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steviewashere · 10 months ago

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If Found, Return to Me

Rating: General CW: Implied Sex (Mild), Mild Panic Attacks Tags: Post Canon, Post Season 4, Established Relationship, Humor and Hijinks, Eddie Munson is a Little Shit, Steve Harrington is a Little Shit, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Panic Attacks, Dork Eddie Munson, Dork Steve Harrington, 3+1

Okay, the idea was going to be a 5+1, but I couldn't get past three ideas without feeling the crawl of burn-out, so I lowered it to three. But this is based on This Post from @apomaro-mellow

👕—————👕 1. He grips the hem of his shirt and tugs. Chin tucked into his neck so that he can read the text, which is bold and black and dark on the white background. ‘If found, return to Steve.’ Eddie groans. “Do we seriously have to wear these?” He whines.

Steve stands in front of him. Hands on his hips. One foot cocked. “Yes, Eddie,” he answers emphatically. Even a little annoyed. Which, sue Eddie for having to ask over and over, but it’s sort of embarrassing. Especially when his boyfriend is wearing a similar shirt that just reads: ‘I’m Steve’. Makes Eddie look sort of childish, if you were to ask him. “If I’m taking you out of town, to a place I’ve never been before for a convention—something I’d probably never even go to—you absolutely have to wear that shirt. Knowing you, you’ll see some action figure stand and I’ll be abandoned by the comic books.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Or, y’know, we can just link arms and walk around the convention center?” Steve only widens his eyes and raises an eyebrow. He groans again. “Okay, fine! We’ll wear these stupid t-shirts.” His head tilts back, eyes to the ceiling of their hotel. Huffs through his nose. “I don’t even know how you got these,” he grumbles, “I’d rather not know.”

Sure, Eddie’s prone to running off. He gets excited, okay? Especially when it’s something he knows a lot about, or something he’s been hunting down for literal years, or if it’s a thing he can surprise the people around him with. Thinking of the last time he wandered off and Steve had to practically scruff him, it’d been while he was purchasing a dice set for Dustin’s birthday. So maybe Steve has a point. And maybe it’s sort of a genius idea. Eddie just wants to be stubborn about this, it’d save him the humiliation.

Except, he’s still wearing the shirt (Steve in his matching one) when they finally get through the doors of the convention center. There’s people in costumes all around them: Spock and Kirk, Marty McFly, Indiana Jones, Predator, and a few kids with their dads all dressed like those ponies that Erica likes. Something in Eddie trills. And he’s already a few steps ahead of Steve before he knows it. Steve trails behind him, wonder and awe shining in his own eyes, trying to keep up with Eddie’s frantic nature.

But then they’re not even close to each other. They buy lunch a couple hours in. Steve gets a large lemonade and downs it like he’s never had something to drink before. And then Eddie’s being told, “Please wait here by the bathrooms. Don’t go do anything stupid.”

He’s leaning against the wall that reads: ‘Restrooms’. Arms intertwined over his chest. Legs crossed on one another. In the distance, his eyes lock onto a Dungeons & Dragons booth. There’s tall shelves stocked with every mini figure he could ever pray for. A few long tables that showcase various maps, dungeon master screens, and little trays for dice. However, there’s an odd rack in the booth. A hat stand. And on it, he spots the perfect thing for Steve. It’s probably expensive, Eddie debates with himself, but it’s Indiana Jones’ hat. His feet are moving before he registers the people walking past him.

And then he’s there. Holding a classic fedora hat between his hands. Turning it around in his hold. Thumbing at the material; marveling at how smooth and buttery soft the fabric is. He spots the price tag, ‘$8.00’. It’s not a terrible price. Isn’t damaged in any way. So he keeps it in his left hand, grabs a paladin mini figure in his right, and purchases both items. Bag in hand, he moves to leave the booth, but is stopped by a gentle hand tapping on his right shoulder.

He turns and is met with a girl. She’s level with his chest, eyes wide and calculating, hand retreating back to her side. “Hi—um—you don’t know me at all, but I found somebody named Steve looking for you,” she states, “I saw your shirt and figured you were the guy he was talking about.”

Eddie slumps. A part of him can’t believe the stupid shirt even worked. “Yeah, it’s probably me that he’s looking for,” he sighs. “Take me to him.”

She’s hard to follow in the crowd of people. Shorter than most and extremely quick. But she links his arm with hers and practically drags him back towards the bathrooms. And there he is, Steve Harrington with his hands on his hips, a furrow to his brow, mouth thin-lined. “Eddie,” Steve greets. He smiles, though it’s not all that sweet, but kind enough for this stranger that had to shepherd Eddie. The girl leaves them. And Steve steps closer to Eddie, crosses his arms over his chest, and then has the gall to snort. He raises a hand and plucks at Eddie’s t-shirt, directly on the word: ‘Found’. “Looks like my stupid t-shirt worked,” he snarks. The sass to this guy is unbelievable.

“Yeah, har har, laugh it up,” Eddie says dryly. “Maybe you don’t want the little gift I got for you.”

Steve perks up. Eyes glowing with curiosity. “What’d you get?”

Eddie rolls his eyes and smirks. Digs into his bag and flaunts the hat. “Saw it at a D&D booth, surprisingly. Probably would’ve been something we walked by, had I not…wandered.” He steps a little closer into Steve’s space, sets the hat on top of his head, and nods in approval. “Think that this purchase was a success. You look dashing, Mr. Jones.”

In a flurry of movement, Steve snatches the hat from off the top of his head. Gaping at it. “Eds,” he breathes, “this is so fucking cool.” He places it back where it was, pulling it tight to his hairline, and grins brightly. “Thank you, but also please don’t leave me alone here,” he says, “I got worried.”

“Sorry,” Eddie murmurs sheepishly. “Just thought about how excited you’d be about the hat and couldn’t resist. Won’t happen again, promise.”

Steve chuckles. “I know it will, but that’s what the stupid shirts are for. Anyway…Can we go look at the Lego set-up that we passed by in hall E? I think I saw a spaceship and—“

“Lead the way, Indy.” He might have to buy his own shirts with how Steve bounds away from him.

——— 2. “If…Lost?!” Eddie exclaims. “Steve, what the fuck? Why—How—Where the hell are you getting these t-shirts?” He asks. They’re at Steve’s house, getting ready for a day trip in Chicago. And, sure, Eddie’s never been in his life. Doesn’t know the streets of Chicago like the back of his hand. Maybe Steve does know more about where they’re going, but that doesn’t change just how ridiculous this shirt is. How it glares at him in the bathroom mirror.

Steve sidles up next to him. His t-shirt the same as the one from the convention. He wraps an arm around Eddie’s waist. Rests his head on his shoulder. “I have my ways,” he states ominously. “And, again, I know you. Your sense of direction is practically non-existent. You can’t deny that, baby. The only reason you found Skull Rock is because you stumbled upon it.”

“I was on the run, couldn’t exactly look at a map,” he grumbles. “But do we have to—“

“Yes,” Steve sighs. “Now, can you come out to the car with me? I’m ready to go.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but does as he’s asked. Sits in the passenger seat. Shuffles through the radio stations. Teases Steve for his taste in tapes. But then they’re parking, getting out, walking around the city.

He follows Steve…for a while. Into a record shop. In the back of a diner, playing footsie under the table. Then he goes down a side street. Following a guy in a white t-shirt, hair high on his head, Adidas sneakers on his feet. However, the guy turns slightly. And…that’s not Steve. Eddie’s not sure how long he’s been following this stranger, or when he started, or from where he started from. Tries to rake through his brain to the last time he heard Steve talk about the street they were originally on, but there’s nothing. The words and names escape him.

He’s stranded in a city he’s never been to. Down a street he should’ve never come across. Wearing the most humiliating t-shirt known to mankind. Somewhere, again he’s not sure, behind him Steve is probably standing by some shop entrance, hands on his hips and a scowl perfectly framed on his face. And Eddie can’t help but panic. Standing with his back against the nearest wall. Breathing through his mouth like he’s about to beef it on the sidewalk. Eyes darting over and under and left and right. Trying to find semblance of normal, any little speckle of Steve. Something.

It’s not until he’s nearly sick to his stomach, churning and flipping and knotting, that a different stranger makes their presence known. They gently invade his space. Voice soft as they notice his panic. “Hey man, are you Eddie?” They ask. He nods way too quick, but sidelines the blur to his vision because talking to this stranger seems hopeful. Especially since they know his name. “Okay, cool,” the stranger mutters, “I ran into your…friend. Steve was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when I spotted him, said he couldn’t find you, but didn’t know where to look. So I volunteered to find you. And—well—judging by your shirt, I can gladly and safely reunite you guys. If you…If you wanna follow me.”

“Please,” Eddie murmurs, “I don’t know where I am.”

The trip back to Steve is arduous. Through crowds of people and past noisy cars. Bustling shops and the waft of various seasonings from a number of restaurants. But sure enough, Steve is on some precipice. His hair a mess and face pinched nervously. Then, he spots Eddie. Eyes lighting, clearing and glistening. A look of ‘I want to touch, but know I can’t.’

When he sidles up next to Steve after the stranger leaves, he carefully joins their hands. “I followed a complete stranger for probably thirty minutes,” Eddie admits, whispering. “His hair looked similar. And he was also wearing a white t-shirt. I got so scared, Steve.”

“Well, at least our stupid shirts worked again, right?” Steve asks, breathless and still verging breakdown.

Eddie squeezes their hands. “Can we go home, please? This is gonna sound crazy, but I think I prefer middle of nowhere Hawkins. At least I know where everything is.”

Steve nods rapidly. “I need to touch you in ways I can’t right now. Let’s go.” And then he tugs their hands, pulling them along sidewalks and through groups of people, down a couple side streets. It’s partially worth it, in the end. Definitely with the way Eddie’s skin is now decorated with Steve’s love, sticky and warm with it, too.

——— 3. The shirts end up following them to the Indiana State Fair.

Steve stops them at the front entrance, right after the ticket booth, and makes Eddie face him. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, voice low and near demanding. “If I turn my back for a second and you are gone, I will lose my absolute shit. Got it? Do not make me have to keep a rope tied to your belt loop.”

Eddie groans. “I get it, Steve. Can we at least try and enjoy ourselves?”

And they do for the most part. Steve plays at a few game stalls. Eddie carries the prizes. Their legs interlock underneath a picnic table, sharing greasy funnel cake and way too sour lemonade freezes. They watch a few performers, pet some fair animals, judge prized pigs like they know what they’re doing.

But then the ferris wheel comes up and Eddie sees an opportunity already forming. Like dots connecting or the stars aligning. He wants to drag Steve through the line and sit with him in one of the seats, wait for the wheel to stop at just the right height, and kiss him as the lights dim low and the darkness of the sky envelops them. Though, because he always misses a few steps in his plans, he doesn’t tell Steve that they’re going to the ferris wheel. Just starts walking. Shoving past other couples and accidentally sidelining a couple kids. He sneaks around large families. Maybe bribes a few people to let up on the ride’s queue.

Then, Eddie turns to his left. Where Steve is.

Or…Where Steve should have been.

“Shit,” Eddie spits. “Steve?” He calls over his shoulder. Frantically, he whips around in line. Eyes wide over people’s heads. Shoving them out of the way, albeit a little rough. Spreads the line into two little rows. But he comes up unsuccessful.

Until, right on cue, a stranger is tapping on his shoulder. Instead of letting them go into their whole spiel, he just sighs defeated, “Take me to him.”

There are no words exchanged. Not when Eddie follows behind, head bowed to the ground, dragging his feet like a petulant child. And then he stops where he sees Steve’s shoes, the bright blue Adidas sneakers he’d recognize anywhere.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Thought you were with me.”

Steve just sighs. Something kind of disappointed that shrivels Eddie slightly. “Where’d you even go?” Steve calmly asks.

Eddie finally looks to him, his eyes pleading. “The ferris wheel, but…But! In my defense, I thought you were with me. And I was going to get us a seat on the ride. Was gonna wait until it got up to the highest point and do something cheesy like kiss you…or blow you, whatever. But I—“

“Why didn’t you just ask me, Eds?” Steve laughs with his full body, deep from within his stomach. “We can do that, babe. All you gotta do is ask, y’know?”

“I didn’t think—“

“I know you didn’t,” Steve teases. “Seems like my stupid t-shirt idea worked again. That’s three times, you dork.” Eddie can only groan. He knows that he has a bad habit of wandering, doesn’t mean that the idea is any less annoying or dumb. “Come on, Eds. Stop throwing a fit. Let’s do your thing.”

“You sure?”

“Eddie, if you don’t kiss or blow me on that ferris wheel, I’m banning D&D at my place for a month. Let’s go.”

When they get off and start walking back to the car, Steve tugs on the back of Eddie’s jeans. He yelps, startled, but quickly shuts his mouth when he’s faced with a stern look. “You know what I just remembered?” Steve asks him. There’s mirth in his eyes. Eddie doesn’t trust this at all. “Earlier, when I was telling you about wandering, I mentioned maybe tethering you to a rope. I might have to do that. Since you can’t behave.”

Eddie heats from the inside out. A coil tightens in his stomach. “You couldn’t even if you tried,” he bites back.

Later, he finds out, Steve is exceptional with rope. What a fucking boy scout.

——— +1 The Mall of America didn’t earn its title for nothing. The place was huge, that much Eddie could discern. Which made perfect sense when buying the new and improved: ‘If found, return to…’ shirts. However, this time, it was Steve with ‘If Found’ t-shirt.

At first, Steve didn’t know how to feel about the new shirts. Simply because he didn’t seem to see a reason for why he’d get lost or wander or be found in any capacity. But given the surprise Eddie had for him, the reason definitely fit the bill.

What Steve didn’t know, that Eddie one hundred percent knew, was that a Lego store was opening up at the mall. Or, has been opened at the mall. It was the perfect time for a little road trip. A little Fall of 1992 trip to Minnesota. Driving by trees and such. Parking in the Mall of America’s lot. Figuring out what stores to hit first, what food they wanted to eat, where the bathrooms were located. Typical day out sort of things.

However, one moment Steve was with him and the next…Eddie was scouring the food court for his fiancé. Trying not to throw up the meager lunch he just had. Swallowing down panic after panic after panic that rose in his chest like tsunami waves. This place was too big for either of them to wander or get lost or have a mind of their own. Not with the way they impulsively purchases things, an awful habit they both exuded—today is the worst day to do just that.

Which leads him to tapping on the shoulder of a guy around his age. Who’s carrying two large yellow Lego bags. Just sitting back in one of the food court chairs, minding his own business. Until, he whips around to find Eddie startled and red faced. “Uh…Can I help you, man?” The stranger greets.

“Sorry, hi,” Eddie says. “I just—You look like somebody who can maybe help me. I’m looking for my…friend, his name is Steve. Uh—White, around my height, dirty blonde hair. He’s wearing a pair of near skin tight Levi jeans, light wash and a white t-shirt that matches mine. Except, his says ‘If found, return to Eddie’. I’m Eddie, by the way. Anyway—Uh, you probably just came from the Lego store, yeah?”

“Sure,” the guy says, completely unsure of this interaction. “Why do you need to know—“

“So you can like lead me there? I’ve never been there. And like he’s really obsessed with those damn sets and like that’s really cool or whatever, but I need to know where he is because we’re from out of town and I have no fucking clue what I’m doing in this mall or where to—“

“Alright, dude, calm down,” guy placates. “We’ll find your friend. Just…That store is pretty fucking busy. Really popular, you know? I’ll take you there, but with how panicked you are, it would be best if you waited by the entrance of the store. Is that…”

“That’s perfectly fine to me!” Eddie nearly shouts.

He follows on this person’s heels. Bobbing and weaving through crowds of other over-consumers. Maybe shoving a few of them out of the way just so he can stay with that guy. But eventually, they make it to the outside of the rather precarious Lego store. Its yellow storefront nauseating to Eddie. Almost—Genuinely frustrating him beyond belief. And he sees Steve. Standing near the back of the store. Staring up at one of the shelves, but he lets the stranger he found grab Steve for him. Because no way in hell is Eddie going to survive being swallowed up by the awfully large crowd swamping the store.

Steve emerges from the crowd, a bit offended and a lot upended. But then has the gall to appear sheepish when he’s led directly to Eddie. With a nod and a tight smile, Eddie waves the stranger off. Almost wants to run back and get his name, send him a thank you card from the Hallmark store he saw on their way there.

He turns to face Steve, though. Leans them into the wall. “Jesus, Steve,” Eddie groans. “Is this what you put up with?”

“Is what—“

“The fucking panic? The—The whirling around and checking in the weird obscure places? Tapping on stranger’s shoulders only to see if they have a single goddamn idea where anything is…ever? Like—“ He sighs. “I thought that I’d never find you, Steve! You could’a at least told me you were going to go somewhere on your own. Maybe give me an idea of where you’re going?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh, so now that’s important to you?” He petulantly mutters. “Can’t go off and have fun without being pestered—“

“I’m not pestering, Steve!” Eddie grits. “I’m being concerned! I’m—You scared me,” he admits quietly. “And you ruined my surprise.”

“Ruined?” Steve echoes, confused. “What do you…oh. Oh. I—“ Then, Steve looks down to the floor. Eyes ashamed and arms tight to his body. “I didn’t…I was just excited, I’m sorry. The store was on the directory when we first came in and I like—“ He chuckles a little bit, loosening up. “—I fucking memorized where to go. What path to take. Because I just really wanted to look in there. They’ve got—Eddie, they have this one set in there, it’s a freaking spaceship and it’s called the…The Galactic Meditator or something? I can’t—That doesn’t matter,” he rambles. Takes a deep breath and pushes himself tighter into Eddie’s space. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Eddie gives a single nod. Closes his eyes and staves off the rest of his panic and anger. He’d be a hypocrite if he lashed out right now. He knows that. And, honestly, seeing Steve geek out about toys…of all things…is kind of endearing. Maybe even doing something for Eddie.

He puts on his best smile, something genuine and pulled from within him. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “I—I should’ve known that you were going to come over here.”

“I mean, you did a little bit, right? Had to find somebody that led you here?”

“You got me,” Eddie breathes. “Y’know all my tricks.”

Steve hums beside him. “I’m actually sorry, though, that I ruined the surprise you had in mind. This is a pretty cool thing.”

Eddie smirks. “Steve Harrington admitting to a geek thing being cool…When did the tables turn?” He teases. “Seems like God has heard my prayers,” he jests. With a quick sneaky look around, he grabs Steve’s hand. Squeezes firmly and exhales the last bit of his panicked nerves. “Does my fiancé want to…Oh, I don’t know…Get a Lego set?”

The hand in his tightens with a harsh, unbelieving amount of strength. He almost winces. “Really?” Steve asks, perking up. If he had a tail, it would most definitely be wagging. “Can we actually? I really want that one that I found in there, the uh…Galactic whatever it was called. I’m bad at the names, which is weird because I’ve been building these sets for a while, but I always seem to get the names wrong and I—“ Eddie interrupts with a squeeze to his hand again, a smile bright and plastered to his face. “Sorry,” Steve sheepishly says, “Let’s go in there. I can show you and maybe…you can get one of your own?”

“Lead the way, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs against Steve’s cheek, leaving a very chaste but all the same kiss there.

The panic was worth it in the end. Because watching Steve in his element, nerd-ing over toys and how to best put them together, really makes Eddie’s chest warm. In a way that tells him he’d put up with wandering all his life, if only to get Steve to smile the way he does when proudly displaying his new spaceship.

👕—————👕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #3+1 #humor and hijinks #humor #or at least an attempt at humor #mild hurt/comfort

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hitlikehammers · 15 days ago

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astral cartography✨💫

“And I did always say, right, that tattoos are a map of what you love.” Steve kisses Eddie firm, not least in appreciation for shutting Dustin’s harebrained bullshit down. But that doesn’t solve his original mystery. “These aren’t a map, though,” Steve taps one of the new spots, smaller but still at the neck. No rhyme or reason to it. “They’re the start of one.”💖

rating: t ♥️ cw: post-S4, extensive tattoo/birthmark/scar appreciation, established relationship, romantic gestures, a soupçon of angst surrounding some necessary work on self talk/body positivity re: extensive canonical scarring (it’s hurt/comfort in full service of fluff, so), little ✨sprinkling (lol) of humor, softness ♥️ tags: boys being tactile as shit, steve harrington being the canonical reason anyone ever called them ‘beauty marks’, eddie munson’s philosophy of tattooing, falling deeper in love

for @steddielovemonth day three: "if there is love, smallpox scars are as pretty as dimples. I'll love your face no matter what it looks like. because it's yours.” —Stephen King, 11/22/63

For all the attention he has wilfully, consciously, and very intentionally given certain elements of his appearance, Steve’s never though anything really about the fact that he’s got enough moles to dress up for Halloween as a fucking chocolate chip cookie.

Like, they don’t bother him at all or anything, but he’s never really understood how a handful of people he’s been with have just…zeroed in on them. Got a little crazy about them. Tracing them. Licking them. Nipping at them so they look more red than brown for a day or two. Whatever, Steve’s always figured. Everyone’s got their thing, and this one costs steve absolutely nothing to indulge, and if there’s one thing Steve prides himself on that doesn’t rhyme with ‘hair’? It’s making sure his partners leave satisfied.

But then there was Eddie.

And Eddie has a…well, a umm…

If you looked up the word ‘fixation’ in the dictionary, Eddie definitely has that.

Probably looking up the word ‘fetish’ might not be too far off, either.

What it means that Steve gets a little hot under the collar of his polo when he so much as thinks about either of those facts is a word he doesn’t know and isn’t going to bother looking up because why the hell would he, when he can just turn to Eddie, and…

Eddie’s fetish-fixations aren’t idle things, guy’s a man of action. Steve’s not gonna pick a book over what he gets out of the bargain like…for anything.

Plus, better stated—now there is Eddie. And Eddie…isn’t going anywhere, ever, if Steve has anything to say about it.

And it doesn’t cost Steve anything to lie there under his boyfriend’s unwavering, devoted attention. Kind of actually the sort of thing Steve never had before this, before him, and got addicted to quick—and that shone hasn’t worn off one bit. Isn’t actually showing any indication of everwearing off.

And when attention grows more heated, grows more more, well, then…fuck.

Ha, ha, that’s: fuck. Literally.

Point is, Steve doesn’t even really notice all the little dots on his skin, but hell if he’s not reaping the benefits.

——

It’s also not really fair to even consider judging Eddie for his fixation with Steve’s collection of birthmarks. Because Steve’s got his own not-quite-but-close-enough-the-distinction-doesn’t-matter obsession with Eddie’s skin.

Notably, but not exclusively, with his tattoos.

And more than that? With his scars.

Which is something that kinda comes about…tumultuously. Steve can acknowledge that.

“It’s too fucking hot, dude,” he’d frowned, rolling over and plucking at Eddie’s soaked-through shirt; “and you’re sweating buckets here.”

Seriously. The mattress was gonna get ruined at this rate.

“Jeez,” Eddie had snapped, straight off the bat; “sosorry we don’t all have central goddamn air.”

Which: the government hadn’t sprung for that, no. But:

“Don’t try and pull that shit on me,” Steve bit back, plain and simple, and it cowed Eddie the way it sure as hell should: he knew better. He knew Stevebetter, by now. They’d been fucking for months, since Eddie got the medical okay. They rarely spent more than a work-shift’s length out of each other’s sight. They were both—for the first time Steve’s ever got to feel it, both of them, together—clear-eyed on the way to bonafide bone-deep love; saying it out loud for keeps, and soon. They slept together every goddamn night.

So yeah. Eddie knew better.

He curled farther from Steve, into himself, but Steve just followed, even if doing so kinda exacerbated his complaint about the heat as a matter of course. He molded himself around Eddie and pulled him into his chest so he could murmur into the wet curls plastered at his ear:

“I get if you don’t want anyone else to see,” because wearing a shirt in this fucking heatwave really only made sense for one reason; “I get if you’re not ready yet, or if you’re never ready,” and Steve meant that: if Eddie was never ready to show off the worst of his scars? Steve would stand by him every day for the rest of his days.

That was basically the rule for…most things, now. With Eddie.

“But I already saw all of it, babe,” Steve tried to reason, because it wasn’t even that Steve was uncomfortable, mostly-nude in the bed himself; it was that Eddie’s misery hurt in his chest and he just…maybe it was selfish, to want to cast it out, but he just didn’t want Eddie to suffer. Ever.

“I cleaned them at their worst, y’know? I changed the bandages, I saw—”

“How much they look like Frankenstein’s fucking monster?” Eddie’d halfway snarled it, and Jesus fuck, no.

No.

“How much they almost make me fucking start crying,” Steve was willing to admit it, out loud, for this specific purpose alone, which said a whole fuck of a lot—

“Because they’re goddamn hideous—” Eddie tried to derail him but that wasn’t happening. Steve was on a mission, here. And Steve didn’t commit if he wasn’t gonna see something through past the finish line, and in first.

“Because they’re so alive,” Steve pulled Eddie in tighter, pressed his lips into Eddie’s neck.

“You have them, and you’re warm here next to me, I get to hold you in my arms like this and your fucking heart’s still beating, when I was so goddamn scared it would stop because of how torn up all this was,” and Steve laid just his palm blind to the deepest cratering of flesh that’s concave to the bone a little, knew where it was by muscle memory alone and he could feel Eddie’s pulse hammering for the fear and the shame and what had sounded too much like self-loathing, that Steve hadn’t realized was still so strong: but now he knew it. Now he knew, and he’ll wasn’t going anywhere, so he was gonna be right there, watching and helping and coaxing a way through it however he could.

“But it’s fucking beautiful, and it’s not red and torn open and bleeding out to take you from me anymore,” and Steve didn’t even think to feel ashamed of it when his voice cracked around how he didn’t realize that sore spot was still so close to the surface in himself.

“But now it’s pink and healthy and it stretches when you breathe in, because you’re here and you’re alive,” and there came the crack again in Steve’s voice but he expected it that time, and smashed his lips to Eddie’s neck again as he moaned a little:

“With me.”

And he breathed there as long as it took for Eddie’s breathing under his hand at the scars in his side to even out, and he just…appreciated them. Because they’d done the unthinkable; doctors and surgeons and modern medicine, sure, yeah, them too, but Eddie’s own body—the very skin under Steve’s hands—had decided to say fuck the reaper and knitted itself together the best it could, and the best it could had led them both here, had led Steve in Eddie’s bed, and Eddie in Steve’s heart, so.

Steve thought every single one of those scars was goddamn magnificent. He’d praise each of them in gratitude, separately and painstakingly every goddamn day, if he thought it’d convey how thankful he was for the textured artwork of Eddie’s left ribs, the way his whole side stood like a permanent installation in celebration of what it meant to demand to survive.

“They’re so,” Eddie eventually whispered, and it sounded already like he was gonna say something kinda like the opposite of everything Steve saw, so—they’d deal with those mean thoughts later.

For the moment though:

“You know how you said you’d never seen the ocean?” Steve had said, knowing it would sound like it came out of nowhere, but it wasn’t. “And I promised I’d take you?”

Eddie’d just turned, stared at him like he was losing it which…was fair. But Steve had a point to it, promise.

“I’ve seen it though,” Steve had closed his eyes and the memories are hazy because they’re so old but the feeling of it: s’not something you ever forget all the way. “Couple times, just because my parents had to be somewhere and I was too young to leave alone when the babysitter cancelled last minute,” and he’d reached out slow, opened his eyes to watch Eddie every millimeter his hand moved closer to the collage of divots and skin grafting and stitched-together planes that pulled too far to lie even when the staples came out. Eddie tensed, held his breath—it wasn’t that Steve hadn’t touched him here, far from it, but so intentionally, so eyes-open—but he didn’t flinch. And he didn’t stop Steve’s hand from pressing down.

His breath did catch, but so did Steve’s, just for clearly different reasons as Steve delicately traced the scalloped edgings and whispered, didn’t even try to hide how it made him feel kinda-sorta awed:

“It reminds me of the tides.”

“The sand goes smooth under the waves,” Eddie shot back, but without heat, more just…defeated as he muttered on; “even I’ve seen fuckin’ movies.”

“But the foam, like, of the waves coming up,” Steve pushed back; “it’s so pretty, that’s the part I want your to see most because it was so long ago, and that’s what I still remember,” and he’d sighed a little, going back to that place in his head:

“It’s like layers, and all the motion of it lapping up the coastline feels like like you could just lose yourself in the rhythm forever and never climb out,” and he’d let his eyes open slow, and he’d caught Eddie’s own and let himself do the same inside that gaze until Eddie got the fucking hint:

He was just ad beautiful, as impossible, as incredible as those tides.

“One wave after the next, in turns, crashing so strong but it’s not, like, violent,” Steve had let his thumb trace the raised lines under his touch back and forth; “it’s magic.”

Like Eddie. Who tucked a little further into himself before he turned, jostled Steve’s hand then burrowed into Steve instead:

“It’s not even smooth,” he protested all muffled; “you can’t even—”

“My nan loved photos.”

Again, Steve was pretty sure he sounded insane. But again, he was building to a point.

“Not even ones she took, most came from magazines. She couldn’t travel like she wanted to, my Gramp was building businesses but my Nan wanted like, adventures and the sights. So she made scrapbooks of wishes, she called them,” Steve had smiled at the memory, until the next one washed it away:

“My dad thought she was a silly old woman. We didn’t see her too much, in the end.”

Steve missed her.

“But the most beautiful thing she showed me once was this one tiny island somewhere way far in the north, where the beaches were made of stones.”

Eddie’s turned a little, frowned. It gave Steve access to his side again, though, and that’s all he needed, but his hand right back on that tangled-perfect marvel of scar tissue and indomitable life.

“Not pebbles, but big stones,” and Steve had outlined the larger waves in the flesh like examples with his hands as he spoke. “No rhyme or reason. It was special, the place itself, like it had some historic significance or whatever, but,” and Steve had let himself work around one knot of tissue he knew caused pulling sometimes, just in case it could use a little loosening, a little extra love, and he’d fought a full grin when Eddie’d grunted and caved under the attention, eager for the relief.

“The picture she had was of the waves crashing over the ricks and,” Steve had worked more at the knot as he searched for the right words;

“It was like the could have been at odds, like fighting each other, but instead they were this marvel that people came from across the world to just,” and he didn’t still his hands at all, but he did lean in to kiss behind Eddie’s ear; “just to have the privilege to see.”

And Eddie had shuddered, and his breath had caught hard, and Steve had turned him in his arms and slipped his hands under that sweat-soaked shirt and held held, held him, held him.

“Nothing smooth about it, really,” Steve had mouthed against Eddie’s jawbone then; “think that was most of the point.”

And Eddie’d slept without a shirt the rest of the unbearable second summer, chest-to-chest so Steve could feel the scars straight to his own skin, and from there on, it was understood.

Maybe not for everyone, but definitely for Steve: they were maybe not quite welcome—yet—but definitely allowed to be worshipped for the proof of life, the gift of love that they fucking were.

——

The tattoos aren’t quite the same. Steve thinks that’s because they were something Eddie chose; the scars interfered, deformed—weren’t the marks in themselves.

But after getting the memo about how complicated the scars are, and knowing these marks are no longer unentangled with those ones?

Steve may be oblivious sometimes, but. Once he learns a thing—especially when it’s tied up with loving—he tends to remember.

“Do you mind, when I,” Steve pulls his head up to meet Eddie’s eyes from where he’d already been basically sucking the ghoul head thingy above Eddie’s pec into a purple shade for like fifteen whole minutes, like a free color-job. Steve does like to think Eddie could have stopped him—and definitely wouldn’t be so hard between where they’re pressed together—if he had had a problem, but.

Steve…likes to be careful. When there’s loving.

“Not at all, sweetheart,” Eddie fucking purrs, and Steve grins cheshire-sharp for it, pleased with himself. Hr actually kinda loves this particular tattoo especially; the scars that cut into it make it look like Mr. Zombie-face got into a nasty fight with Wolverine from X-Men—which yes, thank you Henderson, he already knew about before starting to screw your DM—but anyway.

“I just,” Steve traces one long scar of the three as he talks, tries not to grin too much when Eddie shivers, when his nipple proves it’s not too scarred-up to pebble under the attention fucking beautifully; “since you don’t want to get any more, and—”

“No, I don’t,” Eddie says simply, if a little breathy as he arches into how Steve does the same up what looks like the second claw mark, just a fingertip alone the line; “least not right now. But they’re still a map of the things with love, yeah? Present tense, past tense, it’s all a story.”

And that is…Eddie. That answer is so fucking Eddie.

And he’s worked so hard—both of them have—to say that kind of thing from a place where they could believe it, and damn if it doesn’t come out now like its said like a man who’s made his peace, and feels solid standing in it.

“And, like, maybe these are just ink from a really shitty apprentice artist,” Eddie taps at the weave of scars lower, the worst of them: his rocky beach on the waves, and fuck, if he’s willing to try even a kinda shitty joke about it all, in the privacy of their bed where there’s no need to fake it, or force it to make nice?

They really have made progress.

“Hmm,” Steve doesn’t take his hand from that second pseudo-claw mark but he does crawl down a little to get a better look at Eddie’s biggest set of scarring—not that he needs to, but if he’s gonna play alone he’s not gonna half-ass it, so he tuts a little and shakes his head regretfully:

“Honestly, I just don’t think the Upside Down has a real established scene to expect high standards,” Steve laments, shaking his head; “they can’t even keep the lights on down there, man, plus teeth for needles? Can’t be the best practice,” he sighs wearily. “Health code violations fucking everywhere, Robin would pass the fuck out—“

And maybe Eddie’s tackling him them, shaking with cackles as he takes the lead to pin Steve to the bed, sucks between the moles on his neck—perfect vampire bites, baby, marked just for me—and Steve maybe giggles for it, the impatience, the enthusiasm, the joy in the tussle. It’s basically perfect.

So yeah. Eddie’s as marked up as he’s probably gonna get, at least any time soon. Steve won’t let another round of violence touch him ever again, over his dead fucking body, and tats…maybe they’re gonna just stick with the story they’ve got on Eddie’s skin, close that chapter where it naturally turned a page.

To start this new thing, together. Where Steve leave the marks, and proudly, and touches them up as often as need be. With pleasure.

And if Eddie’s as happy about that as he currently looks, flushed and panting and far beyond ready to get on with more than sucking at skin?

Maybe that actually works out perfectly.

——

So, the point is, the love each others marks, the things that trace their skin to make them them, but blemishes but serial numbers: just more undeniable proof to celebrate the person they like most in the whole world.

Love most, as is becoming abundantly clear.

Which means they notice right away when so much as a bruise pops up from knocking into the kitchen table—but Steve’s not looking at a bruise.

He squints—this isn’t really a task he’d lean on his classes for but…so weird and also, odd fucking place underneath Eddie’s chin—

“Did your sharpie break?”

Because that would make sense. Eddie purrs on basically anything that can pass for a writing implement, if he gnawed to much, maybe he was lucky and the ink dribbled rather than sprayed.

��No,” but honestly, Steve is not convinced. It’s not a convincing denial, first off, but then on top of that, there’s more incriminating evidence:

“You’ve got marks, like, all over,” dark little speckles, like an egg at Easter before you dunk it in the bright vinegar water. It’s not sunny enough for his freckles to be coming out yet, is it?

“I do,” Eddie agrees, but kinda distant, like his head’s elsewhere. Steve looks up from where he’d become sprawled out over Eddie’s chest on the couch: he’s working on campaign notes and: oh look. Not a sharpie.

One of those Mr. Sketch monstrosities that smell like ‘fruit’ and everyone’s gotten high off of at some point, which 100% belonged to the school at some point, and 100% now has Steve’s boyfriend’s dental imprints on the end.

Steve just rolls his eyes and, which the colour still isn’t exactly—the speckles on Eddie’s skin really are a more chocolate brown—he’s gonna let this one go.

Maybe get up and make dinner or something, so he’s no stuck with that suffocating alcohol-licorice smell the black marker gives off.

——

“Are you sure you were using sharpie last week?”

Steve also means today. Or yesterday. Or right now. There are more…speckles.

He knows there are more of them.

“I didn’t use any sharpies last week,” Eddie shrugs, not looking up from his book but gesturing broad with his forkful of mac and cheese. “All mine are dried out and I keep forgetting to pick up new ones.”

Okay, well. That does track. He leans in closer, runs a finger over the first spot he noticed: same color, maybe a little less bold; the other ones look a little red around the edges, like when Steve’s moles get sucked at and—

“Look familiar?”

Steve turns, looks at Eddie who appears to have very quickly given up pretending not to care about the conversation. Steve blinks, looks a little closer, and…

That’s ink, alright. But it’s under the skin.

“I didn’t think you were gonna get any more,” Steve says, doesn’t expect his voice to be so soft. He doesn’t understand what they are, what they’re building up to be a part of but it looks like a big sort of project, and definitely in clearly visible places, so it feels worth some respect for the weight of the decision, what it means for Eddie who smiles small and nods; agrees simply:

“Me neither.”

“But, y’see, Henderson—”

“Ugh,” Steve groans because Dustin is, in fact, currently on his shit list. See previous ‘you only know that because you’re fucking my DM’ transgressions. Kid’s on thin fucking ice.

“No, no, it’s to a point,” Eddie soothes him, and it works, cause Eddie is always in his corner before anyone else’s, he killed Dustin’s character weeks ago and Steve still isn’t sure if Dustin’s stilll just watching when they get together, waiting to somehow find a narrative launch-point back into the action: “but he wants ink, which I told him, too fucking young,” and Eddie looks up to soak in the approval he knows is waiting for him in Steve’s eyes—he’s not wrong at all, and preens a little for it, too.

“But he was eyeing my bats, and he tried to say, well, what does it matter, they only meant something after,” and he gestures toward the bigger wound, the more unforgiving mark of bats opposite the still-fairly clean cookie-cutter type fliers on his arm.

“And that was just the dumbest attempt at an argument in his favor, because it not at all fucking true.”

For Steve’s part, it’s the one piece he’s never asked after. Too close to home. But he just figure…cool. Metal. Maybe about Ozzy.

“My mom used to read me nursery rhymes,” Eddie’s face goes so soft as his voice gets all fond, like it always does whenever Elizabeth Munson comes up. “Like, the old ones. And she did it way longer than probably most people, like, I was way too old for it but,” Eddie chews his lip and looks up at Steve like he’s confessing a secret:

“I just really loved it.”

Steve pushes and pulls Eddie a little until there’s the barest sliver of space at the back of the sofa for Steve to lie down in, wholly boxed in by Eddie’s weight, specially when Eddie rolls the priest bit into him to pin him close.

“My favorite one was about bats,” he whispers. “About hiding them from people who didn’t understand how nice they were, and how all they wanted as to do their thing, even if it wasn’t what everyone else liked, and be good for everybody by helping eat bad bugs or whatever,” he hums what Steve imagines is the rhyme; “so you put them under your hat, and give them bacon, and if they’re as good and as poorly treated for no good reason as you suspect is the case, you’ll bake them a cake. Because they deserve it.”

He doesn’t really have to say more for the connection to kinda stick out like a sore goddamn thumb.

“Couldn’t put it under my hat, but,” he ruffles his curls ruefully. “And I did always say, right, that tattoos are a map of what you love.”

Steve kisses Eddie firm, not least in appreciation for shutting Dustin’s harebrained bullshit down. But that doesn’t solve his original mystery.

“These aren’t a map, though,” Steve taps one of the new spots, smaller but still at the neck. No rhyme or reason to it.

“They’re the start of one.”

Steve frowns, so fucking confused, pulling back a little to try and see if he can read any answers from Eddie’s face.

But Eddie’s just smiling at him softer than he’d even been smiling before, thinking of nursery rhymes and the few good memories that came from the days before living with Wayne. He’s looking at Steve right now mostly like he hanged the moon itself.

“I’m gonna ask again,” Eddie breathes low, and grabs Steve’s cheek:

“Look familiar?”

And Steve, when it falls into place, doesn’t actually thing he should face any blame for not seeing it at first, or second, or even tenth glance. Because he’s never paid attention. Other people did.

But Eddie finally turns his neck and: vampire bites.

Marked just for me.

And then Steve starts touching each dot, and trying to find the sublest hint of a raise in the skin in the same place on himself. Every time, he finds it, some quicker with other slower, some needing him to look at the glass of the china cabinet behind the couch that’s never made sense there, but is reflective enough for the task and…they’re all there.

The marks aren’t…sharpie tips. They’re Steve’s, they, they’re all of Steve’s—-

“I love you something fucking fierce Steve Harrington,” Eddie bites out with what Steve gets the feeling is only a sampling of the very ferocity he’s speaking of; “and tolerating another second where I didn’t have you etched into my skin, the most important, most adored,” and Steve’s heart flips to hear it said so earnest, so felt full from Eddie’s heart:

“You not being on here was just fucking unacceptable.”

And goddamnit, Steve’s eyes are stinging. He, he’s…Eddie is…

“It’s like a star map,” Eddie murmurs, tracing the originals the way he often does, like connect-the-dots but reverent, always; “like how sailors navigated,” then he looks away, doesn’t move his hand but makes sure Steve meets his eyes:

“You’re my way home, because you are home.”

And yeah. No one could ever have expected him to hear those words and not let the waiting tears fall, okay? That’d be fucking insane.

His chest is so tight with so much right now, holy shit.

“All of it’s constellations made of you,” and he says that, too, has made up whole legends for the stars on Steve’s back; “so when I look at them, my heart’s always just that extra bit reminded where it’s meant to be, the direction it’s always gonna be headed, for forever.”

Steve’s breath catches loud and gaspy around a sob, and he’s not even speaking. What the fuck.

“Fuckin’ sap,” he says like it’s the highest honor he could give, and maybe here and now it is; “fuck, but love you,” and he draws Eddie in for a salty kiss that’s sloppy and heady and more heartfelt than Steve might just know how to stand.

When they finally part just for breath, Steve’s thumb is on one of the spots—on of the stars of the map.

“How,” he starts, because why, did he take a photo?

But Eddie just scoffs:

“Think I don’t know every inch of you by heart?”

And yes, of course that earns him Steve trying to suck his tongue from his mouth for the explicit purpose of his soul coming out easier for the way he kisses him deep as he knows how. And they do that, for a long fucking time because…

Steve’s kind of reeling. Steve’s never loved more in his life but then, but then—

No one has ever loved Steve even a fraction of this. Steve’s never had this, never known this. Steve…

Steve thought loving that big was his fucked up burden to bear, but now—

He’s not alone in how deep it rubs. How far he’ll go, and gladly.

What. The. Fuck.

Is this what a cheat is supposed to feel like, is this how normal people who love normal amount so that they get loved back the same got to feel all along?

Steve…almost doesn’t think so. Steve thinks this is what it feels like to love extravagantly and with more than your full self as a rule to the point of insanity for anyone on the outside looking it, and to fucking finally find your match for it.

And to know, then, that it was never crazy. It was only ever exactly right.

“Two more sessions, just for time,” Eddie nips at Steve’s lower lip, slick for spit and tears in equal measure.

“You’re unbelievable,” Steve gales, grinning wide enough it hurts.

“Hey now,” Eddie nips a little harder, narrowing his brow playfully; “I got the little one under your balls and the sprinkle set on your taint this last time,” and Steve can’t help himself.

He bursts out laughing so hard his sides ache.

“Even I needed a breather, sitting on that to drive home!” Eddie protests as Steve straddles him fully, properly, and…

Gets ready to read some fucking maps.

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ponderingmoonlight · 10 months ago

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Chapter 3: Window of Opportunity

Pairing: Gojo x fem! reader

Warnings: language, Gojo being well Gojo, domestic violence, thank y'all for sharing your experience with me, it helped me so much understanding childhood trauma and made me transform it into this fic <3

Synopsis: Being the daughter of the Zenin clan made it your mission to defeat him. Him, Satoru Gojo, the honored one. Him, who makes your life a living hell. Him, who begins to get so much more than your curse...

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Romance, Hurt to Comfort

<- Previous Chapter l Next Chapter ->

„Oh, did you say something? I can’t understand you when you’re crying like a baby”, you purr as the eyes of the man who writhes in front of you like a little worm fill with tears of sheer fear.

Your grin grows wider and wider, satisfaction filling you to the brim. Maybe that mission isn’t so bad after all when you’re finally able to use your special abilities again.

While you are a skilled combat fighter, the director strictly forbids you to use Phobia Projection against another member of Jujutsu High since your former classmate almost hung himself because of it. You roll your eyes out of instinct.

As if it was his fault that his mind is so damn weak.

“I know he tried to kill us a few seconds ago. But don’t you think you’re going a little too harsh on him, (y/n)?”, Geto questions while manspreading the whole couch and eying you up and down.

“I’m not harsh on him. He’s seeing his own fears, I have nothing to do with that”, you defend yourself with a casual shoulder shrug.

How is it your fault that this guy acts like a baby? You let yourself sink next to Geto, watch from afar how the little bug continues to cry out in agony.

Unfortunately, your powers don’t allow you an insight into what your opponents go through. Is his worst fear a spider, a monster, or even worse…a human? Too bad there’s no way to find out since they never tell you afterwards. Maybe you’ll be able to torture it out of him. With a little bit of cutting and a whole lot of punching-

“P-please, make it stop!”, he yells out over and over.

The violent ringing of Geto’s phone rips you out of your chuckling and more than entertaining thoughts with an annoyed groan. Urgh, who the hell is interrupting that wonderful moment?

“Did you beat him already? I hope the dirty Zenin brat wasn’t in the way.”

You don’t have to look at the screen to know who’s calling, pulse rising to the rooftop. It’s him, the white-haired douchebag. Much to your liking, Geto decided it would be best if you accompany him instead of Gojo. But even if you’re not forced to be next to him physically right now, you’re still doing this mission together. Which means that he’s always there – like herpes.

“Spare your stinky breath. We were done before you decided to-“

“HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP ME!”

“Can you shut the fuck up? I’m having a serious call with a douchebag right now”, you bark at the man rolling on the floor.

“You’re an evil witch”, Gojo comments dryly on the other side of the phone.

“Evil, huh? Well, at least I’m not as dumb as-“

“Can you two just stop? We have him here as well as the vessel. I’ll send you the location. Don’t cause trouble.”

“Tell that this little-“

Oh right, the plasma vessel. You eye the girl lying opposite of you up and down, her dark hair falling into her closed eyes like a curtain. Must be rough, knowing your only reason walking on this planet is the stinging fact that a part of you will get killed within the next years.

How is she different from you, though?

You, with your family pressuring you into pouring your heart and soul into training, who never accepted you despite your heart work. You, who lost a part of herself in the process of forcing the best version of (y/n) onto you. You, who slowly but surely turned into a frightening resemblance of her family’s shadow, crossing a path she never imagined she’d land on as a kid. You sacrificed your smile, your dignity, your heart for the mission to become better than Gojo Satoru.

Aren’t you just like her?

“Hey, are you good?”

The sheer feeling of Geto’s warm hand resting against your shoulder rips you out of your daydreaming immediately.

“I’m not that Gojo weakling. You don’t need to watch over me”, you reply dryly, gifting him with the deadliest side-eye you have in store.

Well, maybe not the deadliest. That gaze is reserved for Naoya and Gojo only.

“Is there a reason apart from Satoru being a member of the Gojo clan why you hate him? I never understood what’s the deal between both of you.

You can’t help but tilt your head to the side, mind going blank for a second. Now that you think of it…Is there really a reason apart from the fact that your family taught you to hate him for your huge dislike? When you two first saw each other that one evening, he was nothing but a nice boy your age through your innocent eyes. A boy with a quite charming smile, who always had a cheeky reply in store. A boy with a strict family himself. Yes, you actually had a lot in common. And to some point, you began to like him in the few minutes you talked to each other.

Until you came back home and realized who exactly you were talking to.

“You did what?”, your father hissed through gritted teeth.

Another ruthless slap. Blood spilled to the ground, discoloured everything around you crimson. Eyes widen and teary, lips trembling when his flat palm crushed into your face again.

Over and over.

Again and again.

Until you weren’t able to feel your face anymore, eyes so swollen that your vision faded.

“Let me remind you of wrong little thing.”

He grabbed you by the hair Gojo complimented just a few minutes ago roughly and yanked you into the air.

“You are nothing, the biggest disappointment in my whole life. If it was for me, you’d be dead already. But because of your other lousy family members, you get the chance to surpass that Gojo brat. And you?”

Another slap, your feet tangled in the air like a wind chime.

“You actually befriend him. You disgust me, (y/n). And you always will. You’ll never bring honor to your family.”

“He’s himself, that’s enough”, you press out.

“What do we have here, dreaming about me, (y/n)?”

Speaking of the devil. Before you’re even able to accept his existence in the same room, he stands in front of you and grins you down.

That fucker, the reason for your suffering, for the fact that your family doesn’t accept you…

Your hand reacts faster than the rest of your body. A ruthless slap sends Satoru Gojo straight back to reality, echoes through the room without mercy. Your palm begins to burn like hell while your uneven breath hangs in the thick air between both of you.

“What was that, huh?”

He roams closer, his redden skin showing your act of violence way too clearly.

“Who the hell do you think you are, little bitch?”

Your throat begins to tighten uncomfortably, the veins in your arms throbbing in an all too familiar way.

Hatred. You feel nothing but hatred.

“You’d deserve even more than that, asshole”, you bite back.

He’s so close that you’re able to sense the heat radiating from his body and how his breath wanders over your face. You feel like burning alive, so unusual aroused that it’s hard to keep a straight face. Did he always look at you with his lips slightly parted, his eyes glowing like they normally do in serious fights? You are trapped between both of his arms, roasted by his heat, defeated by the way he looks down at you without saying another word.

What is that? And most importantly, do you want it to stop?

You can’t decide for yourself. In the split of a second you find yourself surrounded by broken glass, free fall down from the 15th floor.

Fuck, who’s responsible for this? Did Gojo go this far, would he actually throw you out of a skyscraper just to get rid of you? He might be the biggest asshole walking on this planet, but he’d never do something so damn basic. No, it has to be someone who is chasing after the star plasma vessel, someone who kept an eye on you this entire time.

Well, who’s responsible for this mess isn’t your biggest problem. At the moment, you are on your rapid way to crash into the ground, your guts feeling as if they’ll spill out of your mouth any given minute. And even though you’re able to inhibit the impact, this will still hurt like hell.

Do you have another way out of here, though? Getting hurt is better than crying for anyone’s help, after all. You close your eyes, embrace yourself for multiple broken bones and a wave of pain as soon as you hit the ground.

But it never happens.

“Aren’t so brave anymore, huh? If you only had told me that I would have to throw you out of a sky-high window to get you to shut up, brat.”

Just to let y'all know, I'm still over here giggling like an idiot over the title of that chapter hehehehe

Tags: @whereismysane @risuola @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @livmarauder @sapphireandange

@madaqueue @chilichopsticks @sugurulefttesticle @boba-is-a-soup @jennapancake

@kentocalls @mrshlf @byakuya61085 @polarbvnny @rzcnlb

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heli0s-writes · 1 year ago

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Sweet

A/n: You know how sometimes when you’re having a breakdown and nothing is helping but then something completely unrelated and stupid just does it for no reason. This is that. With pot brownies and kissing. Bucky is recovering and reader is an moron with a heart of gold. Angst, hurt/comfort, humor. Reader/Bucky. 3k words Warnings: Marijuana use; conversations about trauma, particularly food-related; language.

The path leading away from the cabin is littered with wet patches of morning. Rime colors of miserable winter in sludge grey are starting to be overtaken by sprouts of green, yellow, and brisk dew, springtime optimism come to life.

Pepper’s got the front of her house looking like a farmer’s market flower stand. Pots of tulips and daffodils explode up the steps and tri-color ribbons connecting porch-light to porch-light. The magnolia tree is soon to bud, and she’s hung hummingbird feeders and birdhouses all around.

When the cars start rolling in for the quarter-yearly potluck, you hang out near the garden, rocking back and forth on your feet. You'd shown up early but didn’t know what to do around a toddler, so outside it was.

The familiar Range Rover halts to a stop, Sam’s door opening as he makes his way out, holding ceramic handles of an enormous crockpot.

You call, “Bring your famous chili?”

“Damn right, I did,” he beams, “you bring your appetite?”

You waggle your eyebrows before looking to the SUV he hopped out of, Steve lingering by the back door with a brown paper box tucked beneath his arm, knocking on the heavily tinted windows with a long-suffering sigh. “C’mon, Buck. Up and at ‘em.”

A loud, decisive knock thumps back at him and Steve rolls his big, pitiful, puppy dog eyes in your direction. Beneath the blue of his left orbital is what looks suspiciously like the fading ochre stain of either an almost healed bruise or a newly forming one, which only makes Steve’s silent call for aid more pathetic and urgent.

Damn, okay. Since you’re kind of on thin ice already, this could go one of two ways.

Sliding up, you crack your knuckles.

“Barnes,” you call, “I got something illegal for you. Wanna see?”

“Dead body.” He responds from behind the still shut door, and you’re not sure if that’s a question. Steve glares at you accusatory, as if you’d actually bring a dead body to a potluck, good grief.

“Uh, no.”

“Knife.”

Steve shoots you another look—which is just ridiculous at this point, the both of them.

“Knives aren’t illegal.”

“Depends.”

Steve shifts the box of what looks to be cherry turnovers and mouths phrase day, which means that Barnes decided to stop talking in complete sentences sometime between when he woke up and probably when Steve over-crowded him and is now reducing all communication to two or three words as both a method of punishment for Steve and self-preservation for Barnes.

“It’ll make you feel better,” you urge, “Loads better.”

“Sex.” He rolls down the window just enough for you to get a glimpse of his eyes, narrowed and steely. “Drugs?”

You mouth bingo, outrightly ignoring the fact that it feels like Bucky Barnes nearly solicited you for sex, and Steve puts his hand over his own face, about to quip until he realizes that he’s probably said too much already—which is what got him in this predicament to begin with—and simply drags himself toward the house.

Barnes watches him go wordlessly before he opens the door and steps out, looking down at you, lightly shivering in the cold, and says, still one-worded, “Okay.”

He pops three brownies into his mouth and chews, opening just enough to get out a muffled, “too sweet” before returning to grinding down like he’s cracking pecan shells in there.

“I know you have like,” you make panicked motions with your fingers, snapping the red Tupperware lid back down frantically, “hella metabolism, but pump the brakes or you’re going to flip.”

“Flip,” he concludes, determined. He squirrels about two more in before you can do anything about it.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I was going to let you take those home later—oh my god, I’m going to get into so much trouble.”

The two of you are stopped at one of those cutesy stone birdbaths around the perimeter, leaning on the lip as Barnes licks remaining chocolate off his fingers, looking as pleased as punch. As much as he can look, anyway, you think, since you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him smile at anything other than the time Steve stubbed his toe bad enough on Tony’s kitchen island that he doubled over.

“Did you say sex earlier?” You suddenly remember the flash of silver from the darkness of the SUV. “Wait, actually, I wanna go back even before that—did you really think I’d have a dead body?”

He shrugs.

“Cool,” you reply, “cool, cool, cool, cool. I think I should be more concerned, but you know what, I like it. Feels like a vote of confidence.”

A wide grin stretches across your face and you temporarily forget that Bucky fucking Barnes has eaten about half a pan of brownies with 25 grams of pot baked into them, that in about 15 minutes you’re both expected to sit down like normal people and have a nice dinner without anyone doing… whatever it is that he might do when he’s blazed to high heaven.

You shake the thought of Steve’s disappointment out of your head. Maybe it’d be best to keep acting natural, get him into some kind of headspace.

“So,” you whistle, “what’d you bring to the potluck?”

He gives you a sidelong stare and if there were Olympics for how someone can convey eat shit and die without moving anything but their eyes, he’d win every 8 years for the rest of his unnaturally long life.

“Well, I brought myself,” you curtsy, starting back down the trail again, figuring that you’ve got five minutes walking forward before it’d be time to turn back to the house, “and your present,” to which he gives you a short nod, “and an empty stomach. You excited for Sam’s chili?”

“Spicy.”

“Spicy?” you recoil, suddenly finding the prospect of a man who gave Captain America a black eye last week or possibly this morning—the monster who ate half of your most lethal bake—panting and sweating over a bowl of chili astoundingly inconceivable.

“Oh wait, you live with Rogers. What’s he feeding you at home? Steamed chicken?”

“Baked.”

You sigh, “God, you’re fucked. Nat brought something with Carolina Reaper infused honey glaze. Barnes... we’ll have to do a prayer circle for your ass.”

His face twists into a look of disgust before he starts to notice his lips, pressing them together, pulling them apart. After a few more motions like he’s discovering his body, bit by bit, he turns to you, and announces, “Feeling it.”

You laugh, jealous, because although you had a bite about 30 minutes before he even arrived, the brownie hasn’t hit you yet. “Good,” you say anyway, “that’s good, right?”

He only apathetically regards a sparrow flying past. You suppress a chortle when Barnes repeatedly licks his lips and rubs at the sleeves of his sweater.

“Have you ever been high before?” You correct, “In the fun, recreational, consensual way?”

Another listless shrug before he turns his head. You push yourself off a nearby log and make a show of stomping through haphazard piles of sticks and dead leaves, curling your fingers in a come along motion.

He follows, boots crunching, steps short and patternless, making a racket behind your back. He looks like a kid, fingers tucked up into his long sleeves, bouncy knees as he attempts to splash into every puddle as he possibly can before catching up. He’s almost got a grin when he looks at you, remembering where he is again, and there’s a light brush of color along the tops of his cheeks from the chill.

Around a small bend in the path, you duck under a branch, hop over a stone, and when you land back on both feet, the ground wobbles just enough to notice.

The air smells nice. Your eyelids feel heavy in a good way.

“Steve really piss you off this morning, didn’t he?”

Barnes lands a couple of feet away, his face dropping into an exhausted expression at the question, which you can’t fault him for because Steve’s a lot of things. Simple things, on the surface, but Barnes has known him longer than most anyone else and you imagine all of his noble qualities—his longstanding patience and willpower and belief in the goodness in everything and everyone—you imagine that shit gets old.

Hell, it gets at you on occasion, and you’re not even the brainwashed best friend who’s probably hearing a hundred voices in his head and is too tired to hear one more no matter how well-intentioned it might be.

Sometimes, being inundated by language just breaks it all back into foreign, incomprehensible script. And sometimes, being exceedingly plied with something you can’t make any sense of makes you turn inward, makes you bare your teeth in self-defense.

Which makes you realize you probably should ease up, too, talk less, but then he takes a long step with his ridiculous legs and is by your side, walking as if you two do this all the time.

“He’s a fixer.” Bucky’s brows are scrunched together, hands buried in his pockets. You nod quickly, not wanting him to go into any more detail than that because it’s not news that the entire population is still wary of Bucky Barnes’ re-emergence as a United States citizen when he was, up until very recently, a—uh, Russian one.

This, obviously, puts many things at odds with each other, including Steve, who is Mr. United States himself. The Avengers, too, who are mostly Team United States, considering the location and overwhelming population. But most of all, Bucky, who is still cobbling together bits and pieces of his life each day, is faced with the knowledge that everyone in the world knows more about him than he does.

You rub the back of your neck sympathetically because that shit would kill your heart so fast.

“You know what.” You shake the Tupperware at him, “Have the rest of these. You deserve it. And like, a million hugs.”

He barks a laugh, gladly gulps down the rest, and there’s a dapple of fudge on his chin looking so silly and sweet as he chews.

Ah, shoot. You avert your gaze, feeling very bad ideas break out up your arms and neck, and the shudder that is about to overtake you seems less about Barnes’ sweet face and more about Steve’s disappointed one. Like, he’s going to read your mind and know you’re having ideas about his best friend. And he’s going to do that thing where his eyebrows drop and his lips press together as he attempts to hold back a few choice words. Until later, probably, when he corners you somewhere and unleashes them anyway.

What were you thinking?, he’ll hiss. Are you capable of thinking rationally?

“What?” Barnes prods. “What is it?”

“Nothin’” you take a leap forward, herding the both of you back. The closer you are to the cabin the more you’ll remember that you’re at a family event, with friends, who should all stay in the friend territory.

But you blurt anyway, “You said sex earlier!” Because you’re a whole ass idiot.

He makes a small noise, says, “Yeah,” like that’s any help.

“Are you…” what the fuck, your head is spinning, “like, in… need of some?” Your face feels hot.

“Maybe. My body is…” he frowns, so weirdly open right now, and then he looks at you with half is face in a weary grin, the other half lost and confused. “Responding to stimuli in ways I haven’t— responded to in... Trying to fix it. Steve wants me to be fixed.”

He tilts his face to the sky, glaring at it. “Can’t get it out.”

You’re trying to force your rabbiting heart down to a manageable pace. You’ve never had any in-depth discussions with him about anything, much less his sex drive. The most interaction the two of you get is the occasional mission or get-together where you crack jokes and get shitfaced when the job’s done. You’ve been told you’re sort of a pain and haven’t given a fuck too much to change that.

You’re sort of in trouble right now, having been “irrational” during the last mission, running across the iced lake instead of taking the planned route and falling in. It ended up working out, since you got to the enemy helicopter before the enemies, but then there was the stabbing because you were sort of outnumbered and the pneumonia afterwards because you fell into the fucking lake…

There was a massive chewing out. Steve and his many, disappointed words.

Something about motor-mouths and low-object permanence but sure, good on the inside when it counts.

You hope this is one of those times where it counts.

“Listen,” you start. “Take as long as you need, there’s no rush on recovery and pushing yourself too hard is detrimental to your health. It’s not a straight line.”

“I hit him.”

Your wheeling brain is making a sharp left, trying to figure out where Barnes is driving toward. Oh. The black eye.

“Aw, Steve?” You wave your hand, swatting nothing. “He’s a big boy.”

“I’m hungry. Then I’m not.”

“I mean, that sounds normal—“

“No, a lot. Fast. Cyclical. Endless.”

It must be his metabolism adjusting. The realization of his relationship with food comes fast, almost visceral. Scarce when he was young, then rationed during the war before it was taken from him altogether. He was given the bare minimum with Hydra—protein slurry, tube-fed—then purged—stomach pumped—before being put on ice.

For decades.

Starvation must have truly felt endless.

And now with food being a surplus, with his body readjusting to it, yet his mind still struggling with habits—it must be so confusing. Another seemingly natural function to be confused about.

“Ah,” you manage, a lump in your throat like a blockade.

“I get nightmares.” He’s glaring at his hands, one flesh, one metal, opening and closing his fist like trying to get a grip on himself, and his voice is so small and pained. “These thoughts. All sorts. Can’t sleep.”

You extend your hands, shake off the dry sob that wants to erupt from your chest, and declare with flourish, “On the fourth day, God made Purple Kush, and it was good. So, we can—we can fix that.”

He takes another one of those long looks, through his lashes, lips quirked in quiet humor.

“You’re not really a fixer.”

He shakes the container of crumbs in your face.

You gasp, snatching it back in offense. “I can fix… some things! I replaced the utility light in the kitchen yesterday!“

Your cheeks are hot, face twitching like a broken screen because all you can think about is how handsome he is, out here like this, nose blushing, eyes lazy and crescent shaped, the heavy creases beneath them less pained and more relaxed.

And how he’s teasing you—- and he’s kind of a little shit.

“You fucker,” you say.

He grins—all big and silent, and for a second you count your blessings that he’s not going to say anything else shitty until he quips, “Not unless you’re offering.”

He’s staring at you intently, a curious expression winding its way up his face. His eyes are huge and blue and the most alert, glazed-over, pair of bloodshot, redder-than-the-devil’s-dick eyes you’ve ever seen on anyone stoned halfway to the moon.

His tongue darts out, sweeps a slow, careful line over the width of his bottom lip, practically asking, and you’re just the simple idiot who openly gawks at him.

“Ah,” you nod. “Yeah you’re definitely right. I’m—“ you gulp, “more of a fuck-up.”

Because what’s another fuck up to add onto the long-running list of fuck ups you’ve had recently, anyway? Kissing Barnes might count as a really serious one, sure, but at least it’s not pneumonia.

It’d make him feel better, probably, it’d make him feel something, at least. Steve would appreciate that, if Barnes came to the dinner table verbal, maybe even laughing. No one has to tell Steve that his best pal kissed your face off in the woods.

The idea of your face being kissed off is doing a number on you. The idea of Bucky Barnes, this gorgeous, miserable, godly, tragic contradiction, your at-arm’s-length teammate, your quickly-becoming friend, kissing your face off because he needs to feel something soft in the midst of the rest of the horrible, jagged things he already feels every second of his life—and he can get it from you.

You’re stupid and simple and how could anyone say no to that? So you take one last second to steel your heart, push forward, and lean in.

It’s, frankly, bizarre.

He kisses you gently, fantastically, inconsistently, wavering from assured one second to apprehensive the next, like he remembers how but can’t quite execute.

You meet him where you can, respond to the parting of his lips with your own, adjust to his tension with grace, and when he starts feeling like he’s getting the hang of it, like muscle memory has finally settled into his body, you let him lead.

One hand finds the base of your skull, the other placing itself on your waist. His kisses grow greedy, like he remembers desire is a thing that occurs to him. He tilts his head down, kisses up like he wants to swallow every sigh between your lips, like he’s hungry for the sounds you make—and you’re making, embarrassingly, a lot of them. He’s good—dominant but kind, mouth wide, lips full, tongue cocoa-sweet and clever as it strokes yours again and again.

When he backs you up into a tree, you barely register it. His hand has moved to cushion your head, and he’s urging his entire body forward into yours, grip tight at your hipbone, moving his mouth to your jaw, then your neck, and you stutter a string of letters that refuse to make words.

Barnes is expertly sucking marks beneath your collar, right beneath the neckline, his breath hot and coming out in a near snarl and when he scrapes his teeth down, sinking them into the soft skin of your chest, you yelp loud enough to send a few birds scattering from the trees.

He jumps off like he’s burned you, eyes frantic, afraid.

“No—” you clear your throat, hands out, “Hold on.”

He’s blinking, head clearing, head trying to assess what he’s done, the situation, the pulled loose neckline, the wet shine of his spit up your throat.

“S-sorry—”

“No, don’t be sorry.” You give him his distance but take a small step forward. “That was hot. But,”

He blinks, confused, and this whole thing could easily go pear-shaped, your well-intentioned explanation might turn into unintelligible speech at any moment, but you have to try or else he’ll tailspin into catastrophe, and you suddenly feel so sorry for Steve, the poor fuck who’s doing this every day, clinging onto the hope that what he’s saying doesn’t set Bucky off, doesn’t push his boulder back downhill.

He's still stuttering sorry, starting to pace.

“Listen,” you say firmly, clipping your own panic, “that was wow, let me tell you. But if you don’t stop, I’m going to like— hotwire a car.”

Somehow this stops him in his tracks, “What?”

“Well, I didn’t drive here. Because you know, I was going to like, get really shitfaced.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and like, take you to a hotel or something.”

He frowns, obviously completely lost. “Why?”

It’s your turn to be lost. Both of you open-mouthed and panting at each other like two dumb dogs chasing each others’ tail in an ouroboros of idiocy.

“Huh? What do you mean why? You just tongue-fucked me, do you think I’m immune to getting on my knees for that?”

Now you can see it happening—the incomprehensible speech like a marquee as it runs across Barnes’ brain. Tongue-fuck, immune to getting on my knees. He doesn’t understand any of that, and god bless any soul who can. What language are you even speaking right now other than hot-brained, hot-skinned, hot-hearted to him, who’s still struggling to defrost?

“Never mind,” you redact, “ignore that.” You put your hands on his shoulders to ground yourself, vaguely thinking that maybe you shouldn’t touch him but the firm slap of your palms seems to break him out of his new trance. “Can we kiss again, later?”

He blinks, staring at you, at your hands on him, at your lips all swollen up.

“Yes.”

You sigh, relieved and thankful that other than you, no one’s freaking out, that your plan to get Bucky Barnes high worked out after all, and that he has agreed to make out later because he’s really, really good at it.

“Wonderful. Let’s go back now? Are you ready?”

He mulls it over and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Sure, but I’m not eating chili.”

“Well, you’re in luck, there’s plenty of chicken.”

He grimaces, cuts a sharp look up to you before a twinkle settles in his blue, blue eyes. “Okay,” he agrees, “guess we should do a prayer circle for my ass.”

You clap your hands together and recite Our Father.

“It was sex, wasn’t it?”

Sam’s got one hand over his belly, snickering. Everyone else looks your way, gullible, scandalized, and you can’t blame them since the two of you were gone an awfully long time and came back extremely disheveled.

Bucky had walked in dutifully behind you, wiped off his boots, sat down at the dinner table, and asked for seconds saying please and thank you and he even threw in a that was delicious just to watch Steve’s head explode.

And Bucky, who you’ve come to realize is genuinely a shit— still one-worded and knowing full well the repercussions of his one word— only shrugs and responds, “Yes.”

The room erupts into shouting as you throw a buttered roll at his head. He catches it easily and brings it up to his grinning mouth, shimmer of spit glossy and fantastic on his lips.

#reader x bucky barnes #bucky barnes/reader #reader insert #fanfiction #mcu #hurt/comfort #angst #humor

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jordanstrophe · 1 year ago

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I don’t know why, but I love the concept of caretaker being terrified for whumpee’s safety that they just grab them by the arm and yank them. It’s not gentle, it’s not even careful, it’s just a pure forceful yoink.

#whump #whumpee #caretaker #whump prompt #caretaker prompt #protective caretaker #whump humor #rough caretaker #hurt/comfort #whump tropes #whump scenario #caretaking tropes

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bebx · 2 months ago

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#blorbo #comfort character #meme #memes #fictional characters #fandom #fandoms #whump #whumpblr #angst #hurt/comfort #humor #comedy #funny #lol #tweet #tweets #twitter

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scoupsleftcheekdimple · 1 month ago

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For My Country, and For You.

starring: soldier!scoups x fem!reader

summary: in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, right before the Japanese annexation of Korea, a military soldier from America and a noblewoman from Korea have reunited. the love that they used to share and now share protects each other, but will it be enough to save one another?

warnings: blood, guns, use of the word "damning" and "damned", major character death

word count: 9.5k

aus: romance, angst

A/N: mister sunshine on netflix has been spinning around in my head. the pain that the kdrama gave me is so jarring and haunting that all i could do is write about it... this is simply self-indulgent. a lot of the scenes adapted from the kdrama were the ones that personally loved. Likes, comments, and reblogs are all so appreciated! (This is my first ever fic... please be nice! ^^)

terms:

Hanseong = Seoul's Old Name.

Chosun = Unified Korea's Old Name.

READER POV:

I could only see the stars from where I lay, scattered across the sky like shards of light. So beautiful against their endless black, but their beauty did little to ease the pain in my chest and my side. The pain was like fire, searing and relentless, with each breath a reminder of what little time I had left. The cold night air bit at my exposed skin, my chest heaving as I tried to draw in another breath.

It was then that I heard it - his voice. The sound I had been longing for, but now it twisted my heart. With a groan of pain, I twisted my head. Through the haze of my fading vision, I just could make out the faint glow of the flames in his torch. His presence, his search for me, was cruel in its timing. It was too late. As my mouth opened to call to him, the words caught in my throat… He would never make it in time. So I turned my head back, watching as the stars became distant, fading slowly into the night.

—

I was the last person who should have participated in such dangerous activities. As the grandchild to one of the most respected families in all of Chosun, my place was meant to be one of quiet obedience. Wrapped up in my luxury of silence, I should have been content to stay within the shadows. I should have let tradition guide my steps to be docile, to be compliant, to fade into the background like a ghost.

But how could I?

How could I keep my head down when I saw the flags of the foreign countries, so boldly raised above our own, fluttering as if they owned our land? The sight of them in the wind, their colors foreign against the sky, made my blood boil. How could I sit idly while Chosun - my Chosun - was stripped of its dignity? Our people, our king, were reduced to pawns on the world’s chessboard. The thought plagued me, churning in my chest like a storm.

As if the Japanese had not already taken up enough space as it was… The Americans arrived several months later. It seemed that Hanseong was only expecting further ‘permanent’ guests. Not only did the countries arrive, but so did the whispers. Harmlessly passed, but potent. Whispers of a movement. A movement to take back our land, to put the crown back where it belonged, to restore our honor.

I was no warrior, I was no fighter. But this was my land, my blood, my people. And when I thought of the land I had known, how could I turn my back on it? How could I allow it to fall into the hands of people who did not understand its soul? No. I could not. I would not.

—

The first time I met S.COUPS was my first mission. To be clear, he wasn’t just anyone - I was told that he was my mission. I met him for the first time through the cold, impersonal lens of my gun, its weight familiar within my hands. It was a strange way to be introduced to a man, but, at the time, formal greetings were a luxury.

Since I was given my assignment, my captain’s words echoed in my mind: “There is a new Captain in the U.S. Marine Corps, named S.COUPS, now stationed in Hanseong. He’s a threat. A problem. Eliminate him by any means necessary. Tonight.” There was little room for hesitation. I had to prove myself. As a noble, most of my comrades saw me as nothing more than an outsider. This mission was my chance to show them that I was just as capable and committed to sacrifice everything for Chosun.

With my comrade, Sunwoo, at my side, I slinked into the shadows of the night, slipping silently into the U.S. legation. The place disgusted me. A waste of such resources, I thought. The bricks, the walls, the cement, even the shingles could have been used to construct better homes, shelters for the hungry and cold children living just below the Han River. But there I was, about to climb over the very structure that should have been for my people.

We were both dressed in the attire of the foreigners that we had come to despise. The trenchcoats, dark and draping, masked the shape of our bodies as we moved. Our faces were hidden under hats, and our mouths were hidden with long masks extending to our collarbones. Although meant to shield us from recognition, I knew the real reason: when we exchanged our hanboks for this Western apparel, both our names and our identities were lost. We would be forgotten, but our purpose would not be.

Looking at the ends of his trenchcoat, I followed Sunwoo’s shadow. He moved with a graceful, yet practiced precision. Up and over the wall, into the trees, and onto the roof. As soon as we found the roof’s edge, we landed softly, with a quick, silent leap. I could hear the distant hum of voices from within the building, the faint clicking of boots against the polished floors. As we neared the corner of the roof, there he was. The man I had been sent to eliminate. S.COUPS. In a modest room, yet large enough to call an office.

—

I saw the back of his head before I saw his face. Even then, the shape of his silhouette, the subtle tilt of his neck, was enough to make my heart lurch painfully in my chest. Something about him - about this man - stirred a memory deep within me. I looked at Sunwoo, unease tightening in my brow. Why was the back of S.COUPS’s head black? Should it not be a whitening blonde like the rest of the foreign officers? And his skin - too tan and too familiar - a contrast to the American soldiers I knew.

I should have ignored it. I should have steadied myself and carried on. Regardless, I hoisted my gun, locking my focus through the lens, and aligning it with the back of his head. I had a job to do. He was my mission. My fingers tightened as I drew in a breath.

And then, in one horrible instant, he turned.

I saw his face.

Everything stopped.

The gun slipped from my grip, and my arms fell limp at my sides. The years had passed, yes, but I would never forget him. Of course I wouldn’t. How could I? He was the only boy I had ever loved, the one person whose face had haunted my every dream.

Seungcheol.

I could feel Sunwoo’s eyes burning into my skin, demanding action. Urging me to do what I had been sent here for. I knew what he wanted me to do. He wanted me to lift the gun, make the shot, finish the mission, and to leave. He was waiting for me to move. Every second I hesitated was a risk. Yet, all I could do was stand frozen, caught between the man I once loved and the mission I had sworn to complete.

The tension was unbearable. Then, I felt the gun being ripped from my hands. Sunwoo’s grip was hard and determined. His aim was steady, with the gun now directed at Seungcheol - and all I could do was try to wrestle the weapon from his hands. There was no time to explain. No excuse would make sense at this moment. How could I tell him who Seungcheol was to me?

As we struggled over some control of the gun, the roof beneath me gave way. The shingles cracked, splintering beneath my feet. Before I could catch myself, I was falling. My body twisted in the air as I crashed to the ground, right outside the window of Seungcheol’s office.

—

As soon as I made contact with the ground, the world twisted around me violently. My body ached from the fall, but I forced myself to look up, my vision swimming as I did so. That was when I saw Sunwoo’s shadow, swift and fluid, leaping from the rooftops. His figure vanished into the night as he made the return back to camp.

I let out a pained laugh, the pressure of it aching my ribs. Smart. If I were him, I wouldn't exactly be rushing to save me either. Sunwoo had never been one for sentimentality, and I was simply a distraction, a liability.

As I struggled to push myself up, the weight of everything began to press down on me. I heard voices - low at first, then growing louder. The harsh, unfamiliar English words began to cut through the air like knives.

“Over there! Get her!”

American soldiers - more than I expected, their uniforms too bright against the night shadows, their weapons raised. They moved swiftly and sharply, scanning me with suspicion.

Then, I saw him. Seungcheol. Or S.COUPS, to the Americans.

His face was just as breathtaking as the day he disappeared. My heart lurched, recognition and disbelief flooding through me. The soldiers parted as he made his way closely towards me, his eyes narrowing. Everything went still. As he looked down at me, his gaze softened, just for a second. But then it was gone, replaced by something more guarded, more calculated.

“What should we do with her, Captain?” an American soldier asked, his tone hesitant.

Seungcheol didn’t answer immediately. He just watched, as I tried to push my aching body off of the dusty ground. His eyes - they lingered, but they were different. They were eyes that had seen too much struggle, too much pain. They were hardened by his own duty, erasing the warmth that I had once sought within them.

“She’s a threat,” Seungcheol said finally. His voice was too low, too calm. And his jaw was clenched in such a way that I knew that he had made up his mind. His hand hovered near his side, ready to draw his sidearm at any moment.

I trembled. No, I thought. This isn’t him. This can’t be him.

I tried to speak, to call out to him, but my voice was strangled. The words refused to come out. How could I possibly explain what I had become…? How could I explain that this mission wasn’t about him, but it was about Chosun…?

One of the American soldiers stepped forward, pressing his rifle and his boot sharply into my side, causing me to flinch and release a groan of pain.

“You heard the captain. Move.” His tone was unforgiving, but I understood none of it.

Seungcheol raised his hand, stopping them. His gaze was still locked on my trembling form, but now there was a flicker of something - something familiar beneath the surface.

“Don’t touch her,” Seungcheol ordered, his voice unwavering.

I understood from his tone that he had released a command. And I knew that it was his voice that was stopping me from breaking entirely. He was giving me something, a chance. A moment of fleeting grace.

“Take her into custody,” he said, turning his back to me. His voice was cold again, the mask of a hardened American officer falling black into place. As the soldiers picked me up and moved in to secure me, I saw the briefest flicker of something in his eyes. But whether it was regret or pity, I could not tell.

—

The room the American soldiers dragged me into was cramped, suffocatingly so. And it smelled. Mostly of mildew of decay. There was a faint, sickly green hue clinging to the floorboard edges, with mold weaving in between. The uneven floor had straw strewn about, and the boards creaked underneath my weight.

I let out a long, weary sigh. My grandfather would most likely be the one to get me out, of course. He would come, not to rescue, but to scold. First, for joining such a cause; second, for getting caught; third, for my attire. Most likely in that order too, I thought bitterly.

The soldiers had been kind enough to toss me a consolation prize for being their prisoner. A hunk of hard bread. But I couldn’t bring myself to touch the dry, cracked bread. I let it sit, untouched. It didn’t matter; nothing did.

I simply sat against the walls of the cell.. Waiting. I wasn’t even sure what I was waiting for. I was certain that Seungcheol wouldn’t come. Although he had recognized me, he was no longer the boy that I had known. And I was no longer the person he knew either.

Hours blurred together. The door remained shut, and I remained alone. Until I wasn’t.

The sound of heavy boots approached, and the door creaked open. In the doorway was a soldier of rigid posture and an unforgiving gaze. Behind him, a shadow loomed, a more commanding one. I froze.

It was my grandfather.

He was dressed in his usual hanbok, the long coat flowing. His silver hair, tightly bound, caught in the light. His expression was a mask of calm authority, but I knew better. His eyes betrayed his anger.

I rose slowly, my body still aching from the fall and now the hours spent on the cold floor. My grandfather’s eyes swept over me, taking in my disheveled appearance.

“You’ve caused quite the mess,” he said, his tone low and clipped. His disappointment felt like a weight pressed on my chest. “Let’s go.”

As I stepped forward, I caught sight of another figure standing outside the doorway. Seungcheol.

He wasn’t looking at me. Instead, his gaze was fixed on my grandfather. He was maintaining a military stance, his posture tense and his hands clasped behind his back. There was a flicker of a storm within his eyes.

“You’re letting her go?” he asked, his voice steady but sharp, tinged with frustration.

My grandfather turned to him. “She’s my granddaughter. You have no jurisdiction here.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought that he might argue. But his eyes flicked to me, and I saw the recognition and the conflict within his eyes. He knew who I was. He said nothing, opting for a curt nod and stepping back to let us pass.

My grandfather’s hand gripped my arm tightly, guiding me with a firm resolve. But my thoughts still lingered on Seungcheol. On the way his gaze had softened before he had turned back to the hardened officer.

Once we were outside, my grandfather pulled me aside, his grip tightening. “Do you have any idea the shame you are about to risk this family? Hundreds of years of pristine lineage only to be ruined with the ideas of a- a girl! You may think that this mighty resistance of yours is noble, but it will get you killed. Or worse, bring ruin to this family.”

I met his gaze. “If our family fails to stand for our people, fails to stand for Chosun, then what does it stand for? What is there to lose?”

His expression darkened, “Find your own way home.” He turned and walked toward the carriage in the distance. I stood there in silence, watching his figure retreat.

As I walked away from the U.S. legation, I glanced back. To my surprise, Seungcheol was still standing there, watching me. His hands were still behind his back, his posture rigid, but his eyes… His eyes were anything but. They burned with a thousand questions, with memories I knew he couldn’t forget, and with something else I couldn’t quite name.

—

I forced myself to look away. What would I even say to him? That I had missed him? That I had wondered where he had gone? (America, apparently.) That I had been sent to kill him?

There were no words for this moment. Only an unspoken tension that stretched between us. Clenching my fists, I walked faster. Early in the morning, the streets of Hanseong were quiet. But it was the kind of quiet that made you feel exposed, vulnerable. I pulled the trenchcoat tighter around me, shivering slightly from the cold winter chill. It felt wrong against my skin now.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, its sharp cry cutting through the quiet. I flinched, the sound jolting me out of my thoughts. My mind raced… now with thoughts of the resistance. By now, Sunwoo would have made it back to the camp. He would surely tell the others, even our leading captain. What would they think of me? Of my failure? Would I be branded a traitor for sparing Seungcheol… or would I simply be seen as a weak noblewoman they already thought I was?

I let out a sigh. It didn’t matter. I just needed a place to hide and to change before I got recognized. What an uproar that would cause: a high-ranking Korean noblewoman dressed in Western fashions.

But as I turned the corner to go to the tailor, I froze.

There he was.

Seungcheol.

He stood at the edge of the street, half-shrouded in shadow. His arms were relaxed, yet I could feel the pent-up tension within him. For a moment, neither of us moved.

“What were you doing at the legation tonight?” His voice was low, controlled, but it bordered suspicion.

I hesitated. There were more things I could say than I could not.

“I was…” I faltered, searching for an excuse. “I was lost.”

“Lost?” His brow lifted, skepticism evident. He took a step closer, his boots scuffing against the cobblestones. “In a trenchcoat? In the dead of night? On the roof of an American military post?”

The way he said it made it sound absurd. I couldn’t blame him. It was, in every way, absurd. But I couldn’t afford to let him see the cracks in my composure.

“I- I simply needed a place to think,” I replied, keeping my tone as steady as possible.

He stopped a few paces away, his gaze flickering over me like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. “You were never a good liar, you know.” My breath caught. He knew. He didn’t have proof, but I knew that he knew. I forced myself to meet his eyes, even as my chest tightened with fear and something else - something dangerously close to longing.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around like this. Do you have any idea what could have happened if the wrong person had seen you?” He stepped closer, making it harder to breathe.

“What if they did see? What then?”

“Then I would have had no choice but to follow orders.” His expression darkened, his features hardening.

“Seungcheol, why are you doing this? You’re wearing the clothes of an American as a man of Chosun. Why are you-”

“Don’t,” he cut me off sharply. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

I froze. His words sliced through any connection that I thought that we could share. He stepped back, his expression unreadable now.

“Go home,” he said, his tone colder. “Don’t come back to the legation.”

He turned on his heel and began to walk away, his figure slowly blending into the start of the busy market. The distance between us grew with each step he took, but the ache in my chest only deepened.

—

The walk back to the resistance camp was a long, shameful one. My trenchcoat only seemed to weigh heavily on my shoulders as I twisted and turned through the deserted roads. The sun had just begun to rise as I reached the hidden entrance of the camp.

When I slipped inside, the air was tense. I could feel the weight of their stares before I saw their faces. Sunwoo stood at the center, arms crossed and gaze sharp, his expression unreadable. The judgy whispers of the members began.

“She shouldn’t be here,” someone hissed.

“Compromising the mission…”

“The audacity of these nobles…”

Sunwoo raised a hand, silencing their complaints. “You have a lot of nerve coming back here.”

I swallowed hard. I had expected as much. “I didn’t come back to beg for forgiveness. I came back because I am still useful to the cause.”

“Useful?” Sunwoo scoffed. “You failed our mission. You jeopardized all of us. Why should we trust you?”

I clenched my fists, my mind racing for a way to salvage what credibility I had left. Then it hit me. A lie. But one that might be enough to save me.

“I have an ally within the American legation…” I began, my voice steady despite the knot forming in my stomach. “S.COUPS - Seungcheol - is a Chosun man. Surely, one would be able to reason with him.”

“And why would an American soldier - a Marine captain, no less - find reason with you?” Sunwoo questioned as his eyes narrowed.

“Because he’s conflicted… He has connections to Chosun, perhaps more than we all think. If we can leverage that, we will find ourselves with an advantage.”

Sunwoo sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. And I dared to crack a smile… he would let me stay.

—

A week later, the resistance was abuzz with activity. Plans were drawn, maps were unfurled, and the vengeance’s passion filled the air. This time, the target was the Japanese legation - another symbol of growing oppression on Chosun soil.

I was assigned to watch this time, tagging behind Sunwoo. To be ‘taught’ how to carry out a mission properly. I knew it was a punishment, a reminder that I had yet to prove myself and gain my place within the resistance.

The night was still, the kind of stillness that seemed to amplify any and all sounds. I watched from Sunwoo’s side how the others moved with precision, slipping past the sleepy guards and into the center of the legation.

Then, the gunshot. Followed by an explosion.

The shingles of the roof beneath me and Sunwoo shook as flames erupted from within the building. Shouts filled the air, followed by more gunfire and chaos. By the time Sunwoo and I had jumped onto the roof of the building across the street, the smoke had cleared. I could see the others retreating into the shadows, their mission successful. A high-ranking Japanese official had been eliminated.

I slipped away before the Japanese soldiers could organize themselves, my heart pounding.

—

By the time summer had rolled around, Hanseong’s main market was alive with the sounds of bargaining and laughter. The scent of fresh produce mingled with the sharp spices. Navigating through the crowd in my hanbok, I felt safer, more in-tune.

But the smell of the gunpowder from last night clung to me still. I had scrubbed my hands raw, but the scent lingered, stubborn and damning.

I had just picked up a bundle of herbs when I felt it - a gaze, sharp and unwavering. I knew it was him even before I turned.

Seungcheol.

He stood a few stalls away, dressed in his uniform. His presence was commanding and out of place amongst the bustling market crowd. His eyes locked onto mine, narrowing slightly as he stepped closer.

“We meet again,” he said, his voice calm.

I nodded curtly, “I can see that… Well, if that is all, I shall be on my way.” I turned.

His gaze lingered before he called out. “You’ve been busy.”

I looked back at him, gripping the herbs tightly in my grasp. “As have you.”

He stepped closer, and my breath hitched. His nostrils flared slightly, and I saw the realization dawn in his eyes. “That smell…” His words trailed off.

My mind raced. “The market. The vendors. Their spice powders can be overpowering,” I said quickly.

His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought he would press for more. But he stood back.

“Be careful,” he said softly. “These days, you never know who might be watching.”

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. But his words lingered, as did the look in his eyes. He knew. And yet, he had let me go.

—

The resistance’s latest target was a high-risk endeavor, but a necessary one. Our supplies were running low… and there was a weapons shipment bound for the Japanese legation. One successful mission and we wouldn’t need to come down to Hanseong unless it was for missions. It was critical, one that could tip the scales greatly in our favor. I volunteered. I had seen the legation enough to know the layout like the back of my hand.

The night was cloaked in heavy clouds, with moonlight barely shining through. I moved like a shadow. My mission was to distract them from above while my comrades would steal the supplies from the ship. As I slipped past guards, my heart raced with the thrill of the mission, but there was a small sense of unease I couldn’t seem to shake.

In the distance, I could see that the interception had gone well, with most supplies now under the arms of my comrades. I busied myself with my rifle, aiming at the nearby Japanese soldiers. Everything was going to plan until it wasn’t. One misstep - creak of metal beneath my feet - and the silence shattered. A shout rang out, followed by the thundering of boots.

“Run!” Sunwoo’s voice was distant, drowning in the chaos. Over my shoulder, I could see that most of my comrades had safely made it into the forest. It would be near impossible for the Japanese to follow; they could barely organize around Hanseong and that was with the occasional Japanese sign. As I turned to run as well, a searing pain suddenly bloomed in my side. A bullet had grazed me. I stumbled, clutching the wound as my warm blood only added to the humidity and wetness of the summer. My vision blurred, but I forced myself forward, slipping into the darkened woods beyond the legation.

—

I don’t know how long I stumbled through the forest. Each step was agony, with each breath a struggle. The wound, thankfully, wasn’t deep… but it was quickly draining my energy. The world around me was becoming more of a thick haze of shadows and faint moonlight.

I spotted a tree, with a trunk wide enough to partially hide me, in case the Japanese did manage to track me all this way. I collapsed against it. My body was too weak to continue, and my mind continued to jump the line between consciousness and oblivion. The stars above me blurred, and for a moment, I thought I heard footsteps.

“Y/N”

“Y/N!”

The calling of my name was distant at first. A whisper that I simply passed off as part of my delirium. But then it grew louder.

My eyes slowly blinked open… through the haze, I saw him. Seungcheol. His face was a mixture of disbelief and panic as he knelt beside me.

“What are you doing out here?” he demanded, his voice trembling. “Why are you-” His words cut off as his eyes fell to the blood staining my side.

He cursed under his breath, pulling it off his jacket and pressing it to the wound. I groaned and whined in protest.

“Hurts…” I mumbled.

“Stay with me,” he said, his tone a mixture of command and desperation. “You’re going to be fine.”

He scooped me up in his arms, carrying me all the way to a small, abandoned shack deep in the woods. His movements, I could tell, were hurried yet careful not to worsen my condition. He laid me down on a tattered blanket, his hands never straying far from my wound.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, his voice softer now. “Don’t move.”

Maybe Seungcheol had grown accustomed to saying such absurd things in America. Where could I possibly go? I almost let out a laugh at the absurdity of his words. Instead, I watched as he disappeared into the night, only to return moments later with water and a small satchel.

“This will sting,” he warned. He wasn’t wrong. I thrashed as he cleaned the wound and applied medicine with his steady hands.

Right before I succumbed to sweet oblivion, I whispered, “Why are you helping me?”

He paused, his eyes meeting mine. “Why wouldn’t I?”

—

When I woke a few hours later, he was still there. He was just sitting there, watching me. The silence between us was heavy as I pulled myself into an upright position. I noticed that my bandages had been changed from the time I had lost consciousness.

I swallowed, unable to face his gaze. “Thank you…”

“You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t your fight,” was his only reply. His voice was firm, as if he wasn’t leaving any room for argument.

“It is my fight,” my voice stronger than I expected.

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

At that, a bitter smile tugged at my lips. “Maybe. But isn’t there a little bit of fun in that? I would rather die fighting for something than dying for nothing.”

—

When dawn broke, the light filtered through the cracks in the shack’s walls. And as it did so, I felt a new sense of clarity wash upon me. I couldn’t stay here. Not with him. The resistance would be looking for me, and I couldn’t risk Seungcheol’s position by being found with him.

But I couldn’t help myself. “How did you know about this shack?”

He shrugged. “My soldiers like to bathe in the Han River… when they go out, they come here to change and store their belongings.”

His use of the word “soldiers” seemed to shake me.

“You should go,” I said, heaving out the words despite the pain. “You’ve done more than enough.”

He frowned, displeased with the idea. “You’re in no condition to-”

“Oh please. You’ve left me once before. With a pain more hurtful than this. What difference will this time make?” I snap.

He stands up, his posture rigid again. “You have no idea what you’re-”

“Do I not? Or was I simply just imagining when you disappeared? When you left me without a word? When I stood, waiting for you to come home every day? Like a pathetic idiot, waiting for a guy who would never show up.”

His face softens at that. “You- you waited?”

I scowled at him. “What does it matter? Are you going to tell me now where you’ve been? What would be the point? I know where you’ve been. You’ve been in the land of the Americans. Climbing the ranks as a soldier. Now returning back to Chosun during a time of peril with the security of the American flag behind you. I bet-”

He cut in. “Shut up. You have no right to belittle my efforts. You have no idea how much worse life was for me in Chosun than it ever was in America.”

“Worse? You call a life with me in it worse than a life without me? You cruel man,” I scoffed.

“I-” He hesitated as he crouched down to my side. “Don’t put words in my mouth. You know I would never say that,” he barked.

Then, with a sigh, he continued, “When I left Chosun, you were much younger than I. You simply remembered me as the older brother who shared the same house as you, an occasional friend. I know you did. But to me, you were much more than that. You were the granddaughter of my master, your grandfather. I could do nothing but revere you… But you know as well as I that I did more than revere you.”

With a soft chuckle, “You know I came to love you. I loved visiting the fields with you, picking out flowers that you would put in the bouquets. I loved when you would sneak me your own food to try all the different banchan. I loved when I saw you in different hanbok dresses. I loved when you… I loved you.”

I turned my head from his own at his confession, tears already forming at the brink of my lashes. The breath that I took in shuddered me, large amounts of oxygen flooding through me. I mumbled, “Then why did you leave? Why did you leave me alone?”

“How could I not? You were a noble… and I was a slave. How could I have even begun to ask for you to be with me? But, besides that, I do not know if you recall, but my mother had passed a couple days prior. With me being too young, your grandfather wanted to get rid of me… So when I saw the boat bound for America, I knew that it was my chance. I could have a new chance… to be someone or make someone of myself.”

With great effort, I turned my head back to face him. “I missed you…” I choked out. “Everyday.”

He smiled softly as he pushed back a couple loose strands of my hair. “I know… because I did too.”

—

I was about to fall back asleep when I heard the calling of my name… My comrades had come.

“Go. Seungcheol, you have to go,” I stammered. “They can’t- They can’t find us like this.”

He hesitated before standing up again and brushing off his uniform, looking every bit American as he possibly could. He stepped out into the morning light but not before glancing back and whispering a “Be careful” to me. It was all I could do to give him a small nod.

By the time my comrades made it to me, I was standing. A bit hesitantly and with help from the wall, but I was standing. They carried me to the base camp where Sunwoo waited. I knew that I hadn’t succeeded in the mission, but I hadn’t failed at the same time… I was praying for some leniency, if Sunwoo had any left to give, that was.

He didn’t speak. Rather, he looked at me, sighed, and motioned for me to go to the infirmary. I let out a soft chuckle. It seemed as though our great leader was going a bit soft.

—

The next time I met Seungcheol was in the fall. The air was crisp, with the faint scent of fallen leaves and distant fires carried around by the wind. This time as well, I was in my trenchcoat, the hems of the cloth brushing against the cobblestones. But unlike last time, we were walking. Side by side. Together. Our footsteps falling and rising together, in an unspoken dance that neither of us had rehearsed.

The resistance had run another mission on the Japanese legation. It was a reckless one, born out of Sunwoo’s growing anxiety and nervousness. Although against it from the start, I had caused too much trouble in previous skirmishes to cause a big protest. As I finished up my mission, I found myself jumping over the legation’s wall and landing in a narrow alleyway. It was then that I sensed someone. A shadow stepped into the dim light of a lantern.

It was him.

Seungcheol standing there, his silhouette imposing against the lantern’s glow. His expression was unreadable at first, a flicker shock tempered by mild amusement. It was infuriating, and I shot him my most lethal glare. But just as quickly, his features hardened into the cold, unreadable mask of a soldier when the sound of approaching footsteps reached us.

He moved faster than I could react. In one motion, he grabbed my arm, hauling me upright and yanking the mask off my face. The fall air stung my exposed skin, but before I could protest, he leaned and mumbled in my ear.

“Up, now. Walk naturally.”

My body obeyed before my mind did. His grip was firm but not painful, steadying me as my legs found their balance. The warmth of his hand against my arm was startling in the chilly air. His closeness sent a shiver down my spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold.

We had barely taken a step before the Japanese soldiers approached us. Their boots clattered loudly against the cobblestones, the sounds echoing throughout the alley. Seungcheol’s hold tightened around me, his presence grounding as the soldiers’ voices rang out.

“Halt! Identify yourselves!”

I tensed up, body frozen. But Seungcheol simply turned, his posture straight and commanding. His authority seemed to shine through as his grip on my arm loosened slightly.

They approached us cautiously, their eyes narrowing as they took in our outfits. I could only imagine how we looked. Two people of Chosun descent dressing up and parading around in Western clothing. Suspicion hung in the air until one of them barked a question in Japanese. Seungcheol didn’t flinch, answering in English. The smooth and unhurried tone of his voice unnerved the Japanese soldiers.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. He made slight efforts to show his own handgun and the United States military insignias decorating his uniform.

The soldiers hesitated, their authority faltering beneath his unyielding stare. One of them muttered something under his breath, frustrated, before gesturing us to move along. I could barely suppress the smirk tugging at my lips as we continued walking, their presence fading behind us. Seungcheol’s hand still rested lightly on my arm, a connection I wasn’t quite ready to sever.

When we were safely out of earshot, he finally spoke, his voice low and edged with exasperation.

“What are you doing here?”

I couldn’t bring myself to answer. I knew that he knew what I was doing there. He just wanted to hear it from my own mouth. He stopped walking, turning to face me fully. His eyes bore into mine, the tension between us mounting.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

I pulled my arm from his grasp, the absence of his touch jarring me.

“Thank you for tonight,” I said quietly, turning before he could see the turmoil on my face. As I walked away, I didn’t look back. But I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and lingering, long after I disappeared back into the shadows of the city.

—

As tensions between the Japanese forces and the resistance escalated, the streets of Hanseong grew darker, more oppressive. The once lively markets were now patrolled, with soldiers stationed at seemingly every corner. Every resistance operation seemed to be much more publicized, with each success coming at higher costs.

The resistance, under Sunwoo, was becoming reckless, and I knew it. We all knew it. His actions, once calculating and cautious, were now borderline suicidal. The people of Hanseong were suffering with us, perhaps even more, as they were caught in the crossfire of their oppressors and the rebels who had risen up to protect them.

The summer rains were battering on the rooftops of Hanseong when I met Seungcheol again. I had just returned from a mission. My hanbok was muddy and damp, but the materials and supplies were safe back at camp. I could breathe now. I was just slipping through the alley when I heard footsteps growing louder behind me.

My heartbeat quickened, and I reached for the small knife I had hidden in my waistband. I turned, ready to strike, but froze when I saw who it was.

Seungcheol stood there, his trenchcoat glistening with rain, droplets clinging to the dark strands of his hair. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, as though he had been searching for me for hours. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, the world came to a still.

“Y/N” he said, his voice low and edged with urgency. “We need to talk.”

My grip on the knife faltered, and I tucked it back into my waistband.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered before glancing around to make sure that we weren’t being watched.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he barked out, stepping closer. “But I already know the answer.” His gaze flicked to the faint smudges of soot on my sleeve, the faint tang of gunpowder that lingered in the air around me. His jaw tightened. “You’re still with them.”

I crossed my arms, meeting his faze with a defiance that barely masked my exhaustion. Before I could respond, his tone softened. “Associating with them isn’t good for you. Look at what it’s doing to you.”

“What it's doing to me?” I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “This isn’t about me, Seungcheol. This is about Chosun. About my people, your people, my family, my-”

“Your life!” he interrupted, his voice rising. The raw emotion in his tone caught me off guard. “Y/N, they’re tightening their grip. The Japanese are bringing in reinforcements. They’re not going to stop until they crush the resistance entirely - and everyone involved.”

I stared at him, the rain soaking through my hair, my clothes, but I could barely feel it. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t see it every day?”

“Then leave,” he said, stepping closer. His voice had dropped to a whisper by now. “Leave before it’s too late. You can�� you can come with me. If we marry, my citizenship will protect you. My ranking will protect you… In America, we can- we can find other ways to fight. Ways that don’t involve you throwing your life away.”

My breath hitched, my eyes widening as his words sank in. “You’re asking me to leave Chosun? To leave my people? My family?” My voice cracked as I spoke, and I felt the tears I had been holding back threaten to spill over.

“I’m asking you to stay alive,” he said, his voice trembling now, the vulnerability in his tone cutting through my defenses. “I’m asking you to give yourself a chance. To give us a chance.”

My chest ached, my heart pulled in a thousand directions at once. I searched his face, seeing his desperation, his hope, his fear. I wanted to take his outstretched hand and escape the chaos and violence of it all.

But I could not. Not when so much was at stake. Not when the resistance needed every able body it had. Not when my soul was tethered to Chosun’s soil, no matter how bloodied it became.

“I can’t,” I said finally, my voice barely a whisper. “I can’t walk away, Seungcheol. Not now. Not ever.”

I knew the words broke him. His shoulders slumped, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. But he did not argue. Instead, he stepped back, his head bowing slightly as if in resignation.

“You should go,” I said. “If they find you here…”

He nodded but didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against mine for the briefest moment. The touch was enough to shatter what little composure I had left.

—

It was just a little over a year when I was able to see Seungcheol again. I had come to see him… for what I thought would be the last time. Whispers around Hanseong told me that Seungcheol had received orders to return to America, with tensions in Chosun only rising.

I hadn’t planned what I would say. In truth, I hadn’t even planned to see him. But the thought of him leaving - of walking this earth with an ocean between us, knowing I may never see him again - was unbearable.

As I approached the U.S. legation, I stayed out of sight of the guards, wrapping my mask around my face and pulling the collars of my trenchcoat up. The shadows on the night clung to me as I waited for the lantern light in his office to flicker out. But it stubbornly stayed lit as his eyes scanned over various maps and documents. Hours passed until the door finally creaked open.

Seungcheol stepped out into the night, his uniform pristine but his expression weary. He paused on the steps, staring into the distance as if lost in thought. It was now or never.

“Seungcheol,” I called softly, stepping out of the shadows.

He whispered my name before descending the steps, closing the distance between us. His gaze swept over me, taking in the worn state of my coat, the dark circles under my eyes, and the trembling in his hands.

I slowly removed my mask as I looked up at him. “I heard you’re leaving.”

He nodded. “Orders came a week ago. I leave in three days.”

I give him a small, pained smile. “You must be glad. You are able to leave this behind… You will be safe; I’m glad.”

He let out a long sigh. “Why are you here?” His voice was low, strained, and he couldn’t hide the frustration that bled into every word. “That summer night… I thought I made myself clear. I asked you to come with me, to leave this behind. Leave this damned war behind. To come with me. To be free of this.”

My lips trembled slightly, but I held his gaze. “I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t. Chosun needs me. The people need me.”

The words stung him harder than he had anticipated. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand my commitment to the cause. He knew that my heart was bound to this land. That I believed in the freedom of the Chosun people above all else. But hearing me say it again, hearing me choose this war, this death over the life that they could have together - I knew it it gutted him.

“I know,” he muttered, rubbing his face with his hand. I could see his frustration welling up inside him like an uncontrollable storm. He stepped closer, his fists clenching at his sides. “You’ve chosen this war over me. Over us. You’ve chosen to fight for a country that doesn’t even give you the respect you deserve.”

My face hardened. “And you? You chose America. You chose them over Chosun. Your own people.”

Seungcheol flinched at the accusation, but it was the truth. His mother had been betrayed, his rights stripped from the very people he was supposed to call brethren. He hated them. He had hated them for so long. But now, standing before me - I could tell that he didn’t know who he was anymore. He reached out, grabbing my shoulders with desperation in his touch.

“I don’t care about America anymore,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t care about the army, the power, about anything. But you. Please. Come with me. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to die for Chosun. You could be with me, Y/N. You could have a life where we are free from all this.”

I knew my eyes were betraying to him my own longing for him. But my voice was steady.

“I wish I could, Seungcheol. I really do. But I can not. I can not leave them behind. I can not abandon my country.”

His hands tightened on my shoulders as a sense of helplessness washed over him. I was slipping away from him, like water running through his fingers.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Why can’t you just come with me? I would take care of you. I would protect you. You don’t need to fight anymore. We can leave together, start over. You don’t have to die in this war.”

I let out a soft exhale, closing my eyes for a brief moment.

I whispered to him, “Do you think I have not imagined it? Do you think I do not dream of walking the streets of America with you? Of studying there, laughing there, waking up beside you every day there? I have imagined it so many times, Seungcheol. But every time, when I close my eyes and flee to America, I open them… and I am back in Chosun. This is my fight, and I can not abandon it. I can not abandon them. It’s alright. I have made my peace with it.”

Seungcheol pulled me towards him then, as if trying to hold onto me before I could disappear. He kissed me, his lips desperate against mine, as if trying to breathe life into the both of us. But when he pulled away, I knew that the look in my eyes had told him everything.

As he held me, he told me, “You’re going to die in this war. I know you are…I know you’ll die in this fight. And I won’t be able to stop it.”

I pulled back, looking at him for a long moment before replying softly, “I know.”

—

SEUNGCHEOL POV:

The cold wind stung his skin as he stumbled through the debris-littered street, his heart thudding in his ears. He had seen her fall. But he refused to believe it…

He had heard that she had been hit, caught in the crossfire. With every step, his desperation grew. His eyes darted around frantically, scanning the shadows, searching for any sign of her. The weight of his thoughts pressed down on him, making it hard to breathe. He had begged her to leave with him. Begged her to come to America with him. But she hadn’t listened. She hadn’t listened… and now he was afraid that it might be too late.

He pushed his way past fallen beams and jagged rocks, each step echoing louder in the silent night. His hand gripped the torch tighter as its flickering light illuminated the path ahead. He felt a chill. The feeling of impending loss gripped his chest, colder than any night air.

And then he saw it. The faint outline of a figure on the ground, barely illuminated. His breath caught in his throat. No. It couldn’t be.

Y/N.

Her body was sprawled on the ground, crumpled like a discarded rag. Blood soaked through the torn fabric of her clothes, pooling around her. Her face was pale, her eyes shut, as though she were in some far-off dream. Her breathing was shallow, the rise and fall of her chest a distant echo of life.

His heart clenched as he rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside her. The torch fell from his hand, leaving him in near darkness. His trembling hands hovered above her, unsure. He wasn’t sure how to bring her back. He didn’t know if there was anything he could do.

—

BACK TO READER POV:

Seungcheol reached me just as the chaos of the battlefield seemed to pause, the world narrowing to the sight of my crumpled body in the dirt. His knees hit the ground beside me, his trembling hands pulling me into his arms, his warmth. Blood seeped from my own uniform onto his, staining his hands and chest. My breaths were mere shallow puffs, each one rattling my bullet-riddled chest.

“Y/N,” he choked, cradling my head against him. “No… no, this can’t- this can’t be happening. Stay with me. Just stay with me, please.”

At his voice, my eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. But a faint smile crept its way onto my lips when I saw him.

“Seungcheol…” I whispered.

“I’m here,” he rasped, his voice breaking as tears spilled freely from his face. “I’m here. I’ll get you help. You’ll be fine. Just hold on.”

I raised my hand weakly, brushing it slightly against his cheek. It was a touch that was barely there, but it set a whole new onslaught of tears from within Seungcheol.

—

SEUNGCHEOL POV:

“Y/N. Hey, hey. Stay with me. Y/N,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.

His fingers brushed her forehead, clearing her hair from her forehead. Trying to comfort her. To keep her with him.

“You should have come with me,” he murmured. “You should’ve listened.”

But even as he spoke the words, he knew that there was no going back. Only the cold, endless night and the stars above them seemed to mock him with their beauty, their distance.

And then, her voice broke through again. “I couldn’t. Chosun is my home… as it always will be.”

Seungcheol shook his head, his grip tightening around her hand, as if holding onto her could somehow make her stay. “I should’ve… I should’ve made you leave,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I should’ve kept you safe.”

Her eyes fluttered shut again, and Seungcheol's heart began to race with fear. He leaned over her, his forehead brushing against hers, his tears falling freely now.

“Stay with me…” he begged, his voice raw with desperation. “Don’t leave me. Not like this. Not now.”

But as the last traces of her breath slowed, he realized with a sinking feeling in his chest that she was slipping away. And as much as he tried to hold on, as much as he tried to breathe life into her, there was nothing he could do but watch.

Y/N’s body went limp beneath him, her pulse faint and fading.

With one last, painful groan, she turned her head slightly, her gaze lifting to the stars above them. The night sky stretched on endlessly, the stars scattered like shards of light across a vast, infinite blackness. So beautiful.

He felt her motion to the sky, and he found the strength within him to tear his gaze from her and onto the diamond sky.

“As far as that star. That’s how much… That’s how much I love you.” Her final words escaped her lips with a small shake, soft and barely audible.

In the now silence of the night, Seungcheol held her in his arms. The stars above faded slowly into the night, and the world felt too vast, too cold, and too empty without her.

—

SEUNGCHEOL POV:

He stood alone in the quiet cemetery. The air was thick with the scent of flowers, and the ground beneath his feet was soft from the gentle spring rains. His fingers brushed against the edge of the gravestone, as if seeking out a connection. The name carved into the stone was familiar, but seeing it written there was like a punch to the chest. It was a stark reminder of how the world had been and how much had been lost.

Y/N.

He had never imagined it would come to this. That the woman who had once stood so fiercely, so unyielding for her country, would now lie beneath the soil of it. His thoughts swirled with memories - her defiance, her unwavering love for Chosun, the battles she had fought.

“Chosun is free now,” Seungcheol whispered now. His voice was thick with emotion. The Korean words were foreign on his tongue after so many years. “You did it. It is everything you fought for.”

He kneeled beside her grave, his hand resting on the cold stone as his heart ached for all that could have been. The sky above was clear, the sun bright. It felt like the world was holding its breath, as if time had slowed to mourn for her, even if it was for just a second. The years had passed, and yet, it was as though she was still here - still fighting and still watching over the land she loved so fiercely.

Seungcheol closed his eyes, letting the wind brush past him, carrying with it the sounds of the new Chosun - the laughter, the bustling marketplaces, the children playing in the streets. The tears he had never allowed himself to shed all those years ago finally fell. They were for the lost battles, the lives torn apart, for everything that could have been, for the years stolen from them both. He had never found the courage to tell her how much she meant to him. How much he had loved her. How much he still loved her.

He glanced at the horizon, where the last rays of sunlight painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson. The land was free, as she had wanted. It felt incomplete without her presence, but he could still feel pieces of her light that had shone so brightly.

“I hope… wherever you are now that you can see this. You can see that Chosun finally stands tall. You did it.”

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