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- Moo-myung. -
Moo-myung knows well that the world they live in has very specific rules; the same rules that made him lose many things, and suffer way too much. Rules the man he’s bowing down to, albeit the aching injury on his hip, is trying to change, to allow everyone to live in a world where the fences within poor and riches are just slightly lower, slightly more invisible.
He also knows that some men are born to break those rules. It’s the exact reason he raises his sight to look at his king, despite not being allowed to; the same boy he used to look at with defiance, and that he faced head-on without any concern. He finds him smiling – the cocky smile he’s familiar with, the one that makes him look like he constantly wants to make fun of the whole world. He hasn’t seen King Jinheung in eight months, since he left with the others Hwarang to fight in his name – but where his face looks tired, almost older, Jinheung is still the callow kid he left behind. He finds that to be quite amusing; he smiles back at him, and Jinheung’s face lights up.
- You’re back. - He concludes, formally – yet in his voice there’s an amused note that, Moo-myung knows, wouldn’t be there if he were talking with any other official. He stands up, his right hand tightly holding the sword’s hilt, and he nods looking at the icy expression contrasting his angelic looks. He has the voice of an excited kid, yet his face is that of a rugged monarch, unfathomable. He knows very well the turmoil behind that mask; he nods slowly.
- I’m back. - He says. - With the Han River for you. -
Jinheung nods, raising from his throne; the flames of the candles surrounding him tremble, moved by the unusually quick movement. He isn’t wearing his crown, but his royal, perfectly polished vests make him look as far as possible from Moo-myung – whose clothes are dirty from the journey, the earth raised by the horses’ hooves, since he ran all the way up to the royal palace as soon as he entered the capital. He needed to travel faster than the messenger’s voices, to be the first to inform Jinheung about their conquest: the mission he sent him to carry out, giving him the utmost, blind confidence, was successful. The Han River, the area they protected together more than a year before from Gogureyo’s attacks, has been taken from the greedy hands of Baekje kingdom. An alliance is broken, but Silla is now stronger than ever: it doesn’t need allies. Few steps, and Jinheung is now in front of him; not as his king, but as his equal. He stares right in his face, waiting for Moo-myung to do the same.
- I did not expect anything less from my dearest companion. - Jinheung murmurs; and once again, with those words, he shows him how little superiority he feels towards him. He could have said “My dearest Hwarang”, but he called him is companion; nothing has changed, for him, since the days where they used to sneak out of the Hwarang House for a night of bitter freedom. Moo-myung tries to smile again at him, even if he’s not inclined to smile that often, but his expression changes into one of pain; suddenly the only injury he got in the battles is hurting again, even if it’s been at least a week since the familiar sword of Prince Chang of Baekje hit him on his side, and then no more. He unwittingly lowers, his left hand quick to grab his hip to hide the pain – but the gesture costs him his already precarious balance: he falls, his body heavy and tired, and his mind already prepares to face the collision with the floor that never comes. It’s Jinheung that catches him, preventing him from falling: without caring about his dirtied clothes, or how inappropriate is that kind of gesture. Sustained by his arms, Moo-myung watches as the surprise on his face mutates into concern.
- You’re injured. - He understands; there’s no title, no formal speech. He kneels down to earth for Moo-myung not to be forced in such an uncomfortable position, and he’s extremely grateful to remember they’re alone in the middle of the night, in the dimly lighted throne room – had Jinheung dared to support him in front of the whole Golpumjedo he would have been without a crown and without any respect in a matter of hours.
- It’s only a flesh wound, and it’s days old. - He murmurs, but he can’t help but notice the strength of the king’s arms in supporting his back and his right arm. - Nothing that wouldn’t have let me come here tonight. -
The look on Jinheung’s face gets grimmer; it’s not because of the shadows dancing on his profile, moved by the candles’ lights. - You should go see someone who can heal you. - He whispers. Moo-myung’s heart gets heavier; there’s a name looming between the two of them, and they don’t dare pronounce it. She’s home, waiting for him; but it’s been so long since Moo-myung caressed her face for the last time, and while he was at war his hands got more calloused, dirtied of blood. He might be able to fight for the king, now; but he’s not so sure he could hold Ah Ro’s hands. Not yet.
- It’s nothing to worry about, I’m telling you. - He repeats, completely dropping the formal speech. He even rolls his eyes, exasperated. - You didn’t act like that when it was you injuring me like this.
Jinheung blinks twice; then he realizes. He drops him on the floor unceremoniously, cleaning his hands as if he had touched something dirty; he doesn’t look royal at all. - You’re much better than I thought you were, if you feel like talking to me like that. - He mumbles, trying to get on his feet again; Moo-myung catches his wrist under the broad sleeve of his vest and he holds him in his place – so tight that Jinheung, surprised, loses his balance and falls beside him. The looks he gives him is so upset that Moo-myung can’t help but laugh, a smile no injury can erase.
- I come back from war after eight months and you drop me on the floor as if I were a sack. - He complains, trying hard to hide his smile. - Where’s my respect as a war veteran? -
- You killed it the moment you decided to speak to me like you speak to a peasant. - It’s the quick answer. Then everything falls quiet; Jinheung is sitting, Moo-myung lying on his left, on the concrete of the alley that connects the entrance of the palace to the throne. It’s weird to see that place so empty, devoid of the voices of the old Bones, devoid of the light it was invested in the day Ji Dwi or Sam Maek Jong, the faceless king, became King Jinheung
- Moo-myung. - The protagonist of his thoughts whispers – and once again, Moo-myung hates himself; because it’s enough for him to pronounce his name, and his whole world overturns. Because there’s nothing he loves in the world as much as that sound, and he hates being conscious of it. He raises to be in a sitting position, looking at Jinheung’s profile, the golden throne in the distance. - Moo-myung, can I be frank with you? -
- You can. - He nods. Jinheung closes his eyes, as if to prepare to say something that will cost him more than he’s prepared to pay for. Then he talks; in a whisper, freeing himself from that weight.
- You came to me before you even went to see her. - He whispers. - And this shouldn’t make me happy. Yet that’s exactly how I’m feeling… happy, yet so selfish. -
Then comes a silence far stronger than the one surrounding them until then – a silence that cancels every night murmur, even the most inaudible one. There’s no wind in the trees, the crickets stopped their singing; there’s no crackling from the lanterns, the guard’s footsteps vanished. There’s only Jinheung, the lump in his throat as he turns to look at him, eyes watery for the bitter confession; there’s only his clenched lips, the tremble in his profile as he faces him. - And now that you know it, hate me if you can. - He murmurs, breaking the silence. - Because I tried my best to do so, but I couldn’t. -
Moo-myung raises his hand. It’s a gesture that costs him an enormous amount of strength; a gesture that’s the equivalent of a boulder falling from the top of a mountain and, in its fall, dragging down debris and fragments of rock able to destroy a whole valley. He feels like that boulder, as he places the hand whose bloodstains no water could ever was away on Jinheung’s pale cheek and observes as he exhales a frightened breath, observes the panic in his big eyes. It destroys everything, including himself, bending over and inclining his head, touching Jinheung’s face, his lips against his. He doesn’t know the words to tell him he can’t hate him; he doesn’t know sentences that might explain how much and how he thought about him, while he was fighting in his name, under his flag. But he know the gestures; he knows how people work, their reactions. And Jinheung reacts closing his eyes, clinging on his hand as if it could help him from a fatal fall – kissing him back, instilling onto his gestures the fright that the dream he’s living might end at any moment.
Moo-myung, on the other hand, goes along with it – backing Away when Jinheung moves forward, coming back to press against him with the little gentleness he has. But Jinheung isn’t a fragile flower, he only looks like one: he’s a man, whose hands tremble as he lifts them to grab onto the collar on his uniform, whose throat emits a low, hoarse moan when Moo-myung’s tongue insinuates between his lips. He’s a man and he knows what he wants as he abandons the safety of his hands to pull him towards himself, licking and gasping on his lower lip before grasping at his mouth, make it his with wide, vulgar, panting kisses. It’s sweet, and it’s a small power play between the two of them – from which Moo-myung backs off, in the end, to get back his breath. For a moment Jinheung still looks for him, eyes shut and mouth open, and then he stops and understands, raising his eyelids and looking straight at him, close like never. From that distance Moo-myung can feel his breath against his skin, and see how much his pupils tremble as he watches him, as he values with fear his next move.
- I don’t… - He starts; but he lowers his voice with a simple, little change in Jinheung’s fragile expression. He always thought of him as a lonely kid, so flighty and unexperienced about the world; he almost finds it hard to believe he can actually kiss like that, like an adult and not a child. His ability to show and feel love, something that no one ever showed and felt towards him, is extraordinary – as is the way he quickly retreats if being cornered, letting go of what he was grasping on. He understood before Moo-myung could even elaborate his own thoughts; but he’s come to the wrong conclusion. He needs to give him enough time to think, and at the same time he must not; because Moo-myung knows that if he could think about the whole situation, the voice of reason would tell him that that’s his king, a man, and not the woman he decided to marry. But Moo-myung was never the best at listening to his voice of reason; he grabs Jinheung’s wrists while he’s still backing away and he lays on him, blocking him on the floor with his own body. The band holding Jinheung’s hair slides off, letting strands of raven hair fall on his face – a small detail that makes him look even younger, even more innocent.
- What are you doing? - He asks. The lack of fear in his voice doesn’t surprise Moo-myung that much.
- Something I should have done a while ago. - He murmurs, ogling at his features. He feels the need to kiss and bite and ruin every inch of that perfect skin growing on him. - And something I wouldn’t dare to do if I stopped to think about it. -
He lets go of his wrists, aware that he doesn’t need to keep him on the floor anymore; the injury is stinging, a dull ache that’s like a warning bell in his thoughts – strong enough to warn him, not enough to stop him. He slides his hand underneath the band on Jinheung’s neck and, pulling it towards himself, he lifts him from the ground; Jinheung is scared, he’s a deer looking straight into the eyes of a hunter ready to shot an arrow – but he doesn’t run, too stupid to understands how danger this is, woozy from a pain that has nothing to do with physical injuries. When Moo-myung kisses him again his body takes some time to accept the reality of the situation; but when he finally gets it, he throws his arm around him, hugging him – fingers sliding on the silk of his vests and on the skin of his jacket, struggling for Moo-myung to be closer to him, so close they could barely tell one from the other.
It’s like Jinheung heard his prayers, Moo-myung thinks; he breathes his name between each kiss, in every hungry moment spacing out their eating each other’s mouths. He lets go of the band he was holding onto and tries to get on his feet, to check if Jinheung is willing to follow him, to be reasonable enough to stop for a moment. - It’s dangerous, here… - He pants. The moment he’s standing Jinheung is once again against him, the royal vest reduced to a disaster of loose ribbons sliding away from where they were supposed to be. His hands place on Moo-myung’ shoulders as he pushes him back, stumbling, until his back finds a wall again. Here he finds enough momentum to kiss him again, quick small kisses on his closed lips, on his face, on his exposed neck.
- Here. - Jinheung murmurs. The authoritarian tone in his voice makes Moo-myung tremble unintentionally; he raises his eyelids and stares at him. Jinheung stops, feeling his eyes on himself. - Whatever happens, I want it to happen here. - He tells him, voice slightly weaker. His gaze is feverous. - I want to remember it every time I sit on that throne. -
Every reasonable thought dies, in the face of those words. Moo-myung stares at him for some moments, dumbfounded, heart still in his chest; when it starts moving again, his thoughts are quick and confused as his feelings. He places his hands on Jinheung’s face and he closes his eyes, ready for the kiss Moo-myung is not going to give him; instead, he lowers on him, on the neck their little scuff exposed, and he angrily bites it. The sound that Jinheung’s makes is without precedent; but he doesn’t give up on the grip on his shoulders. He tightens it, violently, while Moo-myung comforts the now bruised skin with a kiss – and then he lets go, reddened lips held tight. For a moment Moo-myung feels fear mixing with his security; but Jinheung isn’t backing off, offended by what he did. He raises his hands on the band on his neck and slips it off, removing at the same time the Sangtugwan tying his hair; when he’s done he keeps his eyes low, the long raven hair loose on his shoulders as those of commoners. He looks at him for a moments, looking for the strength he seemingly finds, and then he undoes the lace keeping his vest on his body, letting it fall down from his shoulders.
It shouldn’t make such an impact on him. Moo-myung has seen him naked dozens of time, when they were companions in Hwarang; but he realizes how stupid the comparison is as soon as the thought comes to his mind. He has seen him naked, and he knows of his body, but Ji Dwi never undressed for him, ogling him as a woman ready to seduce him – and Jinheung also has something that Ji Dwi lacked. He has a role, a title, enough power to kill him at his own will. The real issue, Moo-myung thinks, is that Jinheung has no intention of killing him: what he wants from him, what Moo-myung himself wants, is extremely more painful than death. The king his in front of him, naked, his body slender and pale – devoid of ornaments, of jewels, crowns or royal vests. He walks on his own vest as if it has no worth and places his whole body against Moo-myung’s, hands on his arms, staring at him with his lips slightly open; waiting for a kiss, a nod, any kind of reassuring gesture. But Moo-myung is paralyzed; he can’t move, looking at him like that – so beautiful, almost ethereal, so small and terribly powerful. He’s ready to be his, eager for his touch as he never was before; he caress his hair and pulls him towards himself, placing his face on his naked chest.
- Bite me again. - He whispers. And Moo-myung is lost; his reluctance and fear disappear, replaced by the almost feral need of taking him, making him his, shutting that mouth full of words he dares to pronounce without the slightest fear. He pleases his will, sinking his teeth into his body until his pleasured moans become painful noises, until there’s no distinction between the two. He touches him, grazing his straight waist, presses his rough hands against his buns and squeezes, his arousal rubbing against his leg over the light shroud of the fundoshi. And Jinheung gives up to all these feelings, holding onto him and trying nervously to undo his vest – eager to touch him, interrupted by the waves of pleasure Moo-myung is provoking him. He snaps when Moo-myung’s hand caresses the stiff erection in his undergarment – and for the first time everything seems too real, so much that Jinheung moves back, afraid Moo-myung might have second thoughts about everything. But Moo-myung feels he couldn’t care less, right now: he only wants to sink his face in Jinheung’s hair, kiss him until he forgets what it was like to be without him, hearing him moan thanks to his hands and his lips until dawn.
He forces to wait, though, for Jinheung to satisfies his own desires. The young king unties with delicate fingers the laces keeping his uniform in its place, throwing it on the floor with nervous gestures as soon as he’s able to, and then between his body and Moo-myung’s there’s nothing but light clothes: the short vest and his dark pants. Jinheung hesitates, again; it’s Moo-myung that guides him, caressing his hands and moving them towards the lace keeping his pants in place, so that Jinheung might unties that too. The king bows, a surreal sight that in Moo-myung’s heart is almost desecrating, in front of him; he slides down his pants and closes his eyes, watching him for a moment before lowering his lips to kiss the skin just upon the fundoshi. Moo-myung moans, looking down to him. Jinheung has kneeled completely, hands on his hips sliding up his vest, exposing even his new scar – and he places slow kisses on every inch of skin he finds, on his hips and abdomen, as he undresses him. He gets back up, leaving wet traces on him, caressing the scar with devotion – until he’s on his feet again. Moo-myung watches his vest fall before going back to look at Jinheung – a moment before the king hugs him again, holding his now naked shoulders. - You’re far more beautiful than I remembered. - He hears him murmur. His voice fails him; he looks for the words to use, but he’s overwhelmed by the feelings. At least he raises his arms and hugs Jinheung back, fingers sinking in his raven hair, nose nuzzling his shoulder.
- You too. - He gets to tell him. He breathes, trying his best to lock away in his heart the memory of Jinheung’s body scent – delicate oils, balsams for his hair, a faint aroma of lavender on his soft skin. Jinheung is still, lips against his left ear; he turns to kiss him slowly, moving his pelvis against Moo-myung’s leg as before. He clearly enjoys it: he moans at every friction, his body heavily shaking. Moo-myung’s enjoys it too, albeit the feeling has little to do with pleasure – it has more to do with the knowledge of Jinheung’s moans being provoked by his body, the way the younger is almost using him to increase his own arousal. He pushes towards him and stands still, trembling, shoulders shaken visibly – biting his earlobe to held back his voice. Moo-myung grabs his face and pulls it towards himself, kissing him hard to hear his groans in his own mouth.
- Jinheung. - He breathes. He grabs back his buttocks to hold him against his body, but Jinheung seems to think otherwise: he raises his legs, clenching them against his hips – and before he even realizes it Moo-myung is holding him mid-air, his own arousal pressing against Jinheung’s.
- Sam Maek Jong. - He corrects him. He sinks his nails in Moo-myung’s shoulders as he kisses his neck, hair falling on his face in messy locks. - Call me… that… -
- Sam Maek Jong. - Moo-myung repeats, his voice hoarse. He nods, letting himself be kissed, eyes narrowed; he feels like, if he only dared watching him, he would disappear, too beautiful to be real. He raises up from the wall he was resting upon and he moves, falling back on the next column, Sam Maek Jong’s body stuck between the cold marble and his hungry, tireless kisses. He would take him right there, ripping his fundoshi to feel how satisfying it must be to have him naked, humble – but there’s a dangerous idea taking over his mind. He wonders if he would hate him, dared he to do something like that, and he moves away from him to stare into his eyes. Sam Maek Jong looks back, swallowing hard; he holds him tightly and Moo-myung realizes he wouldn’t hate him even if he let him down that exact moment, leaving him alone. And neither does he.
- Forgive me. - He warns anyway; he holds him and moves away from the column, supporting his body with his hands and climbing the few stairs to the throne. The expression on the young king’s face mutes into panic – he gets pale the moment he understands, but he doesn’t stop him, and he doesn’t stop himself either. He lets Moo-myung lay him on the ground, stare at him with that permanently frown of his, and tenderly kiss his cheek – and he listens, waiting for Moo-myung’s whispered order to reach him. - Kneel. -
Sam Maek Jong doesn’t immediately obey. Something inside of him, a tiny crack of reason, stops him from bowing down without even thinking about it; he turns to look at the throne behind him, chest raising up and down following his nervous breaths, and Moo-myung hugs him from behind, placing his hands on his chest and holding him. He moves away the locks of hair from his shoulders, slowly kissing his collarbones as his hands caress the inside of his thighs; slowly, with each caress, the tension drifts away from the young kin’s body. He bends over, Moo-myung’s body pressing his own; his knees hit the cold ground, and Sam Maek Jong places his arms on the throne, holding tight its cushions and fabrics as his fingers tremble, afraid of what would happen if they were to be found in such a compromising position. Everything fades when Moo-myung bends over him, pressing his body against his; the need to have him against himself is stronger than any voice of reason. Sam Maek Jong spreads his legs, allowing the other to brush over the last piece of clothing separating them – and suddenly that damned piece of fabric feels like a whole wall between the two of them, unbearably high. Moo-myung must have thought the same thing: his fingers are quick to untie the knots on Sam Maek Jong’s sides, as well as his own, and even that last obstacle falls between their bodies. Sam Maek Jong closes his eyes, aware that depriving himself of that sense is going to intensify the others; he needs that – he needs to feel him with his whole body, far more than watching him, and he needs his body to remember those rough touches, the feeling of Moo-myung’ sex as it drifts slightly over his skin.
He lays his body over his again, and Sam Maek Jong’s chest is almost pressed against the throne; for once, resting on that damn thing doesn’t feel like a weight. Moo-myung’s lips caress the skin of his back, hands placed upon his shoulder; there’s a strange gentleness in those gestures, and Sam Maek Jong understands the reason the moment before Moo-myung himself speaks about his doubts. - Guide me. - He murmurs. - I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. -
It would be funny, in any other moment, to think of Moo-myung placing that kind of trust upon him – the unexperienced king, the kid monarch; and it will be fun to tell him how he came to know about how this whole thing works while he was studying abroad, in forbidden books. But he has no time, now, for lingering with stories or trivia; he turns enough to stare at Moo-myung’s face and looks for his hand, moving it towards his face without him resisting. He keeps it open over his face, and with his fingers he lowers his, one after the other – until only the index is up. Moo-myung stares back, fascinated yet afraid at the same time; his eyes widen as soon as Sam Maek Jong takes his finger inside is mouth, licking it. He feels his arousal tremble against his back, and so does he, ecstatic thinking he managed get that reaction on Moo-myung’s body just by simulating an act that, he’s sure of it, his companion would have rather be executed on another part of his body. He takes the middle finger in as well, opening his mouth in an erotic way and letting Moo-myung stare astonished as he moves the tip of his tongue between the two fingers, smiling at how red he is. - Put them inside of me. - He orders, letting go of Moo-myung’s wrist. - One at a time. Don’t care if it doesn’t seem like I’m enjoying it.
He’s showing off, but Moo-myung has no idea of how actually inexperienced he is, and that’s what matters. He moves away and lightly spreads his cheeks, exposing his entrance enough to have the space necessary to caress him; it’s weird, the sensation of the cold finger against him – Sam Maek Jong feels the fear and excitement mix and block his guts; he looks behind, waiting.
Moo-myung breathes heavily before slowly penetrating him – slowly, but not gently enough to prevent the pain from hitting hard. Sam Maek Jong emits a choked sound, bites hard on a cushion to hide the soft sobs he can feel coming up his throat; he shakes his head when Moo-myung looks at him with concern, reiterating what he said some moments before. He proceeds, sliding into him one phalanx at a time, amazed by the pleasuring feeling that that gesture alone can provoke – overwhelmed by Sam Maek Jong’s moans, his agitated movements, his constant search for a friction against anything that might give his erection some pleasure. Moo-myung wants to touch him, rubbing him gently, but there’s a sadistic streak he didn’t know he had that prevents him from doing so. He keeps on opening him, and slowly Sam Maek Jong seems to adjust himself to his presence. - The other finger. - He whispers, eyes closed. Moo-myung complies; he penetrates him with the middle finger as well, barely, and they’re back at the start – pain, moans, Sam Maek Jong’s nails scratching the closest pillow. He doesn’t even try anymore to hide his voice: he lets himself go, venting the conflicting emotions Moo-myung’s fingers are provoking in his body. He’s so beautiful, with his hair all messed up, a lock resting on his open lips and painful moans leaving them constantly; he can’t wait anymore. He takes back his fingers, grabbing his hips and his own sex to line it with Sam Maek Jong’s entrance – and he barely ears his protests, his hoarse voice telling him he’s not ready yet, before the ring of slightly loosed muscles starts to wrap around the top of his cock. Sam Maek Jong is looking at him, crying – breathing hard, his chest shaken by short, hard sobs. Moo-myung can hear himself apologizing, but everything seems so far – everything seems unreal if not for the hot pleasure that’s slowly wrapping around him, few inches at a time.
It’s an amazingly fulfilling sensation, making him feel so well it almost hurts; he has to touch him more – has to sink deeper into his body. He holds his hips, sliding him closer to his pelvis; Sam Maek Jong tightens in his shoulders, violently trembling, teeth clenched on his lower lip and tears streaming down his face. Moo-myung lets go of his right hip and caresses his hair, bending towards him. - It’s fine. - He whispers; Sam Maek Jong shakes his head. - Everything’s fine. -
- It hurts. - He breathes, his voice low. Moo-myung places his hand on his chest, and feels his heart pounding like crazy. - Stop, please, it hurts so much… -
- I can’t. - He cries. He has never felt like this before, lost in such a hot, messy pleasure – it hurts just because Sam Maek Jong won’t stand still under him, and he’s forced to hold him down. He blocks him with his legs, searching for his hands and squeezing them with his own, guiding them to hold into the pillows. He winces slightly when Sam Maek Jong scratches him hard, sticking his nails into his fingers and breathing slowly, and he kisses every inch of skin he can reach waiting for him to adjust to that pain as well.
It takes a while, but it happens: his breathing gets almost regular again, his grip less painful. - Are you alright? - Moo-myung asks, caressing his neck with the tip of his nose. Sam Maek Jong nods, face hidden in the cushions. - I’ll start move, now. It’s going to hurt again. -
- Do it. - He hears him murmur. There’s no hesitation in his voice, albeit those two words alone are pronounced almost as a wail; but when he turns around to look at him, face red from crying, there’s the faint shadow of a smile on his lips. - Please… -
Moo-myung touches his body, slowly; he goes back to holding his hips, gentler this time, as he starts moving his hips again and Sam Maek Jong’s whole body moves towards him. It’s that feeling of wholesomeness again, something he never felt before – violent, strong, inebriating; this time his moans have notes of pleasure to make them more bearable, and Sam Maek Jong breathes slowly, adjusting to his slow movements. He gets quiet, listening to his senses again; Moo-myung’s hands hold him tightly, but never hurt him. They look for him, comforting, sweet even when sex isn’t; and his own cock moves inside of him more easily with each movement. Soon his body is relaxed enough to allow Moo-myung’s movements to get faster, needier; a couple of times, with a quick bolt of his hips, he manages to make him silent, mouth open and no sound coming out of it. Yet he’s so eager to kiss him, to hold him, that Sam Maek Jong forgives him before even realizing he’s hurt.
He stands on his elbows, head low and mouth open, moaning at every wave of bliss getting him. There’s something tremendously satisfying in being in such a humiliating posture, in feeling his legs spread open and Moo-myung’s hand stroking his back and grasping his neck from behind, keeping him low on the throne; something increasing his arousal, pushing him into making his moans into rough sobs of pleasure so that Moo-myung can hear him. His grip gets tighter, thumb stroking his fair skin, and Sam Maek Jong calls for his name filling every word with all the satisfaction he can express with his voice. He does it again, while Moo-myung keeps slamming into him, opening him and destroying him once and for all; as that intrusion stops being an intrusion and becomes just another source of pleasure. Moo-myung’s cock gets deep into him, touching parts of him that makes him have nervous, quick and unexpected reactions; it feels amazing, way too much, and his legs get weak from the stimulation. Moo-myung has noticed: he lets go of his neck and holds his abdomen, grasping at it and pushing into him hard again, going as deep as he’s allowed to; and he touches that spot inside of him again, that spot inside of Sam Maek Jong that provokes small, continuous twitches – and he does it again, without leaving it, moving quickly inside of him and hitting him without even caring about hurting him.
Again, with his eyes low and unable to look at him, Sam Maek Jong tries his best to feel what he can with his other senses: he arches his back, getting his body closer to Moo-myung’s – while the obscene sounds of their intercourse, mixed to their voices and breathes, make every other sound soft and far. Hands caress sweaty hair, Moo-myung kisses his neck; he’s almost hugging him, now, on his knees and holding his whole body as he fucks him. Sam Maek Jong turns and kisses him back, brushing his face, his cheek, anything he can get of him. With every breathe he draws in the faint scent of sex pervading them; he’s surrounded by Moo-myung, by his presence, by the pleasure they’re both feeling – and he loves him, terribly, but he bites his lip and stays silent, savvy enough to know that, dared he say something like that, everything he worked for would crawl in front of him in less than a moment. When Moo-myung holds him, though, he can feel his heart pounding like crazy against his back; he closes his eyes, pretending not to know it’s just a physical reaction – convincing himself, like a fool, that it’s because he loves him back.
His kisses get more frantic. - Sam Maek Jong. - He breathes. He bites him again, bending him over to penetrate him deep as he can; the king nods, understanding what’s about to happen. He grasps his own dick, ignored until that moment, so hard it almost hurts – and Moo-myung’s right hand holds him as well, rubbing it with him. Sam Maek Jong lays his head against the throne and tightens his body around Moo-myung’s cock, holding it one last time before he comes, with an hoarse moan, inside of him – the orgasm hitting him hard, forcing him to hold Sam Maek Jong’s chest to prevent his weak body to fall; and the young king is quick to follow, lost in the gratification of feeling the man he’s in love with climaxing thanks to his body. His semen falls down on the concrete, close to the throne, and looking at it feverishly Sam Maek Jong laughs, nervously, as waves of pleasure come back to him – he laughs and cries, overwhelmed by the emotions, by the intensity of the climax. He feels Moo-myung leaving him, abandoning his body, and suddenly he’s empty, alone.
But then Moo-myung’s head rubs his back; he’s as tired as he is, and Sam Maek Jong turns to hold him as the crawl down on the floor, Moo-myung’s arms holding him back. They stay on the cold concrete, holding each other as they wait for their breathing to calm – soaked in a tangible silence, a presence surrounding them and making the whole act they just consumed more cold, more real.
Moo-myung raises his gaze; his eyes tell anything his words can’t, but he must speak, for once. - Forgive me. - He whispers; Sam Maek Jong smiles. He caresses his hair, slowly, wishing he could stay like that forever.
- I wanted it. - He murmurs. - I wanted every moment of it. No need to apologize. -
Moo-myung nods, unsure; he places his head on his abdomen, closing his eyes as Sam Maek Jong keeps nuzzling him. It’s a stagnant moment, the one they’re in; the moments before their parting, not different from the one they had months before, when they said goodbye before the war. This time, though, they’re not looking at each other from meters of distance: there’s nothing between them – no clothes, no military title. For some moments they were truly together, something they could never erase from their bodies.
Surprisingly, without any warning, Moo-myung raises his arm and points at the door. - What would you do, - He asks. - If somebody were to enter right now, to tell you the army is back, and they would found us like this? -
Sam Maek Jong lowers his head. - I’d laugh, mortified for the guy forced to see us like this. - He admits. Moo-myung’s frown gets darker; he probably thinks he’s not taking him seriously - And then I’d die in your arms. -
Moo-myung raises to look at him, black hair on his face. - You think that’s funny? - He asks, annoyed by his brave façade. Sam Maek Jong shakes his head, and he gets quieter. - I’m not going to die here. -
- You were eager to die in battle, because of me. - Sam Maek Jong smiles. He stops caressing him, lowering his hand. Moo-myung, now sitting, presses his hand on his chin and holds him, nodding.
- The battle was before… all of this. - He repeats, staring at him; Sam Maek Jong’s heart slows. He’s not sure he’s getting the hang of what he’s trying to tell him. - I’ll say it again, since I don’t think you got me the first time: I’m not going to die. Not here, not now. -
And suddenly everything seems clear, so desperately unbelievable, and Sam Maek Jong’s eyes widen and his heart stops, for real, for a long moment. He wasn’t honest in answering Moo-myung’s question: if he could, he’d tell him that if they were found together he’d run with him – giving up on the throne, his title, and every privilege. He was serious, when he told him he’d rather be with him than be the king; and he still thinks that, but it’s a thought that scares him half to death. And Moo-myung, so rough and unable to express himself, was able to be so brutally honest with him: he’s not willing to die there, not in that moment, not after they made love to each other.
It’s something selfish, something terrible, and Sam Maek Jong feels tears coming to his eyes again; Moo-myung hugs him, comforting him. The king hugs back, sinks his finger into his arms; he thanks him, silently. He thanks Moo-myung, who chose to be selfish with him, risking the happiness of many people just for him.
He thanks Moo-myung for loving him, for not being able to say it out loud.