TSBIRBV Ch 65

Chapter 65 The Bride Lies Sleepless (3)

As arousal mounted, the bone-shrinking art slackened, and Haryang’s body returned, bit by bit, to its original form. The face mask fluttered annoyingly; he tore it off and tossed it to the floor beside the bed.

Under the gathering weight, Yegyeol forgot how to breathe.

“Hnnn…”

Friction burned; with his face buried in the bedding, his shoulders shook.

Though he had been opened, the narrowness still half-forced apart as Haryang’s body drove in, and the guiding energy swelled and spilled over with every thrust.

“Ah—ah…! Huh—!”

Even with guiding, the size was barely bearable—and for some reason, it kept feeling larger. His heart hammered like it would burst from his mouth. The force pressing him down grew harder.

Held captive—though he had no thought of fleeing—the rough, heedless drives made him tremble as if breaking apart.

Half of it was the guiding energy that devoured him; half, the blindfold, which made Senior Brother feel impossibly vast.

“Hh… it’s… too big. Uh… ah.”

Haryang admitted he had lost control.

Yegyeol’s lower gate was tight. Even when he carved a path to the deepest place, the moment he drew back, it closed, as if it had never known a man.

He tried not to be rough—yet grew more and more relentless.

He looked down at the pitiful bride.

Born a man, he could never have imagined taking a man this way.

Whether by stimulant or nature, his front stood eager even as his rear was taken. The glans, smeared with drying white, bobbed whenever Haryang moved, dribbling clear juice—lewd beyond words.

And yet the wantonness was neither front nor back, but the tears that fell without end.

“If you cry too much… you’ll tire quickly,” he murmured.

His hand stroked a cheek to soothe—yet each grind brought a wet slap from the seed spilled earlier, loud in the room.

Yegyeol only nodded helplessly.

“Y-yes. Yes…”

He had long since lost command of his tear-ducts—learning that too much pleasure also hurts.

But when Haryang soothed him like this, what could he do—write a promissory note against his heart?

“It doesn’t hurt… does it?”

Between that rough voice, a thread of satisfied sounds.

Yegyeol bit back the urge to cry that it felt good, and only nodded and sobbed.

“H-Hold me.”

It was the ache of not being able to meet his gaze. At such a small request, the beast was generous—he turned his disciple in his arms. With the shaft still sunk inside, the change of angle set Yegyeol off sobbing again.

Haryang rubbed his back, soothing like a child.

As if to confirm the safety of those arms, Yegyeol wrapped him around the neck and pressed his cheek to his chest.

By feel—by breadth—Haryang’s build had returned to itself.

He still saw nothing through the blindfold—but he could not mistake this chest.

Earlier, the suffocating fullness had been because he’d taken Senior Brother’s whole body.

And that made him strangely glad.

He wanted to see Haryang’s face—the face that, in getting lost in the act begun for “treatment,” had let the bone-shrinking art slip.

He wanted to look him in the eyes and ask what he felt, taking his disciple.

“Ah!”

The skill belied all Daoist training; the precise rhythm drove Yegyeol to his edge.

His whole body cried joy.

He wanted to draw the moment out, to take Senior Brother deeper.

“G—huh… good—so good…!”

Even as he spread wide, he fretted that his wanton posture might disgust him.

To answer the clumsy plea, Haryang withdrew—and in one stroke, speared the deepest place.

The trembling mess of a body froze—and a thin gush slipped from Yegyeol’s softened tip.

Haryang set lips to his nape and caught his breath. He had nearly spilled inside. Again and again, he forgot this was not for his pleasure.

He drew free, rubbed himself—carelessly—and thick white burst forth.

He wiped with the red bridal robe he himself had torn to rags, then looked down at the disciple, shoulders heaving.

By the guttering candle, tear-wet cheeks shone. When he stroked the back gently, the disciple turned his head, searching for where he stood.

Long ago, at initiation, Haryang had sworn to heed the ancients, honor his master, and protect his disciple.

But this was not Kunlun…

A red smile touched his lips—and faded.

I lost the right to be called your Senior Brother long ago.

The beast mounted the bride again.

Pressed under the weight, the frail, youthful thing’s shoulders shook. Whether he feared the pleasure or the scene, Haryang did not ask aloud.

— — —

This isn’t a dream… is it?

Waking with a cool, clean body, Yegyeol blinked. Sat up—white bed-linens, a fresh sleeping robe—everything neatly set, as if nothing had happened.

The blindfold was gone.

He slid a hand, furtively, seeking traces of the night—but there was nothing.

The silk sash that had covered his eyes all night—gone. The bridal robes Haryang had half torn—gone.

What began properly had ended roughly. First time—taking a man as a man should have left him bruised all over—yet he felt light, refreshed.

If not for the peculiar omnipotence filling every limb, he might have thought it the best dream of his life.

“Ah.”

Even the voice was steady. The innards that had melted under venom were surely whole again.

No matter how overpowered the grade, he had not expected Haryang—untaught in guiding—to be this capable.

Was Senior Brother born under the guide’s star?

Replete in body and heart, he recalled their first joining.

Not so much gentle as relentless—never forgetting care, but rough in the act.

Only near dawn, when the windows went pale, did he slip from Haryang’s hands. The clearer his mind grew, the more it begged—shamelessly—for sleep, ungrateful for guiding.

It had been a night of pouring stimulant into an already waking mind.

When pleasure and guiding drowned him near blacking out, Haryang blew inner force through his body. He coaxed and soothed, promised release once detox was done—then worked him ruthlessly.

Such lies—he’d welcome a thousand, ten thousand times.

At the rustle of his rising, Samrang appeared beyond the door.

“You’re awake?”

“…Mm.”

A bridal night, by ambush—he answered deliberately calm.

The paper door slid; Samrang entered. The skin beneath her eyes was dark.

“What happened to your face?”

“And the man who died and came back worries about mine?” she snorted.

“I spent the night on edge, then chasing who tried the poisoning.” She clicked her tongue. “Ran like a dog with its tail on fire.”

“Who was it?”

“How many poison-arts masters hate you?”

Tang Seoak, then.

She left the name unsaid; he found the truth. He had not been in the heartlands long—hadn’t sowed many grudges.

“Tang gongja crossed a line.”

“I should have been more careful. Forgive me,” she said—yet she took his pulse; relief fluttered across her face.

“As we checked—you’re fully detoxed. Eat carefully. Move easy.”

“…I owe a great debt to my Sichuan branch,” he said.

“You remember?”

He had been barely conscious under the drugs—she asked carefully.

“Bits,” he nodded shortly, eyes dropping, fidgeting on purpose.

“If there’s anything you’ve held back—ask,” she prompted.

“Th—the Black Ghost…?”

His face tried to shrink in on itself—but inside, he was a big dog that had been walked for three hours, wagging madly.

Uncharacteristically, she hesitated. Even with her bluntness, she feared last night’s shock upon him.

“He asked to meet you as soon as you woke,” she said at last.

“Really?”

Before the sun was up, Haryang had slipped away; Yegyeol burned with curiosity.

“If you can walk, I’ll take you.”

She must know enough of what had passed. Yegyeol, perversely, wondered what she made of the drama—Senior Brother violating his disciple.

“…Lead on.”

Like one who knew Black Spot well, she guided him smoothly. He refused her arm, insisting on his own feet, and moved slowly.

If he paused to breathe, she slowed without looking back.

They met no one—clearly, she’d chosen empty ways.

A black-lacquered door slid; beyond it, Senior Brother sat.

Only when he finished the bamboo slip did he set it down and speak.

“You’re awake.”

His manner was cool, as if they had never lain together.

Right. One time does not make the second easy.

He steadied himself. He must not forget how special the conditions had been. Still, he had learned there were cracks in that unassailable fortress; he would count it a good lesson.

Haryang filled a cup with hot tea, set it before him. The subtle gold and deep fragrance drew up old memories.

Soothed, Yegyeol drank, set the cup down.

“Then let us discuss the disposition of the one who sought to harm a valued client of Black Spot.”

— — —

Footnotes:

• Bone-shrinking art — A transformation technique that alters stature and frame; strong arousal or exertion can disrupt its maintenance. 
• Bridal sashes, torn silks — The lack of physical soreness reflects thorough guiding and inner-force circulation used to repair tissue as the act proceeded.