’
When Huang Shaotian grows soft and lax, the tendrils’ confines weaken.
Wei Chen grunts and moves, jerking forward, pushing down, dropping to his hands and knees between Huang Shaotian’s legs. He sucks Huang Shaotian’s softening, wet dick into his mouth (Huang Shaotian shouts in shock; Huang Shaotian’s fingers tighten their grip in his hair and hold him closer). He summons up the shredded tatters of his control and makes the tendrils in his own ass pound him harder, faster, rougher.
There’s a loud, raw, hungry noise. It’s Yu Wenzhou. Wei Chen chokes on spit, on Huang Shaotian’s wet-soft dick.
Who knows which of them grips Wei Chen’s dick tight enough to stop him from coming despite the tendrils’ grip. Their hands are tangled, squeezing.
‘Oh. Yes.’ Huang Shaotian’s voice. When he tugs Wei Chen up by the hair, his grin has sharpened. He rubs his fingers against the swollen sting of Wei Chen’s lips; drops them down to rub and knead, too, against the come-wet hair on Wei Chen’s belly. ‘You should see him,’ Huang Shaotian play whispers, like he’s pretending Yu Wenzhou cannot hear him while making absolutely sure Yu Wenzhou definitely can. ‘He’s so hard right now, laoda, even the weight of his robes can’t keep his dick down. He’s so very, very hard for you. And for me, of course, because he’s always hard for me, and especially when I’m doing brilliant, awesome things with his magic, but he’s—oh, yeah, he’s so hard for you right now, in particular. I’ll let you look if you kiss me some more. Maybe I’ll even tell him to come over and fuck us. Fuck you, if you want.’
‘Shaotian.’ Yu Wenzhou’s voice remains soft and fond. For the first time, however, it carries a hint of warning. He adds, more carefully controlled than Wei Chen has ever heard him, and with the enormity of his power come close to a standstill, ‘We’ve talked about this. Captain Wei might not— Not everyone finds the idea of me as appealing as you do, Shaotian. And that’s alright. Perfectly understandable, in fact.’
Wei Chen blurts out, ‘What?’
(He’ll have excuses, later.)
‘I know, right?’ Huang Shaotian agrees. He looks far too cheerful for someone sitting around naked at the edge of a clearing, a Death’s Door glimmering at his back, dark tendrils draped around him, and his dick sloppy with Wei Chen’s spit.
For a tight-chested second, Wei Chen thinks they’re actually going to talk about it.
Except, then Huang Shaotian has shoved him back and down—is sitting on Wei Chen’s chest, semi-hard cock swaying in Wei Chen’s face and his expression triumphant, like he’s just executed some kind of martial arts weirdness rather than—this.
At least it knocks enough of the wind out of Wei Chen’s lungs for him to be saved from the indignity of moaning about it.
Yu Wenzhou, it turns out, does not have that luxury. The noise he makes is coarse and loud.
Around them, the tentacles are re-arranging. Wei Chen has no idea where his magic ends and Yu Wenzhou’s starts, not anymore, as they snare him in the position Huang Shaotian has chosen for him—somehow even more undignified and wide-open than before, and, worse, with his face fully on display as Huang Shaotian settles in to touch.
It’s almost like they’ve circled back around to the beginning, with Huang Shaotian directing the whole, messy, fucked-up business, except that now Huang Shaotian is naked while he does it, and he keeps draping himself against Wei Chen in the process, and also swinging back up to Wei Chen’s face to kiss him (deep and thorough) (bright and good and warm).
Also—Wei Chen can see Yu Wenzhou now. He can see Yu Wenzhou watching. He can see the line of the boner Yu Wenzhou’s heavy robes can’t keep down. He can see the expression on Yu Wenzhou’s face.
He can watch the faint motions of Yu Wenzhou’s fingers, ghost-twitches, too, so fine perhaps nobody other than another warlock might notice them at first, as Yu Wenzhou directs his magic on Huang Shaotian’s command.
Yu Wenzhou has been fucking him with their magic knit together all this time, Wei Chen knows that, but now he can see it happening, and he—
Fuck. Fuck.
Wei Chen is fucking dying. He’s actually going to die. He’s going to fling himself through the Death’s Door himself, is going to find out what happens when a warlock burns out in his own magic. At least, once they’ve let him come, anyway. No way is he fucking dying before he gets to come.
They haven’t let one of the tendrils back in his mouth. Sometimes, Huang Shaotian kneels at his face and fucks his burgeoning hard-on between Wei Chen’s lips, but mostly he seems set on hearing the noises Wei Chen is too fucked-out to stop himself from making. He wants to see Wei Chen’s face as he touches and kisses and directs the tendrils to fuck him slower, then harder, then squeeze at his balls.
‘Look so good, Laoda,’ Huang Shaotian keeps saying to Wei Chen, ‘all spread out like this for Wenzhou and me,’ and ‘Doesn’t he look so good, Captain?’ to Yu Wenzhou, and it’s making Wei Chen burn-throb-ache in an entirely different way than the tendrils are. It’s making Wei Chen squirm and sting—making Wei Chen wish Yu Wenzhou weren’t so fucking gentle with his fucking genius spell-theft, making Wei Chen wish—
‘Don’t you think he looks so great, Captain? Don’t you want to fuck him so bad?’
Wei Chen grunts, and groans, and definitely sobs. Wei Chen very possibly says, ‘Please.’
‘I think he looks very wonderful indeed, Shaotian,’ Yu Wenzhou agrees, voice carefully calm and properly shaky. ‘And also as though he might be really very ready for us to let him come.’
‘I think he’s ready for you to make him come,’ Huang Shaotian counters.
Wei Chen will forever pretend he has no idea what he says to that.
The noise Yu Wenzhou makes goes directly to Wei Chen’s dick. The rush of Yu Wenzhou’s magic fills Wei Chen to shouting, hoarse and wholehearted.
Huang Shaotian is laughing, delighted.
The tendrils scatter around Huang Shaotian, humming, singing, power and magic bent to his will as Huang Shaotian settles a knee on either side of Wei Chen’s hips. God knows what Wei Chen says when the tentacles death-gripping his dick squeeze then ever-so-carefully unfurl, slipping down around Wei Chen’s hips before snaking up and around Huang Shaotian’s, instead.
Huang Shaotian’s hands are steady upon Wei Chen’s chest as he drops himself onto Wei Chen’s cock—as he fucks himself down, hard and fast and deep, then bounces, once, twice, laughing and joyous, to the rhythm of the tendrils fucking Wei Chen’s ass (to the rhythm of Yu Wenzhou’s magic fucking Wei Chen’s everything else).
Wei Chen comes so hard he can’t goddamn see.
Huang Shaotian is still laughing, after, when Wei Chen shudders back into something like his whole mind. Huang Shaotian is bright with glee and wild with kisses. ‘You’re not gonna leave again, now, right?’ he’s saying, ‘You’re ours again, yeah? Yeah, Laoda? Properly, totally ours?’
And if Wei Chen says ‘Yes, yes,’—mouth open and yielding for Huang Shaotian—magic reaching forcibly for Yu Wenzhou, demanding him closer, bringing him to them—‘yes, please, yes—’
Well. He’s almost certain Yu Wenzhou won’t let Huang Shaotian hold him to it.