Chapter Text
—Please note the age requirement, FOR ADULTS ONLY.
—Livestream 14/09/2024
The soft glow of the camera lights still lingered, the frame capturing the youthful, vibrant atmosphere of an autumn camping trip. Firelight flickered and danced, weaving through the breath of the night wind and the faint aroma of food that still hung in the air after dinner had just been cooked.
Huang Xing and Qiu DingJie sat side by side, gathered around a small, makeshift wooden table. A few camping tools were placed nearby with deliberate care, arranged to look “casual” yet pleasing on camera. Within the frame, Huang Xing leaned slightly toward Qiu DingJie, chopsticks in hand, gently placing a peeled shrimp into his bowl. The gesture was so natural it felt as though the two of them had shared this kind of intimacy their entire lives.
He spoke softly, but clearly enough for the microphone to catch it: “Try it?”
Qiu DingJie lifted his head to look at him and gave a small nod: “Mm.”
He slowly picked up the shrimp, brought it to his mouth, and chewed just as unhurriedly. Then his brows relaxed, and his gaze softened.
Huang Xing tilted his head, watching him, his voice still even, almost like a whisper by the ear: “So?”
Qiu DingJie set his chopsticks down on the table and turned fully toward him, his smile bright as sunlight spilling across a lake: “It’s incredibly good. Amazing. Absolutely top-tier.”
Huang Xing didn’t answer—he just smiled. A smile so wide his eyes curved into crescents, his lips lifting with a gentleness that seemed ready to melt into the autumn breeze. Those eyes that were usually cool and distant now arched beautifully, long lashes trembling slightly, revealing a quiet, mischievous spark—like a clear stream slipping through stone, pure and stubborn all at once.
Qiu DingJie watched him smile and suddenly couldn’t look away. His shoulders loosened, his expression softening as well, his gaze filled with unmistakable fondness, as if he were holding onto a moment too beautiful to let slip away.
Even though he knew the cameras were still rolling, the angles still recording everything, in that instant, in his eyes, there was only Huang Xing—and the lingering sweetness of the person beside him.
The flickering firelight cast a warm red glow over both their cheekbones and high bridges of their noses.
No one spoke, yet their gazes kept meeting in the quiet pauses. This was no longer the kind of look exchanged for coordination, for performance, or for catching each other’s cues during a livestream. It was an unguarded look.
Slow. Heated. And gradually… slipping.
Huang Xing tilted his head, leaning slightly closer, as if by accident letting his hair fall a bit further, partially veiling the unmistakably seductive look in his eyes. Yet a single glance was enough to throw the other man’s heartbeat off by half a beat.
Qiu DingJie looked at him, his gaze carrying a faint smile, as though he knew nothing at all. But inside, a tiny sound rang out—like a string pulled taut and lightly plucked. A thought surfaced unbidden: later, when night fell, when it was just the two of them inside the same tent, completely cut off from the world, no cameras, no watching eyes…
…Just the thought alone sent a wave of heat rising to his throat.
They continued playing their roles in front of the lens—a pair of close, well-matched partners with perfect chemistry. But beneath that flawless surface were touches longing to continue, eyes aching to cross a boundary they had been carefully holding back from the very start.
Even when Huang Xing leaned over playfully, briefly resting a hand at his waist before pulling it back as if nothing had happened, a restless surge still rose inside Qiu DingJie. Because he knew—if they weren’t livestream, that hand would never have stopped there.
And Huang Xing was holding himself back too, even more than before, because Qiu DingJie’s gaze was layered with implication—restrained, amused, and openly secretive amid thousands of eyes watching the live broadcast.
That feeling was like sap seeping from a cracked branch—once it began to flow, nothing could stop it.
Not long after, the livestream ended. They said nothing as they left the camera area, simply walking side by side along the narrow path toward the tent that had been prepared in advance by the production team. This was an expanded camping area deep in the wild; each tent was spaced a full kilometer apart, offering extreme privacy. Everything was fully equipped—ultrasonic mosquito repellents, protection against insects and harmful wildlife—making the area well known for both safety and absolute seclusion.
Huang Xing took Qiu DingJie’s hand and pulled him along. All the sounds behind them gradually dissolved into the silence of the night forest, replaced by the wind brushing through wild grass and the soft rhythm of their mingled footsteps.
Tonight, the sky was full of stars—a rare sight during outdoor shoots, which are often plagued by clouds. Huang Xing lifted his head, his slender silhouette outlined as his thin shirt fluttered lightly in the breeze. Starlight spilled down, making his skin look even paler, more defined, his hair falling loosely to frame his proud, high cheekbones in a soft blur.
He asked casually, almost as if he didn’t care, his voice steady and gentle like wind slipping through a mountain pass: “Want to stargaze for a bit?”
Qiu DingJie slowed his steps by half a beat and turned to look at him. In those eyes was a reflection of the Milky Way—not the one overhead, but the one shimmering in their depths at that very moment.
He answered without hesitation: “I’m already looking at a star.”
Huang Xing was about to turn back when he heard him continue, his voice not lowered, yet noticeably softer: “...Really beautiful.”
Huang Xing’s hand stilled—not from the cold, but from how sincere that gaze was. Too gentle. Too direct. Like a confession that needed no disguise.
He turned his face away without a word. Yet his back straightened slightly, his steps slowed by half a beat. Shy? Yes. But more than that—he agreed. He wanted to be seen by Qiu DingJie, wanted to be gazed at.
When they reached the tent, neither of them went inside right away. Qiu DingJie turned on the light and rummaged through a small supply bag placed beside the tent—something the assistant had mentioned as “late-night snacks, in case you get hungry.” Inside was a chilled bottle of fruit wine, just enough to warm the body when the wind picked up, along with a bag of snacks and a few packets of salted roasted peanuts.
He held the bag, glanced at Huang Xing, and smiled lightly: “Go stargazing.”
Huang Xing didn’t reply. He simply tilted his head and walked ahead to the open space beside the tent, where starlight scattered across the grass. A thick, long mat had already been prepared there; the camping staff had been thoughtful enough to accommodate guests who wanted to lie down and watch the stars.
He sat close to Qiu DingJie, his back slightly inclined, resting his head against the other man’s shoulder like a willow branch leaning toward the surface of a lake. His shoulders were slender but not small; the clear lines of his frame gave the impression of a body that felt soft to the touch, yet carried a strange, resilient strength. His breath brushed against the fabric of Qiu DingJie’s jacket—light, gentle, like morning dew.
The wind swept across the grass, and the stars continued to sparkle like fine glitter scattered across the deep sky.
Qiu DingJie opened the bottle and handed it to Huang Xing first. Huang Xing took it without lifting his head, taking a small sip before passing it back.
The cool, dark grape wine spread gently over the tongue, a light hint of citrus lingering at the throat. Not harsh, not overly sweet—just enough to warm the heart, little by little.
A moment later, when the bottle was nearly half empty, Huang Xing began to shift. It wasn’t clear whether it was the chill or some other feeling that kept his fingers restless.
His hand slowly slid behind Qiu Dingjie’s back—very slowly, very lightly, as though he himself were testing a boundary. His fingertips brushed the fabric of the shirt, tracing gently along the spine, then drifting a little higher. It was only stroking, yet each touch drew a deep breath from Qiu Dingjie’s throat down to his lower belly.
Qiu Dingjie tilted his head slightly to look at him, but did not push the hand away.
He merely smiled.
No words passed between them, yet that silence spoke louder than a hundred sentences.
Neither worried about being caught. Here, deep in the forest, each couple’s tent had been placed far enough apart that even standing offered no glimpse beyond the faint silhouette of a distant peak. No lights, no voices. No one would wander to another’s tent in the middle of the night, and there was no reason to intrude on a private moment so carefully guarded.
Though the grassland lay close to dense jungle, this spot had been cleared, prepared, and reserved for professional outdoor excursions. The area was secured with sonic devices to repel insects and small animals, as well as hidden alarms to deter intrusion. Night here brought only stillness, never fear.
Behind Qiu Dingjie, those fingers slid slowly from his spine, circled his waist, and slipped beneath the thin shirt to the firm muscles of his abdomen.
He drew a quiet breath but did not stop him. He only gazed straight up at the sky, as though the stars above were no brighter than the heat gradually rising beneath his skin.
Huang Xing continued, this time sliding upward to his chest. Fingertips grazed lightly between the hard planes of muscle, as if tracing a secret, mischievous desire.
At that point, Qiu Dingjie could no longer let him run wild. He turned to face him, eyes drowned in want—wet, deep, deliberate.
“Naughty hand…” He caught the wrist, his voice low and rough, not scolding yet, but allowing no further advance.
Without waiting for a reaction, he pulled Huang Xing backward, pressing him down onto the mat.
He slipped off the outer jacket, then tugged the T-shirt up nearly to the chest. Kneeling astride one hip, his large frame loomed like a canopy over a slender willow trembling beneath him.
“Bite your shirt.” he murmured, eyes never leaving those lips.
Huang Xing offered no resistance, only slowly took the hem between his teeth, holding it there as though willingly stripping away every last defense.
His eyes grew moist—not from cold wind, not from wine, but from desire rising to his throat, blocking both sighs and reason. His pupils shone with a dreamy yet stubborn plea, as if urging the man above to ravage him quickly.
Qiu Dingjie bent down. His lips brushed lightly along the neck, paused at the Adam’s apple fluttering with rapid breaths, then nipped gently—not painful, but enough to make Huang Xing’s legs twitch reflexively.
Next came a long kiss on the collarbone, then lower to the chest.
His body covered him—both sheltering and submerging.
Beneath a sky full of stars, there was no sound but the wind. Yet beneath that wind, a night was quietly shattering into pieces.
The stars still glittered, but the sky seemed to withdraw farther, leaving the space below dark enough for every secret to bloom.
He pulled down the zipper of Huang Xing’s pants—not slowly, yet not hurriedly either. The motion was decisive, as though he knew exactly how far he was permitted. The underwear beneath sprang up through the opening, already damp, soaked with intent, as if it had absorbed the growing arousal from the moment they sat together. Huang Xing inhaled sharply, lips pressed tight to stifle the moan rising in his throat.
Qiu Dingjie lowered his head without further question. Warm breath enveloped the most vulnerable place, making Huang Xing’s body jerk lightly, his back arching into a graceful curve.
It hadn’t gone far yet, but every movement set him ablaze from within.
He lifted slightly—not to escape, but to draw closer—watching Qiu Dingjie’s lips glide along the edge of fabric, one cheek brushing his skin, then pausing, not touching the center, only pressing a kiss as light as a petal to the inner thigh that instinctively made his legs draw together.
When Qiu Dingjie looked up, his eyes held moisture yet carried that familiar gentle light. No haste. No urgency. Only cherishing, savoring, as though tasting something longed for far too long, unwilling to devour it quickly.
He traced a fingertip along the hip bone, over the thin skin below the navel, then bent to press his lips to the damp fabric at the center, kissing what had just been revealed.
The scent of skin, the salty taste of sweat from an evening of exertion, the lingering trace of wine on flesh—everything made his tongue burn, his throat parch with thirst.
He kissed from base to tip, lips enveloping the flushed head, gently sucking. Then his tongue licked down the fully hardened length—slow, steady, each stroke painting a word of love.
Huang Xing tilted his head back, chin lifted, eyes half-closed. One hand braced behind him to arch upward, body tensing lightly, yet only soft breaths and low, entranced moans escaped his throat.
Afterward Qiu Dingjie adjusted his own position, freeing himself from his pants, one hand reaching behind while continuing to savor the prize between Huang Xing’s thighs. Huang Xing watched him without blinking, his own gaze darkening—not from the night, but from being intoxicated to the point of breathlessness.
When Qiu Dingjie’s lips fully enclosed the head and slowly drew him in to the root, the enchantment made Huang Xing gradually lose control.
“Jie…” His voice was hoarse, wine mingling with breath, drawn out like a trembling thread: “Come here.”
Huang Xing shifted, gently turning him over, lifting his hips—placing them face-to-face yet reversed.
The position carried some embarrassment. For Huang Xing, it was nothing—Qiu Dingjie’s face was still buried in him. But for Qiu Dingjie, having his ass so close to Huang Xing’s face—how could it feel ordinary? Yet with passion burning, how could they stop?
Huang Xing gazed at the place Qiu Dingjie had already loosened slightly—still very tight—and breathed softly as though inviting. He parted his lips; the moment touched, his hand slid downward. His middle finger settled between the cheeks, gently parting them. He didn’t push in immediately—only traced a circle around the rim with the pad, feeling the heat, the faint reflexive clench of smooth muscle, the scorching intensity that threatened to consume him.
He bent deeper, tongue extending to touch directly.
Qiu Dingjie, beneath him, jolted, body tensing, a stifled moan muffled against the head he held in his mouth.
Huang Xing’s tongue circled, traced along the cleft, then paused at the center, pressing a soft kiss. His hands gripped the firm cheeks, thumbs pulling wider, before his tongue pressed deeper between.
“Mm…” Qiu Dingjie shuddered, breath catching, the sound forced back.
Inside was still very tight, not truly open yet. But Huang Xing was in no rush. He licked lightly, circling until his tongue glided slickly over the sensitive spot, making it wetter, warmer, beginning to yield and relax in response.
Only then did he slide a finger in.
Just one knuckle. Enough to feel the body clench around him.
Qiu Dingjie still held him in his mouth, but the rhythm faltered. Breath grew ragged; the tongue trembled, and even the steady sucking lost its evenness.
Huang Xing pushed another knuckle. Withdrew. Pushed again while his tongue circled the rim.
Behind… was beginning to soften. Relax. Slippery, as though he could slide deeper at any moment.
He did.
Two fingers. At the same time, his tongue continued licking, mouth sucking, breath mingling in the sweat-damp, heated cleft.
Qiu Dingjie moaned aloud for the first time—loud, long, gradually losing control.
His body could no longer lie still. Legs trembled, hips arched higher, opened wider, as if silently begging the one below to torment him further.
Huang Xing did not refuse the wordless invitation.
He added a third finger—three now nestled snugly in that hot, wet space. The passage was so tight it felt suffocating, smooth muscle continuously clenching with each ragged breath Qiu Dingjie took.
Each withdrawal made the rim tighten as though trying to keep the fingers inside. Each thrust inward met gripping resistance—not rigid refusal, but pulsing stimulation, the body craving fuller occupation.
“Mm…” Qiu Dingjie moaned softly, lips parting, voice fracturing.
Wine burned in Huang Xing’s blood; his eyes were red, breath urgent. He arched, stroking along Qiu Dingjie’s spine, yet the other hand never paused—twisting the three fingers to explore, widen, create more space inside.
He exhaled long, then gently pressed his little finger alongside the clustered three.
The moment it touched the rim, the body clenched.
Qiu Dingjie let out a wordless cry, hips lowering then rising instinctively. Huang Xing noted the reaction and pushed more decisively, the little finger slipping into the already-relaxed opening.
Four fingers.
It felt like thrusting an entire hand into a secret place. The small opening was hot, pulsing, wet, yet stubbornly tight, drawing him in while gently resisting the pressure from within.
The passage began to bloom.
Huang Xing leaned forward, fingers still in place, chin resting against one firm, round cheek, whispering: “Can you hear it?”
No answer.
He twisted the four fingers slowly, then pushed deep—right to the base knuckles, reaching the farthest his hand could go.
Qiu Dingjie jerked, chest lifting off the mat, hands clutching the fabric edge.
“This… this is…” He gasped, moaning as though breaking.
“Inside you…” Huang Xing murmured low, withdrawing slightly: “…it’s telling me it wants me badly.”
Then he thrust again—this time less hesitant, wilder, fiercer, as though aiming for the deepest core of pleasure within his lover. The words were never crude, yet coming from his mouth, they made Qiu Dingjie sound utterly depraved, desperate for him. Such a silver tongue.
Though Huang Xing twisted more forcefully than usual, he remained in perfect control. He knew the limits—love was not trampling the beloved, but igniting the struggle he was allowed to reach.
He withdrew slightly, hearing a wet “plop” from the cleft. Then thrust again, feeling the rim pulse like a breathing mouth.
That body… was completely ready.
He drew the four fingers out slowly but firmly, hearing a soft wet parting, then bent once more.
Without giving time to react, he spoke again.
His tongue touched the newly widened opening—soft, red, warm. He circled the rim, then pressed deep without warning. Long, agile tongue brushed lightly then swirled, as though hooking suppressed pleasure.
Qiu Dingjie still held him, initially maintaining rhythm—light sucking, steady motion. But after only a few swirls, his lips parted, supporting arm unsteady. Why did Huang Xing keep licking there—hadn’t he just done it? Had the wine made him forget?
Yet the response was another deep lick from Huang Xing, tongue gliding over slick wetness, delving close inside, circling as though stirring gently.
“Mm… ah…”
He let out a choked moan, mouth slipping from the shaft.
Huang Xing said nothing. Only continued. Tongue pushing in, sucking, swirling, lapping deep like a soft whip striking pleasure nerves.
Qiu Dingjie arched, hips twitching with each suck.
When his mouth finally released completely, chin resting on the thigh, eyes closed, whole body trembling lightly, only then did Huang Xing withdraw his tongue, hands squeezing the cheeks, asking softly: “Good boy… stopped pleasing me?”
Qiu Dingjie startled, face flushing crimson, lips parted as though caught: “You…”
“So overwhelmed you forgot your task?” Huang Xing smiled faintly, bending to blow lightly on the darkened rim: “You were so eager earlier.”
Qiu Dingjie bit his lip, intending to resume, but Huang Xing denied him. He used his mouth again—this time faster, stronger.
He spread his hands, gripping both cheeks, pulling wide, then thrust his tongue straight in. No more caressing. No more teasing. Each lick struck the soft inner flesh, dragging pleasure upward along the spine.
Qiu Dingjie curled, hands groping for purchase, lips parted yet voiceless.
“Mm… ah… mm…” Hesitant moans spilled like warm water, trembling uncontrollably.
Huang Xing licked deeper, using the full length to pull, press, swirl in slow circles, forming a maze. Each swirl made the rim clench harder, pulsing reflexively stronger.
Qiu Dingjie lifted his chest, his head dropping, his face buried in the mat, his lower body fully open, lacking the strength to close.
Yet Huang Xing did not stop—hands kneading, spreading, tongue plunging inside, then drawing out with sucking sounds mingling with breaths and moans, thickening the air like steam.
He wanted to speak, beg, do something… but each time he opened his mout,h another swirl made him shudder.
His body softened. Thighs shook violently, hips jerked.
He moaned in his throat, unable to cry out, only muffled whimpers stifled by overwhelming pleasure, completely ignoring the large of Huang Xing, hard presence pressing against his face.
Huang Xing lifted his head: “It’s looking at you—seeing your blissed-out face and leaking nonstop.”
No reply. The Huang Xing's rigid length was indeed dripping, staining Qiu DingJie's face; embarrassed, he turned away, covering one flushed cheek, back still heaving.
Huang Xing lightly slapped his ass—a clear “smack.”
He leaned forward, tongue still glistening, tracing a line from the cleft up the spine, then whispered with a soft laugh: “If the upper mouth can’t manage… let the lower one do it.”
Just one sentence.
Qiu Dingjie felt electrified—face burning, body jerking lightly, hands immediately pushing him back down.
“Let me.” he rasped, voice holding back fire.
Huang Xing raised a brow: “Hm?”
“I’ll do it myself.” His voice was short, clear: “I have to do it myself…”
Without finishing, he braced his hands, slowly shifting upward along Huang Xing’s hips.
Not facing him. Too embarrassing!
He turned his back, sitting with his spine slightly curved, his head resting under the faint moonlight filtering through the tent fabric. He had only removed his pants; the shirt now hung down, covering his ass, yet still outlined firm lines that made one want to pull him close.
He adjusted himself, one hand reaching behind, the other guiding Huang Xing’s length toward entry. Huang Xing watched, gaze darkening—not from night, but from being intoxicated to breathlessness.
“Wait… Jie.” Huang Xing said, voice husky and soft: “Not enough yet—you’ll hurt yourself.”
Qiu Dingjie looked at him, breath catching, not fully understanding—did he mean more oral? He was already positioned!
“There’s gel in my bag.” Huang Xing continued, eyes fixed on the trembling hand.
Qiu Dingjie bent to retrieve the small tube, lips curving faintly: “So prepared?”
Huang Xing frowned, silent, but faint embarrassment showed clearly.
“The crew put us together—not for this, you know.” Qiu Dingjie teased, deliberately lowering his voice.
Huang Xing met his gaze, eyes curving like a hidden smile. He reached out, lightly tapping the discarded pants beside them: “The back pocket of your pants… four condoms. What’s that about?”
His voice was soft, yet each word burned the nape of Qiu Dingjie’s neck.
“Daring to tease me?”
Qiu Dingjie paused, then burst into quiet laughter, throat vibrating with suppressed mirth. After laughing, he leaned down, forehead to forehead, eyes half-closed, breath falling directly on the other’s lips: “Just in case.”
“Hm?” Huang Xing arched a brow, lips nearly touching.
In that moment, everything paused, as though the Milky Way itself halted before erupting in a different, deeper, wetter way—no pretense left between them.
He handed the gel to Huang Xing, who took it, opened the cap, and squeezed some onto his palm. Cool. Clear, slightly sticky. Without hesitation, he placed a hand on Qiu Dingjie’s thigh. Slowly, in gentle circles, he spread the gel over the lightly twitching place.
He sat up, joining their hands. Both sets of fingers intertwined, advancing together into the warm, tight passage. Narrow yet welcoming, enough to make Huang Xing swallow hungrily.
After a while of coating together, Qiu Dingjie pushed Huang Xing back down, refusing to let him rise. Huang Xing was very obedient, lying there with one hand on his hip and the other supporting his back, awaiting the result.
Qiu Dingjie pressed his lips together.
His hand grasped Huang Xing’s rigid length, gently spreading gel—hot, slick, pulsing with each stroke. The rounded head swelled like a mass of raw desire, making him tremble yet crave it.
He pulled his own hips apart slightly, lowering very slowly.
The moment the head touched, a gentle, hungry clench answered within him.
Then he truly descended.
Skin met skin. The thin skin between his thighs clung to Huang Xing. The hard head pressed against the sensitive entrance—pulsing, not yet fully open.
The rim clenched once, then released.
He exhaled sharply—no moan, yet goosebumps rose everywhere.
The head began to slide in—large, thick, rigid—each vein a line of direct stimulation to the brain.
He braced his hands, arching his neck slightly. Each inch felt like a century.
No matter how many times. No matter how familiar his body had become. No matter how softly it welcomed inside.
Every entry felt like the first. Every time is indescribably exquisite.
The sensation of being filled—not merely occupied but possessed—even while the other lay still.
When half the length was inside, he jerked lightly, lips parting wordlessly.
At that instant, Huang Xing asked softly: “Need help?”
He didn’t nod, didn’t turn, voice choked as though swallowing something bitter: “No………”
Huang Xing gave a quiet laugh, hand lightly gripping his waist: “Mm, take your time!”
Qiu Dingjie offered no reply, swallowing embarrassment, continuing to lower until the base touched his skin, everything gradually sinking deep inside, no gap remaining.
He exhaled heavily, then lifted slightly, beginning to move up and down on his own.
At first everything remained under his control.
Qiu Dingjie braced his hands, trying to keep his back straight, silently rising and falling. Each stroke is steady and gentle.
Taking the lead. In that moment, he reclaimed a sliver of dignity.
But…
Huang Xing subtly reclaimed dominance with a slight upward push, then a shallow withdrawal that pulled Qiu Dingjie irresistibly along.
He lowered his hips a fraction, and the head that had just entered was gripped—hot, wet-soft, layers of flesh wrapping every raised vein, stretching with each advancing inch.
His lips parted—no moan, but neck arched back, spine curving lightly, thighs clenching as though enduring a familiar yet never fully accustomed pressure.
Huang Xing lifted his hips, adding a gentle thrust. Qiu Dingjie’s body nearly shuddered—not quite from pain, but sudden overwhelming fullness.
The feeling was like a burning mass forced into the soft, wet, clenching entrance; the air between them thickened to barely breathe, and the faint, slick sound of skin meeting skin.
His body swallowed Huang Xing inch by inch.
Not fast. Yet each descent, each inch of contact, ignited fire low in his belly.
Inside he stretched, smooth muscle rings sliding yet clenching in rhythm. Huang Xing felt not only tightness but pulsing waves, as though being swallowed, held, and refused release.
No words. Only ragged, heated breaths scattering into the cold night air.
When he finally sat fully, the entire length buried within, both spines glistened with sweat.
The stretch was so intense that even Huang Xing struggled to remain calm. Inside clung so tightly that the slightest movement threatened to spill all the heat in surging waves.
He reached up, his palm against his waist, sliding down to his abdomen, feeling heat radiate throughout his lower body. Each inhale made the abdominal muscles contract, pulling the inner flesh to lightly grip the buried length.
Slick, wet, hot, tight.
The body felt like a blazing sanctuary, drawing him in, swallowing, keeping him in rapturous devotion.
A few deeper thrusts, a little more heat, one light push from below—and Qiu Dingjie began losing rhythm.
His body, already softened from prior stretching, now only reacted to pleasure. Each descent slowed because every lowering filled him completely—stretched taut, burning, as though gripping a flame, pain and pleasure numbing him.
His vision blurred.
Breath uneven.
Hands trembling.
Finally, the hips could no longer rise.
Huang Xing sensed it. He caressed the hips—initially gentle, but seeing movement nearly paralyzed, he gripped firmly and began thrusting upward, stronger, no longer shallow.
“Mm—!”
The first thrust was powerful; Qiu Dingjie’s whole body jerked, his chin nearly hitting Huang Xing's knee.
But Huang Xing did not pause.
Each subsequent thrust… forceful.
Force from a dancer’s hips—supple yet explosive, steady like drumbeats, each strike like a hammer to the tailbone, making Qiu Dingjie’s spine tingle and tremble.
“Mm… ah… ah, you… Huang Xing… wait…”
He tried to speak, but each next thrust shattered the final syllable.
His voice fractured into moans, then choked sobs.
Huang Xing rose slightly, unrelenting, tilting Qiu Dingjie’s back backward.
“Can you still do it yourself?” he asked very softly.
No answer. Only gasping breath, eyes barely open, tears glistening at the corners.
Huang Xing leaned forward, grasping the shirt collar, then delivered another powerful thrust.
Qiu Dingjie cried out.
Not from pain. But… too much pleasure, unbearable.
Lips parted yet speechless. Moans broken, uncertain whom he called or what he begged.
“Good boy…” Huang Xing whispered, lightly squeezing his waist: “…so obedient down there. Clenching me so tightly…”
He wanted to protest. Yet his body betrayed him—clenching harder, hotter, sucking as though refusing release.
Huang Xing did not stop. Each thrust grew steadier, deeper, stronger—as though proving that even turned away, wordless, he could see the craving on Qiu Dingjie’s face.
In front of him, he began to drip.
Behind, each impact sent waves crashing up his spine, heating every vertebra, making him tremble uncontrollably.
“You…” Huang Xing whispered: “Down there is crying so hard.”
Qiu Dingjie broke into tears. Above crying, below crying.
He felt utterly invaded, loved to his very marrow, and sensed how desperately the one beneath wanted to ruin him.
Huang Xing’s body began burning beyond control.
Wine coursed through his veins, radiating from his heart to his fingertips, making his hips move faster, deeper, harder to stop. Not overly rough, yet each thrust carried a wave crashing into the deepest place, drowning every cell within Qiu Dingjie.
“Mm… ah… ah—!”
He could no longer speak. Each time he opened his mouth, his lower body was driven into, pushed straight to his belly, leaving only fractured moans.
Huang Xing sat up, holding him tightly, back against chest, arms locked around waist, then sliding up to grasp his chest, rubbing lightly, fingertips tracing from nipples to ribs, then down the lower abdomen before continuing to thrust.
Each stroke decisive like a finishing blow, yet linked without pause.
“I love you so much.” Huang Xing hissed near his ear—perhaps the wine made the words truer.
No reply. Tears rolled down cheeks, lips parted, breath uneven, moans broken. Qiu Dingjie’s hands clutched Huang Xing’s arms, slid to his thighs, then gripped his own ass as though unsure where to hold to survive the vortex.
Huang Xing’s length throbbed, swallowed tightly in the continuously pulsing passage. Each withdrawal produced a wet “plop”, each entry a soft “squish” like water meeting water.
Skin on skin. Veins on flesh. Each collision a hammer blow shattering Qiu Dingjie’s remaining defenses.
“I… can’t…”
He whispered, uncertain to whom.
Not quite lost to reason—the thin line between awareness and instinct dissolved gradually in wine. Huang Xing’s hands still held his hips, but the grip intensified. Thrusts no longer measured but rapid, fierce—as though wanting to drive him deeper, keep him within his own body.
Each upward push made his body jolt visibly. Unable to keep his back straight, he slumped forward, hands bracing on Huang Xing’s thighs, seeking anchorage.
“Mm… wait… don’t…” His voice hoarse, yet not truly refusing. Tone faltering, as though his body betrayed his words.
Huang Xing did not stop; one hand slid lower, finding his hardened length—hot, wet, pulsing clearly beneath his palm.
He began stroking. Moderate force, steady rhythm coordinating with thrusts from below. Dual invasion—one from within, one from without—pulling Qiu Dingjie from reality.
“No… wait… that… ah, you…” Words jumbled, fragmented, no complete sentence: “I… want to come!”
His body convulsed in waves; inside, clenched so hard, Huang Xing groaned low and deep from his chest.
He bit lightly on the shoulder, kissed the ear, whispering: “Then come, baby…”
He thrust one final deep stroke. To the root.
Qiu Dingjie’s body arched, waist nearly spasming, then…
“Mm… Ah—!”
He came.
Whole body shaking as though electrocuted. Semen shot onto his chest, then continued dripping in waves, unending.
Huang Xing did not stop.
The next thrust forced more out mid-climax. Front shooting while behind, clenched, sucking as though trying to draw his essence.
“You…!” Huang Xing groaned for the first time, hands gripping his waist, one final thrust burying deep, holding.
Then he reached climax.
Hot and overflowing.
Wave after wave of semen poured straight inside, like fire flooding the deepest place. Qiu Dingjie’s body trembled with each pulse, clearly feeling each hot layer touch inner walls, seeping where no one had reached. Wave after wave, uncontrollable as though his body were a bottomless well. Each slight jerk pushed more deeply inside.
Climax passed; his body relaxed completely.
As though loved to pieces.
Qiu DingJie slumped, utterly limp, sweat beading at his temples, goosebumps along his spine.
Huang Xing still held him, unmoving, his grip unwavering.
After a while—perhaps seconds, perhaps a lifetime of ragged breaths—he shifted, exhaling long, clearly feeling something warm spilling from within.
The hot fluid traced the rim, sliding down thighs, pooling on the mat below.
He trembled lightly, voice markedly weaker: “…No condom?”
Huang Xing leaned to kiss his nape, voice still husky: “What about it?”
No immediate answer. He only glanced sideways, then down at their joined place, moaning softly in complaint: “It’s all leaking out—you knew I brought them, what’s the point…”
His tone scolded yet lacked force—not anger, only slight helplessness at forgetting the necessary thing himself, allowing himself to be filled until his legs went numb.
Huang Xing smiled, hand gently stroking his back, shrugging lightly: “You were in such a hurry—after opening up, you just sat down yourself…”
Qiu Dingjie exhaled heavily—clearly unable to argue.
A moment later, Huang Xing tightened his hold, voice dropping lower, soft yet clear: “Besides… out here in nature… I wanted no barrier between us.”
Qiu Dingjie turned to glare.
Huang Xing met the gaze unflinching, only kissing his cheek lightly, hand still tracing the spine.
Intent unmistakable—he wanted to release inside, to be completely bare together.
Now he withdrew slowly, pulling a stream of warm fluid along the underside, wetting Qiu Dingjie’s thighs. Seeing the traces he left, Huang Xing smiled faintly—satisfied, like an artist placing the final stroke.
Night had grown late. The wind turned cooler, and dew settled on the grass. Huang Xing said nothing, only slipped a hand beneath Qiu Dingjie’s knees, lifting him easily into his arms, carefully avoiding the still-sensitive lower belly.
Qiu Dingjie buried his face in his neck, one arm around the nape, the other sliding to the left bicep. In the earlier frenzy, he’d forgotten; now, holding the shoulder, he remembered—the skin there reddened from accidentally brushing a hot pan while cooking.
His fingers traced the red mark, voice hoarse from wine and afterglow: “Still hurt?”
No answer. Huang Xing only lifted his chin, brow raised as though not hearing clearly.
“Does it still hurt much?” he asked again, clearer.
Huang Xing laughed aloud, stepping into the tent: “Why do you keep asking? I’m a strong young man, a little thing like this is nothing.”
Qiu Dingjie’s hand stayed on the mark, muttering: “You’re an artist. You can’t get hurt.”
Huang Xing set him on the mattress, tilting his head with a very soft smile: “So how many more times are you going to ask?”
Qiu Dingjie’s lips curved, gaze deepening, hand tracing the veins along the arm: “Can’t answer… or should I check again?”
Huang Xing offered no reply, only gently pushed him to lie back, bending to kiss his forehead tenderly.
“Worry about yourself first.” He said softly, beginning to undress him.
Layer by layer, fabric lifted, revealing flushed skin, damp with sweat, trembling faintly. Then he undressed himself—no rush. When the last underwear slid down, his lower part sprang free—still hard, heavy—landing on Qiu Dingjie’s thigh with a very real “thud”.
Qiu Dingjie shuddered lightly.
Huang Xing did not wait. He lifted his legs, placing both over his shoulders, hands bracing behind, hips pressing close between. A near-traditional position, yet fiercer—gravity driving downward, proximity closer, inside softened from prior climax yet still gripping as tightly as the first touch.
Qiu Dingjie breathed rapidly, chest heaving; one hand was pulled upward, placed on the previously burned bicep.
“Hold tight.” Huang Xing said—not commanding, but entrusting.
Without waiting, he lifted his hips, entering again—no foreplay needed, no further opening; everything slicker than ever.
Inside swallowed him once more—slippery, burning, no resistance.
“That competition year…” Huang Xing breathed as he bottomed out: “I trained until I injured myself—muscles strained every day, nights painful enough I couldn’t sleep.”
Qiu Dingjie opened his eyes, listening to the story amid the night wind slipping through the tent, making the lantern sway briefly.
“This burn…” Huang Xing continued, gaze fixed where fingers gripped: “It reminds me you touched me, hurt me, etched your mark on my body.”
Each word utterly sincere, bordering on madness.
Qiu Dingjie looked at the faintly red skin—truly only slightly pink, no blister, no swelling, no blood. Yet even if worse, Huang Xing would never blame him; several times before, he’d accidentally hurt him more and received no complaint.
He understood Huang Xing never wanted anyone—especially him—to see him too fragile.
Though delicate and gentle, he never appeared weak before him; he could display softness for pampering yet absolutely refused to let him worry over everything.
Qiu Dingjie admired Huang Xing for his words. Believing what he did. Accepting that right now, taking the initiative to hold him was not about dominance but about keeping him with both arms.
Huang Xing began moving. This time, not measured as before but deliberate—each thrust driving to the root, deep enough to make Qiu Dingjie’s lower abdomen contract with every impact.
He gripped the bicep tightly, trying to steady his breath. Yet each upward thrust felt like tearing inside—not excessive pain, but overwhelming stretch, depth, intensity blurring the line between pleasure and endurance.
Huang Xing watched his flushed face, hair damp with sweat, lips parted, gasping, eyes fully clouded.
“It’s not that I think you’re weak.” Qiu Dingjie said, voice broken by arching with each thrust: “Just… when you hurt… I hurt too…”
Hearing this, Huang Xing’s lips curved—not quite a smile, but something stirred in his eyes.
“Then…” He suddenly thrust hard, hips driving up fully, burying to the root, pressing Qiu Dingjie’s ass to the mat: “Does it hurt now?”
Before an answer, another thrust.
One deep push held at the end, not withdrawing immediately. Qiu Dingjie opened his mouth speechless, a moan caught in his throat, breaking into urgent gasping.
Huang Xing bent close, lips near his ear, breath scorching: “Seeing you ‘hurt’ so much you can’t speak…”
Fingers slid from bicep to waist, gripping tight, delivering another thrust—deep, thick, forceful, sound soft yet more dangerous than ever: “…I hurt a lot too.”
His voice choked—not from restraint but from desire strangling him: “There… 'it' hurts so much. Wants to fill you fast, to ease a little…”
Qiu Dingjie could only arch with each press, the length touching so deeply inside, clenched instinctively, gripping, refusing release. Each withdrawal produced wet sounds between bodies—like the liveliest response of a fully awakened flesh.
Huang Xing continued thrusting. Each to the root, held a second before pulling back—as though deliberately pressing both body and soul, sinking him into a haze where thought ceased.
No pain left, no boundaries. Only moans mingling with broken breath, a burning stream awaiting release deep within the trembling body opening beneath him.
A few more strokes—faster, deeper, entire body covering the one below. Each heavy and decisive, carrying wine and pent-up desire with no escape.
“Mm… you… slower… ah!” Qiu Dingjie felt he could no longer breathe, eyes wet and blurred, lips parted yet unable to form clear words.
“How can I go slow…” Huang Xing bent, lips against the fevered ear: “You clench like this… so wet… you’re seducing me more.”
Then he rose, causing Qiu Dingjie’s back to arch higher.
He was folded until balance failed. Thighs gripped firmly by Huang Xing, pressed down, knees near chest, calves trembling upright, nearly embracing Huang Xing’s head in a stark, utterly vulnerable curve.
From above, he drove downward—each thrust striking straight up the spine, shaking every joint.
“Mm…!” Qiu Dingjie moaned, choking, neck arching reflexively.
Each thrust lifted his body slightly from the mat, lower part ceaselessly clenching, entrance fully open, swallowing Huang Xing’s length as though terrified of loss. Every vein, every faint pulse, every layer of slick fluid—he felt it all in panicked clarity.
“Done once and still this tight…” Huang Xing hissed, voice hoarse from arousal: “…want to devour me alive?”
He shook his head, speechless, only breathing hard, yet his eyes still looked down.
And in that moment, he saw…
Saw everything happening between his own legs.
Saw his own entrance—never meant to accept anything—reddened, widened, rim glistening, swallowing Huang Xing’s large length stroke by stroke, each thrust imprinting deep.
Each withdrawal—the rim flared, fluid gushing, producing wet “plops”. Each entry—it clenched neatly, achingly, like a tender mouth ceaselessly inviting.
His vision blurred, yet the image burned into his mind.
He could bear no more. Words burst like an unexpected spasm.
“So big… But... I eat it all…”
Huang Xing froze half a second, then let out a low, rough laugh in his throat, hands gripping thighs harder, next thrust driving straight in as an answer.
“What did you say?” Voice low, near his ear.
Qiu Dingjie turned his face, lips trembling. How could he unconsciously say such a thing—calling "that" of Huang Xing big was admitting his own body was wide enough to take it daily, swallow it daily? Hands clung to his own ankles for leverage against the force below; each question deepened his shame yet drove him maddeningly wild.
“No…” He moaned, voice breaking: “Not…”
“Not what?” Huang Xing smiled lightly, delivering another thrust to the root, drawing long tears.
He hiccuped softly in his throat, ass trembling, rim pulsing continuously as though replaying the words.
Huang Xing thrust steadily without pause—measured, strong yet unhurried. Like a focused dance—full of rhythm, each movement concentrating power and depth rather than brutal pounding.
“You saw it yourself.” He said: “Saw how well you eat me.”
“Your mouth… so obedient. Crying, clenching me tight.”
Qiu Dingjie cried softly. Tears spilled from corners, lips trembling ceaselessly, moans turning chaotic like a bullied child’s sobs.
“Don’t say it anymore… don’t…” He moaned: “Stop a moment… you…”
“Why stop?” Another thrust, then held deep and close: “You want to stop but that soaked, greedy hole wants more!”
His whole body arched, spine lifting from the mat, hands releasing ankles as though offering everything.
“Not… like that!” Qiu DingJie shook his head, gasping, then helplessly admitted: “Too big… hitting everything…”
“Yes.” Huang Xing's voice is low yet gentle, hand tracing thigh up belly, navel, to chest: “Reached your heart, hasn’t it?”
Then a powerful thrust. Truly like reaching the heart, making him feel breathless.
Qiu Dingjie no longer knew if he moaned or cried—only cried out long then arched, trembling, releasing without touch—hot waves shooting onto chest, belly, body convulsing uncontrollably.
Huang Xing gripped his waist tight; the clenching was so intense it nearly choked his own heart—he growled low in his chest. Just before that moment he withdrew—fast, decisive—pulling all heat from the body.
The air between them nearly shattered from sudden emptiness.
Immediately after, breath surging, he tilted his head back, lightly biting his lower lip, one hand at the base, then…
Released.
First stream shot high, landing on Qiu Dingjie’s lower belly. Second traced across chest. Third lightly touched his cheek just below the eye, sliding down like a warm raindrop in the cold night; then dozens more scattered wildly across his face.
His body jerked with each wave, veins bulging at temples, neck, biceps, spine arching, whole frame gripped in fierce pleasure.
In that instant Qiu Dingjie’s eyes opened wide, gaze hypnotized.
He saw every vein raised along Huang Xing’s lower abdomen, every violent pulse in his arms, breath like wind through an expanded chest. Nothing hidden.
A beauty reaching climax—entire body flushed with blood, sweat tracing temples, down the beautiful face, along the proud neck. The whole face glowed pink, impossible to conceal.
Beautiful… the word flashed through his mind.
He gasped, unwilling to blink.
Only lay there, letting warm semen fall on skin, letting emotion flood his chest, completely enveloped by a Huang Xing shattered in ecstasy—seductive as a god, yet absolutely his own.
Only when the other gradually calmed, looking at him, did he snap back, now clearly feeling the sticky wetness on his face.
Embarrassed, he raised a hand to wipe, but it was caught.
“Don’t.” Huang Xing said: “I want to look.”
Breath still ragged, hand holding the wrist, eyes full of longing and adoration.
Looking at him—breathing unevenly, cheeks flushed pink, skin damp with sweat, covered in traces belonging to him.
Qiu Dingjie fell silent, then slowly closed his eyes.
No protest.
Only blushing… and letting him look.
Until Huang Xing wiped him clean—quite thoroughly—before embarrassment eased and he slowly opened his eyes.
After the fierce lovemaking, Huang Xing curled up like a small cat, his head on his shoulder, his soft hair spilling into the hollow of his neck, while Qiu Dingjie cooperatively held him, his hand on his back, gently stroking, listening to each breath.
“…Today was really fun.” Huang Xing said softly, wine still lingering on his tongue.
“Mm.” Qiu Dingjie answered, lightly stroking down to his waist.
“Even if the crew wasn’t perfect… it was still really fun.” He exhaled, eyes on the tent roof: “Like being young again.”
Qiu Dingjie offered no reply, only gently waited for his lover to speak.
“And you know, back in school I wasn’t happy at all.” Huang Xing continued, as though telling someone else’s story: “Cold, isolated—not intentionally, but I didn’t know how to fit in.”
Qiu Dingjie nodded silently. Huang Xing had told him before—years of being distanced by peers, sometimes quietly bullied—by words, looks, and the way people laughed together yet passed him by as though he were invisible.
“So now camping, games, cooking together… all of it feels like that time coming back.”
As though someone carefully filled the hollows carved in memory.
His voice was light, yet Qiu Dingjie’s chest tightened.
He tightened his arms, kissing the top of his head in silent comfort.
Qiu Dingjie was different—outgoing, many friends, once the school heartthrob—could never truly understand that feeling. Yet every word from Huang Xing sank into his heart, aching, painful.
He pulled him closer, forehead to forehead: “In the future, whatever you want to experience… I’ll be there.”
No answer. Huang Xing only buried his face in his shoulder, nodding faintly.
Outside, night wind rustled.
But in his lover’s arms—peace. A youth reborn through loving each other to the very roots.
A while later, when both breaths had nearly steadied, Qiu Dingjie turned his head, whispering near his ear: “Cold?”
Huang Xing shivered lightly, voice still hoarse: “Hm?”
He hated heat—Qiu Dingjie knew—so the cold one was himself.
“Then let me get the blanket.” He said, bracing to rise.
But the moment he lifted, sharp pain shot from his waist; he clutched his hip, hissing softly: “Ah… damn…”
Huang Xing looked at him, head tilted, then received a grumble: “Next time show some restraint. You’re a professional dancer—your body’s like a spring… one push and I’m ready to reincarnate.”
Huang Xing smiled faintly, eyes curving—deeply pleased. To him, it was the sweetest compliment.
“Come here.” He braced to sit up, patting the mat: “Lie down, I’ll massage you.”
Qiu Dingjie raised a brow: “Hmph!”
“Come on.” Huang Xing shrugged, turning to find the remaining gel—not for lube but as makeshift massage oil.
Qiu Dingjie rolled back face down, sighing in resignation. Huang Xing straddled his hips, palms pressing into the lower back.
His touch was professional—precise pressure points, just enough force to make Qiu Dingjie exhale in relief, face buried in the pillow.
He worked along the waist, then the hips, fingers following natural curves.
He looked down. Qiu Dingjie’s ass was truly beautiful—round, soft yet firm, full enough that when sitting, it perfectly filled another’s hands. Skin pale yet vibrant, thighs slender but not skinny, plump enough to invite endless squeezing and touching.
He did exactly that.
Hand sliding from waist to ass, squeezing firmly—a clear “smack” echoing in the quiet.
Qiu Dingjie jerked lightly: “Hey…”
“Massaging.” Huang Xing answered deadpan, lips curving faintly. Hand moved to thighs, thumbs pressing inner muscle, slowly circling outward, up to ass, squeezing again.
Fingers brushed—almost accidentally—the edge of the cleft, still swollen and hot from earlier torment.
Qiu Dingjie shuddered.
His lower body reacted—from post-climax limpness, it twitched faintly, then rose bit by bit as though awakened.
Huang Xing saw. And smiled silently—desire soft yet clear.
He bent, lips brushing the spine, tracing down the vertebrae.
“You said restraint…” He whispered, hand circling the ass: “We just finished, and you already want more…”
He continued stroking the waist, hand sliding to the ass, pausing at the cleft. Fingertip pressed lightly in a circle.
“You…” He asked, voice light as a breeze, yet breath scorching: “Want my help?”
No answer.
Huang Xing did not wait.
Thumb pressed in—slowly but without hesitation. The body jerked slightly. The thumb—not as long as other fingers but thick, warm, slightly flattened tip—slid in, making the surrounding smooth muscle clench as though forced open.
Qiu Dingjie bent his legs, hands gripping the mat, forehead sweating.
Huang Xing kept the pace slow—circling lightly, pushing deeper. Wet sounds accompanied each press.
Yet he did not speed up. Did not add fingers. Only held, circled, withdrew half a knuckle, pushed again.
Time stretched as though deliberately trapping him in unfulfilled craving.
Qiu Dingjie moaned softly, eyes red, cheeks flushed, hands clutching then releasing the pillow.
Finally he gritted his teeth, voice hoarse: “…Switch.”
Huang Xing paused, head tilted as though confused: “Switch what?”
Qiu Dingjie breathed heavily, turning to look—the eyes burning to incinerate the teaser: “…You know what.”
Huang Xing still smiled, still pushing the thumb once more—slowly, fully inside as counter-tease.
“Huang Xing…” Qiu Dingjie called again, voice choking: “Not enough.”
But Huang Xing had not withdrawn.
Finger still deep inside—wet outside, tight within.
Huang Xing leaned close, lips near his ear, whispering: “What do you want to switch? What’s not enough?”
Qiu Dingjie exhaled sharply, whole body red as fire.
Then a long silence.
Then…
“Switch to yours.” He uttered each word, voice trembling with shame yet unhidden: “Put it in.”
“Take you inside me.”
“Fuck me!”
Huang Xing withdrew the thumb—slowly, leaving a glistening trail—then bent to whisper near his ear: “Good boy’s talking so dirty today…”
Just one sentence—Qiu Dingjie flushed to the tips of his ears.
“You…” He started, but words choked.
“If you won’t, fine.” He muttered, clearly sulking.
But the moment he finished, his ass was parted—two hands placed, spreading lightly—not painful, not forceful, but decisive. Then, without warning, Huang Xing thrust his hips deep.
The body jolted clearly, spine arching like a drawn bow.
“Mm!” He bit his lip, moaning, and swallowed in urgent breath.
“Not allowed yet, and you’re already in…” Qiu DingJie choked out a pouty complaint, voice already off rhythm.
Then he tried bracing to crawl forward as though truly sulking, but only half a move before Huang Xing caught him—hand on waist, hips pressing close—using only hip force to pin him back down.
“You didn’t allow…” Huang Xing whispered near his ear, pressing deeper: “But your body took it all anyway.”
The words held no mockery—only confirmation, there was no need to pretend; he knew how much he was wanted.
Huang Xing began moving—slow but extremely deep, as though grinding every narrow space inside.
He struggled lightly, but struggling only drove the contact deeper, resulting in stronger stimulation. It felt as though he was held from within, locked tight.
Huang Xing kissed his nape, breath brushing each vertebra: “If you’re not good, I’ll fuck you harder.”
The moment the words ended, hips drove powerfully—deep and heavy. Qiu Dingjie moaned aloud, legs curling, lower body clenching as though clinging, unwilling to release.
“Obedient yet?” He whispered, hand sliding forward to grip waist, beginning a steady motion.
Each thrust downward sank him deeper into the mat—pressed, driven, possessed in the way only someone who understood him deeply could.
Beneath him, he trembled—not from being overwhelmed but from being loved beyond resistance.
Huang Xing thrust deeper, hearing clear wet sounds at the base.
Qiu Dingjie moaned long, voice completely off, whole body shaking as though unable to take more.
Yet he did not stop.
One hand slipped forward, gently lifting the lower abdomen. Qiu Dingjie braced unsteadily but was guided into kneeling.
When his belly lifted, his hips rose accordingly. Knees pressed to mat, arms trembling in support, ass raised high in the air—fully exposed, pale and smooth, flushed pink from excessive love.
Huang Xing pulled back slightly, keeping connected, to admire the man before him.
His entrance… slightly open. Wet, reddened, still sucking at him unsatisfied. When he withdrew a fraction, it breathed softly—pulsing rhythmically, as though pulling him back.
Just the sight sent desire surging to his throat.
He gripped the ass, hips pressing hard, driving deep again. Clear sounds of flesh meeting flesh—slick, wet, full of pleasure.
“Mm…!” He cried out, back arching, body led into a state of only receiving.
Huang Xing knelt upright, spine straight, lower body pouring all force into each press. The position gave absolute control—deep angle, stable, strong, powerful.
Each thrust struck the bottom. Qiu Dingjie’s moans fractured into short, broken segments.
Inside wetter, softer, tighter. Each withdrawal let the place breathe lightly—pulsing—then grip him again, refusing release.
Huang Xing seemed mesmerized. He squeezed the waist tight, hips thrusting continuously. Sounds of flesh grew like waves crashing shore, carrying both away.
He had completely lost control. His body no longer his own but something loved, filled, commanded from deep within by Huang Xing.
Each thrust jolted him backward—reflex like an electric shock from spine to brain. Familiar yet never less overwhelming—the rigid, large, long length hitting his most sensitive spot, driving a point that set his whole body ablaze.
He lost count of moans and tears. Each thrust a new wave—giving no respite, no mercy.
Loving him fully plunged him into ultimate bliss.
His body shuddered, thighs trembling uncontrollably from powerful thrusts. Then one deeper stroke hit exactly there—no further touch needed—he cried out, choked, then… came.
Semen surged in strong, rapid waves—all life force drawn out in one breath.
But in that moment Huang Xing still did not stop.
Qiu Dingjie is barely recovering, barely catching breath—yet thrusts continued, each striking hypersensitive nerves mid-climax. Pleasure layered—not merely bliss but too much, bordering fear.
“Huang Xing!” He sobbed, hands clutching mat: “Stop… stop a moment…”
No words. Only arms circling waist, pulling him upright, back pressed to chest. Still buried deep. Hips still thrusting steadily.
Position shift drove the length in at a new angle—deeper, upward as though pressing his entire lower belly.
He supported his neck, letting his head rest fully on his shoulder. Lips kissed ear lightly, neck, then each finger gripping his own arm.
Below he continued shooting. Unceasing. Waves driven by thrusts in peak sensitivity.
Front shooting while behind began overflowing.
Fluid from within enveloped the head, spilling along the tight passage. Warm, sticky—clearly coming inside, coming, surging front, flooding behind.
“So good…” He sobbed, no longer distinguishing tears, sweat, or fluid spilling from both ends.
Then Huang Xing growled low in his chest.
Body tensed. Hands gripped the waist. Final thrust buried deep—if he had a womb, the head could surely enter. He held seconds, then… erupted.
Long, copious.
Semen surged endlessly—scorching like fire, pulse after pulse deep inside, filling until his body felt sealed, marked from within.
He felt each jerk clearly. Each release met inner clench, forcing the fluid to soak the very bottom.
His body gripped instinctively—accepting, holding the feeling of utter possession to his bones.
No one spoke.
Only breath, heartbeats, the mingled scent of skin and lovers’ night with no distance left.
While both still limp in warm afterglow, Huang Xing leaned close, lips near ear, whispering in husky breeze: “Love… you clench me so good…”
No answer, but the whole body jerked lightly, lower part still holding him, pulsing in reply with each breath.
He smiled, continuing softly, teasing: “Today you brought four condoms—what for? Wanted me to do you four times, right?”
The question is like a declaration of war.
Qiu Dingjie understood trouble coming. He immediately tried shifting, struggling to escape the embrace.
Huang Xing held him, lowering his voice in mock pity: “Today you burned me—don’t you feel bad?”
Qiu Dingjie turned to glance, breathless yet lovingly scolding: “You’re hurt and still went that hard… if you weren’t hurt, how much worse?”
Huang Xing kissed his nape, smiling lightly: “We do it every day—you forgot?”
One hand tightened waist, pulling closer to chest, continuing whisper near ear: “Or… wait till I’m fully healed and we try again—to see how it is when I’m not injured, okay?”
Qiu DingJie stiffened, then moaned softly: “Why do you always turn everything into wanting to fuck me?”
“Because it’s true.” And Huang Xing's voice was steady, sincere enough to make the listener tremble.
Qiu Dingjie turned to avoid: “I want—rest a bit…”
The moment he spoke, he shifted slightly, immediately feeling what remained inside.
Clearly softened a little after climax. Now… hard as rock again.
He choked, forehead sweating, only able to sigh: “Tired…”
Huang Xing kissed his forehead, then gently laid him down.
“Lie on your side—I’ll be behind.”
He started to protest, but Huang Xing already spooned close from behind, holding him. Lower part brushed the cleft—perfect fit.
The first climax is merely a prelude in an unfinished dream. From behind, Huang Xing gripped Qiu Dingjie's waist tightly, angled slightly lower, and with one next thrust, Qiu Dingjie’s whole body jolted as though his spine was struck.
“Mm…!” He cried, his whole body convulsing.
The side position seemed gentle, yet the depth and angle from behind drove it nearly vertical. Burying fully, decisively, pressing the deepest point previous rounds rarely reached so completely—right on the sensitive spot, continuous, fierce, rapid.
Each thrust struck deep along the vertebrae, as though imprinting inside.
Huang Xing’s hips snapped powerfully. Each collision was heavy and forceful, as though they had completely lost control. Flesh meeting produced dense wet sounds amid gasping breath, mat creaking, choked moans breaking in waves.
“Huang Xing! Ah… ah, you… slower!”
He tried speaking, but each sentence was crushed by thrusts to the root—sensitive point, relentlessly driven, pleasure unbearable.
“Too deep…” He moaned, hands clutching the mat.
Huang Xing offered no reply, only leaning close, hand slipping under thigh, lifting high, spreading legs wider, then driving hard as an answer.
He arched, reflexively trying to push away—hands pressing hips—but pushing only met stronger thrusts.
One press jolted his whole body, then he held tight, his body ground into an unstoppable rhythm.
“Mm… stop, stop a moment…” Voice nearly tearful, yet the other showed no sign of stopping.
Huang Xing continued thrusting—each so deep as though wanting to reach his heart from below.
No escape. He could only grip hips, slide down, hands seeking thighs, squeezing hard for outlet, then scratching—leaving three red lines along the thigh.
“No…” Qiu Dingjie breathed heavily, voice choked by desire: “Can’t… can’t take it… Ah…. Mm!”
Under his lover’s hoarse cries, Huang Xing seemed fueled, thrusting harder. So hard Qiu Dingjie’s hands lost strength to resist, scratching three more red lines.
“I… can’t take any more…” Qiu DingJie's voice fractured.
Yet Huang Xing continued pressing.
Thrust.
Each like crushing pleasure nerves, boring into the deepest place no one had reached.
Inside softened completely yet still gripped tight—not resisting but inviting, as though his own body demanded more, harder—saying he couldn’t take it yet refusing to stop.
He growled in his throat, then pressed close to his back, leaning up, lightly biting his nape, licking up his neck, his lips moving: “You’re so fucking good…”
Each word paired with a deep, decisive thrust.
Qiu Dingjie cried soundlessly. Tears spilled from the corners, falling hot onto Huang Xing’s hand as his burning body was reduced to ashes.
“I... I… ah…!”
Each cry is merely a moan, a sob breaking in the throat. Front had shot again, hardened once more, then spilled hot semen in waves, wetting the hand holding his lower belly.
Behind once more—fluid overflowed at the base, hot, flooding until each thrust glided in waves, white foam wetting thighs.
“Jie…” Huang Xing hissed softly, then gripped his waist hard, final thrust: “Let me cook you… make you even better, okay!”
Then he climaxed.
This time, truly pouring everything.
Long, copious, dense. Each jerk met inner clench. Wave after wave shot deep to the bottom. Not merely physical peak but emotional ecstasy—making one tremble, choke with tears.
He gripped his hand tight, said nothing, and only lay still, letting the pleasure fill him completely.
Both silent—only breath, chaotic heartbeats against the back.
Only feeling—Huang Xing had loved him with entire body, soul, wildness; he responded with equal fervor, acceptance, fullness.
After the final climax passed, Huang Xing exhaled softly, releasing the leg held high. Then gently withdrew from behind.
Sound faint, wet, lingering. Qiu Dingjie’s entrance remained open and burning like a small unhealed tear.
He supported the man's waist, gently turning him face up for comfort.
Qiu Dingjie lay on his back, legs… unable to close.
Even slightly apart—reflex, or still sore from being held high so long.
Huang Xing bent to look. The rim was swollen red, glistening under the lantern light. Inside semen continued spilling—thick white streams tracing the cleft, pooling in the groove.
Seeing it, his heart raced—not from desire but deep emotion.
The body he had held all night now lay limp in his arms. Inside, still bearing all his traces. Wet, filled, now open—a place completely his own.
He stared, unknowingly, at how long until Qiu Dingjie tilted his head, voice hoarse, teasing: “If I could get pregnant… we’d have a whole soccer team by now.”
Huang Xing stared at the flushed face.
“Every time you come inside… so much, no restraint.”
The words weary, complaining, yet adorable beyond resistance.
Huang Xing lightly squeezed his hand, lips to knuckles, murmuring like breathing: “Because you’re so good…”
He leaned close, lips to sweat-damp forehead, whispering comfortingly: “Good enough… mine stood all night refusing to go down.”
Qiu Dingjie pouted, closing one eye as though refusing to listen: “You always say that… It’s not my fault, it’s your fault for being so lewd!”
Huang Xing laughed softly, no argument, only bending to take a soft cloth from the bag. Warm cloth, pre-soaked in calming herbal water sealed in a zip bag to prevent spilling—opening released a faint soothing scent.
He knelt on one knee beside, hand gently on waist—very light, very tender. Without asking or speaking, he naturally acted as though he had cleaned him hundreds of times.
He wiped the abdomen first—still sticky from earlier releases with each thrust. Then inner thighs, ass, then bent… carefully placing the cloth into the cleft, slowly cleaning, using fingers to gently draw out remaining semen deep inside.
This was not arousal.
Only care.
Qiu Dingjie said nothing. Only lay still, eyes on the tent ceiling yet glancing sideways at the figure bent low—each motion meticulous as though cherishing a priceless treasure.
After cleaning thoroughly, Huang Xing helped him into clean underwear, then soft sleepwear, adjusting the collar and hems. Each sleeve pull, collar slide, and waistband adjustment is gentle enough to make his throat tighten.
He dressed him fully, wiped himself briefly, then stood to tidy the chaotic tent—tissues, four unused condoms, gel tube, refolding rumpled mattress.
Qiu Dingjie lay watching silently. Said nothing, yet waves rose within...
This is his lover—always so thoughtful, careful.
After tidying, Huang Xing slipped back in, pulling the blanket over both of them. He spooned from behind, arm around waist, letting Qiu Dingjie’s back rest against his chest, nose buried in his nape.
Qiu Dingjie exhaled, turning to face him, lips curving faintly.
Nearly asleep, by habit, he lifted one leg, draping it fully over Huang Xing’s hip.
Huang Xing smiled softly, then reached down—not to touch intimately but to lightly squeeze his hip, then his ass.
Said nothing. Only conveying—he loved even the smallest habits; each time the leg draped over him, he felt the trust given.
Qiu Dingjie too cherished it—cherishing the soft body, no one knowing how small and adorable he was when sleeping curled in his arms, no one knowing how wildly Huang Xing loved Qiu DingJie's body. Loving him from flesh to soul, he willingly gave everything in return.
Under the merging of two souls, eyes slowly closed.
The passionate night had passed. Now only quiet enveloped—both nestled close, dreaming sweetly amid their own scent like two lost beasts in a tent damp with dew and love.