TSBIRBV Ch 187(NSFW)

Chapter 187. Pillow-Side Litigation (14) (NSFW)

“Once we return… when we go back…”

Je Haryang, who had become the Heavenly Demon, would never again be a disciple of Kunlun. Yegyeol knew this well, and yet he could not bring himself to let go. The words that slipped from him were not a plea so much as a lingering attachment—and not merely attachment, but despair.

“No matter what I do, I cannot return to Kunlun.”

Though Yegyeol’s voice broke into fragments, rough and unsteady, Haryang seemed to understand every word.

“And I have no intention of undoing this bond.”

Haryang kissed him slowly. His thrusts, which had been rough, gentled into a languid rhythm that gave Yegyeol space to breathe. A steady heat spread through him like kindled fire. Haryang sucked briefly at his lower lip, reluctant to part, then murmured as he drew back:

“Kunlun’s Je Haryang could never have done such things.”

He brushed Yegyeol’s fallen hair back, pressing his lips to the younger man’s smooth brow.

Yegyeol thought he understood the words unsaid.

If two Kunlun brothers ever lay together, expulsion was inevitable. Secret games of the hand might be overlooked, but to couple shamelessly, day and night, as they did now—how could such a bond endure?

But the Heavenly Demon, master of the Demonic Sect, could desire a mere Kunlun disciple without fear. He could confine him in his chambers if he wished. No believer of his would care if their lord shared a bed with his former brother.

“B-but… but still…”

Tears welled as Yegyeol’s hand touched the corner of his eye. Haryang closed his eyes without hesitation, yielding to his disciple’s trembling caress.

“You were, once… a knight-errant, a hero… you loved saving people…” His voice broke, thick with grief.

Haryang’s expression was dry, unmoved. He only listened.

“And now, being the Heavenly Demon—don’t you hate it? Aren’t you afraid?”

At his quavering voice, Haryang slowly opened his eyes and looked down upon him.

I never thought I would hear such a question.

Becoming the Heavenly Demon had never been a choice—it had been survival. He had cast aside hesitation and fear alike, and chosen only to endure. A man who had never even chosen survival by his own will had ruined himself with chilling ease.

“…Because I had to live.”

He whispered the words Yegyeol would most regret.

“You told me so.”

He watched the tears slide down Yegyeol’s cheeks with an impassive gaze.

Living held no meaning. Even if it had, the light of it had dimmed. And yet, having survived long enough to meet Yegyeol again, he wondered whether the gods the Daoists of Kunlun had sought so fervently—whether Heaven and Earth itself, or the Primordial Sovereign—might truly exist.

At the thought, Haryang gave a small laugh.

That a disgraced Taoist, now worshipped as the Heavenly Demon by the cult, should still search for gods—what weakness, what pitiful humanity.

“When I sent you back to Kunlun…”

Yegyeol’s body, streaked with marks of debauchery, quaked as he sobbed. Pity stirred, and Haryang pulled him close. Drawing in his breath, he inhaled the familiar scent he had always loved upon Yegyeol.

“You should never have returned.”

That had been the final chance to sever this cursed bond. Now even Haryang himself could not stop.

To confess he coveted the hideous scars upon the Black Ghost’s flesh.

To clutch Yegyeol as he wept upon learning his Senior Brother had become the Heavenly Demon.

How could he ever let him go?

“Do you understand, Yegyeol?”

He whispered without preamble:

“It is your fault.”

No. It was not.

None of this was Yegyeol’s fault.

Haryang swallowed a bitter laugh and corrected himself inwardly. It was all his fault.

Upon the broad bed, Yegyeol lay trapped in his embrace, drowning in ecstasy so searing it burned thought itself to ash, thrashing weakly as the relentless tide of guiding surged through him—like a storm swallowing him whole, never to release him.

“Ahh—ahhh… hhh…!”

As Yegyeol shuddered into climax, Haryang withdrew.

“Ahhh!”

The moment the shaft that had sealed him slipped free, thick white seed poured out in a rush. Yegyeol curled into himself.

“It’s—it’s… leaking…”

At the hot spill trickling from him, he burst into tears.

“What if… I can’t close myself again?”

“Hush. It’s all right. All right.”

Haryang soothed him with practiced ease. It was his own fault, driving him past his limits, and far from pitiful, Yegyeol only looked more endearing.

He stroked the trembling shoulders, kissed him gently, and licked at his ear. Already, the flushed body began to redden anew.

“I will seal it for you.”

“R-really?”

His eyes blinked, relief softening his face, shame and desire tangled into obedience. His pupils dilated, then narrowed; his ragged breath eased.

Haryang watched as he mumbled and shook his head faintly, like someone realizing, after sobbing, just how humiliating it was. His clarity was returning—at least for the moment.

Whether it was regret or relief, Haryang swallowed it down and held him tighter.

“Yegyeol, you will never leave Cheonghyeongjeon.”

Not even the Sacred Mountain itself—he would not let him leave this very chamber.

“Not because you are so fair and so wanton…”

He grasped the pale ankle, bringing his lips to it.

“…but because this Senior Brother is greedy and base.”

Even had Yegyeol been nothing but a withered flower or a straw doll, it would not have changed.

“That is why.”

He drew back, then thrust into him at once, driving to the deepest part.

Yegyeol’s slender waist bent back, trembling violently, as pale seed spilled anew from him. The face that had only just wept in lucidity was again bleached blank, overwritten with rapture.

The body he had trained responded to pleasure with such sensitivity that no threats, no torture, no brainwashing were needed to break him.

“Take only what I give you, and drink it sweetly.”

Even if Yegyeol were broken, he would love him still—but he wanted him whole, if he could have him so. If not laughter, then at least his tears.

“Ahhh—ahhh…!”

Each thrust wrung out a wet, squelching sound from him. When he gasped as though forgetting how to breathe, Haryang stole his breath with his own lips. Yegyeol, seeing only him through blurred vision, clung tighter with his arms.

“Anything—whatever you wish—I will give it to you. Anything you want, I will make it real. Now I can.”

The words tumbled out in a feverish murmur, not himself but like a broken cassette repeating its recording. The same vow he had spoken when first confessing, echoing back across time.

Barely half a month, and yet it feels an age ago.

Yegyeol’s lashes trembled. Haryang kissed him again, plundering his mouth, stealing every last breath, his eyes dark with possessive hunger.

“Then…”

After a long silence, Yegyeol whispered at last, head resting against his shoulder:

“If I stay here… Senior Brother, will you be all right?”

His voice, torn by cries, was thin and fragile.

“…Yes.”

“As before?”

Haryang brushed his nose against Yegyeol’s neck, the sensitized skin shivering, but he cared nothing for it.

“…As before.”

“Then, then…”

Yegyeol tried to say more, but his head fell back. Haryang caught it gently, noticing the slackening hands around his neck. His eyes were shut tight—he had fainted.

He removed the arms from around his neck, then untied the hands still bound. Though the cloth had been soft, long hours bound had left red welts across the skin.

Expressionless, Haryang lifted the wrists to his face.

“Lullaby… lullaby…”

He clumsily hummed the tune Yegyeol had once sung to him in Hangzhou, and again in Cheonghae. His voice continued long and low, until dawn dimmed the night.

“You are poisoned.”

Having taken Yegyeol’s pulse, Samrang withdrew her hand and spoke.

“Whose doing?”

Haryang had assumed the disciple’s whimpers were merely rut, but when the fever failed to break by morning, he had summoned Samrang. Now he heard her verdict.

“Mine.”

Her answer was light, but Haryang’s eyes fixed coldly upon her.

“Yes, mine.”

Trying to ease the air, she had misjudged badly, and rushed to explain.

“Strictly speaking, it is not poison, but an intoxication of medicine.”

“Medicine…?”

“Yes. The sleeping draughts, the sedatives my lord uses. They relax the nerves, and…”

“And why?”

“Because he did not ingest them, but inhaled them. The smoke lingers in the furniture, in the walls. To you, it has no effect—but the young master…”

Her words trailed off.

Haryang looked down at Yegyeol, still sleeping, unbroken by dawn.

“Weak…”

He had not even been beside him when incense was last burned. Haryang had not lived in the sect for months, and no pipe had been lit here for longer still. The last traces of smoke must have been half a year old.

And yet, from that mere remnant, Yegyeol’s body had burned.

“So terribly weak.”

Haryang lowered his gaze, watching him sleep.