TSBIRBV Ch 194(NSFW)

Chapter 194. The Venomous Viper Will Not Endure (5) (NSFW)

“You eat so well.”

The contrast of white and crimson was dizzying. Yegyeol found, strangely, that appetite stirred within him.

Unconsciously, he extended his tongue and licked Haryang’s dampened fingers. His Senior Brother, busy cutting fruit for him, glanced down at the sudden softness pressing against his hand.

He tried to withdraw, but Haryang only laughed quietly and, as if inviting him to feast more, pressed his finger to Yegyeol’s lips.

Hesitant, Yegyeol opened his mouth and let it in. Guided gently as though brushed by down, he suckled slowly, licking upward along each joint, careful not to leave pain but small imprints of his teeth.

By now, the troupe outside scarcely existed for him.

Haryang looked down at his disciple’s reddened nose-tip, damp with weeping, and found him licking his hand with dazed eyes so lustrous that one could mistake the moment for a bedchamber tryst.

“Withdraw.”

His voice, resonant with inner strength, spread outward as he flung his wide sleeve over Yegyeol’s body.

The sounds of the troupe’s busy retreat reached them, cutting short their performance of leaping through rings of fire.

Suddenly realizing himself, Yegyeol buried his face in Haryang’s chest, mortified.

Thump, thump—

The heart beneath his ear beat faster than usual. Yegyeol was relieved. At least he was not the only one so unmoored.

“…Hold me.”

Clutching at his collar as though to tear it, Yegyeol made his demand.

Without a word, Haryang drew him in and supported him steadily, holding him deep in his embrace. Though not what Yegyeol had asked for, the tender hand that stroked his back brought comfort nonetheless.

“You did not dislike the troupe, did you?”

Even now, his Senior Brother sought reassurance. Yegyeol only rubbed his face into his chest in silence.

He did not want to answer. He did not want to confess that he had wrung Samrang dry for tales of Haryang’s past, nor that his deathbed promise had become a shackle that bound this man in misery—and that he had wept so bitterly for it. That was far too shameless to admit.

“Good… that’s good.”

Haryang exhaled in relief. Yegyeol, moved to guilt, thought how his Senior Brother had only meant to bring him joy. Yet his tears had wasted all the effort of hauling a troupe across the Ten Thousand Mountains.

“Don’t soothe me.”

His nose reddened from crying, Yegyeol looped his arms about Haryang’s neck and whispered:

“If you comfort me every time I weep and pout, I’ll grow spoiled.”

“It is your right, is it not?”

“Even so.”

Haryang rose with Yegyeol still in his arms. The change of height was already familiar. Yet instead of the bedchamber, he carried him toward the bathhouse.

Though no order seemed to have been given, the bath was already thick with steam. Yegyeol wondered what means Haryang had contrived to keep constant hot water flowing upon such a mountain.

Haryang sat him on the bath’s edge, removing his shoes and clothes. Yegyeol noticed the red stains upon the back of the discarded garments—hand-sized blotches left by pomegranate juice, carried there when Haryang rushed to bear him to the bath without even washing his hands.

Gently, Haryang lowered him into the water. His own sleeve, forgotten, trailed into the bath and soaked, pale fabric clinging like a rain-drenched wing.

“Wait a moment.”

He seemed ready to remove his garments and step aside. But Yegyeol, unwilling to part, seized his wrist.

Splash!

Though Yegyeol had not pulled with much strength, Haryang came tumbling easily into the bath. His weight pressed down, and Yegyeol grinned, only to meet his Senior Brother’s eyes.

Lifting himself, Haryang steadied Yegyeol before he could sink, sweeping back his wet black hair, water dripping down his pale features.

The light fabric clung, revealing glimpses of flesh beneath—the contour of his lower abdomen, firm and undeniable. Yegyeol’s tongue swept across lips already wet.

“Mischievous.”

Haryang rolled his eyes, then, finding even that too awkward, let slip a bashful smile.

Yegyeol’s heart lurched at that rare, almost boyish smile, so unlike the usual calm of his Senior Brother.

And he was indeed clad in pale robes, just as Yegyeol had offhandedly asked. Haryang had taken even a careless request to heart.

The very faithfulness that had kept him living when death might have been mercy. It was pitiable, too beautiful—it hurt.

“I want to do it.”

The words fell from Yegyeol’s lips, as though his mischief were but a mask for his arousal. Nervously watching his Senior Brother’s face, he knelt between his legs.

His hands slipped beneath the robe, clutching at his waistband, tugging to bare him. Wet fabric clung stubbornly, and Yegyeol struggled, panting in effort.

What did he have to offer this man, save this body? Every gift, every strength, even his powers—all came from Haryang. Without him, his talents would only lead to his death.

He was nothing but a parasite, a creeping vine that must cling to its host to survive.

“Yegyeol, this is—”

Haryang faltered, unable to reconcile the boy who wept before a troupe with the one now pressing for intimacy. He tried to coax him back, but his resistance was half-hearted.

Determined, Yegyeol at last freed him.

The shape was handsome, straight, but its sheer size was daunting. That such a weapon had fit inside him, again and again, was scarcely believable. Already half-hard, it stiffened at the mere presence of Yegyeol before it.

Haryang gripped his shoulders, as if to push him away. But Yegyeol did not hesitate. He lowered his head and took him into his mouth.

Opening wide, he swallowed the tip, his jaw already aching. Slowly, he licked at the slit, tasting the salt that welled there.

“Mmgh…”

Haryang’s groan rumbled low. The pressure of his hands slackened. Yegyeol seized the chance to press deeper, guiding him along his palate, moving back and forth.

Water lapped against his chin with each motion. Haryang’s fingers threaded through his wet hair.

When Yegyeol glanced upward, he met eyes flushed red, watching him. His own mouth filled with saliva, and he worked with renewed fervor, circling him with his tongue.

“Y-Yegyeol…”

Crude though his skill, the face of his Senior Brother undone in helpless moans was obscene, intoxicating. That such sensitivity lay hidden beneath his austere exterior thrilled him.

He was grateful, suddenly, for the Central Plains. Here, no one would dare covet the Heavenly Demon.

“Stop… ah, stop, or else—”

Haryang’s thighs tensed, then eased, again and again, betraying his conflict: to let this continue, or to seize him and sate himself fully.

His arousal surged, his body hardening swiftly. His grip upon Yegyeol’s hair tightened with each brush of heat.

Shivers raced down Yegyeol’s spine.

“I never meant to… teach you such habits…”

Haryang’s voice broke, words scattered between groans. Even the tug at his hair felt arousing.

“You should only see, only taste, what is good. Yegyeol… yes?”

His coaxing tone, meant to dissuade, only steeped his words in a honeyed sensuality.

He could swallow me whole, and still I would not call it bitter.

The thought flitted absurdly through Yegyeol’s mind.

Each thrust against his throat made his eyes flicker, his lashes tremble. His chest tightened with want, but he pressed on.

Just a little more…

He angled himself to take him deeper—but Haryang’s hand clamped firmly. Not to drive him further, but to halt him. That was Haryang all over.

“Ah—! Khh… cough.”

Choked back, Yegyeol drew away, eyes wet, glaring up through tears. Saliva streaked his lips as he covered his mouth, coughing.

Haryang understood without words.

“What if you hurt your throat?”

Even in his arousal, his voice held steady concern.

He shifted back, firm but unyielding, and Yegyeol wilted in disappointment. Perhaps tonight would not be his night.

“Come here.”

But then Haryang, sensing this would not end otherwise, offered bait he knew could not be refused.

“Let us go to bed. For a flower-dream.”