BW C122

Chapter 122

Silence fell afterward.

“……”

“……”

For a while, Hoeun simply breathed shallowly, still swept up in the aftershocks of crying. When he finally gathered his senses, a wave of shame crashed over him. To be a grown man, weeping like that before another—worse, before someone above him in rank. And the one wounded was Taemuk, not him. He was the guide—he should have been composed, a pillar of strength, not a crumpled mess.

Hoeun cleared his throat and scrubbed his face vigorously, trying to erase all traces of tears. His tender skin flushed red beneath the harsh strokes. Taemuk frowned at the sight and seized his wrist.

“Stop.”

Hoeun’s eyes widened—not from the grasp, but because—

“You’re hot. Your hand—it’s burning.”

His hand was scorching. Since when? He had not noticed earlier at the basin. Was it the cold water distracting him? He stared at Taemuk’s hand.

“It’s always like that.”

Taemuk replied offhandedly. But Hoeun looked stricken.

“Is it because of the wound?”

“Sometimes. Or when I use too much strength.”

“……”

Hoeun exhaled a quiet, worried sigh. So even a military god did not have it easy. He suffered when hurt, and he suffered when healing. Hoeun himself caught fevers without reason—his body was wretched—but still, he wished Taemuk would not hurt.

“Let me see the wound.”

Taemuk obediently turned his back. The gunshot hole remained—a dark, cruel puncture. The bleeding had stopped, but fully healing it would take time.

“……”

Hoeun stole glances at Taemuk’s profile. Expressionless—no sign of pain. Yet Hoeun pitied him. Surely he hurt. How could a body pierced through not ache? And with fever on top of that—how unbearable it must be.

“Does it hurt?”

He did not ask expecting an answer. It was sympathy—a shared weight. But—

“Yes. It hurts.”

Taemuk admitted it. The answer shocked Hoeun to his core. Taemuk is in pain? He says he’s in pain? That Taemuk?

He could not remain idle. He must act. Then he remembered—belatedly—that he was Taemuk’s guide. In the chaos of the gunshot, he had forgotten. Foolishly.

Kneeling straight atop the bedding, eyes lowered, he spoke haltingly:

“Sh-should I… if I press my lips to it… will it… heal faster?”

Taemuk’s lips curved soundlessly. The reaction he hoped for. Leaning back on his hands, he answered:

“Probably.”

“……”

Hoeun sucked in a breath. Silence stretched. He fidgeted, stroked his hair ribbon, cleared his throat—and then rose.

“Th-then… excuse me.”

Pointlessly asking permission, he climbed—hesitantly yet familiarly—onto Taemuk’s thigh. His face was stiff with embarrassment, but his movements were practiced. He had grown accustomed to climbing onto Taemuk, to touching him, to kissing him.

Taemuk found it pleasing. He still could not ride a horse alone, yet he scaled Taemuk’s thigh like he belonged there—truly his guide.

At last seated atop his thigh, Hoeun gazed at him, then quietly closed his eyes. As though he had done his part—and now it was Taemuk’s turn.

Taemuk snorted softly.

“Even if I’m on the verge of death, you’ll just sit there with your eyes closed and wait?”

Half teasing, half mocking. Hoeun’s eyes flew open and he scolded:

“Do not say such things! Words take root—”

But before he could finish, a large hand cupped the back of his head. His body was pulled forward, and warm, soft lips met his.

“……”

Hoeun froze, staring into Taemuk’s face, then squeezed his eyes shut again. Taemuk let out a faint laugh and sucked his lips whole before releasing them. Hoeun’s slight body shuddered.

Then Taemuk devoured him—licking his lips, skimming his teeth, tangling tongues, scraping his palate, poking the inside of his cheek, drinking the pooled saliva at his throat like an animal lapping water.

“Mmh—nngh…”

Each time, Hoeun moaned faintly, clutching Taemuk’s arm—fingers barely spanning the thick muscle, dragging along it, even scratching.

Taemuk roamed as well, wrapping his narrow waist, sliding along his bare back, smoothing his braid before threading fingers into his hair. The braid was tight, but Taemuk pushed through anyway.

Hoeun’s hair came undone, strands falling forward and sideways into disarray. At last, the jade ribbon slipped free, bouncing off Taemuk’s thigh and fluttering to the floor.

“……”

With eyes half-lowered, Taemuk glanced disdainfully at the fallen ribbon—then suddenly lifted Hoeun and laid him flat before climbing over him.

“General—”

Before he finished, their lips collided again. This time even more fiercely—tongue forcing its way deep, enough that Hoeun choked, coughing against his mouth, only for Taemuk to swallow the sound whole.

“Haa… mm…”

“Hngh—ah…”

Low breaths, wet sounds, the rustling of bedding, the predatory panting of Taemuk filled the narrow inn room.

“Mm…”

Overwhelmed, Hoeun drew his chin back—the heat unbearable. Taemuk’s heat, the friction of tongues, his own feverish breath made his vision blur.

Instinctively he pushed at Taemuk’s chest. The moment his palm touched bare skin, Taemuk froze. Breath halted. Tongue stilled.

“……”

Hoeun stilled too. Then Taemuk exhaled—a searing rush—and seized Hoeun’s wrist, pulling it close. One hand was placed at his neck, the other at his back.

But only the small palm made contact—nowhere near enough. Taemuk yanked at his sleeve, baring Hoeun’s arm to the elbow, pressing skin to skin again. Feeling it, Taemuk clenched his molars.

He resumed kissing—wilder, hotter, hungrier.

Hoeun shook his head, clawed at his chest, whined like a trapped creature before finally wriggling free.

“Aah…”

He touched his burning lips—each graze stinging sharply, eyes prickling. Why were their kisses always battles? Were all guide-military god bonds like this?

Pouting, he checked if his lower lip was still whole, if any flesh had torn. Then—suddenly—Taemuk collapsed heavily atop him.

“Ugh—”

Hoeun groaned—crushed beneath him like under a boulder. His ribs felt ready to crack.

“H-heavy…”

he gasped. Taemuk only replied blandly:

“Endure it.”

“…Pardon?”

“Endure.”

“……”

Hoeun stared blankly at the ceiling. Another trial? Still, a superior’s order must be obeyed. He bore it. Taemuk’s face burrowed into his neck, cheek pressed to pale skin as he exhaled contentedly.

“……”

“……”

A strangely peaceful moment. Only Taemuk was comfortable, but still—peaceful.

Pinned beneath him, Hoeun let his breath steady and slowly lifted a hand, searching Taemuk’s shoulder. Smooth skin met his fingers. No swollen flesh, no hole. He brushed to the left, then right—only firm, unbroken skin.

Taemuk’s heat had cooled as well—still warm, but normal, human warmth.

“……”

Hoeun blinked rapidly.

The wound—had healed.

His lips curled upward. He had helped Taemuk again. Fulfilled his role as a guide. He had been useful. The thought filled him with pure, irrepressible joy.