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Luo Binghe stops short at the cloying, herbal scent of smoke winding its way through the bamboo house, hand flying to Xin Mo's hilt. He recognizes it immediately, the way it sits heavy on the back of his tongue. He's been ambushed before with incense that smelled very much like this, made from the buds of the plant that is the starting material for Immortal-Binding Cable. A cultivation suppressant, and a strong one, enough to take down a Heavenly Demon in high enough concentrations. Is Shizun—Shen—are they—
Shen Qingqiu isn't even there when he bursts into the main room. It's only that damned impostor that greets him with a lazy wave of one hand, eyes rimmed with red and smoke clinging to his robes. Curls of it drift from the long-stemmed pipe held idly in his hand, pinched between two long, pointed nails that are much more like claws than unlike them.
Luo Binghe, despite being the emperor of the merged Three Realms, prefers to keep his own appearance mostly human, nails just slightly too long, eyes startlingly red to match the zuiyin throbbing on his forehead. This pale copy is not only not suppressing his demonic features, he's actually encouraging them. Long, thick horns sprout from the other Luo Binghe's forehead, darker than black and so shiny that it looks as though they've been polished, and Luo Binghe resists the urge to press a hand to his own forehead where long-dormant mirrors must lie. His own must be bigger, more impressive.
"Don't you know that stuff will destroy your cultivation?"
"Just temporarily. That was the idea, anyway. It's easier to be..." His double waves the hand holding the pipe again, vaguely gesturing at himself and wafting smoke in Luo Binghe's direction. "Like this, when I don't have to worry about keeping my human and demonic qi in harmony with each other."
Luo Binghe makes no secret of the way his lip curls in distaste. The smoke is all over his clothes now. The damned smell will follow him when he leaves here, which he should be doing now, since the man he came to see isn't even here.
"You should try it sometime. Might mellow you out." The other Luo Binghe's mouth curls into a lazy, lopsided smirk, the tip of a fang catching on his plush lower lip for a brief moment. Despite himself, Luo Binghe finds his eyes tracking the movement, the way the flesh drags and bounces back into place. It's strange to watch his own features on another man's face.
Luo Bingmei, the pathetic copy who's made himself into Shen Qingqiu's doting wife, the version of him that's a silly, giggling little sister and barely even seems to care about being emperor at all, is, currently, much more physically imposing than he is.
The last few times he'd been here, Luo Binghe had... noticed that already. All right, he'd been caught off guard enough to be manhandled into place a few times, and all right, every time he returns to this version of the bamboo house in this stupid, lopsided little world, the bastard seems to stand taller than he does, his shoulders broader. Luo Binghe is all lean muscle, a body carefully honed by hardship and a lot of very strenuous lovemaking. He is soft, all lush curves and thick thighs from years of pampering and then marital bliss with the twisted mirror of Luo Binghe's greatest enemy. It's infuriating. This other him has barely a cun on him and yet he sometimes feels towered over.
Luo Binghe can tell at a glance that if his double stands up, he will have far more than a cun of height advantage. His body seems broader, more thickly muscled, and the slim triangle of his chest and stomach exposed by the loose inner robe he wears is covered with dark, curly hair. He'd had some of that before—he suppresses its growth far less than Luo Binghe himself, who prefers to be clean-shaven everywhere—but Luo Binghe would have remembered that the last time he'd seen the boy naked.
Not that he often allows his eyes to linger long, when he does.
Luo Binghe has been standing here staring with his mouth gaping like a fish for far too long. The smoke is already getting to him, filling his head.
As if reading his mind, Luo Bingmei laughs, legs shifting farther apart as he lounges in his chair as if it's a throne and not some falling-apart wicker that, if he knows himself, Luo Bingmei had probably woven painstakingly. "This room is well-ventilated, you know. You have to breathe in the smoke directly for it to really do much to you." I'm not poisoning you, he heavily implies, and even if I was, it would be your fault for standing here.
"It probably wouldn't do a thing to me anyway," Luo Binghe bites back, hating the words as they leave his mouth. He sounds like some little brat craving attention. "This lord's cultivation has reached heights the likes of you can barely dream of."
Luo Bingmei does not look suitably impressed by this. "Is that so." He takes another long pull from the pipe, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment before leaning forward slightly to exhale.
Luo Binghe finds himself inhaling as it curls toward his lips.
"Oh? Did you want to try? Shizun loves it when I take him like this, you know."
The impostor spreads his legs wider, and the fabric of his thin robe parts, revealing—
It can't be anything but his cock. It's always been the twin of Luo Binghe's own, identical in shape and size, but today any fool could see the difference as it juts out proudly between his naked thighs. This—thing—is flushed a dark purple-red, longer and thicker than Luo Binghe's even at its hardest, and covered in a series of bumps that grow thicker at the base, a true demonic cock. Unconsciously, Luo Binghe's tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Bingmei's eyes narrow, a predator sighting weakness. The twin of this expression has crossed Luo Binghe's face more times than he can count. They have never looked more alike.
"He's at his most honest when he's stuffed full with this. He loves the way it stretches him past his limits. This bump right here hits right at his prostate. Drives him wild when I grind into him nice and slow." He circles his cock lazily with a finger in demonstration. It's only half-hard, but it's still bigger than anything Luo Binghe has ever boasted. "He says it feels amazing rubbing at his hole, too. He's gotten off just from grinding against the tip before."
Luo Binghe snatches the pipe from his hand before he can think better of it and breathes in deeply, desperately, ignoring the way his thighs involuntarily clench to stave off the throb he suddenly feels deep inside. He can't recall the last time he's smoked anything—it's not as though any of it works on him—and his inexperience shows almost immediately, to his shame. He's taken too long a drag, held his breath for too long, and it's child's play for the other him to retrieve the pipe as the air goes out of him in a rush and he gasps and sputters to get it back. The sour taste hits the back of his throat, the air in his lungs feeling too thick and heavy. Tears spring to his eyes, the first time that's happened in—hundreds of years, maybe. It's utterly humiliating.
"I could have told you that would happen," he hears faintly through the ringing in his ears. Amused. Then, unexpected: "Come here."
He's tugged down onto the chair, straddling muscled thighs. Body heat bleeds into him almost immediately. He tries to recoil, but he's still getting his breath back, still sputtering, and he can't resist when a tongue presses insistently into his mouth, warm, herbal-scented breath following it.
His breathing is less ragged when their mouths part. "Better?" Bingmei asks, looking as though he already knows the answer.
"Die a miserable death," he rasps, head dipping low as he coughs. The freak's shoulders are definitely bigger than his like this.
"Sure." There's a hand stiffly rubbing circles on his back.
It's not even the first time they've kissed. Shen Qingqiu likes to see it, so they put on a show for him sometimes. It's not as though Luo Binghe can blame him. There had been that time Bai Lihua or Chunhua or whatever her name was had triggered the Mirror of Double's Gaze, and of course the Daoist nun triplets, and the time a shapeshifter demon had tried to infiltrate the harem as Sha Hualing and he'd had both of them at once... Watching someone kiss themself is, in a word, hot. The fact that he goes along with it should perhaps concern him, but in the moment, every time, he does as Shen Qingqiu asks.
Shen Qingqiu's never been absent for it.
"I'll do it for you. Hold still."
Before Luo Binghe can ask what the hell he means, his chin is being pinched and his jaw worked open. His double takes a slow, deliberate drag from the pipe and exhales into his mouth, lips hovering above his. The distance is no more than the thickness of a piece of rice paper, but it feels, strangely, infinite.
"Breathe in. Slow. That's it. And out, don't try to hold it in. Good."
Something in Luo Binghe's stomach turns over at the praise. It's only the—association, with Shen Qingqiu, who always makes him feel so—
"Shizun likes doing this with this disciple, too," Bingmei says conversationally. He takes another drag. Doesn't share it this time. "He smokes another strain for his aches and pains sometimes, one with less cultivation suppressant and lower THC—oh, sorry, I forgot you haven't been to Shizun's world." He sounds inutterably smug.
"I could if I wanted to." It sounds whiny even to him.
"Mm."
He's usually the one easily getting a rise out of the impostor. Having it turned around on him is disorienting. "So when does this change start to happen?" he snaps.
"Hmm, it usually happens to me by now." He's definitely lying. "You must just not be very good at relaxing." The other Luo Binghe casually grabs at the crotch of his robes, giving him a cursory squeeze. "Maybe since you've never done it before, your body needs to learn the shape of it."
"I can see it just fine." He's been trying not to look at it, considering how perilously close it is to his own, but at this he glances down. It's fully hard now, or nearly so, and hard ridges have flared out around the head. This smoke must have an aphrodisiac effect, because his own cock is rapidly springing to life.
"Really compare, then." Hands are tugging at his robes. He snarls, but his own are making quicker work of the fabric.
Fuck, it looks so small next to that... thing. Luo Binghe has never felt small before.
The drug is definitely having an effect. Everything is beginning to take on a pleasant haze, his limbs growing heavy, and Luo Binghe inexplicably feels like laughing.
"Touch it. Or are you afraid?" Bingmei takes another drag and blows it into his mouth, tongue twining around the smoke in a way that sends a jolt of heat through him. He barely pulls away to take another, and this time their lips meet, tongues tangling as the smoke fills his lungs.
His hips cant forward, and then they're touching, the ridges of that thing pressing and rubbing against him. He can't help the groan that leaves him as he presses closer, mouth moving on an identical set of lips. That thing inside him throbs insistently, bringing to mind Bingmei's boasting about how easily he can stimulate Shen Qingqiu's prostate.
Before he can think better of it, Luo Binghe is rising up on his knees, the blood mites within him concentrating in one spot until his hole is soft and slick and loose. It's still a shock when the ridged head presses inside, the sensation so overwhelming that his legs abruptly go numb, and that makes his waist go numb and before he can rally himself he's dropped down all the way into his other self's lap.
"Whoa," his twin says softly, sounding as winded as he feels. "I didn't expect—are you all right?"
"Shut up," Luo Binghe grits out. He's so full he can barely breathe, and it feels like every ridge and bump is lighting up a different part of him, the sensation made even more overwhelming by the haze of the drug. It's reaching so deep that he can feel it in his stomach—no, see it, there's a distinct bulge above his navel. He feels briefly ill and then realizes it's because his cock is so desperately hard that all of the blood in his body seems to have rushed there.
"Just hold still for a while, you'll get used to it. If you try to get up now you'll just hurt yourself."
Luo Binghe stubbornly tries to do just that, barely manages to lift himself a mere cun, and collapses down again with a whimper.
Bingmei takes another mouthful of smoke and kisses it into his mouth, slow and deliberate, his lips and tongue surprisingly gentle. He can feel it working, his body relaxing bit by bit until the faint sting of pain and the discomfort give way to mind-melting pleasure.
"It's good, right? Am I pleasing you, Gege?"
Luo Binghe nearly chokes on his own tongue.
"That's the sort of thing you like, isn't it? With your women." He says it as though they're another species, one he can't fathom being interested in. "Gege is much more tolerable when he's cockdrunk. You look almost pretty like this."
Luo Binghe can feel himself clench.
"Or do you like it the other way around? Didi."
What? How could this brat—there's no way that—he has hundreds of years on this mere child, he—
"Just relax and let your gege take care of you. You've said that to a hundred women, haven't you? How does it feel to hear it, hm?"
A broken noise escapes him. He tries to move again, but the other Luo Binghe stops him easily, his spine practically melted from the drugs and the huge thing spearing him open. He's fed another mouthful of smoke. The cock inside him shifts slightly as his double adjusts in the chair, and suddenly the pressure on his prostate is unbearable. He needs to move, to be fucked, anything. He doesn't realize he's begging until claws dig into his hips and he's being lifted up until only the tip is still inside, the ridges dragging excruciatingly along his walls, and lowered back down just as slowly and carefully. And then the bastard stops.
"Fuck you," he spits, squirming ineffectively. "Your shizun doesn't love you, he can't, he's playing some long game that you haven't figured out yet because you're a naive idiot who trusts anyone who shows you a drop of kindness, you're going to die alone and unloved and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"
The breath is punched out of him as his other self takes his goading and finally gives him what he wants, slamming him down to the hilt and lifting him up again like a doll to do it again and again. He's tugged into a messy kiss, the only smoke in it the lingering taste in the air, more teeth than tongue. They growl into each other's mouths, Luo Binghe grabbing hold of his other self's shiny, slippery horns to keep his balance. Luo Binghe finally regains enough control over his limbs to grind his hips until that bump is rubbing back and forth over his prostate and the growl turns into a broken moan. He prides himself on his stamina, but orgasm is approaching hard and fast, his cock drooling all over his counterpart's open robes, a puddle forming on his abs.
He speeds up, chasing release, his mind emptying of anything but his desperate need to come. Fangs sink into his forearm, and for a hazy moment he's not sure if they're his own or his other self's. He bites down on a shoulder, blood darkening the black robe, hands slipping off the smooth surface of horns. He feels so good and so full and suddenly, inexplicably like he belongs to himself, and it strikes him that he's not sure if he's ever felt that before.
When he comes, he follows a moment after. The fluttering of Luo Binghe's hole makes the pressure of those bumps and ridges almost unbearable for both of them, their faces twisting up in twin expressions of agony. They bite down again, tasting salt and iron. The blood mites don't matter, can't matter. They're the same, after all.
Luo Binghe whites out for a blissful few moments, his ears ringing. He floats, full and comfortable and wanted and punished in a way that satisfies him utterly. It's never been this good with Shen Qingqiu. He misses Shen Qingqiu, wants Shen Qingqiu, but this...
And that's how Shen Qingqiu finds them an indeterminate amount of time later, Luo Bingge clinging to Luo Bingmei's neck, both their eyes red-rimmed from more than just the drugs, Bingmei's cock still buried inside and Bingge's beginning to take on its more demonic shape. Little nubs of horns are starting to make an appearance on his forehead, and he's butting his head against Bingmei's shoulder in a halfhearted attempt to either pick a fight or soothe the growing pains.
With a smile, Shen Qingqiu embraces both of them. "I have two such good boys," he says softly.
The whines that leave them are identical.