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As he turned toward her on the train and saw her, tears running down her face, mouth open in a wail, he heard his mother’s voice.
“Go!”
As the door to the other compartment closed, he did something unexpected, even to himself.
He jumped.
--
He had never farmed before, not really. He had been too young to do any serious farming while still enslaved, but he had dug holes in a garden with his mother. How hard could farming be? After all, it was just one big garden, right?
Turns out, farming was more challenging than he anticipated. He only needed to grow enough to keep them sustained, not just alive but well fed, and anything else he could sell at the local market. But he knew nothing about fertilizer or crop rotation and the first crop was meager. They survived, but he felt ashamed. He wanted to succeed, for her. He wanted to nourish her, to care for her. She deserved much more than this, but it was what he could do.
So he did the only thing he knew how to do to solve a problem--he learned. He went to the town nearby and bought books. He spoke to farmers at the market in his middling Chinese, and he improved. The work was hard--some nights, his shoulder would ache from digging and the lingering pain of the healed gunshot wound from the train. But he slept soundly, deeply, better than he ever had. Every day, he was grateful to be alive. He would have died for her on that train--he would still die for her, if he ever needed to. But there was so much beauty in living this life he never thought he would get to live. A small part of him wondered why he ever thought to throw away this chance at a life, one that was truly his own.
The best mornings were the ones he would wake up to her peacefully sleeping face, her body curled beside his. She would leave, sometimes for weeks at a time, but she had always come back. Every time she left, he prayed this would not be the last time he would see her. He never could shake the fear that her love for him would not be enough to pull her back. But here she was, back by his side, chest rising and falling in soft, even breaths.
He reached out toward a loose strand of her hair that had fallen onto her face. He ran one finger down that strand of hair, barely applying pressure. He continued down the slope of her cheek, down to her hand resting under her chin, clutching her blanket. He moved his hand away and looked at her. In these moments, he often marveled at how it was possible to feel so much for one person. He had never felt this way about anyone, and he assumed he never would. What a surprise to discover there was a person for him, somewhere in this world, in the place he least expected to find them.
Her eyes blinked open, and she looked at him, blearily at first, then with more focus. He pulled back his hand even further toward his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” She just smiled at him.
“You didn’t,” she replied, and then she kissed him.
Even now, despite the many kisses they had shared since coming here, there was still a sense of surprise each time. As his mouth moved with hers, as he ran his hand up her arm and to the back of her head, burying his hand in her hair, he still could not believe that he was able to touch her in this way. He spent so long wanting to, being ashamed of wanting to, never wanting to hurt her or pressure her or make her upset with him. Now that they touched each other all the time, now that he knew that she loved touching him as much as he did her, he felt overwhelmed with a sense of gratitude. He was grateful to the world, which had shown him so much cruelty and then had shown him her. He was grateful to her, for choosing him, again and again.
She pushed her hips against his, and he rolled her onto her back. He wanted her to know how grateful he was for her. Every time, he wanted her to know this, but this time, it felt especially important. He wanted her to feel good and safe with him. He wanted to thank her for always coming back.
He ran his hands underneath her shirt, cupping them around her breasts, swiping his thumbs over her nipples. She gasped and arched her back, and he leaned over her, covering her mouth with more kisses. She threw her arms behind his neck, ran her hands across her shoulders. She stopped at the place where she knew there would be a scar, and traced a circle around it with her finger--just one constant reminder of the precariousness of their life together.
He ran his hands down the sides of her waist, to the waistband of her pants, which were really an old pair of his pants that he modified with a drawstring so she could wear them. He couldn’t remember the last time he saw her in a dress, and he did not mind. He never minded. This felt like the truest version of herself.
He untied the drawstring and tugged the pants down over her hips and down her legs. She lifted her hips to help him. Once he tossed the pants aside, he kissed her again, moving his mouth down across her cheek and her neck. He pushed her shirt up around her chin and placed his mouth on each nipple, relishing her gasps and moans. With every touch, with every sound she made, he felt his body respond to hers--warming skin, beating heart, hardening cock. He slid down the front of her body, kissing every inch of her skin, until he reached her thighs. She moved her legs apart to give him space, and he continued to kiss her, covering the tender skin of her inner thighs as he ran his hands around the tops of her legs, across her hips and around the sides of her bottom. He loved this part of her--how warm and soft she was, how he could smell her before he could taste her. In this place, running his nose up and down the inside of her thighs, he felt safe—he felt at home.
He didn’t taste her just yet. He first took one finger and traced her folds, like petals of the most beautiful flower he had ever seen. He could feel her thighs shudder as he touched her, and he glanced up at her face. She couldn’t see him--eyes closed, head thrown back--but he smiled at her, just the same.
He ran a finger up the center of her opening, let it rest on the round bud at the top. It pulsed, as if it had its own heartbeat. Bodies were incredible things, he thought. He moved his mouth closer but still did not taste her. He let out a puff of breath, and she shook in response. How could I be so lucky?, he thought. To be able to be this close to her.
“Oh, come on!” she shouted, breaking his reverie, and he barked out a laugh. He didn’t mean to tease her…well, maybe he did. Just a little bit.
He moved his hand back to her thigh and dove into her. He buried his nose in the coarse hairs of her mound, moving his tongue up from her opening to the roundness he touched before. He swirled his tongue around it, moved his tongue from side to side, flattened it against her and applied some pressure. He was always struck by how sweet she tasted. She wriggled and moved and moaned and yelled affirmations at him, and he gently but firmly held her hips down, pulling her toward him with one of his hands. With the other hand, he pushed one finger into her, and then another, moving in and out as he swiped his tongue back and forth. She shouted in delight, and he smiled into her. She was the most incredible woman he had ever met, and it struck him that these were the moments in which he felt the most joy—these most intimate moments, when it was just the two of them, and the rest of the world fell away. He looked up at her again and she happened to look down at him. Their eyes met, and he hoped she could read all the things he was feeling in his eyes. You’re with me—forever.
She came like she did most things—with an explosion of movement and feeling, hips bucking upward, back arching, head thrown back, a sound like a moan and a sigh escaping her lips. He climbed back up the length of her body and kissed her again, his lips covered in her. She kissed him back eagerly, moving her hands to frame his face. She reached for him, one hand roaming down his chest and sliding over his abdomen, but before she could reach between his legs, he lifted his head, breaking their kiss. She froze, looking at him quizzically. He wanted to focus on her just a little bit longer.
“I love you,” he said, and she smiled, beginning to move her hand again. He covered her hand with his own, and she stopped, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly. “I love you,” he said again, and her lips parted slightly. “I love you,” he said one more time, and her eyes crinkled, the edges sparkling with the smallest tears. He dropped his head down again to kiss her forehead, and she laughed a bit in surprise.
“You silly man,” she said, still grinning. He smiled back at her. “How could I not love you, after that?” He laughed, and she pressed her other hand, the one that was still cupping his cheek, into his face. “You know I’ve always loved you. Now will you let me show you?”
He released her hand.
She moved her hand down from where he had stopped her, at the bottom of his abdomen, to between his legs. She swiped her hand over the swell of him, palming him through the fabric, never taking her eyes off his face. She wanted to tell him how much she thought about these moments when she was gone--how many nights she would be lying by herself, in her tent, with her hand between her legs, thinking about him--his hands, his tongue, how he felt when he was inside of her. She watched as his chest rose and fell faster, as his throat moved when he swallowed, and she thought--why would she not tell him? Wouldn’t he want to know she was thinking of him?
“I think about you, when I’m away,” she said as she reached for the buttons on his pants, as she pushed them down over his hips, as he kicked them off. He smiled at her.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied, and then she realized her mistake. She needed to specify how she thought of him. She needed him to know how desperately she wanted him.
“I think about this,” she added, pulling his shirt up over his head, before doing the same to her own. She pushed him to the side so he would fall on his back, enclosing her hand around his now bare cock, moving from the base to the head, dragging her thumb up and gently swiping it over the head. He gasped in response.
“You do?” he breathed, and she could hear the note of surprise in his voice.
“You don’t?” she responded. She kept pulling and stroking, could feel him stiffen even more under her hands.
“Well…uh…yes,” he stammered. She swung her leg across both of his, so she was straddling him. Sometimes, she wanted him to cover her, to surround her with himself--the arms and chest that she associated with hard work but also comfort and safety. In those moments, she would wrap her legs around his waist and cling to him, fingers running over his scars, thanking every deity who would listen that he jumped back towards her, that he never listened to one day of her stubbornly pushing him away for his own safety. But sometimes, she wanted to be in control, to use her hips and thighs and watch him come apart under her own body. Today was one of those times.
“Then why wouldn’t I?” she asked. She liked that this way, her face was above his own, that she could lean over and kiss him this time as she reached below and guided him into her. She still tasted herself on him, could see a slight shine to his upper lip as she pulled away. She watched him watch her as she started to move, up and down, sliding her arms up his chest, pausing to grab and twist his nipples in the way she knew he liked but would never admit it. He waited, letting her set the rhythm before he began to move his own hips. She threw her head back at his first thrust, a moan escaping her lips. She often thought about how nothing could have prepared her for what it would feel like, the feeling of him inside of her—how she felt full and hollow at the same time, full when they came together, hollow when they moved apart, both equally important for the sense of pleasure. This time, a realization hit her, climbing up her spine like a chill from a cold wind—there was a version of her life where she would have never felt this. She would have been in that tent all the time, any thoughts of him mere fantasies—and vague ones at that. Would she have even touched herself, if she had never had an opportunity to explore her desire with him? With only the feeling of a chaste hug to hold on to, how long would she have remembered him? Would she have eventually forgotten him entirely? It made her feel suddenly not hollow, but empty, the thought of never knowing how it would feel when their bodies entwined together. The next moan she let out sounded more like a sob than a moan. She pulled her head back up, meeting his gaze again. In his eyes, she could clearly see the love and admiration he felt for her—and, this time, concern at the sound she had made. She reached down to touch his face, to banish the thoughts that had made her sad, to remind herself that he was here, here, with her, in her.
She loved seeing the love she felt for him reflected back at her in the way he looked at her. But when he closed his eyes involuntarily, tipped his head back and twisted his mouth, when his lips opened and a moan slipped out to match hers—this is where she saw the desire. She tended to be more vocal than he, so the sounds he did make—the gasps and moans and grunts—were all the more precious to her.
She felt that familiar sensation building near the pit of her stomach, and she began to move faster, smiling. She knew it would delight him when she came again, and he chuckled at her, as if he was marveling at how he could possibly give her this much pleasure. She was not sure she could ever convince him how much she loved him, how much she loved this.
She loved how, from this angle, she could see his face so clearly when he came. He was a beautiful man, to be sure, but the release somehow made him even more beautiful. She always thought he looked the most beautiful when he was relaxed—when he smiled, or laughed, even if it was at her expense. So when he shuddered, eyes wide, head dipped forward—almost as if he were surprised at himself—this is when he was the most beautiful to her, because he could just be.
She climbed off of him, laying down by his side, curling into him and laying a hand on his chest, now quickly rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. He threw an arm around her back and pulled her towards him. She nestled her face into the space between his shoulder and his neck, breathing in the scent that was uniquely his. A thought occurred to her—not for the first time, but now, she felt ready to face it. She loved Joseon and would never stop fighting for her country. But the downfall of Joseon led her here, to this life with him that would have never been possible if they had remained in Hanseong. She had lost so much to get to this moment with him—but look at all that she had gained. If she had lived the life of a normal noblewoman, marrying and having babies, it would have never been like this. She would have never felt this full, this alive, this aware of her body and all it could do. She thought she knew the limits of her body, how much she could push it, how much pain it could take. But she did not know how much it could feel—and she would have never known, if Joseon had not fallen, if he had not jumped toward her on that train.
She said nothing of this to him. Instead, she curled closer to him, pressing her ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Her eyes burned with the formation of tears. She scrunched them shut—she didn’t want him to see her upset. She wanted to deal with these feelings on her own, without his thoughtfulness, concern, or empathy. She couldn’t exactly explain why—maybe because she knew he already shouldered so much. She had leaned on him many times before, and would certainly do so again. But these feelings were hers alone.
Together, their breathing returned to normal. She looked up at him and asked, “Do you need help outside today?”
“No, no,” he responded, eyes still closed. He looked content, which made her smile. “You should rest.”
“But I don’t want to rest,” she said. She slowly ran her hand across his chest, back and forth, side to side, moving gradually lower and lower. “Maybe you should though. I don’t want you to be too tired.”
His eyes flew open--he must have realized the direction her hand was traveling. He looked down at her, a half smile playing on his lips. “Are you trying to tire me out before I even go outside?”
She smiled wider. “Want me to try?” She never met a challenge she could resist.
He laughed, then kissed her again, deeply, on the lips. She cherished this kiss--he almost never initiated their kisses, even now, after all this time, after everything they’d done together.
“Let’s have some breakfast first. It’s not fair if you don’t let me have any sustenance.”
She pouted. “But you already had breakfast.” He blinked at her, not understanding her joke. She watched him realize her meaning, watched the pink bloom across his cheeks.
“That’s not…I didn’t…” She had distracted him from the path of her hand. When it reached its intended destination, he started stammering even more.
“Fine,” she declared, moving her hand away after a few small strokes and sitting up beside him. He looked up at her, mouth agape. She reached for her shirt. “You feed us both, and then, we’ll see how long it takes you to get outside today.”
He blushed again--just as she intended.
—
One night, a few weeks later, their kisses turned from gentle to passionate. She could feel her own arousal--heat spreading through her limbs, wetness pooling between her legs. He reached for the leather belt tied around her waist, carefully picking at the knots to untie it. She grew frustrated, impatient. In these moments, she wanted him so much, more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. She wanted to tear off his shirt and touch his skin--how could he not feel the same sense of urgency?
“Just rip it!” she barked, clearly not thinking rationally about how difficult it would be for even him to rip through leather. He stopped, looked at her. He wasn’t frowning, but he looked confused.
“Why would I rip a perfectly good belt?” That seemed very wasteful to him.
She closed her eyes, trying to regain a sense of composure. How could she convey to him what she wanted? She thought about why she loved him--because he is gentle, caring, kind, attentive to her, yes. But she also loved him, and first fell in love with him, because he is brave, no nonsense. He is capable, can take command of a situation. Assertive. It occurred to her that she had not seen that side of him in a long time--since they began living here, since that day on the train. She knew that side of him must still be buried within him, and she wanted to bring it out. She spent so much of her time commanding others, being a leader--even between them, she often assumed that role. She wanted to let go, to be at his mercy. She wanted to surrender--wanted him to take her. And she knew that she wanted these things with him because she trusted him, because he spent so much time making her feel safe.
“You don’t always have to protect me,” she said to him. She opened her eyes to meet his own. “Not here.” His brows furrowed, his confusion deepening.
“You can just want me. You can show me that you want me.” She ran a hand up his arm as she spoke.
I don’t do that already? he thought. How could she not know that he wanted her? He worshiped her, cherished every inch of her body, wanted to please her, to make her happy. Wasn’t that the same thing?
She paused, tried again. “I want you to be more…forceful.”
“Forceful?!” he cried, stepping back from her, holding her at arm's length. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know. I’m not asking you to hurt me. But I want you to…take control. I’ve seen how you command people. Sometimes, I want you to command me too.”
He looked down, and she saw his eyes change, more hurt than confusion reflected in them. She pulled him closer, held him tightly to her.
“I don’t want this all the time. I love when you are gentle. And I love being in control.” He chuckled into her shoulder. “But sometimes, I want to just…give in. To you.”
He kept his eyes shut, enjoying their closeness, and considered what she had said. He worried this was not something he could give her. It felt against his nature to be domineering over her in any way. He never wanted her to feel that he saw her as less than, as an object, a plaything. He knew that was how many men saw women, and it disgusted him. He regarded them as equals, and felt all the more strongly about this considering that they were both born into a society that emphatically told them they were not, in fact, equal. She was strong, hardworking, and just as capable as he was--at leading, at shooting, even at manual labor.
Thinking of her in this way reminded him of when he was young, of his first experiences with intimacy--not with a woman (he had never been with another woman, other than her) but with his best friend. He thought about how sometimes, he would push his friend against a wall, or pin him down with his arms or legs. He thought nothing of doing these things…because he trusted his friend, and because, since they were both men, they felt like equals.
Equals.
He lifted his head, looked at her again. “I understand,” he said.
“You do?” she asked. He noticed the hint of excitement in her voice, but her expression was skeptical.
“I do. But I’m still not ripping this belt. I’d only have to repair it later.” She rolled her eyes, and he stepped back from her.
“Take it off yourself,” he said, but he said it differently than he had spoken before. He lowered his voice slightly, the words coming out more as a grumble. She shivered in response, an involuntary reaction. Maybe he did understand.
She removed the belt and noticed her hands trembling. He started removing his own clothes, and she did the same. They faced each other, bare skin shining in the moonlight streaming in through the small window.
He closed the distance between them with two steps and crashed their mouths together. She gasped at the forcefulness of his kiss. He had never kissed her like this. He took advantage of her parted lips to bite her bottom lip, and she could feel her knees starting to buckle. He slipped his tongue in between her teeth and swiped her tongue with his, his hand holding the back of her neck. He slid that hand down her back to meet his other hand, holding her around the waist. He slid both hands down around her bottom and scooped her up. She threw her legs around his waist, still kissing him. It was messy, their tongues fighting each other for space in their mouths, occasionally running into each other’s teeth. She loved it. Sometimes, he would catch her tongue and suck on it. Sometimes, she would catch his and bite it. Equals.
He laid her down on top of their blankets, breaking their kiss to reach around him for her arms entwined around his back. He grabbed both of her wrists and brought them over her head, holding them together with one of his hands. She gasped again, with delight. He smiled at her, but even his smile was different. It was more sly than his usual smiles, more devilish.
He slid his other hand over her right breast, covering her left breast with his mouth. She moaned, bucked her hips up into his own. He pressed down with his own hips, pinning her against the ground. She could feel him, hard, pressed against her, which meant he could feel how wet she was.
He raised his head, moved his hand from her breast and hovered it over her face. He bent his fingers towards her open mouth.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, placing his finger on her bottom lip. She stuck out her tongue to lick the tip of his finger, and he moved his finger into her mouth. She closed her lips around it, ran her tongue underneath it. He dragged his finger out of her mouth and added a second finger, which she licked eagerly.
“Yes,” she breathed, when he had removed his fingers. It came out as a sigh, a whisper. He ran his fingers, slick with her saliva, down the center of her torso, hovering them in front of her opening, dragging them slowly over her folds.
“Is this what you want?” he said again, that devilish grin back on his face. Oh, she loved him like this. This was the man she fell in love with. She didn’t realize how much she missed him.
“Yes,” she said, louder this time, more of a gasp, a pant. He plunged his two fingers into her, moving them in and out, faster and faster, using his thumb to push against the round bud. She could hear her moans get louder as the friction built up the heat in her stomach. Sometimes, he would cover her mouth with more messy kisses. Sometimes he would nip and suck on her neck. Sometimes, he would just look at her. But he never let go of her hands--he kept them pinned over her head.
When she came, head thrown back, hips rising to meet his hand, he still did not release her hands. He removed his hand from inside of her and sat back on his calves. He wrapped his hand around himself, stroking his cock, covering himself with her wetness. She wondered if he would keep her pinned down, enter her this way. That wasn’t what she wanted, though--it was too protective, even with her arms immobile. She wanted something else, something more raw--but she didn’t think he would suggest it. It might not even occur to him, the position that she wanted.
He surprised her by letting go of her hands at that moment, and before he could say or do anything else, she turned around on her stomach and pushed herself up on her hands and knees. She stayed that way, waited, and then looked back at him, sitting behind her.
“Oh,” he said, running his eyes over her back, her bottom, her muscled thighs. This was not what he had in mind--but if this was what she wanted, he would give it to her. He would give her anything.
He rose up on his knees and scooted closer to her. He looked, using one hand to open her folds, the other to guide himself into her. He placed his hands around her hips and pushed into her. At first, he went slowly, gauging her reactions. He wasn’t sure how this angle would feel for her. But with each thrust, her head dipped back, her hair covering the tops of her shoulders. Her limbs shuddered, her moans changed--becoming deeper, more guttural. He sped up, ran a hand up her spine, tangled his hand in her hair and tugged, just a little. She screamed, laughed, delighted at this ferocity. She loved the fact that she could feel him but not see him. She normally loved looking at him when they were together, and yet, something about knowing he was there but not looking at him made her let go in a way she never had before. He moved his hands from her hips to her breasts, and she began to push back into him as he squeezed and rolled her nipples. She picked up one of her hands and moved it to the round part of her--she wanted more, even more sensation. He swatted her hand away and moved his own hand there. She let him completely take control, his thrusts in time with the circles made by his fingers. She felt his head come down on her shoulder, felt his teeth sink into her skin. She felt utterly consumed by him; she wanted nothing more than to be his.
She came, not with a shout like she normally did, but with a whimper, slamming her hips back into his. He grabbed her hips again, thrust into her a few more times as she trembled around him, and he followed her, slumping down against her back. They collapsed in a heap, a tangle of limbs and heaving breaths. He rolled off of her, onto his side, and she turned onto her other side to face him.
For a while, they did not say anything, just stared at each other, breathing in tandem. Then, he spoke.
“Was that…what you wanted?” She barked out a laugh.
“Yes! That was perfect! You were wonderful!” He smiled--back to his old, gentle smile--and she pulled him towards her.
“Did you enjoy it?” she asked. He stayed silent--she knew that he had enjoyed himself, but she was worried he wouldn’t want to admit it.
“I did,” he finally said. “I liked how much you enjoyed it.” She sighed--he was always thinking of her.
“But did you enjoy it?” she asked again. She would insist on this--insist on him embracing his own pleasure. “It’s okay if you did.”
“I did!” he repeated. He paused, and then smiled again. “I forgot what it’s like to order people around. I should order you around more often.”
She hummed her agreement into him. “Well, maybe not all the time…” He laughed and squeezed her to him.
She sighed, enjoying the feeling of her tired limbs. She felt like a wet towel that had been wrung out, twisted and squeezed into a new shape. She felt reborn, and she hoped he did too. From the beginning, she had always liked walking side by side with him. This felt like a new way to walk side by side together.
She realized his breathing had changed--evened, softened. She looked up at him and realized he had fallen asleep. She kissed the tip of his nose and wished peaceful dreams for him--no one deserved peace more than him.