TSBIRBV Ch 64

Chapter 64 The Bride Lies Sleepless (2)

Cool-headed as he assessed Yegyeol’s condition, Haryang forgot to breathe when the disciple’s soft call slipped from his lips.

Samrang had warned that fever could bring hallucinations and delusions, yet the sound still shocked him enough to blank the mind.

“Are you more lucid?” he asked. The voice that answered was still the monster’s—harsh, hoarse—and that, at least, relieved him.

No matter how far he had fallen beneath the beast, he would not let his disciple see that he could do this with his own hands.

Without waiting for a reply, he lifted the ivory case, filled his mouth with counter-poison, and pressed his lips to Yegyeol’s.

It was not for pleasure. It was more like a mother bird feeding a chick.

Watching Yegyeol gulp down the poison he delivered, Haryang’s eyes darkened further.

When the kiss ended, a sob slipped out—“Senior Brother…”—and again:

“Help me… please help me.”

Let me go.

From those torn lips, the words could be heard as either—or both.

But Gyeol…

Haryang checked that the counter-poison had gone down, then tore away the cumbersome red robe in one decisive rip.

I am helping you now.

The pale legs trembled helplessly. Gazing down at the flushed, ripe sex, Haryang slid a supporting hand under his waist and drew him up.

“Senior Brother… Senior Brother…”

Pitiful.

The disciple’s voice, seeking the one man who would never appear at this moment, tugged at Haryang’s own heart.

But his heart had long ago gone numb to guilt.

He set his lips along the cooled line of Yegyeol’s nape and murmured,

“It will hurt.”

The nearness—so close as to brush the skin—sent a chill through his voice; Yegyeol flinched. But when Haryang’s hand, wet with his disciple’s seed, slipped between those cheeks, he did not hesitate.

“Ah!”

Just a single finger, and Yegyeol froze.

It wasn’t fear of the pain to come. He could not reconcile that the one acting thus—so lawlessly—was Je Haryang.

Senior Brother was rigidly straight, unfailingly earnest. He would not—of his own will—violate a disciple in the name of saving him.

The Beast-Faced Tiger’s grim testimony came painfully alive.

Tears slid from Yegyeol’s eyes, which had begun to grow hazy with the earlier kiss.

It did not sadden him that the Senior Brother he knew had changed. By that measure, he himself had died and been reborn—a monster called an esper.

But all the pain of the years that had broken Je Haryang—smashed him, until his original shape could no longer be found—that pain made Yegyeol weep.

Held in his Senior Brother’s arms, he missed Senior Brother. He wanted to see his face with his own eyes, to learn what expression he wore.

Sensing the sob, Haryang’s lips moved.

“Nothing has happened.”

As the slow, unrelenting hand opened him from within, guiding poured through, and Yegyeol’s mind was roused.

“You are merely receiving my service.”

The words soothed like sandpaper—abrasive, but somehow kind in their twisted way. The comfort—still gentleness, even in this form—pierced Yegyeol’s chest.

“What happens in this room will fade like a nightmare, once you wake. Do you understand?”

He bit his lip and nodded.

On this point, they were the same. To hell with the poison—be done with it and rise.

If power was Jianghu’s law, Yegyeol would be the strongest of them all. What else had he been born a monster for?

He pressed his face to Haryang’s chest—not because he feared what trembled through him, but because he loved a man who would offer comfort even now.

“Good boy,” Haryang murmured.

The honorifics were the Black Ghost’s, but the phrasing was Haryang’s own. They were the same man; to separate them completely was impossible.

Not that Haryang knew it.

“I will not go further,” he said.

“B-but…”

Yegyeol’s hand shook against Haryang’s shoulder.

Even with only two, three fingers working in and out of his rim, his brain melted. If he took a true man’s shaft, he doubted he could keep his wits at all.

He could imagine a hundred disgraces to show before Senior Brother.

“It’s too tight,” Haryang said. “To widen you thoroughly would cost us the antidote’s window.”

Even his filthiest words sounded immaculate—and that, too, made Yegyeol flush.

He must be mad.

“You may imagine anyone you like,” Haryang added. “That is why I blinded you.”

But what I want is you.

Biting his lip, Yegyeol opened his legs—a small motion, but Haryang went still.

In the blind red-dark, something blunt pressed below. Yegyeol drew a steadying breath.

Slowly, heavily, Haryang’s length pressed inside.

“Ghh… hah…”

Not knowing where to hold, Yegyeol clutched at silk—the knuckles whitening one by one.

Even with his mouth open, breath came tight. The first push had only just begun, and still it felt long past.

Something wet struck his cheek—water. Haryang’s sweat.

So he’s holding back, too.

Even blind, he knew.

He fumbled up to cup Haryang’s face.

Here the cheekbone—here the corner of the eye—and here, the brow…

His hand—smooth, with no callus—felt fragile as it climbed. In any other case, Haryang might have lopped that wrist clean—but he watched his disciple’s touch like a sated tiger watching a bird alight on its back.

Soon Yegyeol found the damp forehead. Tugging a sleeve, he dabbed, gently and thorough.

At that painfully careful touch, Haryang exhaled a savage breath.

An emotion rose—hot, humid—not pity, not pleasure: anger.

He saw again the day Yegyeol had thrown himself to save a hypocrite he barely knew.

Now, with a stranger’s shaft inside him—after a few meetings and fewer words—he sobbed; and still, he thought to wipe sweat.

He had felt it often—his disciple was viciously defenseless.

I shouldn’t have let him walk the world so soon.

He cursed the past self who thought a single guard was enough.

He gathered Yegyeol up. Blindfolded, the disciple still startled at the slightest touch.

For the first time, lips met the brow—not to give medicine, but for the act itself—gentle, ticklish.

As Yegyeol softened, unguarded, Haryang bared his teeth and smiled, feral.

“Ah—!”

He dropped him. Limbs loose as a newborn lamb’s, Yegyeol had no chance to react—he sank down the length, to the hilt.

Gravity made an anchor. He fell—there was nowhere to go but Haryang’s embrace—and tears burst from the pitch of pleasure.

Haryang kept a hand at his back—just enough to keep him from toppling—watching as consciousness fled and flashed back, gulping air.

A knee, sticking out, blushed like a spring-warmed fruit—pale pink. It was not sweet, melting-ripe; more like a tang that made the mouth water.

A strange desire.

“Hnn…”

When lips touched the knee, Yegyeol sobbed, lost. The bridal sash—blinding his eyes—felt tighter, wetter.

Haryang did not allow him rest; his hips moved.

Despite careful work below, Haryang’s size was too much. He had not imagined it would be this… big. Better to moan than say something that stupid.

“Hn! Ah!”

Guiding crashed through him—no space for breath. Once, he had thought guiding was a healing power. It was far more relentless—violent—than he had ever imagined.

As if to wipe away everything in the world but Je Haryang.

“Nggh…”

The thrusts that devoured him drove him up and down—flight, fall, flight—tilting his senses to their extremes.

Beyond the wave of bliss, his judgment washed away; the line between like and loathe dissolved.

“I—I… ah! Hh—!”

He wasn’t even sure if it was climax—but his own tip spat white again. Limp, he soaked the sheets and rolled his head, lost.

“Easy… you’re fine,” Haryang soothed, then reached for the ivory jar. Yegyeol seemed lucid enough to take from the bowl—but Haryang dropped what remained into his own mouth.

Catching Yegyeol by the jaw, he drew him in and poured the cold poison across his tongue. The blazing heat of the stimulant-charged body cooled a degree.

When he’d sent Samrang away, intending to treat Yegyeol himself, Haryang had held a small worry: could he even harden for the one he had always sworn to protect? If need be, he had meant to take the stimulant too.

But as always, with Yegyeol, he found himself changed.

“D-do…”

Haryang’s face remained blank as he looked down.

A young beast, trembling with the first taste of pleasure, was more fascinating than expected. He had not anticipated any of this.

“G-get… b-bet—”

The tongue was numb to the root—thanks to the cold poison again.

Scalding joy and glacial chill took turns violating him.

The white legs he had bared earlier locked firm around Haryang’s waist.

The fever that had seethed his brain ebbed with each bout—but the clearer his mind became, the more nakedly he felt each touch.

“Ah—ngh! Hnn—! Hh.”

Hiccoughing sobs shivered along their joined bodies.

Haryang listened to that tremor—the quick of a living heart—and was glad.

Glad—he had forgotten the word. It was addictive.

“Hold,” he warned—then just in time, pulled free. His climax spilled hot across Yegyeol’s belly.

Milky fluid ran over silk and skin, down the cleft of the hip, touching the tight ring. Thwarted by the end of guiding, Yegyeol’s rim twitched on its own.

For a heartbeat, Haryang forgot therapy. He drew Yegyeol close, pressed lips to his back, and breathed.

Only a pause.

“Ah!”

The tickle made Yegyeol jerk—then without mercy, Haryang drove in again. Like a bird bitten at the neck, his shoulders fluttered; then broke and dropped, folding over the pillow.

The tangled shadow on the bed grew larger.

Like a beast pillaging the bridal night of a bride not his own.

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