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Cheong Myeoung hugs himself, doubled over, feeling like his old dinner refuses to come out. It's the third day already. For the third day, he's been bending over every evening in the toilet, feeling something like a dry stone lodged in his intestines, preventing him from even sitting comfortably, let alone moving.
And that leech has returned home, so he can not demand some medicine from him to solve the problem. See other doctors? Who do they think they are?! Don't even think he'll see them until he's on the verge of death!
Cheong Myeoung hisses in pain as he tries to squeeze out the damned shit, feeling that it has shifted, of course, but...
He doesn't need to look down to know that it's not diarrhea dropping, but blood.
Okay. Maybe now it will lubricate that damned piece of undigested food and it will come out.
Nothing has changed.
Cheong Myeoung howls, clutching his hair, thinking about ripping himself apart even harder to add lube, he'll heal it later, screw it.
Wait.
Lubricant.
Cheong Myeoung lets go of his head, crossing his arms thoughtfully over his chest.
Right. Maybe being an omega has its perks. He hadn't thought about it before—but then, he'd never been in this situation before. He doesn't need to use blood.
If something the size of a dick can theoretically enter with the right amount of lube, then shit can definitely come out.
There's only one problem left.
He's alone. In the toilet. Enraged by everything. Neither the smell nor the sight are conducive to arousal.
A memory of someone's sly smile flashes in his mind.
No. No, damn it. He won't do this.
What would Tang Bo would say if he saw him like that?
He'd probably laugh and laugh until he got hit on the head. He'd tease him for months. He'd look so delighted and happy, as if it were something important. And he'd still find some way to help. Some pill or acupuncture point.
Or he'd get brazen, offering to take matter into his hand, all while smiling with his brightest smile.
Cheong Myeoung clenches his fists, gritting his teeth.
No. He won't remember the contents of his dream. Neither this one nor the previous one. They're just silly dreams, caused by all the nonsense Tang Bo says around him. Who cares that a scholar who won first place in the imperial examination chose to join the kanghu after falling in love with a girl from the Emei clan? Or that bandits have appeared who are cultivated exclusively using the human cauldron method.
Nonsense.
Green eyes, too close for comfort, with a provocative mirth, inviting him into their familiar battle with words and bodies. A steely glint beneath the ostentatious innocence, raising the beast within, sensing another predator. Sensing the thirst to prove something, to dominate, to test his skills. Sensing an equal.
His fists begin to tremble from the force with which he clenches them.
An arm slung over his shoulders, playing with a strand of hair, a body leaning against his side, deceptively compact beneath all those cloaks. The lilt of a familiar voice, now playing out a scene in a story, now cooing coaxingly, now sardonic.
Why can't he imagine something more vivid? Something more arousing? Even if he tries to imagine the girls performing in the brothels where they drank, with all their revealing clothes, the memory of Tang Bo's laughter and comments is enough to instantly redirect his attention.
Biting his knuckle, Cheong Myeoung remembers the way that idiot smiled, warmly and happily, as if something good had happened, even though they were simply standing next to each other in silence.
Long fingers, treating abrasions, mixing medicine, playing with daggers—why did Tang Bo look almost naked without his cloak? Even with three layers down to the skin, every time he removed his family cloak, he revealed himself in a different light. The robe hugged his shoulders, revealing his waist, strong forearms, and upper arms, usually hidden by fabric. Black, damp from sparring. And with that idiot's habit of removing his outer layers when he was hot... the fabric of his undergarment constantly clung to his skin.
Come to think of it, they'd even seen each other naked when they were turned away from the inn because they'd sparred after a downpour and had soil stuck to their heads. A river, right? He'd thrown Tang Bo in, frustrated by what had just happened, and Tang Bo had hid in the water, provoking him, until they'd begun fighting in the water, unarmed, fully clothed. Which they'd later have to dry.
His shoulders weren't like a swordsman's. They weren't built to withstand constant weight, but were trained for explosive bursts of strength. After the swordsman sect he'd lived in all his life, this physique seemed wrong, unbalanced. The muscles in legs and core weren't right, the muscles in arms weren't right. Some were overbuilt. Some were undertrained. He wanted to reach out and push everything back into place, as if smoothing out a pillow, as if pressing on one muscle would make the surrounding muscles grow.
Even the placement of the calluses on Tang Bo's feet was different.
A snake-like gaze, the water dripping down his bare skin, glinting in the firelight, his hair like seaweed, almost obscuring his face.
Cheong Myeoung licks his lips, remembering how Tang Bo, noticing his gaze, smiled, looking up from adding wood to the fire. How often that smile made his heart beat. How the firelight made the other's face look flushed, as if from wine. How green eyes sparkled, also from the proximity of the fire. How Tang Bo then reached out, and for a second it even seemed like he was about to touch him. But no, he was merely checking his clothes.
And if he had touched him, how would he have?
Cheong Myeoung swallows, forgetting his unwavering resolve.
Would he have stroked his back? His arms? His head?
No, not that.
Probably something like those dreams.
He would press on his chest, caress his thigh, and sit on top of him, as always trying to seize the moment of triumph.
His hand would move up and down, from his stomach to his collarbone, leaving behind a feeling of helplessness, the impossibility of breaking free. Not because he can't—he doesn't want to.
A curtain of hair enveloping them both, drops falling from the other's nose and bangs, and touches growing bolder.
Tang Bo opens his mouth and...
Slap.
Cheong Myeoung is brought out of his thoughts by a sudden sound. He needs a few seconds to come to his senses, to realize where he is and what he's doing. Only after he's come to his senses does he realize that the constipation has completely disappeared. Only the wetness between his buttocks and his aching organs remains.
And the thoughts that threaten to return the moment he lets his guard down. Sweet, tugging thoughts, so similar to dreams, that had begun to haunt him lately.
His throat was dry, his body was very aroused, and a nervous tremor ran through his hands.
Damn.
Damn that idiot. He always leaves at the most inopportune moment. If it weren't for him, Cheong Myeoung wouldn't have had to resort to this! If he even tries to show his face, he'll beat him up so badly he won't be able to walk!!!