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Shen Qingqiu is quite the artist.
Bingge can see it now. His own Shen Qingqiu and this one aren’t as different as he’d first thought. For all that he spits upon this simpering Luo Binghe who put his name to shame, even the weakest, most feeble version of himself is no fool. He had seen it that night sifting through Shen Qingqiu’s sleeping memories — the iron-hard kernel of similarity between them, the ruthlessness, the enduring will to survive. Luo Binghe wouldn’t fall for just anything — which means that this Shen Qingqiu is a greater and more cunning manipulator than even Bingge’s own.
He respects the façade; he also intends to crack it wide open. No performance lasts forever.
Bingge stretches out his legs and crosses his boots, lounging in the chair that Shen Qingqiu had once sat upon while casting hot tea into his face from on high like a callous god. Birds trill in the ornamental gardens outside. The serenity makes a mockery of his dark, turbulent emotions, his nerves on fire with desire to maim and conquer. Bingge tips his head back and gently swirls his own half-empty teacup, aerating the third steep. He takes a sip and savours the rich, nutty flavour. It’s Shen Qingqiu’s finest, served in his most expensive tea set.
His chin jerks towards the sound of steps ascending the Bamboo House. He spreads his legs wide and slouches languidly, unable to stop the smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. There’s no bullshitting a bullshitter, and Bingge is the best of them all.
“Husband?” Shen Qingqiu calls from down the hallway. “Are you there?”
Bingge knocks his boots a few times against the bamboo floor, his excitement getting the better of him. He feels buoyant and giddy with the thrill as his target comes closer, stepping onto his finely-spread silks like a cricket wandering over the lair of a burrowing spider.
Shen Qingqiu’s eyebrows fly up when he rounds the doorway. “Oh, Binghe. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Bingge smiles and takes a sip of his tea, never breaking eye contact. “Shen Qingqiu—”
“Shizun,” Shen Qingqiu corrects cheerily, wandering into the room without a care and unpacking several things onto his desk from his qiankun pouch. Bingge scowls and shifts in his chair. This must be an intimidation tactic meant to throw him off. Why else would Shen Qingqiu turn his back on him, something his own Shizun was always too paranoid to do?
“Shizun,” he grits out. “While you were—”
“Are you having tea? Serve this Master some,” Shen Qingqiu interrupts. Bingge manages to control his expression, but only just. Shen Qingqiu is wrong-footing him on purpose, clearly anticipating his moves in a way even the original couldn’t do. He grinds his teeth. The order smarts under his skin, but he rises from his seat and kneels before the low table nonetheless. Shen Qingqiu sits adjacent to him, observing his tea service with a practised eye and a small, encouraging smile. Bingge discards the first steep over the xuanwu tea pet and presents him with the second as the aroma of fresh leaves blooms again in the air.
“Mn,” Shen Qingqiu hums appreciatively, soaking in the warm steam before taking a delicate sip, long, elegant fingers cradling the teacup. “That’s nice.”
Bingge’s fingers twitch with the urge to snatch the teacup and cast it against the farthest wall.
He extends a hand to him instead. “Shizun, have you ever had your palm read?”
“Hmm,” Shen Qingqiu ponders, sipping absentmindedly. “Not that I remember. I’ve had my future told before, though.”
Oh? “This Lord has become quite adept in the divining arts.” He extends a hand. “May I?”
Shen Qingqiu shoots him a suspicious glance, but gives him his palm anyway. Bingge plays off the smile that threatens to twist his expression as a thoughtful look. Of course a man as arrogant and suspicious as Shen Qingqiu can’t resist a peek at fate. He makes sure to maximise the skin-to-skin contact, cupping the other man’s hand between his own and skimming sensual touches along the fine bones of his knuckles. He pulls him in a little closer and leans into his space. The tremor in his fingers is light, but unmistakable. Shen Qingqiu clears his throat and sets his teacup down.
“Here,” Bingge says, tracing a path along his heart line with one finger. “This indicates the strength of your relationships.”
“Wh—” Shen Qingqiu splutters, his head shooting up. “Why is that—”
“—and here,” he interrupts, his other hand reaching up to slide under Shen Qingqiu’s long sleeve and encircle his delicate wrist. “This shows temper and passion. My own line is particularly long and well-developed… Shall this Lord share his knowledge of the passionate arts, Shizun? This disciple can be a very skilled teacher.”
Bingge lies smoothly, his fingers rubbing circles in the centre of Shen Qingqiu’s palm. He does not, in fact, know anything about palmistry. One of his wives skilled in the art had shown him some of it once, reading his palm and declaring that he was fated to a lifetime of fortuitous and harmonious marriage. Unfortunately for her it proved to be a very good way of luring other women into bed, and Bingge has used it many times since to great effect.
Shen Qingqiu’s cheeks flush bright red. Bingge presses his thumb against the pale underside of his wrist and gets a thrill from the way his pulse jackrabbits against the skin. He leans in closer, eyes dropping to Shen Qingqiu’s lips still wet with tea. He’s so close, his warm breath mingling with Bingge’s own, just a little more and—
The door bursts open.
Luo Binghe sweeps into the room without ceremony, his eyes zeroing in on the pair’s clasped hands. It takes barely a second of wicked eye contact with his twin before the tension snaps like a band, the bane of Bingge’s life opening his mouth and gleefully ruining his carefully-laid plans.
“Shizun, my lips are cold,” he declares, stealing Shen Qingqiu’s attention away. “You need to warm them up or I might get frostbite.”
“It’s the middle of summer,” Bingge snaps, but Shen Qingqiu has already pulled free of his hold and risen to greet his spouse. He watches in abject fury as Shen Qingqiu cups the other Luo Binghe’s face in both hands and drops a tender kiss to his lips, which soon deepens into something that makes Bingge’s insides coil in disgust. Luo Binghe cracks an eye open to grin wickedly at him over Shen Qingqiu’s shoulder, his arms wrapping around his husband’s waist possessively.
Neither take notice of him as he storms from the room in a vile passion.
The next time Bingge encounters Shen Qingqiu, he’s determined to take what he wants from him.
The truth is that he quickly grows bored wandering this world on his own. There’s little to excite him about the retention of everything he’s spent his life razing to the ground — and he’s unaccustomed to such a hostile reception. Luo Binghe seems to be incapable of doing something as simple as getting people to like him, if the constant altercations Bingge finds himself in while minding his own business are anything to go by. Instead he gravitates towards the only thing of interest: Shen Qingqiu, and occasionally Luo Binghe himself if he’s feeling confrontational.
The guards allow him entry to Huan Hua palace with a respectful bow and a perfunctory ‘Junshang'. The spiritual barriers recognise him as one of their own. It’s laughably easy to get in, almost insultingly so. Luo Binghe’s Huan Hua Palace is remarkably like his own — minus the colossal harem. The complex is barely half the size without the extensive renovations Bingge has made to house his wives and children, but the part that remains is surprisingly accurate to what it was like when he was a fresh-faced twenty-something. But for the paraphernalia that clearly belongs to Shen Qingqiu — hairpieces and folding fans and bamboo scrolls strewn all over the bedroom, pieces of furniture that he doesn’t recognise, art that was clearly picked out by the man himself — the sight of it makes him unexpectedly nostalgic. It’s as though he’s looking through a window to his younger self, rather than through muddied water at a reflection of him that isn’t quite right.
He wanders the halls and courtyards, intrigued and unsettled in equal measure by how uncanny everything seems. It feels like someone stole into his space and shifted all the furniture by a few inches. He scours the palace until he catches sight of a familiar emerald headpiece through the open door of the herbarium. Bingge slips in quietly, his undivided attention boring into Shen Qingqiu’s back. He rests his hip against the large wooden table strewn with open books and plant specimens, watching how Shen Qingqiu’s body moves under his many layers as he reaches for a book above his head. He tries to trace the outline of the whipcord-lean and willowy frame that he knows lies beneath, captivatingly hidden. It would be so easy to simply reach around him from behind and bend him over the table — to peel away his clothes like the soft outer petals of an unfurled flower and dive inside until he weeps sweet sap.
Shen Qingqiu turns with his head in a book and jumps back with a yelp, breaking Bingge from his lewd fantasies. His arm jerks as though to throw it before he realises who the intruder is — or perhaps remembers the tome’s value. “Fu— Binghe, don’t do that!”
“Begging Shizun’s pardon,” Bingge says, and even makes the effort to inject the sound of sincerity into it. Shen Qingqiu scowls but relaxes, the tension from his shoulders disappearing in increments. He slots the codex onto a book stand that holds its spine at a safe angle and carefully sifts through the delicate specimens until he finds what he’s looking for. Bingge devours every movement like a man starving.
“Did you need something?” Shen Qingqiu asks, peering up at him after the long silence. His eyes are as placid and welcoming as Bingge has ever seen, so much so that he’s briefly caught off guard. It feels as though it would take just one step to tumble off the precipice that Shen Qingqiu is luring him to, one step to fall into the depths of him and never surface. He hides in plain sight like a serpent, wicking away all the venom that lurks underfoot. It’s an absolutely magisterial deception — something that his own Shizun could never quite achieve.
Bingge rounds the table slowly. Shen Qingqiu throws him some strong side-eye, but still his body language remains unguarded and open.
If you think you can ensnare me, you’re wrong, Bingge thinks, his expression the picture of an inquisitive young sapling while his soul spits acid. I know who you are.
He surveys the codices laid out on the table and catches sight of a familiar specimen. His blood grows hot with the memory of that particular flower, and he allows himself a small smile. “Shizun knows so much about this Lord’s world without ever having been there. This one is truly in awe. Shizun must therefore know about the poisoning of my seventh wife with this flower and the trial that I went through to cure her. Isn’t this quite a dangerous specimen to be keeping loose?”
Shen Qingqiu’s frown deepens. “The effects of the pollen are disabled when dried.”
So he does know. Bingge decides to pursue that later — preferably when Shen Qingqiu is worn out and sweetly pliant, his tongue as loose as his body will be. “But they reactivate when introduced to water, do they not? Why would Shizun need this kind of material?”
Shen Qingqiu puffs up like a startled bird. “What exactly are you implying?!”
Bingge captures green eyes with his own and lays a hand gently over Shen Qingqiu’s. “For seven days and seven nights I endured torture after torture trying to restore my dearest wife, giving my body to her again and again… tell me, Shizun, could it be that you kept the flower because you… really want to try this?”
He drops his voice to a husky whisper on the last few words, walking his fingers from Shen Qingqiu’s white-knuckle grip to the plant specimen lying before him. He strokes two fingers delicately up the dried, paper-thin stamen, removing a fine layer of pollen. Shen Qingqiu’s wide eyes follow his every move. Bingge’s fingers are nearly at his lips, tongue flicking out to wet them, when he’s unceremoniously elbowed out of the way by a familiar flurry of fluffy black hair and teary eyes.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe weeps, his fists coming up to smear away tears only for fresh ones to replace them. “This husband hasn’t been kissed all day.”
Bingge’s mood curdles like sour milk. He wipes his dusty fingers off on his robes, the moment utterly spoiled. Ingesting pollen won’t help him now; he has no doubt that Luo Binghe would happily leave him to suffer. The man lacks even a single inch of face. He cries like a river bursting its banks, sniffing and sobbing while Shen Qingqiu complains about water near his specimens until he caves and peppers little kisses all over Luo Binghe’s forehead and tear-dampened cheeks.
The waterworks disappear as abruptly as they started once he has Shen Qingqiu’s undivided attention. Bingge growls with frustration and slashes open a portal, disappearing on the spot.
It takes him a long time to recover from that particular defeat. Bingge spends a few months nursing his wounded pride in the arms of his most buxom wives to remind himself that he has nothing to envy. He almost succeeds — but like a blood parasite Shen Qingqiu worms his way back in, dormant but never fully excised, until Bingge finds himself kept awake at night by thoughts of that other world.
All he needs to do is have him, he knows, as he slices open a portal just large enough to slip through. Bingge has never met a problem he couldn’t bed or kill, and killing Shen Qingqiu didn’t bring him relief. That strange, alternate reality will lose its glamour once he fucks Shen Qingqiu out of his system — once he gets him at his most vulnerable and strips away that personable exterior to reveal the putrid, rotting creature that still lies beneath.
Xin Mo seems to think so too, moaning quietly in his hand with forlorn longing. The portal spits him out where the pull from the blood parasites is strongest, a place he’s never been before. A smaller version of the Bamboo House sits on the edge of a vast lake, the area so remote that only a lightly-worn route through the grass acts as a pathway up to the door. Bingge’s heart picks up with excitement. He can feel it right down in the marrow of his bones: this time will be the one.
He doesn’t bother to knock, ascending the short stairs and sliding the door open. The smell of freshly-brewed tea and clean steam perfumes the air. This house is much smaller than the one on Qing Jing Peak; the short hallway branches off into only two rooms, the kitchen attached in a small outbuilding that he saw from the outside. The sound of clinking porcelain draws him towards one of the doorways. Luo Binghe sits at a low table and serves himself tea and sweets. If he’s surprised to see Bingge standing in the hall, he doesn’t show it.
“Shizun isn’t here,” he says conversationally. “You just missed him. You’re welcome to wait.”
Bingge deflates with disappointment. He’d been hoping to catch Shen Qingqiu away from Luo Binghe’s prying eyes for once.
“Why come back now? I haven’t seen you for months. Thought you’d finally given up.”
“I have the merged realms to manage and wives to support,” Bingge sneers. “Not that you’d relate.”
“So many wives and yet you are determined to meddle with mine,” Luo Binghe snaps.
Bingge opens his mouth to retort, but before he can the other man’s eyes shine with a dawning understanding that spells disaster. “Ah, of course. That’s why,” he says sagely. “You want to kiss Shizun.”
“What? No I don’t.”
“You want to kiss him so bad. It’s embarrassing.”
“You’re embarrassing. This is clearly a power play, meant to—”
Luo Binghe makes obscene, wet smooching noises against the back of his hand. He sings his next words, his voice sickly-sweet.
“You want Shizun kissies—”
“I DO NOT WANT SHIZUN KISSIES,” Bingge roars with clenched fists, so loudly that a handful of birds take startled flight off the roof. Luo Binghe stops sucking the back of his hand and snorts, his pretty features twisting into an ugly smirk.
“To tell you the truth, I’m tired of you. Watching you was amusing at first, but I’ve had enough of you taking up Shizun’s attention with your pathetic theatrics.”
“You—”
Luo Binghe leans back, legs spread lazily wide, and observes his claws. Bingge’s temper flares violently. He wants to lean over the table and smack that expression right off his face. No one has spoken to him like this since — since —
“— could just get rid of you, but I think we can come to an arrangement that’s mutually satisfying.”
Bingge’s interest piques. The thundering in his ears abates just a little. He bites back his vicious loathing, wary and intrigued in equal measure. “Oh?”
Luo Binghe plays idly with the tassel hanging from his waist, rolling the jade beads between clawed fingers. Bingge studiously maintains eye contact as his twin twirls a loose strand of hair around one finger; lets it go; twirls it again.
“I’ll teach you how to seduce Shizun,” Luo Binghe says, his tone deceptively casual. “Don’t think this is charity. I’ve always wondered what it would be like with three people, but I don’t like to share. But we’re the same person, aren’t we? My body, your body, isn’t it all the same?”
Bingge very strongly objects to being called the same as Luo Binghe in any capacity, but he knows how to keep his mouth shut when a greater prize is ahead. He dignifies the comment with a hum of acknowledgment.
“And in return?” he asks warily. Bingge knows himself too well to expect a favour, even if it is for selfish reasons.
Another toothy smile is all the warning that he gets, alarm bells firing from all directions. "That’s simple. Admit you want Shizun kissies."
"I do not—"
"Say it."
"No."
"Say. You. Want. Shizun. Kissies. Or get out of my house."
He grinds his teeth, his fangs bared. Luo Binghe watches him impassively, sipping his tea. Bingge wants nothing more than to storm out and slam the door until it rattles the foundations — but even he has to admit that Luo Binghe is the gatekeeper of the one thing that he doesn't have, and attempts to secure Shen Qingqiu's affections without his husband’s blessing are getting him nowhere.
He gives a frustrated snarl and plops down on the other side of the table. “I want… Tell me how to… ugh. I want Shizun kissies,” he mutters the last part, dark and resentful. His double doesn’t bother trying to hide his shit-eating grin. No wonder no one in this world seems to like him. Bingge cannot conceive of a more annoying person. Of course he hasn’t managed to secure any women, either — who would marry someone like this?
“A wise man once told me that the surest way to a man’s heart is to act pathetic,” Luo Binghe declares. This is not a compelling start. A little part of Bingge withers and dies.
At least Luo Binghe is self-aware.
“I will not grovel,” Bingge hisses. He gets the rising suspicion that he debased himself for nothing. “Don’t you have a single ounce of self respect?”
“Hmn,” Luo Binghe hums, pouring himself more tea, “and how is that going for you? The self respect? This morning I got Shizun kissies because I said my lips were chapped and I needed to borrow some of his lip balm.”
“Why would that get—” Bingge’s jaw aches from how hard his teeth are clenched. He forces the word out under great duress. “—kissies?”
His twin grins with a flash of pearly white fangs. “The balm was on his lips.”
Bingge throws his hands in the air. Luo Binghe has said and done some stupid, shameless, and degrading things in his presence, but surely even this is too far. He doesn’t know why he expected his double to really help him. Same person or no, Bingge is his competition. They both know that the second Shen Qingqiu tastes of his body he’ll be packing his fans and picking out a wing in the harem. “You’re lying.”
Luo Binghe cocks his head before rubbing a finger across his perfect bottom lip. Bingge’s eyes hone in on the movement and follow it as it swipes back and forth, back and forth; facing Luo Binghe always leaves him feeling a little unsettled, like sitting before a mirror and watching his reflection move against his will. Luo Binghe holds his finger up to the light and the tip shines with a light coating of lip balm.
Bingge sits back in defeat. He’s always thought that he knew Shen Qingqiu inside and out, that he had exposed every rancid inch of him there was to see. The buttery residue shining on the tip of Luo Binghe’s finger reframes his entire understanding of the long-dead teacher he thought he’d broken. All that time, Shen Qingqiu still had more tricks under his sleeve — he’d just been too proud, or too much a coward, to use them. This man has Luo Binghe wrapped around his little finger. He has the entirety of Cang Qiong Sect and the Demon Realm at his beck and call… and he maintains all this power by dousing Luo Binghe’s ardour with cold water only to set the flames burning higher than they’d been before with a coquettish, insincere refusal or a purse of his lips.
Bingge moistens his own dry lips. Everything he learns about this world’s Shen Qingqiu stokes a craving within him that consumes more of his thoughts with every passing day. An inkling tickles at the back of his mind and it’s something a little like desire, something a little like respect.
Luo Binghe wipes his fingers neatly on his handkerchief smugly. He selects a choice pastry and pops it into his mouth, chewing slowly. "This Lord has learned, and now he teaches."
When Shen Qingqiu finally returns to the Bamboo House, the two sit opposite each other in uneasy alliance. Luo Binghe meditates with his eyes closed, pointedly ignoring Bingge’s presence.
“Oh, you’re both here? I haven’t seen you in months, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu says, stashing a handful of scrolls in a drawer. Luo Binghe’s eyes fly open at the sound of his voice.
“Shizun!” he cries, his whole body lighting up. “Are you hungry? Shall I make you some noodles?”
“Not for now. I ate at An Ding,” Shen Qingqiu says, immediately coming over to ruffle his hair. Bingge catches the flash of hurt and indignation that crosses Luo Binghe’s face before he leans into Shen Qingqiu’s palm eagerly. He can practically see his tail wagging.
“Shizun ate someone else’s food while this husband was waiting at home to cook for him?” Luo Binghe whimpers. Sure as sunrise, shameless tears begin to pool in his eyes. He gazes up through tear-darkened lashes, bottom lip trembling. He looks every bit the wronged, neglected young wife cooped up in the home all day while her husband makes frivolous social calls, and Bingge knows he’s milking it for all he’s worth.
“Ah, Binghe, it’s not like that… Stop that, don’t cry! Didn’t I say I was going to be a few hours? You didn’t have to wait.”
“What can I do but wait?” he wails. Shen Qingqiu flounders in the face of his tears, cradling his head to his stomach. Luo Binghe shoots him a pointed look and Bingge swallows what’s left of his battered pride.
“Shizun… this Lord—” Luo Binghe shakes his head at him ever so slightly. “—this disciple has also been waiting all this time…”
Shen Qingqiu seems to remember that Bingge is there for the first time. The horrified look he graces him with is unsettling, and he wonders for a split second whether his twin has set him up to fail. Luo Binghe rolls his eyes at him and forges ahead.
“We’ve been sitting here all day waiting for Shizun to return only to find out that he was off enjoying himself with Shang-shishu, not thinking about these poor Binghes at all or even allowing them to cook… Shizun is too cruel, starving his husbands of attention!”
Both heads jerk at the word husbands. All the air rushes from Bingge’s chest. Luo Binghe is busy deep in his adlib. He clutches at Shen Qingqiu’s robes and sobs pitifully for kisses.
And, as much as Bingge hates to admit it, it’s working.
Shen Qingqiu lets his husband paw all over him, protesting his accusations weakly while Luo Binghe nuzzles into his stomach and worms his hands under his clothes. Bingge watches, almost in slow motion, as the first kiss lands squarely on that stark red demon mark, and then he’s out of his seat and pulling at Shen Qingqiu’s sleeves as well. His throat feels tight and dry, and for some reason it’s hard to swallow.
“Shizun,” he sniffs, as close to tears as he can get. The look that his double shoots him tells him exactly what Luo Binghe thinks of his efforts. Shen Qingqiu looks doubtful, but an upwards curve of Bingge’s brows and a downwards curve of his lips make him waver with uncertainty. The shiver that runs through Bingge when a hand reaches around to cup his cheek and a chaste peck lands on the corner of his mouth is authentic, at least.
It’s not his first kiss with Shen Qingqiu, nor even his best, but it feels special because it’s a triumph, a reward for months of fruitless effort. Bingge chases his mouth for a deeper, proper kiss and drinks down his little noise of surprise.
“Shizun needs to make it up to us,” Luo Binghe declares, already untying his husband’s belt. Shen Qingqiu’s lips part to reply and Bingge licks into his mouth, his head spinning with the taste of his tongue. It was exhilarating the first time; now the breathless, dizzy feeling of kissing Shen Qingqiu in his own right is like freefalling through thin air.
He makes a disgruntled noise of discontent when the other man breaks the kiss. He takes to mouthing at the pale skin of his neck instead, so often hidden from sight by high collars and long hair. He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of his skin and the floral oils he uses after a bath, hugging him tightly.
“The black one?” Shen Qingqiu gasps. Bingge can feel his chest heaving from the kiss. The pair must communicate without words because suddenly Shen Qingqiu is gone from their arms, frantically fumbling about in a drawer across the room. The two Binghes glower at each other, neither willing to be the first to look away. Something in Luo Binghe’s eyes sets Bingge on edge; it’s there and gone faster than he can parse what it means. The sound of rustling fabric steals their attention at the same time. Shen Qingqiu’s robes drop unceremoniously to the floor, his svelte, jade-like frame completely and suddenly bare but for two strips of black fabric criss-crossing either buttock. Both exhale at the same time; look to each other; look back to him.
Shen Qingqiu's naked body is hardly a novelty. Bingge is intimately familiar with the lithe, sinuous lines of his form — though usually with fewer limbs attached. He’s nothing like what Bingge is used to, not a single point of comparison within his harem; Shen Qingqiu’s body is a lightly-muscled slip of a thing, his waist narrow and his hips slight. That doesn’t stop his cock from reacting with immediate enthusiasm, throbbing more insistently with every inch of bare skin that his eyes greedily devour. Shen Qingqiu rolls his shoulders and Bingge clenches his jaw at the way lean muscles ripple under the skin, his sharp shoulder blades drawing together and pulling apart like beating wings. Two pairs of dark eyes follow his movements as he lifts one arm above his head to release his crown, spilling silken waves of ink down his back with a light toss. Both Binghes are poised on edge, muscles tense with potential energy as if waiting to break at the starting gate. Then Shen Qingqiu turns around and smoothly lowers himself into his chair, and Bingge’s fixation comes to a screeching halt.
Sleek and seamless with a tapered tip, the dildo sitting snugly in its harness is made of fine, clear glass, the body of the thing shot through with accents that look like suspended curls of black smoke.
He’s about to laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all when he shoots a sideways look at Luo Binghe and realises, with horror, that his reaction is not universal. On the contrary, his double looks downright excited, his chest heaving and his eyes zeroed in on the toy like it’s water in a desert and he’s on the dying edge of dehydration. He doesn’t even react to Bingge staring at him in disbelief. This is ridiculous. Shen Qingqiu sits there calmly with his — with his counterfeit penis standing proudly up in the air like it has anything to be proud of. The thing bobs whenever he moves like it’s mocking Bingge personally.
“Come, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu calls softly with an expectant look. He spreads his legs wide and gestures to the floor between them.
Bingge would rather die than kneel for Shen Qingqiu.
“What are you doing?” he snaps when a strong arm snakes around his waist, his back pulled against Luo Binghe’s chest. He goes rigid when his hair is brushed to the side to reveal his neck, sharp fangs gently nibbling at the sensitive spot behind his ear.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Luo Binghe murmurs into his ear, his warm breath raising the fine hairs along Bingge’s neck. “To bed Shizun?” The other man grinds against him, rubbing his rising hardness against Bingge’s ass while he holds him fast.
“Not like this,” he hisses. The feeling is so novel, so thoroughly unexpected, that his thoughts scramble in disarray. It should be him doing the penetrating, him looming over Shen Qingqiu’s febrile, trembling form and taking him apart, ravaging his body until he digs the cold hard truth out of him. No one has ever pushed Bingge down like some tender, blushing sister.
Warm hands abruptly leave him and he finds himself elbowed out of the way. “Fine by me,” Luo Binghe shrugs flippantly, diving into Shen Qingqiu’s arms himself without complaint. The wet, sloppy sounds of the two making out make Bingge’s cock plump under his robes even as his chest constricts painfully at the sudden loss, his back cold without Luo Binghe’s body heat. It’s as though he isn’t even there, the couple too wrapped up in each other to spare a thought for him — just like every time before.
Bingge’s hands curl into fists. Not this time. If this is what has to be done, so be it.
He ignores Luo Binghe’s smug laugh when he grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him out of the way. He falls to his knees quickly before they can disobey him. Bingge wonders if Shen Qingqiu can see the hatred in his eyes — if this is the moment he’ll reveal himself after all now that he’s manoeuvred Bingge into the one place he thought he’d never be. But he doesn’t. A gentle hand loosens his hair from its crown and sets it aside, and then Shen Qingqiu is leaning down to drop a sweet kiss onto his lips, so chaste it feels alien. He clenches his jaw to keep from shivering when Luo Binghe peels his robes off from behind and cool air embraces his skin.
Despite everything, his cock hangs half-hard between his legs, still stirred by the view. Bingge slides his palms under Shen Qingqiu's thighs and brushes his lips against the petal-soft inside of his knee until he elicits a shiver. Behind him, rustling fabric indicates Luo Binghe's own nakedness.
"Go easy on him," Shen Qingqiu warns. Bingge's heart sinks. He knows full well that Luo Binghe has no intention of going easy, even less so now that he's been told to. Hands so much like his own stroke the firm globes of his ass and coax him onto all fours, massaging and squeezing him in ways not even his wives have done before. It's Shen Qingqiu's body that has his cock rising to full hardness, dildo or no dildo, and not Luo Binghe's surprisingly well-directed ministrations — but they don’t hurt. He kisses and sucks his way up Shen Qingqiu's thigh until his head is between his legs, wondering if he can hook them over his shoulder and mount him that way, when Luo Binghe reaches around and brushes his hands over his nipples.
"Ah," he hisses with a jolt. Pleasure fires like electricity, his chest flushing with warmth as Luo Binghe pinches and rolls his nipples until he squirms.
"Hmn? Like that?" his double chuckles darkly into his ear.
You don't get points for knowing your own body, Bingge thinks vehemently. He tries to shoot a glare over his shoulder and they gasp in tandem, the two of them as one, when Luo Binghe's cock slides into the cleft of his ass and over his virgin hole.
"Shizun, I can't wait," Luo Binghe pleads. He thrusts smoothly a few times, dragging the whole, fearsome length of his cock between Bingge's parted cheeks. Shen Qingqiu gazes down fondly, his lips slightly parted as one Luo Binghe ruts against the other. Bingge finds his head directed once again between Shen Qingqiu's thighs now blooming with red lovebites, the shiny head of his cock winking at him in the light. It's far from huge — below average, even — but it looks far larger up close, and Bingge has pushed enough sisters down to know exactly what Shen Qingqiu intends to do with it.
A hollow pop from behind is all the warning he gets before slick fingers coated in cold oil replace Luo Binghe's length. He's… surprisingly gentle, unexpectedly so, sliding his fingers slowly along Bingge's perineum and around the rim of his hole before softly palming his balls and repeating. It's… relaxing. When the first fingertip circles his hole and then presses in slowly the fullness is strange, but not painful. Luo Binghe lingers for only a second before pulling the finger out and going back to stroking him all over.
Shen Qingqiu cups his chin with one hand, holding the dildo firmly by the base with the other and tipping it towards his lips. His thumb swipes over Bingge's lower lip softly. A second finger enters him. It burns more this time.
Bingge doesn't understand how they can be so gentle.
"Is this alright?" Shen Qingqiu asks suddenly.
He doesn't look up. He doesn't want to see whatever expression Shen Qingqiu is making — doesn't want to have to deal with it either way. Luo Binghe scissors his fingers gently, stretching him out. He seems to know exactly what to do to make Bingge feel good, curling his fingers until he hits something inside that makes him choke and gasp. Two fingers stroke his walls and tap that spot again, massaging it until Bingge is lightheaded from how fast blood rushes to his cock.
"G-good," he grunts, cheeks burning with shame. "It's good."
Shen Qingqiu hums, satisfied. He tips the toy to rest the cold glass head on Bingge's bottom lip. The tremors from his shaky breath make the length quiver. It's so close — just a little touch is all it'll take and another man's cock will be in his mouth. Shen Qingqiu's cock will be in his mouth.
He closes his eyes and tentatively brushes the tip of his tongue against the tapered head. It's cold and heavy and perfectly smooth. The glass tastes like… glass. Bingge closes his lips in a soft kiss around the head and finds it less offensive than he expected — so he takes a little more, sucking the dildo into his mouth until his lips close around the head's flared ridge. A third finger enters him from behind. He thinks he hears Shen Qingqiu sigh, but he can't be sure; all he can be sure of is the slick, wet sounds coming from behind as Luo Binghe smoothly fingerfucks him. Each bump against his sweet spot makes his cock jerk and drizzle precum onto the floor, so blindingly hard that his arousal becomes white noise, a feverish glow that suffuses his entire body.
"That's good, Binghe," Shen Qingqiu sighs. Bingge doesn't know which one of them he's talking to. He doesn't care. The praise envelops him like warm honey and he takes another inch of the dildo into his mouth, the heavy weight pressing down on his tongue until he drools. He can feel his hole fluttering around Luo Binghe's fingers. The spark of alarm that registers somewhere in the back of his mind is more directed at the fact that he isn’t alarmed by that; Luo Binghe's hands are practically his own, and the man himself is being more considerate than Bingge ever would have been. He could point out every bump and callus on those hands, trace the years through the mementos of his swordwork.
Then the fingers are gone, and Bingge has to bite back a whine of complaint that he immediately elects not to think about. He seizes up a little when the thick, terrifying head of Luo Binghe's cock nudges his hole, suddenly feeling terribly underprepared in spite of everything. Is this how his wives feel when presented with his pillar? Here he is on his hands and knees playing the wife to two men he couldn't have predicted less. The dildo clicks against his back teeth. His thoughts make him second guess but Luo Binghe is already pushing in, the stretch making both of them pant for different reasons. Bingge opens his mouth and lets Shen Qingqiu's cock rest on his tongue so he can draw great breaths of air, eyes screwed shut through the burn of first penetration. His twin slides in slow, so slow that he'd think it deliberate torture if it weren't for Shen Qingqiu petting Bingge's hair and cheeks and quietly coaching him through as he takes it.
"Well done, Binghe, you're doing such a good job… you're taking him so well, you're almost there," he soothes. All three of them moan in unison when Luo Binghe bottoms out, hips flush with Bingge's ass. Shen Qingqiu coaxes him off his cock and cups his jaw with both hands, pulling him in for an open-mouthed, wet kiss, heedless of the drool on his lips. He's full, so full. Luo Binghe's cock — Bingge's cock — fills up every inch of him with its colossal girth, stretching him wide in a way first uncomfortable but now quickly receding as his body adjusts. He bears down experimentally and Luo Binghe curses under his breath.
The first, slow thrust in and out knocks the air from his lungs, and when Luo Binghe fills him again it's a tight fit. He picks up speed in bearable increments until Bingge is moaning against Shen Qingqiu's lips, wiggling his hips the slightest bit to try and direct Luo Binghe's cock back to wherever it is that lights sparks behind his eyes. Their Shizun patiently feeds him his tongue, licking into Bingge's mouth until he's sucking on it.
"Binghe, a little more," Shen Qingqiu instructs, breaking the kiss. "I think he can take a little more."
"Yes, Shizun," Luo Binghe bleats obediently. Bingge chases Shen Qingqiu for more kisses, which the man gives with an indulgent hum and a smile. The memory of something long-suppressed fights its way out of him with claws and teeth, a foreign heat burning the rims of his eyes and welling up on his lids until his vision blurs.
Ah, yes. There they are.
Tears.
He tries to fight them off, panic seizing a hold of his muscles until he’s shaking out of control. He swore he’d never cry in front of Shen Qingqiu again. He swore.
He pulls away and presses his face into the man’s soft belly, smothering his tears into his skin. Shen Qingqiu must feel the warm wetness smearing against his navel because the next minute hands lace in Bingge’s hair, nails gently scraping his scalp. Bingge freezes. His skin feels raw all over like an exposed nerve, the skin on his back reminiscent with the memory of the whip. But the hands in his hair don’t tug or twist or pull him off, and the voice from above doesn’t ice over with cruelty. Shen Qingqiu hushes him soothingly and murmurs soft words of encouragement, but that only makes Bingge cry harder, because it feels so good.
“It’s alright, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu croons. “Let it all out.”
Bingge keens. Big, fat tears start flowing and then they don’t stop, mingling with the sweat on his brow and the drool on his chin as he sucks Shen Qingqiu’s cock all the way down until it fills up the back of his throat. He holds it there, Shen Qingqiu’s hands petting his hair and Luo Binghe’s stroking his waist, and the fullness he feels is more than just sexual.
This is worse, far worse, than punishment.
It isn’t fair. Then as now, Shen Qingqiu always seems to know how best to take him apart. The pair offer him no quarter and nowhere to hide, wedged between them as he is. Luo Binghe hits that spot inside that makes his eyelids flutter closed and more tears spill out. The noise he makes is little more than a glorified sob, garbled and needy around Shen Qingqiu’s cock. Luo Binghe gives a pleased hum and does it again, his thrusts rolling and deep, making sure that Bingge feels every inch of his pillar as it slowly drags against his walls.
“Mmmnf,” Bingge groans, his dick drooling helplessly onto the floor. He wishes one of them would just touch him, but Luo Binghe’s teasing hands keep massaging his hips and waist, drifting no closer than the crease of his thigh before deftly dancing away. Bingge doesn’t need to see him to know what kind of expression he’s making but he can’t summon the will to care, abandoning shame with every slide into his hole. The best he can do is wriggle closer to Shen Qingqiu and wrap his arms around his slim hips, bobbing his head shallowly. Their Shizun’s lips spill sweet praise and he sucks harder, artless but earnest, until his jaw aches and his throat is raw.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe whines needily. Shen Qingqiu indulgently laces their fingers together, their joined hands resting on Bingge’s upper back, and Bingge can no longer begrudge him that, not really. He understands. Stepping within Shen Qingqiu’s halo is heady, intoxicating; the rush never wears off, even though he has yet to understand why. No matter what tactics he tries, Shen Qingqiu always seems to have calculated one step ahead. He draws the two of them into his web until they’re thoroughly entangled in deadly silk and thanking him for the privilege.
Bingge pants and whimpers as Luo Binghe’s hips falter, his rhythm becoming sloppy in his drive towards orgasm. He nearly screams around the dildo as the force of Luo Binghe’s thrusts jolts him forwards and the tip of his dick brushes against Shen Qingqiu’s leg. Bingge smears precum all over Shen Qingqiu’s skin while he ruts against him hungrily, the dual stimulation on his cock and his prostate too much, far too much. Static rushes in his ears until he can’t think. It takes barely a few seconds of sloppy rubbing and a well-timed snap of Luo Binghes hips to have him coming in great spurts along Shen Qingqiu’s leg and onto the floor, his cock jerking violently.
“Fuck,” Luo Binghe swears loudly at the sudden, quivering tightness around him. Bingge gives a weak moan when he feels that cock buried in him as far as it will go, fingers digging bruises into his hips. He rests his face against their Shizun’s soft inner thigh, moaning weakly at the first spill inside him. For once — for the first time in as long as he can remember — the incessant, dark chatter that lingers in the back of his mind and haunts his sleeping and waking hours is blessedly, mercifully quiet.
The roiling avalanche of emotions choking him up is not. Bingge fully expects Luo Binghe to pull out immediately and shove him aside, curling up possessively in the arms of his Shizun like he always does. He clings a little tighter in anticipation for the fight, but it never comes. His gasp trips its way off his tongue when arms as familiar as his own wrap fully around his middle, Luo Binghe’s weight bearing the two of them down until they’re kneeling between Shen Qingqiu’s legs. He presses his face in between Bingge’s sticky shoulder blades, the heaviness of his body a strange comfort. It’s only then that Bingge realises that Luo Binghe’s own cheeks are wet with tears.
“Oh, my boys,” Shen Qingqiu murmurs softly, smoothing out the sweat-drenched hair at their temples with either hand. “What am I to do with you?”
Bingge is rarely spent after only one round, but his head feels heavy now, every drop of energy rinsed from him. His thoughts are fuzzy and muted as though he’s deep underwater. He can’t bring himself to move, basking in the shared warmth of their crowded bodies. Shen Qingqiu and Luo Binghe chip away at his lowered defences, flooding him with more intimacy than he’s ever allowed himself to accept. It should terrify him — it should make his fingers itch for Xin Mo and his heart yearn for home. Home feels far away now. With hands in his hair and tears in his eyes, the rhythmic comfort of Luo Binghe’s thumbs stroking circles against his stomach lulls him into the blissful hands of sleep.