What If I Love You Too Much?

What if I love you too much?

Summary: Jungkook. It’s only a name you learn after your son kicks his ball over the fence. Before that you only knew him as the hot new neighbour who mows his lawn topless. And though you have no intention of getting to know him anymore than that, inevitably you do. You don’t necessarily fall, it’s too slow for that, but you definitely develop feelings you don’t intend to feel. Because you know men like him, and you know that whatever you’re feeling, he’s probably not feeling the same. All the same, however hard you try, you can’t help yourself.

Pairing: Jungkook x reader

Genre: fluff; angst; smut; single mum reader

Word count: 20.6k

Warnings: Single mum, small fights, explicit sexual content, oral (f receiving), safe penetrative sex, reader thinks Jungkook is cheating/playing the field, angst, but also fluff, child gets injured (though not seriously), talks of cuts and a small amount of blood.

Authors Note: Happy Saturday! Hope you’re having a nice weekend so far :) 

“Ask him to mow your lawn.”

“What? Rosie, why would I –”

“Because look at your lawn, Y/N,” she twists to look at you with a flat face before looking back out your front window with dreamy eyes. “And then look at him.”

You look at the man in question, every glistening, no-tee-shirt-on, tattooed sleeved, square inch of him. Ok, so maybe you get her point a little. Still, you’re not about agree with her.

“I can mow,” you defend yourself instead. “And my lawns not that bad.”

“But can you mow like him?”

“Anyone can mow like him. He’s literally just going up and down the grass.”

“Y/N. Please. Just look at that body.”

“I thought you wanted me to look at his mowing.”

You catch her rolling her eyes as you twist to sit properly on your sofa, no longer wanting to objectify your new neighbour. You don’t even know his name and yet you’re already ogling at the beads of sweat that roll down the many abs he’s sporting. The feminist in you is ashamed.

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wicked • 1

↳ Summary: In a desperate hope to stop war from breaking you are a serviced to wed the most vile man alive, the one who has committed atrocities and war crimes beyond comprehension, he who is responsible for the fall of many nations, the wicked prince who’s heart is made of stone. You are to marry a man who challenges every belief and moral you stand for, all while being faced in a foreign land with nobody but yourself too trust…But are you both truly that different? Or is hate not too far from love?

↳ Pairing: Jungkook/reader feat. Seokjin

↳ Genre: arranged marriage AU, enemies to lovers, it’s kind of a period AU??? Historical but also technically not? prince!AU, eventual smut

Word Count: 4k

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Note: I’ve sat on this story for like 8 months and I still feel bad for posting but bYe I’m a hoe for e2l and I sure hope y’all are too bc gOd daYum

To be a princess, is that of obtaining and following duty whenever it calls. Whether you agree with it or not is of none concern to no one, even yourself to an extent. There were many times in your life when you could assume that, if you felt strong enough about a situation, eventually, your parents would sit you down and work something out that was, at the very least, comparable.

Those times were few and far in between as you often understood that you had to do things, even if you didn’t personally want to, from a young age that you could no longer remember. But still, to be told this. It was a laughable matter at the time, you were so shocked that you couldn’t even fully believe it, it was two years ago after all. But for the day to have finally come. 

For the little bubble you had sheltered yourself in, to pop.

It was laughable only at how pathetic you were, you had two years to prepare. And yet here you were, still in denial and even more bitter than before. You had cried, begged your parents for some other alternative, but low and behold, they could only look at you with pity in their eyes. After all, what good was a daughter outside of selling off in marriage?

“Mmm, is something wrong, my love?” Your heart beat had risen and your hands were a little too shaky, was it because you were naturally shy during such activities as these? Or was it the shame cast over you? This was the day you’d meet him, and you were currently in your room doing this. 

A hand tenderly stroked your face, cupping your cheek as he gently raised your chin to look at him, Seokjin’s face was soft as a finger traced your jawline, your lips had jutted a little and your expression strong in remorse, if you stared at him any longer the moment would be ruined by your tears, “I’m fine.” You mumbled, offering a weak smile that you were sure if Seokjin looked close enough he would be able to tell it was a lie for the sake of the moment. 

Your hands quickly got back to work to keep him from asking any questions, you didn’t want to talk about it. Nor did you want to be in this position either but when would be the next time you got to do this? If ever. 

Sexual favors were not something you were often inclined to do but Seokjin was an exception as he was your lover and originally, had things gone the way they should, you would be married off to Seokjin. But of course not, no, Penumbra had to frighten every nation in the world by threat of invasion. 

They had to be so cruel in their wars and battles, their soldiers and training, it was no match for anyone. No matter how many troops were sent, they were torn down one after the other by the highly skilled soldiers there. Penumbra was everyone’s worst nightmare, a nation so bitter and angry, they’d stop at nothing to seek vengeance on everyone who once destroyed their original nation of Seoul. 

They didn’t take mercy on children or women, they didn’t care about anything but their own. You wholeheartedly despised and stood against everything they were. And for your parents to look you in the eyes and say you’d have to marry their Prince. 

The Wicked Prince. 

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wicked • 14

↳ Summary: In a desperate hope to stop war from breaking you are a serviced to wed the most vile man alive, the one who has committed atrocities and war crimes beyond comprehension, he who is responsible for the fall of many nations, the wicked prince who’s heart is made of stone. You are to marry a man who challenges every belief and moral you stand for, all while being faced in a foreign land with nobody but yourself too trust…But are you both truly that different? Or is hate not too far from love?

↳ Pairing: Jungkook/reader

↳ Genre: arranged marriage AU, enemies to lovers, it’s kind of a period AU??? Historical but also technically not? prince!AU, eventual smut

Word Count: 10k

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tags: oral (f receiving), breath play, slight spit kink (it does not end well), lots of kissing >:)

Note: surprise shawtysss!!! I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as I have! I cannot apologize enough for this incredibly late chapter but I hope a lil somthing makes up for it ;)

“How do you feel?” 

“Umm, nervous?” 

Wearing armor was….different then you had anticipated, first off it was heavy- which you knew logically it was, but you didn’t realize just how heavy it was. Jungkook had gotten it fit for you once you had started up training and only in the past week had you started wearing it to train in. 

Time, however, had run out. 

Meaning today was the day. 

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wicked • 4

↳ Summary: In a desperate hope to stop war from breaking you are a serviced to wed the most vile man alive, the one who has committed atrocities and war crimes beyond comprehension, he who is responsible for the fall of many nations, the wicked prince who’s heart is made of stone. You are to marry a man who challenges every belief and moral you stand for, all while being faced in a foreign land with nobody but yourself too trust…But are you both truly that different? Or is hate not too far from love?

↳ Pairing: Jungkook/reader feat. Seokjin

↳ Genre: arranged marriage AU, enemies to lovers, it’s kind of a period AU??? Historical but also technically not? prince!AU, eventual smut

Word Count: 10k shes a long one babes

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Note: everyone giving me so much love over this series never fails to make me squeal!!! thank u to everyone who has said such lovely things about wicked! I hope you enjoy this next part!

“Here go on, take this to your family.” 

This was the only time you had to yourself these days, in the early wake of the day when the world was still murky and dark out and clouded sunlight would occasionally shroud. Today however…today was different, there was a warmth from the sunlight that kindled against your skin pleasantly and the sky was so blue, an azure color that crossed the vast sky and massive fluffy white clouds lazily breezed by. 

The little girl shyly took the loaf of bread you had wrapped up as you shooed her along with a little giggle, knowing she had been lingering in hopes that maybe you would ready another story, you had found it tucked deep in the bookshelf that had lined your room, an old folktale book, children’s stories, you had first found it a month ago during your first few weeks of staying in Penumbra and the idea had come to you like lightening. 

In hopes of keeping yourself grounded, you wanted to visit the outer villages of Penumbra, Wheein looked surprised when you asked if that would be okay and she was more than happy to wake early with you and accompany you to the outer districts. You had even asked the kitchen to keep any leftovers in the bakery rather than throw out anything and let it go to waste, as that was what was requested of the kitchen in Eunoia, food never went to waste there. 

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Bear & Sparrow- Eyes on Me |KNJ smut| complete ✅

Pairing: Namjoon x female reader

Genre: Romance. Angst, Smut. Action. (semi) Legal drama. FLUFFY ending. Immigrant AU

Rating: EXPLICIT. FUCKING EXPLICIT. 🔞

WC: 20k

Summary: Namjoon is an illegal alien, an immigrant looking to cross the border illegally, just like you. The journey is perilous. Will you both be able to make it?

Trigger Warnings: there are BAD guys (not KNJ) who abuse their power, make degrading comments about women, and participate in drunken pack behavior. Implied mentions of non-con (in a comment). There is also Poverty. Illegal immigration. People smuggling. PTSD. It gets intense. But there’s a HAPPY ending. Unplanned pregnancy. Labor and Delivery. Incarceration. Dubious legalities. Corruption. But HAPPY ENDING. Liberal dose of Deus Ex Machina. Swearing. HAPPY ENDING. Capitalism.

Smut warnings: Voyeurism, slight dub-con by a bad guy. OC is a virgin. Namjoon is very careful, very tender, very protective. Fingering. Hot, emotional sex. Longing. Nipple play. Hot married sex. REUNION SEX.

Thank you to: @hobi-gif, @bangtanmademedoit, @xjoonchildx, @jinfizz @augustbutwinter @joheunsaram who have betad parts of this fic and who gave stunning suggestions.

And really, many many thanks to @vyduan @shatzkrinslinzki @bangtanmademedoit @jinfizz who make me richer in so many ways.

Thank you to every single reader who gave kind comments about this fic and encouraged me gently to post the ending. I appreciate it so, so much. Thank YOU.

*for readers who have read this, you're looking for chapter 8. I did tweak the front chapters, but nothing major. Enjoy!

BEAR & SPARROW -- Eyes On Me

Chapter 1

You’ve just traded your phone for a seat on this truck. 

It was the same story with your earrings, the bracelet from your grandmother, and the gold good-luck pendant you’ve worn on a red string around your neck since you were born. 

All were given in exchange for safe passage across river and thorny brush, over mountains and under the cover of night, all in the hopes of reaching a country where you can be free—free to eke out a living, to make the kind of money people in your village could only dream of.

Free to finally afford the medical care your brother so desperately needs. 

“It’s too dangerous,” your mother had protested.

“Too foolish,” your father had remonstrated.

You agreed with them. But slipped out anyway a few nights later to meet the people smuggler.

He was supposed to take you all the way to the border, even guaranteed a passport with a visa that’s ready to withstand the scrutiny of customs. He’d showed you the promised passport with your photograph and the official-looking visa – both of which he had said he’ll hold on for you until you reach customs.

But five villages and two hundred miles later, he left you on the side of the road, too far from home and too near your dreams to give up.

Your savings were gone. The extra clothes you had washed in the icy river for a few coins, the tonnes of garlic you had peeled by hand at the factory so that your skin turned raw and red – all that money disappeared like that. 

Somehow you made it to this truck with a bunch of desperados, each one eager to leave behind what they know for the unknown.  

You’re the last one to board, the only woman.

There are five others. Most of them look older, faces lined with worry typical of fathers with many mouths to feed back home.

Spread about the crates of vegetables, they each take a favorite position. One rests his head between his knees propped up. Another leans his head into the basket of potatoes, as if it were an embrace of a mother.

You’re about to settle in the middle of the cargo area between two large crates when a younger man speaks up quietly. 

“Here, take my place.” He scoots away from the inner corner of the truck and gestures to you to go there. It’s a coveted spot since there’s more privacy and furthest away from the door of the truck; a little safer than the middle area should any customs officer make an inspection of the cargo. 

Quickly, you try to memorize his face. His eyes seem kind even though his mouth isn’t smiling, but before you can take in the rest of his features, the driver slams the back doors shut, plunging the cargo area into darkness. You gasp at the sudden darkness; it’s impossible to even make out the outline of your hand. 

“You ok?” the same man whispers. “I can turn on my phone if you need.”

“No. Don’t waste your battery. I’m fine.” You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing his kindness. Everyone you’ve met on this journey has tried to take from you. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah. No problem.” The deep gravel of his voice is comforting, like it will catch you if you ever fall.

Behind the crates of cabbage and potato, with your back snug against the back wall of the truck, you soon fall into a dreamless sleep, finally too tired to fear. 

 ——————————

At a pit stop, the driver stops by the side of a dark, dusty road for you to relieve yourselves. You’ve been warned not to pee or shit in the truck, and that if it happens, the whole lot of you would be dumped in the middle of nowhere. You walk further away from the others and from the dim headlights of the vegetable truck to maintain some sort of privacy. You’re just about done when you hear a grunt just a few feet ahead of you. 

Wild boar. 

You know that sound anywhere.

Its meat is prized in your village; its bite and temperament, however, is what mothers warn little children of when they play in the woods. 

Quietly, you back away. 

But the rustle in the grass comes closer. 

You try to remember what your aunt had said when she tended to the wound of an unlucky boy who was gored by a boar. Something about look for a tree. Something about stay upright because your injury would be worse if you lie down and play dead. 

Well, a tree is out of the question. There’s nothing here but dirt and grass. You stay stock still, waiting for the ominous grunts in the darkness to stop, hoping that the truck hasn’t left you behind. 

“Hey… um, Miss? The truck’s about to – ”

It’s him. The tall man who gave you his spot in the truck.

“Wild Boar,” you whisper, not daring to raise your voice for fear of agitating it.

Footsteps as quiet as ever, he comes up. “Just back up, nice and easy to the truck. Whatever you do, don’t turn your back,” he murmurs by your ear. Stealthily, he steps in front of you, putting himself between you and the boar, hands urging you to go behind him.

“What about y— ”

“Trust me. Just go.”

There’s something about his voice that assures you he knows what he’s doing. And so you inch your way slowly back towards the truck. The rest of the men have already boarded and one of them leans down to help you clamber on. The driver is about to close the back doors of the truck when you stop him.

“Please. There’s one more. He’s coming back.”

“We don’t have time. Need to keep moving. Patrol is on the way.”

“No. Please. He was trying to protect me from a wild boar –”

The rest of the men give a low whistle. “Wild boar? Might be dead by now.”

“Please. I beg you. He’ll be here. I know it.” You hope so. 

“One minute. That’s all we can wait,” the driver replies tersely, looking at his watch. 

You’re praying to every god you know, the ones who live on a high mountain you’ve read from a picture book as a child. The one your grandmother always leaves a cup of rice wine for on the red family altar at every full moon. Even the one your neighbor prays to and talks about from a thick leather bound book. Please let him make it. 

With just seconds to spare, his tall, muscled silhouette sprints to the back of the truck. 

“Next time, we won’t wait. You better thank your girlfriend,” the driver spits before heaving the doors close the moment your rescuer climbs in. 

In the darkness, he falters and bangs around the crates of vegetables, looking for his spot. Instinctively, you reach your arms out towards him. “Over here,” you call out. The strong grip of his hands finds yours and you lead him to your corner. Hastily pushing the crates with your feet to make room for him, you pull him down beside you. 

“You okay? Shit. You had me worried for a moment there.” Above the rumble of the truck, you have to bend your head towards his a little so he can hear you.

His laugh is quiet and low. “I said, Trust me.” 

“I did. I told the driver you’ll be back. But still… for a moment… Anyway, what happened?”

“Doesn’t matter. I made it back.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. Really.” 

Still it must have been something, he’s still panting a little, like he ran a mile. You wait for his breathing to even out.

“Thanks for everything,” you say. 

“You’re welcome.”

“I feel like I should at least know your name,” you say. 

“Um… just call me Bear.”

You know why. If you ever get interrogated at customs, the less you know of each other the better. 

“Bear as in…?” you ask.

“Bear as in bear,” he huffs.

“Altogether there are eight species of bears. Are you a Polar bear, or Asiatic black bear or… ” You can’t help yourself. You love zoology.

“Bear as in bear. But I’m calling your wild boar a member of the sus scrofa domesticus species.”

“Really? It wasn’t a wild boar?”

“Nope. It was a domesticated sow. I saw it for a brief moment before I started running for the truck.”

“Well. Everything changes then. I hereby withdraw my thanks for everything.”

“You would huh? Gimme back my corner spot then,” he says.

 You could feel his grin in the darkness, and you grin back too, hoping he feels yours.

“So what’s your name?” he asks. 

“Sparrow,” you say without a second’s thought. It’s what your grandmother calls you. 

“Sparrow because you’re small and chirpy?” he quips.

“For your information, sparrows are loyal and resilient. But yes, I’m also small and chirpy.” 

“Well. Little Sparrow, time to go to sleep.” His voice is serious now. “There’s a border crossing coming up soon. We need to rest while we can. Who knows what’s waiting for us there.”

You’ve been on your own for three long weeks with zero meaningful conversations; this is one connection you don’t want to end so soon. But you know he’s right. The first border crossing is coming up. You’ll need your wits about you.  

 ————————

You don’t know how long you’ve slept but you feel his warm breath against your ear before his words register.

 “Sh… we’re at the checkpoint.”

The truck is deathly silent. You hope the border patrol will just wave the truck across. Sometimes it depends on how calm and nonchalant the driver can act. Sometimes it depends on the luck of the draw. Sometimes there are thermal scanners. Sometimes there are dogs.

You search for Bear’s hand in the dark and grip him unapologetically, too terrified to feel shy. 

 He grips right back. 

You can hear the border patrol officers shouting at the driver, asking for his papers. There is banging on the sides of the truck; the officers are probably enjoying the ringing sound of their batons against metal.

 “We’re looking for illegal aliens,” one of the shouts, in a heavy accent.

“Only vegetables, I’m afraid. Maybe a carrot or potato that looks like E.T.¹” It’s a smart move. The driver makes a small joke so as to get the customs officers to like him. Hopefully, they’ll wave the truck on. 

After an agonizing wait, you finally feel the rumble of the truck and it’s only then that you let go of Bear’s hand. Realizing that you might have squeezed him too tightly, you apologize. 

“It’s ok,” he says. “I’ve a sister. She does the same thing too whenever she hears the army guys enter the village.”

“Why? What do they do when they come to the village?” You wonder which exact province he’s from. 

 “Just things.” His words have a bitter edge. 

 You know what he means. 

 “I’ve a brother too. He’s home. Needs the hospital but we can’t even…” your words trail off as you remember his face. Your phone is gone now, and you have no photos to remember him by. 

 “We’ll make it,” he says, like it’s the indisputable ending of a fairy-tale. The Prince finds Cinderella. Sleeping Beauty wakes up. Happily-ever-after. Bear and Sparrow. 

 We’ll make it. 

 ————————————–

It’s perhaps five hours to the foothills of the mountains. The driver throws a loaf of bread and two litres of water for you to divide among yourselves. With you and Bear at the back corner of the truck, the loaf has dwindled to a few miserable pieces by the time it gets to you. 

You give Bear half of your share, insisting he eat more. “I’m Sparrow, remember? I eat like a bird. Don’t need much. Don’t wanna pee too often either.”

He resists for a while but soon realizes you must descend from the most stubborn breed of sparrows. 

 “So. You have relatives waiting for you on the other side?” he asks, trying to make conversation so as to forget the gnawing hunger in his belly.

 “A friend’s aunt. I don’t really know her. I just know I want to send money home. Maybe find a job as a dishwasher first or something.”

 “Be careful who you trust out there, Sparrow.” Even above the grind of the truck hitting the bumpy dirt road, you hear the softness and tenderness in his voice.

Sigh. It’s true. Your instincts regarding people have not always been correct. But the thought of your brother not getting the treatment he needs just because of a lack of money is a reality that you cannot accept. How can something so simple stand in the way of something so monumental? You just have to trust your wits not to fail you again. 

“You?” It’s easier to ask him rather than talk about yourself. 

“A cousin. I’m going to work for him. He has room for me in his home. Gonna stay there until I get my papers…” 

“Sounds perfect.”

“Yeah. Well, he also just had a baby. So I’m not sure if I’ll be getting much sleep.”

“By the time this truck takes us across the borders, you’ll be a pro at interrupted sleep.” 

You’re rewarded with his laugh. It rolls out easily like happy thunder, and you imagine his eyes crinkling. 

“What do you think you’ll miss about home when we get there?” he asks you.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. Just need to focus on getting there first, you know? But right now? Right now, I miss feeling safe.”

“You’re safe with me.” he says quietly.

You don’t know what to say. It’s not like he’s the driver of the truck who will guarantee you’ll make it to customs. It’s not like he’s a border policeman who promises to look the other way when you cross state lines. 

 No. He’s here with you in the same vegetable truck, deep in this nightmare of crossing borders illegally, reaching for the same dream of making it to the other side alive. 

“Who knows what’s safe anymore?” You try to sound flippant, but it’s too hard to hide your gratitude for his words. 

You simply say Thanks Bear and hope you don’t cry.

 ————————————

The terrain of the mountain road is even bumpier than at the foothills. The truck hugs the curves of the sides of the mountain precariously, slipping backwards on the upslope, skidding sideways on the downslope. You’ve always been good with motion sickness, but you’re not used to the creeping cold that’s slithering through the tiny air vents. Next to Bear, you’re shivering. 

 “Cold, little Sparrow?”

“Y-yeah.” You wish you could stop the chatter in your teeth but the thin coat you have on at the moment is not helping. The cold metal of the truck on your back seems to seeping deep into your very bones.

 You hear the zip of Bear’s coat and he tucks it around you in the darkness. 

 “Bear, no–” 

 “Trust me. I’m good.”

He’s good. He’s more than good though. Kind. Honorable. Brave. Quietly, you dig around in the side pocket of your jeans. It’s a hard piece of peach candy that you’ve saved from home. The one your grandma makes with the unsold harvest. 

Your hands search for his face. Finding his lips, you press the little piece of candy into his mouth. “Here, suck on it slowly. It’ll help with the motion sickness.” He’s about to say something when you press a finger to his lips.

 “Sh… trust me. I’m good.”

His fingers find yours then. Surrounded by vegetables, by his coat, by his male musky scent, by the whiff of peach candy from your childhood, you place your hand in his, feeling like you’re in the safest place you can be right now in the whole wide world.  

 ——————

It’s the arguing that wakes you before you realize the truck has stopped moving. The back and forth shouting is loud. You hear the driver’s protests that there’s nothing in his truck but vegetables. The old ET joke again. But the banging on the truck doesn’t fade away this time. They want him to open the cargo area. 

 “Inspection! Inspection! Inspection!” You hear them sing gleefully.

 Shit. They must be drunk. Who knows what will happen. You’ve heard that the border police in the mountains are a little wilder. There’s less oversight here since it’s a remote outpost stuck in a little valley between two mountains. Bear is trying to stack another crate around you, anything to keep you hidden. There’s a slight chance they won’t see you in the far corner if they’re that drunk.

 “Be brave now, Sparrow,” he whispers before he pushes your head down to balance another basket of vegetables over you. Quietly, he stacks it on top of the crates that he’s surrounded you with.

The cargo doors swing open without a second to spare, and the gust of snowy wind sweeps eagerly in. You hear the chortles of the patrolmen, laughing at their bounty as they haul each of the men out of the truck. 

 One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five dogs today! What shall we do to them?! 

 Too bad there isn’t a bitch. 

You’re willing yourself invisible, willing the cramp in your muscles to lock you in like a statue so you don’t move, breathe, or cough to give yourself away. 

Meanwhile, you hear the little shit of a driver arguing that he had no idea how these illegals ot into his truck. 

 Too bad we don’t believe you. We usually do if there’s a bitch on board. But you don’t, so you’ll go to jail like the rest of them. 

 “But there is.” You hear the driver say. Loud and clear. Triumphant even.

 Where’s the bitch? Boys! He says there’s a bitch in there!

They come crashing in, drunkenly flinging and pushing crates and baskets this way and that, rolling potatoes and cabbages about until they come to your corner. 

Got the bitch! Got the bitch! A pretty one too! Chief will like this!

They drag you out into the open and you gasp at the sudden cold. The afternoon light is dimmed by the grey rain clouds in the sky, but the fear in the eyes of the men from the truck, including the driver’s, is bright and alarming. They’re lined up, forced to put their hands behind their heads.

 Chief! Chief! Chief! There’s a bitch here for you! 

You can only stare at the frosty ground, heart racing at the terrible thoughts of what might happen next. There’s a slow, deliberate crunch of footsteps before a pair of shiny black boots parades itself in front of you. He walks to your left, then to your right, circling you, assessing his prey. Breath reeking of alcohol, he lifts your chin to meet his gaze and you see a face, twisted with a merciless grin, matched with a set of small, beady eyes that are piercing even in his drunken state. 

 “Well. Well. What have we here?” 

 A bitch! A bitch! They are baying now at their prize. Out of control.

You look back at him, proud and unflinching. You might lose everything today. But you will not lose your dignity. 

“Your papers, miss?” he asks, voice dripping with mockery.

“I don’t have any.” 

“Then we need to use what you do have, isn’t it?” A finger reaches to glide down your face, and your skin crawls at his touch. 

“For god’s sake!” shouts one of the men from the truck. “Stop this insanity!” 

You know his voice. He was the one who helped you up the truck on the night of the boar. You turn to give him a grateful look only to see the policemen punching him down to the ground. 

The chief ignores the scuffle. He keeps his attention on you, fingering the thin sleeve of your coat. “Must be cold. Let’s get you all nice and warm, shall we? And after that, you and your friends here can be on your merry little – ” 

“Get your hands off my wife!” Behind you, Bear rushes towards you, but is stopped by the henchmen of the chief. He doesn’t let up even as he’s being forced to the ground and held face-down next to you, in front of the chief. “She’s a married woman! Don’t touch her! Adulterer!”  

The chief pauses for a moment. Reassessing his options. The mountain people have their own superstitions even in this day and age. Plus, if his superior ever catches a whiff of scandal with him and a married woman, there’ll be hell to pay. But first, he has to make sure he absolutely can’t play with you. “If you’re her husband, where’s your ring? Where’s hers?” he asks slyly.

“People like us do not get to hold on to our wedding rings. They’ve been given up to your dear comrades at the previous checkpoint.” The dignity in your voice unnerves him. He usually likes his prey scared, terrified of his power even. But you’re barely showing a hint of fear.

“Well, then — ” the chief bends down to the ground to pull Bear’s head up, twisting his neck so far back that you fear Bear’s neck may snap, “— fuck your wife. We’ll watch. Go on.”

Let us watch! Let us watch! Let us watch!

Pure agony is written on Bear’s face. His plan has backfired and he is at a complete loss as to what to do.

 “We’ll do it. But only in front of you. The others have to go.” The command in your voice surprises you. You’d forgotten that you’re the only woman who could hold her price for the rice and corn at the wholesaler’s market; forgotten about the girl who could make the neighborhood bullies grovel at her feet when she caught them teasing her younger brother; forgotten the steel that’s always been inside you, the one which drove you on this journey in the first place.

 “Of course,” the chief purrs sickeningly. “I do love a private show.”

“Where’s your bed? You don’t think I’m going to do it here on the ground, do you? Or do people like you sleep and fuck on the ground like animals?” The fiery challenge in your tone is unmistakable.

The chief’s narrowed eyes are focused on you. He’s well within his powers to have you all killed and buried twelve feet under the snow. But you’re so close to the final border you’re sure as hell not going to give up now. Defiantly, you lift your chin proudly, meeting his gaze. 

Confused and worried, Bear stares at you from his position on the floor. He’s crippled with shock but your fearlessness gives him the little bit of courage to go on. He remembers his promise to keep you safe and vows to stay strong for you.

 “Gentlemen, take care of the rest of the dogs out here. I have some business to attend to with these two.” 

The rest of his men howl with laughter, like wolves, and you shudder at their depravity while you and Bear are led to the barracks.

The chief’s personal quarters are surprisingly luxurious, considering how remote the post is. There’s a little oil heater and a sitting area near a large bed piled with furs and blankets. 

 “Go on then,” the chief smirks as he settles in his arm chair. “Or have you forgotten how?”

“I said only in front of you. Not those goons,” you say pointing to the two officers who escorted you and Bear in. 

“Chief, what if –”

“Get out. I’m fine. I’m armed and they aren’t. Just stand outside the door.” He waves them out of the room distractedly.

Bear is standing there, burning with rage. How he wishes he could tear this… this animal apart. You see the angry clench of his jaw and quickly put your hand in his, twining your fingers around his. 

“I’m bored. Are you going to just stand there?” His tone is infuriatingly contemptuous. 

“Be quiet if you want a show,” you retort back. You’re nervous as hell. You’ve never slept with a man, but you have heard things from the other married women before. Read things too. But you can’t let this bastard know you’re a virgin.

Going up to Bear, you put your arms around him in an embrace. 

“That’s more like it,” the chief murmurs approvingly from his spectator’s seat.

But Bear stands stiffly, awkwardly, unsure of where to put his hands. Uncertain if this is right or not.

“Help me, I haven’t done this before,” you whisper into his ear. 

He sucks in a breath. “Please Bear. I rather you than him,” you beg. 

He hesitates, and finally gives himself permission to pull you slowly towards him. You feel so warm, so soft. Tenderly, he caresses your hair as he first kisses your forehead, then your cheek. When his lips reach the curve of your ear, he murmurs, “Brave Sparrow, I’m Namjoon. At least know my name.” 

“I’m Y/N,” you whisper back while stealing backward glances at the chief, afraid that he’ll start yelling orders again, or worse, take out his gun. You’re trembling with fear, but there is something comforting about knowing Bear’s name. It sounds solid and strong, like the protective steel of his arms around you, nevermind the chief behind you who’s armed and dangerous.

“Y/N.” Namjoon tests out the shape of your name on his tongue as he cradles your face in his hands. The syllables of your name are beautiful. Soothing. Like music. “Eyes on me. You’ll have me because you’ll want me.” He cradles your face, his thumbs and fingers shielding your eyes protectively from wandering to the chief’s detestable form. “You’re safe with me.”

Slowly, he nudges your lips apart, and slots his own into yours. Moaning quietly into you, he tells you how sweet you taste, how perfect you are for him, how good you feel. He waits until you’re melting into him before he brings his hands to curve over your ass, gently pulling your belly flush to his hardness.

You gasp as your gaze drops to his crotch. Even with his pants on, you can see how large he is. A panicky feeling rises and you wonder how he’s going to fit. 

 “Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”

He kisses you deeper this time. Tongue teasing yours, inviting you to play with his, to taste him just as he has tasted you. You listen to his body, and to yours, listen to the siren call that your heart already knows, that your body now feels, that your mind is slowly learning. 

“Gonna take off your top now okay?” He breathes the question into your skin, seeking permission, like it’s your wedding night. You nod shyly to him and he peels off his coat, then your sweater; lifts off your shirt over your head and then takes a moment to fill his eyes with you shirtless before him. 

 “Come on. Enough with the foreplay. Hurry up and take it all off.” The nasty snarl breaks the reverence of the moment.

Namjoon pointedly ignores him, plants kisses down the column of your neck, hands chastely on your back. He will die a gentleman if he has to. 

“Not gonna let him rush us. Not your first time. Not if I can help it.” He takes a deep breath. “May I? Let me take it off?” His fingers are at the back hook of your bra, patient and gentle.

“Yeah. Take it all off. Want you to do it,” you whimper into him. There’s fear but there’s also… dare you say it… a desire for him to want you.

 The loud, sudden banging on the door stops everything. 

“Chief! Chief! Avalanche Warning. Level Four! There’s a heavy rain higher up on the mountain! This post is going to get buried!” 

The chief throws you a look of utter frustration and dashes out of the room, leaving the door open in his haste. There’s shouting in the hallway, orders being barked, the rushed stomping of booted feet and then… nothing.

Bared before Namjoon, with just you and him left in the room, you look away, suddenly vulnerable, suddenly ashamed of your semi-nakedness. 

 “Eyes on me,” he says quietly. With a silent reverence, he dresses you like he’s clothing you with finery but it’s just an old shirt. Just your sweater. Just his coat. 

You remember how your mother dressed you on the first day of school. With loving and gentle hands, she buttoned every button and smoothed every crease. You remember you stood taller, smiled wider, felt prouder of yourself for being a big girl ready for first grade. 

In this inferno of shame, anger and hurt, Namjoon’s careful hands restore you; he clothes you with dignity you thought you’d given up. 

 When he pulls the zip of his coat all the way up to your chin, he finally speaks. “Just now –”

 “Don’t worry. I’ve already forgotten it.” You smile bravely, trying to show it didn’t matter.

 “–I meant every word I said,” he finishes. 

 You look at him in disbelief. 

 But he says it again, “Trust me.”

 —————————————–

The journey across the final border is strangely uneventful. You hear from the others that the patrolmen evacuated immediately as a serious avalanche brought on by the impending rain would bury the valley outpost for weeks. 

Namjoon has the foresight to rummage through the deserted office for official paperwork, the right stamps, the right visas, everything. While he gets everyone’s papers sorted in the office with your help, the older men are outside with the driver. You don’t know and don’t care what happens to the asshole. All you know is one of the men comes back with your phone, and with it – all the photos of home.

The men insist that you and Namjoon sit in the cab of the truck, next to the self-designated driver from amongst them. They count themselves alive because of you both. The least they could do is give you both pride of place in the front bench seat. 

But first, to get through the mountain pass safely, the driver expertly maneuvers the truck through the icy roads. Every yard takes you further away from danger, every inch, closer to freedom.

From your vantage point, you watch for the very moment the truck officially crosses international boundaries and you wind the window down a crack. 

The old cliché is true after all. Freedom smells different. Taking a deep breath, you gulp in air that is full of promise. It’s laden with hope. It’s suffused with dreams. 

“We made it, Bear.”

Namjoon grins at the way you revel in the icy air that has filled the cab of the truck. Leaning into your ear, he whispers shyly, “It’s bear as in Sun bear. Known for their intelligence, sun bears tend to be shy and prefer to live among trees.”

You smile. You know this one. “Helarctos malayanus,” you say. “From the Greek helios meaning of the sun, and arctos meaning bear. Malayanus because they were first found in British Malaya.”

The papers you hold in your hand declare you as a Resident Alien in your newly adopted country. Your other hand in Namjoon’s, however, declares that you’re already home. 

Sun bear and Sparrow. 

We made it. 

Chapter 2

Kim Namjoon wants to fuck you.

He knows you want to fuck him too, if the friction of your hips against his is any indication of how much you want him. 

Your breath is hot against his neck as you lick a thick stripe up to the back of his ear, thighs straddled around him as you press his back towards the hard concrete of the bench. The roaring of the waves in the distance cannot compare to the loud pounding of his heart. He wants you so badly. The tightening in his groin tortures him, and the eager grind of your hips against his fucking hard cock is not helping. 

It’s late and the beach is mostly deserted, little bonfires littering the sandy expanse on this warm summer night. Here on this park bench, your thighs are driving him mad, silky smooth skin wrapped around his hips, clamping down on him as you urge him to touch you. 

He allows himself a little touch, hands tentatively gliding under your airy floral skirt, groaning at how soft you are under his fingertips. 

“More, Bear.” 

“You sure?” His breaths are coming hot and hard, chest burning with desire from the tight push of your breasts on him. 

“Want your fingers inside me,” you whisper, the thick muscle of his shoulder muffling the desire in your words. 

Namjoon chokes back a needy groan. 

You can’t bear to watch his expression and so you rather bury your face in the crook of his neck, a little ashamed of how much you want to feel a part of him inside you. 

“Hey. You going all shy on me?” he nudges his words gently by your ear.

How he has dreamt about you coming all over his fingers, to hear your moans deep and desperate by his ear. It has been a few months of going slow, agonizingly slow, to help you get comfortable with the glide of his lips on you, to feel safe under the press of his hands. And now, here you are, pleading for more.

“Hnnnnggggh.” You wrap your hands around his neck tighter, burrowing your nose into him, too bashful to look at him. 

“Shy Sparrow. Always let me know what you want, okay?” He ghosts a single finger up the side of your thigh, trembling a little as he finds the curve of the fabric and follows it down along the hem of your panties until he feels the soaked cotton cleaving to your mound.

Slowly, he presses a finger into the cleft of your cunt, wishing the cotton barrier could just disappear. 

“This okay?”

You arch into his finger, a needy whimper of come inside tumbles out.

Namjoon slides a finger under and lightly traces the cleft of your folds, pleasure coursing through him as he feels the hot sticky slick coating his finger as he brings his finger up, then down, then up again. Tentatively, he curls it inside you a little. 

“Does this hurt?”

“No. I… I… can usually fit two of my fingers in when I…” Shit. This is embarrassing.

“You touch yourself?” His words are coated only with reassurance and love.

“Only when I miss you,” you confess. 

An image of you sprawled out on the mattress, fingers stroking yourself, calling his name flits across his mind. He swallows thickly, growing impossibly harder.

“Can you come from that?” 

You shake your head. 

“Wanna try?” 

“Yeah. Let’s try,” you breathe. It’s not the first time you’re so wet from just kissing and making out with Namjoon, but it’s the first time you want him inside you. 

“Tell me what feels good,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. 

He feels for your clit and draws a gasp from you when he finds it. 

“Too much?”

“A little.”

Namjoon plays with the area around your sensitive bud, enjoying the way you squirm around him, arousal clinging on to one finger, then two, then his thumb. Every inhale and exhale from you is sweet, shallow, and fast. His other hand is firm against your back, rubbing gently as you arch yourself against him, little jolts of pleasure zinging through your spine whenever he brushes against your g-spot. 

He moves in to kiss your neck, gently nipping at your ear lobe, then your temple, tracing the hairline with his lips, worshipping your face.  

“Kiss me, Bear.” You want his lips on you once more, want the hot slide of tongue against tongue, of spit and love and breath mixed together. 

He swoops in, kissing you deep and slow, drawing you into the wet heat of his mouth. You’re kissing and kissing and kissing, barely breathing, but completely alive. 

“Going to rub your clit now. That okay?”

“Yeah. Oh god, Bear.”

His teasing thumb finds the bundle of nerves easily now, muscle memory as usual proves a faithful servant. Namjoon shudders as he feels your walls squeeze around his fingers 

You know you can’t get too loud, not here in public. But what he’s doing to you is driving you a little mad. 

Namjoon watches your face as he rubs his thumb lightly on your swollen nub, memorizing the way your eyes open and close as you try to hold on to that feeling of teetering on the edge. 

“You can do it.”

He rubs a little more, relishing how your jaw hangs open as you tilt your head back, fingernails digging into the meat of his shoulders. 

“Fly, little bird,” he murmurs as he plants a kiss on the slope of your neck and nips at the skin. 

You feel it first in your belly, electricity shooting through to the back of your spine and up, drawing every ligament and tendon taut and tight until the shockwave releases its grip on you. 

“Bear.” 

Beautiful. You’re so beautiful. So brave. And bold. His Sweet Sparrow. Namjoon feels his balls tighten, he’s trying not to come in his pants like a horny teenager. He can already feel his pre-cum leaking into his pants as a wave of your arousal drips around his fingers. He keeps you steady, hands still supporting you as you gasp out your orgasm, holds you until the wave subsides. Only then, he allows himself to taste the slick creaming around his fingers. 

“Fuck. All for me.” His eyes go dark for a moment as your arousal coats his tongue. 

You can’t believe what you’re seeing, it’s hot, but it’s also new. How is it he loves you so much like that? You don’t know what else to do so you just press the side of his face next to yours, unable to meet his eyes and clutch on those shoulders in the cosy aftermath of your climax. 

Suddenly, a flashlight sweeps across the bench. 

“Break it up, kids! Go get a room!” 

You both squint at the sudden intrusion. The gold badge flashes in the darkness. A policeman. 

Shit. 

You instinctively freeze. 

It’s that expression of real fear that prompts the cop to narrow his eyes. “I.D.s please.”

You’ve never shown your ID papers to law enforcement before, the very same papers Namjoon cleverly stamped at the last checkpoint months ago. But you’re prepared. Like every recent immigrant with real or forged papers, you carry it with you wherever you go, ready to fight tooth and nail for your right to stay. 

You climb off Namjoon and immediately start to reach in your bag for your papers. The policeman, however, starts to shout, “Put your hands UP!” as he draws his gun out and points it at the both of you. 

“Sir, we are unarmed. Just reaching for  I.D. papers.” Namjoon keeps his eyes down, speaking slowly and clearly. He knows he hasn’t gotten the accent quite exactly right, but he sounds pretty good already.

“Kick the bags over here,” the officer demands. 

Instantly, you both comply. With his gun still trained on you, he calls for backup through his walkie talkie. 

You feel sick to your stomach. The memories of crossing borders come flooding back and suddenly you feel faint. The world seems to tilt a little and the policeman starts looking fuzzy. Namjoon sees your shaking form and reaches for your hand. 

“Hey, keep your hands UP!” The gun is raised again. 

“Eyes on me, Sparrow. Breathe.” Namjoon forces out the words through clenched teeth, slow and soft. He’s doing what he can to divert your attention away from the gun.

Your eyes meet and he gives you the slightest nod, dimpled smile giving you a little courage. It’s his voice though, that brings strength to your heart, the voice which comforted you in the pitch blackness of the vegetable truck. Slowly, you breathe, keeping your eyes on Namjoon, trying to remember the safety you felt when you were with him. 

Arms aching from raising them so long, you wait. You breathe. You remember. 

Finally, the policeman’s partner comes, checks your bags for your identification papers. They take down your names, and then ask for your address. 

Namjoon cuts smoothly in and says you are both living at his cousin’s, Jin’s. He says the memorized address smoothly and perfectly. 

The truth, however, is a little more complicated. You’ve been staying there in the attic intended for Namjoon while he took the couch at his cousin’s office. Namjoon wanted you to have your own space, and thought that it would be too much of an imposition on Jin if he crashed every night on the living room sofa.

The officers take down the address and finally let you go with a warning. 

Relieved, you take your bags and start on the long walk home, your knees still wobbly from the encounter.

It’s quiet at first, both of you still processing what just transpired. His arm is protective around your shoulder and you’re grateful for its comforting weight around you. 

“I was so scared.” You’re close to crying now. You couldn’t earlier when your senses were all on high alert. Now that it’s over, the tears are finally pooling in you eyes.

“Me too,” he says quietly. “I really shouldn’t have brought you out here to the beach just to make out with you like that. You deserve better, and I was just too impatient. I’m sorry – “

“Sh… silly Bear. No, I wanted this. I wanted you.” The night air carries your words, soft and sweet to him; the catch in your throat, however, is unmistakable. 

He draws you in for a hug, thumbs each little teardrop away, heart aching for you. He nuzzles a promise into your ear. “We’ll find a place that we can afford. Let’s wait till then, and do it right.”

Encircling you in his arms, he pulls you in deeper into him and wishes he didn’t have to let go. 

But dawn beckons and work’s calling. There’s money to make. A place to rent.  And hopefully, someday, a family to build. 

Chapter 3

“I’m home, Mrs. Kim.”

It’s instinct by now. You turn around at the sound of his voice, at the call of your name. The voice is familiar; the name, new, but both feel right, like the snug fit of the new gold band on your finger. 

“Hey, Mr. Kim.” The lighting is low and you can hardly make out the features of his face in the doorway. There’s not much to light up anyway. In this little efficient apartment, the living room is the dining room, the bedroom, the kitchen, and the study all rolled into one tiny space. Thankfully, the bathroom remains a bathroom. 

“Enjoying the view from our new mansion?” he jokes, taking a few short strides to cover the length of the apartment. He brings his arms around your waist from behind you and gazes out the window with you. 

“Of course.” The view is stunning, stunningly awful, but it’s a view from your very own place. It looks over the dingy alley behind a popular restaurant. Cheap rent, free smells, and the world’s most expensive ring bought with the precious sweat of his brow– there’s nothing more you can ask for. 

“Missed my wife.” Namjoon swoops in for a hello kiss and you tilt your head for him, the exact angle practiced and perfected, lips ready to receive. He tastes like coffee, like overwork and exhaustion from two shifts and three jobs; smells like paint and varnish, like stale freezer burn and shoe polish; but oh god, he feels, he feels like home. 

“Missed my husband,” you coo back.

The quick peck turns a little wilder, hungrier. He moves his tongue past your lips, past your teeth, eager for a taste of sweetness. You offer it to him, soft and yielding. There’s not much more you can give him except your very self. Truly, what else is there that you can bring? The meager paycheck and free overripe bananas from the grocery store where you work hardly count for much. And so you flood your kiss with all the feeling you can muster, try to tell him how grateful you are for him, thankful for how hard he works. 

“Hungry?” you ask, tone playful but also concerned. “Dinner’s done.”

He probably hasn’t eaten much all day nor all night. When he isn’t at night-school to get his art teacher’s license, he’s working the night shift at the frozen meat packing plant. This is on top of working as a shoe-shiner in the city’s financial district Monday to Friday for his cousin’s business. Weekends are spent peddling his own little paintings to tourists. The paintings are always of his home, acrylic renditions of hill and vale, surf and sea. 

“Hungry. So hungry,” he groans into your mouth, desperate, like a little boy who can’t get enough, but kisses you like a man who has everything he needs. And you? You touch him like a girl, eager and willing; kiss him back like a woman who has everything she wants.

“Glad you’re home then,” you whisper, happy that two warm bowls of rice are ready. 

His hands cup your ass, the rounded curves always an open invitation for the meat of his palms, your skin all too familiar with the press of his fingertips. “Need you,” he growls into your ear, nips your earlobe while he’s at it. The column of your neck proves too tempting for him. He bites lightly, running his teeth playfully down on the smooth flesh, drawing little gasps from you. 

You welcome the eager rock of his hips against your belly. The way he gets so hard for you, so fast, so soon, is something you can’t get over. This man truly wants you. And oh, how you want him back.

“Go shower. We can play later. Rice is hot,” you murmur. You don’t want this to end, but you do worry about him. He hardly has time to eat between jobs and classes. 

“Wife is hot,” he murmurs back, hands now roving up to knead the full flesh of your breasts. He tilts his head back on contact with the lush bountiful weight, thumbs tracing the tops, then the sides, then around the downward dip of the curves. 

His hands work overtime to undress you, aching to have you completely naked before him. You’re eager too. His shirt comes off, then his belt, then his work-worn jeans and underwear. 

“Husband’s hot too.” You’re kissing the hard planes of his chest, fingers kneading gently into his shoulders to soothe the muscle aches from all the heavy lifting he does as a meat packer.

You’re both tumbling into bed, not caring that it’s just a secondhand mattress on the floor, propped up by wood pallets lashed together. There will be money for a proper bed later. What matters is that the sheets have tasted love firsthand, never mind the dip and creak of old, tired springs. 

He pulls you on top of him, wanting the twin globes of your breasts to hang over him like forbidden fruit. He buries his nose in the valley of creamy flesh, breathing in the sweetness of coming home to your body. 

“So good for me,” he groans as he starts licking around the nipple. 

You want him to suckle, want the peak tight in his mouth, the pleasure with the slightest edge of pain when he draws on the hardened bud. “Namjoon, please. Need more.”

“More’s coming,” he promises as he finally has your nipple in his mouth. He rolls his tongue over it, teases and tweaks it with tongue and a hint of teeth, thumbs the other nipple to its peak, pulling little whimpers from you. You arch into his lips, elbows collapsing a little around his head, smooshing him with the soft pillows of your breasts.

“Feels good?” His voice is deep and husky with desire and it thrills you.

“S-so good,” you hiss, pleasure flooding through your chest.

You can feel wetness pooling in your pussy, slicking you up. You grab his hair, urge him lower, words no longer needed between lovers who’ve already learned each other so well.

Namjoon gets it and eases your back onto the quilt your mother sent from home. It was her wedding gift to you, and it was her apology to Namjoon for the lack of a dowry. Not that he cared. Your breasts, your belly, your cries and moans on the wedding night were reward enough.

“Want you. Wantyou. Wantyouwantyouwantyou.” It’s a new chant tonight, one he keeps up as he tastes you, lips sampling the expanse of silky skin, then the inward bend of your waist, fingers swiftly stroking lower and lower, seeking out the heat between your thighs. To hell with dinner. You feel warm and wet and sticky and he needs dessert first.

Shifting his body down, he sucks on the soft skin up the inside of your thighs, drawn by the scent of your arousal, marvels at how it leaves a layer of glossy slick right between your legs before he dips his head down for a taste of your cunt, laves his tongue between your slit, all the way up, up, up to your clit, drawing you into his mouth. He knows how you like it, heard you bliss out that first night, and then again and again every night after. 

There’s something different about tonight though, you think. You haven’t been man and wife for long, and Namjoon has always been tender and careful. Tonight, it’s as though he needs to melt himself completely into you, body pressing hard and heavy and urgent into your skin. It’s a feeling you welcome, eager for the fire of flesh on flesh, yours against his. But there’s a wild look in his eyes which worries you. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies. “Just missed you. Want me to slow down?”

“No, no. Not at all. Want you too.” 

The truth is the bastard supervisor at the plant had picked on him again, called him that slur, knew an immigrant like him needed the job and wouldn’t fight back. 

Namjoon had shut the fuck up, swallowed down his pride, allowed the insult to rake its fingernails deep and hard through his dignity before it slid off his consciousness, leaving a bitter taste that colored every second of his shift. 

He needed home, needed you then; and now he’s here, he can’t wait, can’t stop. 

“Bear. Bear. Bear.”

Your little gasps of pleasure are music to him as his tongue works on your clit. He wants to lose himself in your moans, wants you louder, then faster, then harder. 

Lining himself up at your dripping pussy, he burns to lock you in his arms, yearns to be locked in by your legs, deep in your heat. 

“Need to fuck now. That okay?” he’s breathing hard, drawing your legs around his waist, wanting to forget the shitty day, hoping to remember that he’s strong, he’s still a man, still your Bear.  

He’s barely hanging by a thread, using the last ounce of restraint to stop himself from fucking straight into you. 

“Bear.”

He surges in then at the permission of his name, bucking deep into you, knows you well enough that you can take him hard like that all slicked up. 

You meet his thrusts, squeezing your walls around him, tightening at each drag and pull of his cock, wishing he could just stay forever inside deeper than deep. But then he’s folding your left knee up with one hand, switching the angle to thrust into you further while another hand brings a finger down to your clit, stroking slow, working the pressure in a rhythm that echoes the thumping of his heart and yours. It causes you to forget momentarily about clenching around him but focus on the ripples he’s sending into you. 

“Sparrow. Sing for me.” It’s a choked cry that comes from deep within him, the part that needs validation he can make his wife come. 

You’re heating up, familiar with the pressure that builds into paradise and pleasure. He’s going to sweep you off your feet, fingers knowing exactly how to take you there. But tonight, you don’t want to make this journey alone.

“Bear, come with me. Please.”

You’re eager to take him home inside you, eager for him to escape for a while, to a place where you’re both no longer strangers, or foreigners, or aliens–just lovers who speak the same language of desire, locals who know the secret spots, citizens with right of residence inside each other. 

Over and over he drives his hips into you, now with one hand under your head to anchor himself within you, another over your clit, cock filling you, hitting just the perfect place, curving deep, coming fast, coming hard, coming now.

“I’m close, Sparrow, too fucking close.”

His jaw is tight, taut with tension, trying hard to hold off the tempest, waits for you first, always you, always first. But not much longer, not much more. One arch into him, the first scream of his name on your lips and he feels himself twitch. He comes inside you, warm, wet, wailing your name, wanton hips stuttering after going for long, hard strokes. 

The sounds of traffic and the late night crowd outside your window fade into nothing in your little den, replaced by the echoes of the intermingling of your names, of sex sounds of sweat and slick mixed together, the satisfied sighs of yours and his. 

Too overwhelmed to speak, you use the language of touch, fingers soothing the expanse of his back, then up his scalp, down the sides of his face. He’s hurt. That much you know, that much you sense when he fucked you deep into the sheets. You draw your legs up tighter around him, lest he slip out of you before you’ve done your best to minister to whatever ache he’s carrying inside. 

He, too, clings to you, trying to anchor himself into you even as he’s spent. The whole world can go to hell, and he would not give a fuck. He’s here with you, buried inside you, wrapped in you, thinking how he’s somehow weaker, yet stronger, with you. 

It’s strange how quickly the cramped space within four walls already feels like home with Namjoon in your bed. Between the both of you, you’re supporting four elderly parents and two siblings, a mountain of hospital bills and one college education. After the monthly remittance back home, there’s hardly enough to save for a down payment for a house. But Namjoon insists on saving for it, says a little at a time will keep the dream alive. So you’re at this place instead of the nicer one two streets over. 

But with him here, this place definitely now feels like the nicer one. You snuggle in closer to him, enjoying the press of his body against yours.

“Want to tell me what happened today?” you ask, finally able to string words into coherence.

“It’s nothing, All better. Must be that magic pussy,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck.

You laugh in spite of being the tiniest bit concerned. The growl from his stomach reminds you the rice is still uneaten. “Come on, let’s get cleaned up. Need to put food in your belly, fuel you for another round.” 

It’s true: he’s still hungry, for food and for you. Reluctantly, he lets you go to clean up and set the table as exhaustion overtakes him. When he finally joins you, he’s still bleary-eyed but smelling fresh and clean, grateful for the warmed rice and vegetables waiting at the table.

“What will I do without you, wife?” He’s brimming with contentment, thinks he might burst from how right this quiet moment feels.

“We’re doing this toget–”

Bang! Bang! Bang!  The pounding on the door is violent and loud. 

“OPEN UP! POLICE! We know you’re inside!”

Shit. What now? 

With shaking hands, you grab your identification papers that Namjoon insists must always be kept in that same spot by the makeshift shelf of wine crates by the bed. Visa, birth certificate, passport, and letter of employment are all there in a plastic folder.

Namjoon squeezes your hand, eyes locked with yours, silently finishing the words that you did not get to say a moment ago. He opens the door and the shiny police badges are the first things you see, then the guns, then the handcuffs. 

“Ms Y/L/N? You’re under arrest–”

Oh God. This can’t be happening. It can’t. 

“Officer, there must be a mistake. She’s my wife, we are legal residents here. We have the papers to prove it.” Namjoon tries to keep his voice calm and even.

“We know. But she’s charged for something else.”

He blanches. “With what?”

“Murder. Read the warrant. We’re taking her in.”

Namjoon looks at the paper. The murder victim’s name is one he doesn’t recognize, it’s not a name you’re familiar with either. But the police wait for no one. Swiftly, a handcuff slams onto your wrist and you’re being pulled away, legs useless with shock.

“Namjoon! Nam—”

“It’s going to be okay! I’m going to call Jin! Don’t say anything!” he yells above the din of the policemen, rushing out to get a last glimpse of you as they push you into the car.

The quiet on the street is deafening once the car speeds away. 

It must be a mistake. A mistake that surely would be cleared up by tomorrow. He enters the name he had memorized into his phone and runs a search. 

The face that finally loads in his phone stares back at him accusingly.

It’s the driver of the vegetable truck. 

Meanwhile, in the silent apartment, the two bowls of rice have turned cold.

Chapter 4

Namjoon is worried.

The last time he had seen you, you were wan and tired. Today, you seem thinner, gaunt even, as you approach his booth. You put on a brave smile when you see him and he questions himself what he has done to deserve that smile. He couldn’t even protect you from this mess.

Separated by a glass panel, you both reach for your phones. The first few seconds are always the same. There’s only silence as you look, drinking each other in. There’s too much to say and not enough time, and so those words that can’t be spoken are spoken first through the meeting of your eyes. 

It’s always Namjoon who breaks first. 

In your presence, his tears, locked up from waiting to see you, can finally run free. He hates himself for that, but he can’t help it when he sees you swimming in the dull grey of the too-big uniform, wishing so much it’s him, instead of you behind bars.

He longs for quiet, to murmur right into your ear that you’re his brave sparrow, tell you he yearns to hold you, and touch you, and breathe you. Instead, there’s always the sharp clanging of gates and doors, the clink of handcuffs, the clamour of guards and inmates that drown out everything he wants to say. 

So he cries and lets his tears speak instead.

“Hey, not happy to see me?” you tease. 

“Devastated,” he replies, sniffling. 

“Come on. Be a good bear and give me a smile,” you say.

He doesn’t understand how you can joke at a time like this, but for you, he smiles. What else can he give?

“You’re losing weight, baby. What’s going on?” he finally asks.

“Food here’s terrible. I keep throwing up,” you say.

“Oh love.”

“Hey don’t worry. Makes me look forward to your Michelin-star cooking when I get out.” You try to humour him because he can’t cook for nuts.               

When I get out.

Both of you become quiet at those words. The public defender appointed to your case said that because the truck driver had last used your phone before he went missing, the evidence against you looks compelling. 

Your only hope is for one of the guys on the truck to admit to the killing, a highly unlikely scenario. 

Still, your lawyer is trying his best to search for these witnesses by the trial date, still another ten months away. “It’s not easy to find people who don’t want to be found,” is what he always says.

Bail, of course, was out of the question. There’s just no money.

You change the topic before Namjoon can ask about you. You don’t want to talk about the drab walls, the sickening ring of metal against metal, of lock against key, every day, every night, every meal. “Tell me about school?” you ask, tone a tad too bright and cheery.

He knows what you’re up to but gives in anyway, thrilling you with details about his grades at night school, or about the teacher who never wears matching socks. You listen and love the way his eyes light up whenever he talks about art and you just know he will be the best kind of art teacher. 

He tells you how much Jin’s baby has grown and you smile faintly, happy for them, but also a little sad because you don’t know when it’s going to be your turn with Bear to have a little one. If you ever. A murder conviction can mean a life sentence. 

“Five more minutes! Five more minutes!” the prison guard calls out. 

It starts the same and it ends the same: with silence. 

He puts his hand on the glass, and you, careful to match exactly where he places his hand, puts yours on the glass too, both of you indulging in those last moments to imagine away those four inches of transparent barrier. 

The shrill whistle indicates it’s time to go. 

You put on a brave smile again so he wouldn’t worry. 

And just like that, he’s gone once more. 

—————————————————-

The journey home is long and when he finally stumbles into bed, it’s you he dreams of. 

Even though you’ve been married for only a few months, he has gotten used to having you on the right side of the bed, your left leg thrown over his, your nose warm and sweet against his neck. He’s so used to reaching for you throughout the night and pulling you close. Now, he wakes up every time he does this and grabs at nothing.

Mornings are supposed to be easier than the nights. 

He gets out of bed, brushes his teeth, and tries to ignore the empty seat at the dining table while he gulps something down. 

The apartment, he thinks, is his own prison. 

The imprint you leave on everything makes him see you and miss you. There’s the matching chipped mugs, “Sweeter Than This Tea” (yours) and “Stronger Than This Coffee” (his) you found at the secondhand store. 

Then, there’s the wedding photo you stuck on the otherwise bare wall. He’s in a button-down shirt and jeans  and you have on your best blouse; but both of you are wearing the same loopy grin of two kids in love, finally married at the county town hall. 

The potted plant sitting quietly in the corner was one you found on the sidewalk. You’d brought the orphaned plant home and named it Little Bird, while he insisted it was Baby Bear; both of you fighting over who gets to water it and put it by the window for sun; both dreaming of the day when after he gets his teaching license, after his sister is out of college, after your brother is done with hospital treatments, you can finally, finally, have your real Little Bird and Baby Bear together. 

He’d fucked you against the back of the door, fingered you by the window, made you come in the shower, fondled and caressed you by the sink as you washed the dishes. 

And the bed, the bed that often feels too small as he made love to you now feels too big all the damned time. 

So he gets out of the apartment as fast as he can, every second too painful to see you there but not there. Each time he locks the front door, he hopes it can somehow keep away the ache as he heads to his shoe-shine job for the day in the city.

In this five block radius of billion-dollar deals and million-dollar salaries, he always wonders if he would ever feel like he’s made it. For a brief moment, with you in his arms, in his bed, in his home, he felt that way. Now, the future looks so bleak that he doesn’t know what to think anymore.

He slides into Jin’s shoe-shine shop and grabs the toolkit from the counter with a thanks hyung. It’s quick so he can avoid a conversation about how his visit with you went. 

He hurries to his usual booth, ready to lose himself in the smell of leather lotion and shoe cream. It’s easy to forget everything when he works the horsehair brush on leather, buffing the shoe for a mirror shine, polished enough for him to see his own unpolished soul.

Customer after customer steps up, sits down on the padded chair, shoes poised on the brass pedestal for some tender, loving care. 

Namjoon doesn’t discriminate among the shoes. Whether they’re bespoke John Lobbs, to the more pedestrian Cole Haans, even no-brand leather shoes worn by a desperate graduate on the way to an interview, shoes from all walks of life get the same, respectful treatment from him. 

He hardly lifts his eyes. With his head bowed, he prefers to study the leather grain, to think of the play of light on the shoe, always aiming for a shine so bright and color so deep the shoe looks like it can move on its own.

“Hurry up, I haven’t got all day,” says his next customer. 

Namjoon says a quiet yes sir and keeps his eyes down, polishing as hard and as fast as he can. The shoe is caked with mud on the sole and shank, lined with deep creases that hide even more dirt. Quickly, he takes out the shoe cream to match the exact shade of the customer’s shoe and starts to rub it into the leather with swift, deft strokes. 

“That’s more like it,” the customer drawls.

Namjoon shudders involuntarily. Where has he heard this before?

It can’t be. 

He keeps his face down, hopes his baseball cap casts a dark enough shadow over his face. He chooses to wait for a moment where he can steal a glance up at his customer from the side. 

It’s him all right. 

It’s the chief from the outpost. 

Namjoon’s heart is pounding. The papers he has gotten, the stamps, the visas, the life he has built in this country is suddenly under threat. With shaking fingers, he ties the knots of the shoelaces, reminding himself to keep calm, keep low, keep down. 

“All done, sir.” 

“Took you long enough,” the chief says, “You people are so fucking slow.” 

Namjoon knows better than to say anything. Quietly, he bows as the chief brushes past him to the exit, only to see him drop a one-dollar bill into the tip box. 

Ten seconds later, Namjoon hurries out onto the street to follow the chief, always keeping his cap down, ready to turn and walk in another direction should the chief look behind. After two blocks, the chief turns into a shiny new building and saunters to the security counter by the side. He picks up a jacket from the counter and a badge and disappears from view. 

Quickly, Namjoon takes out a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and heads to the security counter too. “That guy that just walked in dropped this. Could you pass it to him please? God, who drops ten dollar bills around, huh?”

“Oh him? That’s our new head of security. I’ll give it to Chief. Thanks bro,” says the staff at the counter.

“My pleasure, bro.” Armed with this knowledge, Namjoon walks quietly out of the building emblazoned with the words Lee & Partners, Solicitors and Advocates. 

One day, he’ll get his money back.

One fucking day.

Chapter 5

Your cellmate talks incessantly. 

Trapped behind bars, words are all she has that can truly break free. 

She talks morning, noon, and night, talks in her sleep, talks when she wakes, talks while she’s on the toilet, talks when she’s brushing her teeth spewing toothpaste foam around her like a Catholic priest sprinkling holy water on adoring parishioners. 

She talks about her kids, about the weather, about the guards, about who’s in for what, since when, and for how long. She talks about the price of mushrooms when she was twelve, twenty-four, and thirty-two; about human rights and animal rights and why vegetables have no rights, about the mating habits of kangaroos and the water cycle, never failing to remind you that you might be drinking dinosaur piss from the faucet. 

You’re amazed she knows anything at all because it would mean she would actually have to stop talking to listen. But nope, she listens while she talks, words flowing undisturbed into her ears and out her mouth; her brain, at times, retaining nothing, something, anything, everything.

It suits you fine. You keep mostly to yourself and let her prattle, glad to not have to make polite talk when you’re so tired all the time. Instead, you long for sleep – a place where you can have some quiet from her continuous commentary on who from which cell is having her period today; a place where you are free to dream in a riot of color in this world of gray.

In your sleep, you finger the dark-green of the plant you have in your home with Namjoon, brush your lips on the pink of your husband’s cheeks after he has a hot shower, remember the black of his eyes when you lose yourselves in each other. 

You miss the burnished yellow of the gold ring on your finger, the warmth of his arms around you that feels like a deep wine-red, his kisses on the nape of your neck trailing lower and lower like liquid silver. 

You feel his body anchored into yours like you’re his ocean: blue, deep, and boundless; hear his desperate whispers of eyes on me when he comes inside you, the bronze of his skin melding into your flesh. 

You see the amber hues that fill the bed in the aftermath of lovemaking, relish the familiar thread of his fingers through your hair, the slope of his nose resting so comfortably by your left temple it’s as though the little indent was made just for him. 

You wonder if he’s okay, if he remembers to soak the rice before cooking it, if he has forgotten the electric fan needs two heavy slaps by the corner button to work. 

Most of all, you wonder if he regrets marrying you.

The brutal clang of batons against the metal bars of the cells in Block D pulls you rudely back into reality, or is it a nightmare?

Sometimes you don’t know which is which. 

Your dreams are so full of life that, surely, they must be real, not this ashen existence behind bars. Other times, you have such vivid nightmares that you wake up relieved to see the gray cell walls around you, glad you’ve at least lived to see another day.

As you get up and slip your feet into prison-issued rubber sandals, a wave of nausea hits you. Weakly, you force yourself to stand up. The morning headcount is in ten seconds. There’s hell to pay for any inmate not at the front of the cell when the warden walks past. Grasping the thick metal bars for support to steady yourself, you will your legs to stand. 

After headcount, you shuffle in line for breakfast. The pasty mixture of cooked grains sticks to the roof of your mouth, coats the back of your throat, slides uncomfortably into your stomach. You crave for the flavors and textures of your childhood, but you swallow every bite anyway, afraid of the guards who’ll accuse you of going on a hunger strike and throw you into solitary. 

You’ve begged your government-issued lawyer to get you out of here. 

It’s not like you’re convicted, so why are you here with thieves and armed robbers and drug traffickers and gang leaders and murderers? Your lawyer just shrugs and mentions overcrowding along with his usual I’m trying, his hands forever helplessly upturned like a forgetful student who can’t find the homework he swore he did last night. 

If only you could afford bail. If only you could hire your own lawyer. The untold truth has always been there: your newly adopted home is just like the one you’ve left: being poor is a crime.

Breakfast is quiet. There are no fights today. Everyone is listless from the humid heat that seeps in through the stout walls which are ever efficient at keeping the inside from getting out, but utterly useless at keeping the outside from coming in. 

Back at the cell, you sit at the edge of your bed, ready for the bile to rise up your throat like it has every day for the past month. The familiar feeling creeps on you and you make it to the open toilet bowl just in time to empty the entire contents of breakfast. A bitter slick stays on your tongue, tempting you to throw up what you don’t have anymore.

“Whoa. You throwing up again? Maybe you have a food allergy. You should get checked out. There was a woman in Block A who–”

No, I don’t have a food allergy. 

“was allergic to all kinds of shit. Wheat. Eggs. Meat. Dairy. Soy. She threw up all the damned time before they gave her some weird protein substitute. The other woman who kept throwing up had an eating disorder. The moment the guards found out, she was moved to another facility. As for me, the only time I throw up is when I get pregnant. You know, one would think you might be pregnant, the way you keep throwing up and all in the mornings. I bet you haven’t had your period. I bet your boobs hurt like hell. My boobs always did, like I them run over by a truck or–”

Oh god, no. 

The sudden silence in the cell weighs as thick as the humid air that sits in the cell. Your cellmate never ever stops talking. Until now. 

“You got your period yet?” she asks quietly. She knows as well as you do that you haven’t. The shared open toilet in the cell hides nothing.

“You guys were trying for a kid?” she asks. 

No. You were extra careful about birth control, knowing full well that a baby was the last thing you needed with Namjoon, though it is the first thing you want with him.

“I think you got an egg in your nest, Sparrow.”

Shit.

“No. Not possible,” you whisper with unbelief. It can’t be. God, not a baby. Not in jail. Not now. But the signs are there. You’ve missed two periods (you thought, from stress). You can’t stomach anything but you’re hungry all the time. And then, there’s an unfamiliar soreness in your breasts. 

“Suit yourself, mama bird. I know what I know. You won’t be the first or the last to have a baby in prison. There have been quite a few before you. Why just the other day, I heard that—”

You’re barely listening to her, her engine revving up again once more.

What will Namjoon say? 

“— there’s one over at Block E  She’s in for some shit like heroin possession. I’ve never seen a druggie with such baby-smooth arms. Doesn’t look a bit like a user or dealer to me. Not one bit.  You know– ”

Will Namjoon want the baby? Maybe? Probably? Surely, you think. He wants what’s his. Always. But what about school? And his job? 

“–what I think? I think she’s in here for something worse. Maybe espionage. She’s not from around here, that’s for sure. Maybe she’s selling state secrets. I just want to know what the hell is in the mystery meat casserole they serve us on Wednesdays. Who the hell is keeping that a secret? She–” 

Could you keep this a secret from him? No. You can’t. It’s not fair. He should know. Just… how? And… when?

“–tries to tell everyone she was knocked-up by a border policeman in the mountains. No one believes her, with that funny accent, with that half-crazy look in her eyes. I could hardly understand her myself, but I believe her. I saw her eyes and she looked like she went through something terrible. Anyways, she’s probably going to pop next week. She looks huge, like a grey whale. Geddit? Cuz we’re wearing grey and all– ”

Is it better to tell him face-to-face? Or maybe in a letter?

In the back of your mind, intuition tells you that your cellmate has just said something important, but you’re drowning in a dark vortex of doubt and fear. You are pregnant. In jail. Awaiting trial for murder which carries a life sentence. How will you face your husband when he visits next week?

You need to figure it out.

——————————————

Namjoon’s ritual for reading your letters is always the same.

Under the rafters of Jin’s attic, Namjoon settles into the mattress before pulling out your envelope. He’s glad Jin has offered his home again. Without your paycheck from the grocery store, there’s just no money for rent when he still has the remittance obligations to your families back home. 

With the light of his cellphone adjusted at the corner of his pillow, he carefully tears the flap of the envelope for your letter inside, fingers trembling at the weight of your words you are just about to speak to him.

Before reading, he brings the single piece of folded paper to his nose, and he thinks he catches a whiff of you. He runs the letter down the side of his cheek and can almost feel the softness of your hands; but he definitely, definitely hears your voice. 

Sometimes you tell him a funny joke from childhood, sometimes it’s about your cellmate. Most times, you ask if he’s eating well, sleeping well, if school is going well. 

Always, you tell him you miss him. 

But not today. 

Today, you’re telling him to run free. To forgive you. To forget you. Because you’re too much. It’s too much. And you are so, so sorry. 

As his eyes walk over line after line of your words, he doesn’t know what to think anymore.

There’s going to be a baby. 

Chapter 6

When visiting hours roll around after you’ve sent the letter, you’re not sure if Namjoon will visit. Maybe he needed time to process what you told him. Maybe he heeded your words to forget you and move on.

But the officer tapped on your cell and said you have a visitor and now you know he’s here in the same building. After all, there’s no one else you know in this country who would visit you in prison.

You wonder if the child inside you can feel the presence of its father because surely, your bones now know Namjoon is here.

Slowly, you walk to your booth, a little uncertain of the emotion you will see on his face. Would there be coldness? Confusion? Anger?

When you round the corner, there’s no mistaking the sheer relief that washes over him. His eyes seem to say: You’re here. You’re really here.

You’ve prepared a brave smile for him like always, but for once, it fails you. To see him here, in the flesh, floods you with comfort and you choke back immediate tears. 

When you both pick up the wall phones to speak, Namjoon has so many questions that he doesn’t know how to begin. He reminds himself to not overwhelm you. But with you in front of him, carrying his child; so near, yet so far; he is overwhelmed.

So you speak first.

“I’m sorry. So sorry. I must have messed up somehow with the birth control–” You’re crying because you feel like it’s your fault somehow. In the presence of your husband, the confusion, the fear, and the loneliness of finding out about your pregnancy can finally tumble out.

“Shh… shh… don’t apologize. It’s something we made together.”

He wishes he could pull you into him, secure you in his embrace to remind you that he’s got you. But all he has are his words on the other end of the phone, his hand on the other side of the glass.

You place your hand to meet his on the glass. Patiently, he waits for the tears to subside before he asks carefully, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. Less nausea. It’s still hard to fall asleep though. Miss you.”

“I know.” He feels his voice cracking.

“So… what will we do?” you ask, looking down at your belly. There’s not much to see. But you know somewhere in the depths, little eyes and little fingers and little toes are being wrought.

Namjoon knows what he wants to do. He keeps whatever is his. It’s been this way ever since he was a child. A bully in class once stole his pencil thinking it would be funny that the straight-A student won’t be able to do his math test. Namjoon ended up sitting very still, refusing to ask another classmate for a pencil when the test had already started. He turned in a completely blank answer booklet and the fight after school was ugly. But, the important thing was he got his pencil back.

So heaven help whoever tries to take anything or anyone that belongs to him. Except you.

He knows you hold the keys in this decision; he will never fight you on this. He fights beside you, fights for you, but never against you.  

“It’s your call sweetheart,” he says quietly. He doesn’t want you to second guess yourself, doesn’t want to burden you with his own longing.

You take in a deep breath. You have rehearsed this little speech for the last couple of nights. “This baby is the only way I can have a part of you with me while I’m in here. And if I don’t ever get out, you can walk away and still have a…”

You don’t need to finish the rest of the sentence. He knows it. And so do you.

– it’s the only way he can have a part of you.

“Eyes on me,” he says hoarsely. “You’re carrying our baby. No more talk about telling me to walk away. No more. Promise.”

How can you promise him this? The future is too uncertain and what if–

“Promise,” he insists, daring you to fight him on this.

“I promise.” You are nobody’s fool. Except for him.

After the quiet glimmer of silence that follows the making of vow, he asks if you think the baby is a boy or girl. Namjoon feels sure it’s a girl. “I bet it’s a girl. She’s going to be gorgeous like you. A full head of Mommy’s hair. Mommy’s eyes. Mommy’s nose.”

“What about lips?” you ask

“I like my lips. Hope she has Daddy’s lips.”

“Like your lips too.” It was supposed to sound playful. But it came out a little sad. You miss your husband. His touch. His warmth. His strength.

You look a little wistful, and Namjoon quickly cuts in to lighten the mood.

“Let’s make a deal. Whoever gets the baby’s sex right, gets to name her–”

“Him.” You’re not going to let him sneak his preference just like that.

“Okay. It. Gets to name IT. And the loser gets to name the plant at home.”

You remember that plant, the plant you call little bird and he insists is baby bear. Knowing Namjoon, it’s thriving even in Jin’s dark attic where he sleeps.

“Deal.”

And just like that, Namjoon helps you, at least for a while, to forget how much you’ve missed being with him.

He doesn’t forget anything about you though. Keys? Yes, more often than not. Sunglasses? Sometimes. But never you. He forgets nothing ever, when it comes to you. 

And so he burns the image of the swell of your breasts beneath the drab uniform into his mind, takes in the radiance and glow of your face, wills himself to remember the fullness of your belly, the lush curves of your body. All this before the whistle, before visitation is over.

It’s time for you to go. The guard’s whistle will blow any moment now.

Can I touch? He mouths from across the glass separating you.

You nod shyly and stand, leaning as close to the glass as you can, but there’s a table in front of you and a guard behind, and you don’t want to draw too much attention and lose your visiting privileges.

Hurry. You mouth back. 

Namjoon quickly places both hands on the glass, his hands easily spanning the width of your belly, imagining his baby in there, nestling safe and warm in the cradle of your womb. 

He tells himself not to cry. He’s a father now. He needs to be strong. He bites the inside of his cheek, punishing himself with pain so that he’ll get a grip on himself.

You’re looking at his fingers against the glass, tempted to close your eyes to imagine them pressing on your belly. Yet you force your eyes open, afraid to waste a single second of seeing your husband in front of you.

But it’s okay. Because for the next couple of months, a part of him will be right here with you.

Chapter 7

It’s almost Christmas.

You’ve heard about a child born two thousand years ago on this day to bridge heaven and earth.

But tonight, you know only the child who is your bridge to Namjoon.

There’s no soft starlight, no gentle lowing of cow or sheep. Instead, you have the harsh glare of hospital lights on this chilly winter night.

“Please, I need something for the pain,” you beg the officer standing guard by your bed. She must be new–you haven’t met her before, but you hope she will be kind.

She gives you a quick look, assessing if you’re a liar, if you can be trusted. “I’m not a doctor. It’s not my call. You’ll just have to wait till she comes around.” The tone is hard and cold, like the unforgiving metal around your wrist which shackles you to the hospital bed.

As another contraction rips through your body, you remember what Namjoon said to you. Every contraction brings us closer to our little one.

If only this were completely true.

For the past nine months, every kick and hiccup from the baby reminded you that you weren’t alone behind bars. 

A somersault in the middle of the night, a fist here, a foot there poking into your rib were all the joys of knowing that despite the rigid walls of prison, your little one had all the freedom to move in the warmth of your womb.

Every time you spoke to the baby, telling stories about your homeland, about the red of ladybugs and the blue of the sky, you swear the baby leapt, especially so when you mentioned the strength of his daddy.

But the birth pangs you’re experiencing are just a painful reminder you will soon lose a part of Namjoon with you. 

You’ve been told exactly what would happen once the baby is delivered. After twenty-four hours, pending the doctor’s approval over your health status, you would be brought back to the prison. Your pre-appointed guardian for the baby, in this case, Namjoon, would be notified to collect the baby from the hospital. There will be no visitation rights, no contact, no mercy.

The bottom line is, you’ve only got a short amount of time with your baby in the hospital before you go back to your cell without him.

The contractions started after dinner on Christmas Eve which you didn’t eat much of. It was not a particularly special dinner, because celebrations are not a thing in prison. Perhaps your body knew the travail you would have to undergo soon, and that all your energy would have to be conserved for pushing out the little one.

Like a tentative knock of an embarrassed guest who shows up unannounced, the first contraction was hardly noticeable. And then another knock, another twinge. The shy guest gradually became more and more annoying, the contractions more regular, more insistent. You walked around in your cell as much as you could, breathing long and deep, anything to delay the inevitable trip to the hospital. The countdown to separation would be ticking for you and your baby once you give birth there.

But there was no turning back when your waters broke. Your cellmate called for the guards and you were packed into the van and transported to the county hospital.

The look on the faces of the nurses when you were wheeled into the ward confirmed your suspicions you wouldn’t be treated fairly here. 

Their furtive glances at the handcuffs on your wrists showed they’ve already judged you. Another glimpse of your name on the clipboard was enough for them to know that you’re not from these parts. What’s more, you sounded different, your accent not quite accurate when you asked if you could have something for the pain.

It was all they needed to know everything about you.

Knocked up before she was locked up.

You were wheeled to a corner farthest from the main doors. “Don’t want you running away now, would we dearie?” laughed the orderly, beady eyes crinkling at her own little joke. “Besides, we have those new mums to think about. Those shackles are just going to scare them. Staay heere,” she’d said loudly to you, exaggerated as fuck, as if you could understand her better when she infantalized you. “The doctor will come. Soooon.”

You’ll be lucky if a doctor comes at all to this godforsaken corner.

The doctor never comes. Nor a midwife. Nor a nurse. In this county hospital, you’re separated by a thin curtain from the next, and the next, and the next bed of women in various stages of labor pains. You’re hoping you’ll get an epidural before it becomes too late. Too near the actual delivery and the anesthetist will not allow you one. You’ll have to push the baby out on your own, without medication, and worse, without Namjoon.

How you wish he were here. He would be holding your hand, comforting you with his presence, giving you his strength.

The contractions are coming now. Stronger. Closer. You can hardly catch your breath. Each one rolling into the next. The baby is twisting inside, and you long for a hand to hold. Your back arches off the bed at each sharp contraction.

You yearn to get on all fours, or stand, or squat, anything but be flat on your back. Frantically, you try to shift your body but the shackled arm restrains you and reminds you that even in the act of birthing, you have no choice.

Tears are welling up as you try in vain to tug off the shackle. You must get up to push this baby. The urge to push and bear down is so intense that you will go to any lengths to aid the passage of your little one. In vain you try to tuck your knees under you to help you rise to a kneeling position.

“Help. Help.” Your own pleas for help are too weak in your ears. There are other women in the delivery ward, moaning, screaming; nurses commanding them to push, to slow down, to breathe; midwives ordering new mothers and seasoned ones to be quiet, to just bear with it. It hurts for everyone. Doctor’s not available for epidurals.

You look to your right, and see only the revolver in the officer’s holster, the sight of the weapon and its black, menacing shape chills you to the bones.

Eyes on me.

You hear the voice inside you. It’s his voice. You close your eyes to see Namjoon, see the rise and fall of his chest, his fingers curling into yours, the cold metal of the shackles now replaced by the warmth of his hand. You remember his hand anywhere, in the dark nights and dark days in the vegetable truck, you always found comfort in his firm grasp.

We’ll make it. Breathe, Sparrow.

You breathe, directing your breath down at every contraction, imagining the baby descending, aided by the wind you blow, a little ship who needs that extra help to make it to the other side. Mommy’s waiting for you. Daddy, too.

Getting there.

It’s the ring of fire now. There’s burning as the baby crowns against the birth canal. You’re so close. It’s so scary, you’re afraid you’ll tear. Around you, there’s commotion as finally a midwife arrives with a nurse. But their voices are garbled, like you’re underwater. You remember the squeeze of Namjoon’s hand. The immense comfort to know he’s with you even in the scariest of situations.

Brave Sparrow.

You push. Another wave of pain and another, and you know the baby’s head is out. One more contraction. Shoulders now. Just one more.

Then, the most glorious feeling when you feel the slippery slide of the rest of the baby’s body. Another contraction. Another push. This time a hand presses hard on your belly for the placenta to be guided out.

A short, beautiful cry.

And suddenly, the baby is placed on your chest. Warm. Quiet. Yours.

The wisps of fine dark hair. Perfect ears. Perfect nose. Perfect lips. Perfect eyes, curious and unblinking.

“Eyes on me,” you whisper to your little one. 

You want your child to remember all of you, because from this moment on, you have 23 hours and 59 seconds left with your perfect little bear.

——————————————–

Seeing Jin and his family celebrate Christmas, Namjoon wonders when it will be his turn. 

There’s a present under the tree for you, kindly wrapped by Jin’s wife. She presses the little gift in his hands. “Keep it for her. For when she gets out.” 

He swallows hard. He wants to scream it wasn’t meant to be this way! You should be here, receiving the gift yourself. 

“Thank you,” he says, bowing quietly, mind already drifting back to what he’s rehearsed in case he gets a phone call from the hospital today.

Everyday since you reached 37 weeks, his phone has always been charged, the baby’s things packed, a car seat installed in Jin’s car which is always filled with gas to make the hour-long drive to get to the hospital to pick up his baby.

The call, however, comes the next day, Boxing Day.

Would you please pick up your baby and fill out the paperwork?

Of course.

With trembling fingers he grabs the bag that’s been packed three weeks ago with formula and a warm woolen hat and the softest blanket. He hurries with Jin to the hospital, glad Jin is driving, the car seat long installed at the back. Jin knows the importance of this moment and keeps quiet, not wanting to disturb his cousin’s thoughts.

The journey is filled with a roil of feelings for Namjoon. “I just wish it doesn’t have to be this way,” he mutters quietly. God. You should be coming home with him together with the baby. He should have been there with you throughout labor.

Jin stays silent.

“Thanks for all of this. Driving me. And also letting me stay in the attic. And even for your wife to help with the baby…”

“You’re still doing the night feeds though. Not us.” It’s times like this Jin prefers the safety of a quip than of dealing with emotions.

The rest of the journey is marked by silence. Namjoon was given the ward number and floor to meet the social worker. He runs there, not wanting his child to spend another second alone, without mom or dad.

Namjoon has his IDs, passport, employment cards. He’s signing the paperwork with trembling hands. Somewhere in this building, is his Sparrow. If she hasn’t flown yet.

The social worker sees the drip drop of tears in his eyes, smudging the ink on all the forms. Her heart is moved. Handing the sleeping bundle to him, she tells him that his wife is probably still in the building. “They’re taking her to the parking lot around the back. Follow directions to Cafeteria. Take the side exit and you’ll see a sign that says Delivery. You might get a glimpse of her there. Hurry, and good luck.”

Namjoon is torn between kissing his son and going after you. It’s times like this that Jin is the clearer-headed of the two. He offers to hold the baby and urges Namjoon to run ahead. We’ll catch up, he promises.

It’s quiet before dawn. Namjoon hurries along the silent corridors down to the desolate cafeteria, turning quickly into a stairwell looking out into the delivery area. His heart is pounding. He wants to see you, to know if you’re okay.

Through the slim glass panel of the emergency door into the delivery area, he sees the waiting van, labelled garishly in black Correctional Facilities. It makes him want to throw up. There is nothing about his wife which needs correcting.

When he sees a guard come out of the van, Namjoon ducks behind the glass panel almost knocking backward into Jin who has just huffed into the stairwell, the baby still sleeping soundly in his arms. “Oof. You made a big baby. He’s heavy.”

“Shhh…” shushes Namjoon. He guesses you’ll be arriving any moment. Jin goes quiet, knowing the precious weight of the moment for a husband to meet the mother of his child.

And then you’re here. Pushed out in a wheelchair, you look pale and tired, hands still sickeningly cuffed. He detects a peaceful smile on your face, the corners of your lips lifting in the slightest. He hopes you know he’s here somehow, that he’ll take good care of the baby you made together.

He’s so proud of you, wishes so much to call your name, to let you know he’s right here, but he knows this will only get you into trouble. 

As the van starts to back into the loading bay where you’re waiting under guard, Namjoon quickly carries his baby from Jin, hands sure and steady, surprising even himself.

He raises the little one to the glass panel, his heart aching for the day you can see each other face to face and be a family.

“Say bye-bye to Eomma,” he whispers to the sleeping little bundle in his arms, pointing at you through the panel.

One day, he thinks, he hopes, there will be nothing between him and his Sparrow.

“Say bye-bye to Eomma,” Namjoon repeats as he watches you disappear into the van.

One day, there will be no more glass, nor law, nor guard separating you and your Bear.

Witnessing this, Jin blinks back tears.

It was not meant to be this way.

Chapter 8

Winter boots of all kinds come out to play on the slushy sidewalks of the city’s concrete jungle. This is usually when women, more than men, come into the shoe-shine shop for some tender loving care for their footwear. 

Namjoon has already counted three Stuart Weiztmans, four Jimmys, and a handful of Louboutins. But the boots in front of him is one he has never handled before. “Hiro Yanagimachi,” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d live to see this day.”

He glances up at the wearer seated in the plush leather club chair atop the pedestal. Like her boots, she looks exquisite–classic features, and very, very well-kept. 

“Ma’am, it’s an honor,” he says quietly.

She smiles, pleased that her boots got the attention she wanted. “I’m inclined to say the same,” she says, voice husky from too many cigarettes and too many cocktails. Namjoon guesses she might be in her late fifties. “A friend said you’re one of the best at Jin’s. And Jin’s is the best. So it makes you the best of the best.”

Namjoon blushes. The customer’s piercing gaze is a little too much for him, so he drops his eyes and bends down to focus on his job of polishing her boots. 

There’s not much to clean, really, just a few smudges here and there. But judging from the woman’s immaculate outfit, Namjoon knows he should gun for perfection. 

He takes out his standard-issue horsehair shoe brush to clear away the surface dust and to prep the surface for the first layer of leather cleaner. He can already feel her foot relax inside the boot at his gentle handling. Touch, he thinks, is a universal equalizer. Rich or poor, touch is as essential as air. 

His mind drifts to you. 

He misses your touch–the way your hands flit over his shoulders playfully when he comes out of the shower, the way your palms knead deep into the knots of his neck after dinner, the way your fingers cradle his face just after he comes inside you. 

He wonders if you miss his touches like he does yours. 

A sharp wail breaks his little reverie. Uh oh. 

Namjoon tries to ignore it. He has already shown Jin where the bottles of formula are kept in the little insulated compartment of the diaper bag. He’ll go to his son the moment he finishes this job. Jin’s wife was visiting her mother with their child, so his own little one had to come to work today. 

But the wailing continues just as he gets out the bottle of leather conditioner. His hands pause over the cap of the bottle, caught between his role as a father and as breadwinner.

“Excuse me, Ma’am,” Jimin slides up, his smooth business voice rolls out soothingly with impeccable manners, the hand behind his back however, is gesturing wildly for Namjoon to head to the backroom. “We need our associate Kim for something urgent. May I introduce myself—my name is Park Jimin who will take over the care of your absolutely stunning Hiro Yanamigachis.”

“Ah. Looks like word travels fast about my Hiros.” 

“As it should. It’s not often we are graced with a pair of bespoke boots by the master himself,” Jimin says smoothly.

“Well, I was hoping I would get Mr. Kim’s full-service treatment today. What the hell is happening in the back that’s more urgent than my Hiros?” she asks this with an air of mock snobbishness. 

“I’m so sorry, it’s my infant son. He’s probably hungr–”

“Well, do you have a bottle of formula?” she asks.

“Yes, but—“

“Well bring him out then! I’ll feed him! Then we don’t have to trouble poor Mr. Park here. Plus I love babies,” she pauses for a wicked lift of her eyebrow then adds, “especially when they’re not mine.” 

Namjoon bursts out laughing. This lady is nuts. He goes into the back room to see Jin struggling to calm the baby down to put the bottle in his mouth. 

The moment Jin hands the baby to him though, all fussing stops. “There, there. Appa’s here,” he murmurs quietly, careful to support the neck of the baby as he holds the baby against his chest, glad that the sound of his voice is always a balm for the little one.

“Thanks, hyung,” he says to Jin. “I’m sorry he was crying so loudly. The Hiro Yanagimachi lady says she wants to try to feed the baby. Is it okay if—”

“No shit. If she wears Hiro, she can do whatever the fuck she wants,” Jin says, surrendering the bottle of formula to Namjoon with a dramatic sigh. “It’s official. Your son hates me.”

Namjoon raises the milk bottle to Jin as he makes his way out of the backroom. “I owe you a drink.”

“It better have alcohol in it!” Jin calls out, “A lot of alcohol!”

Pretending not to hear Jin, Namjoon deftly steps onto the shop floor with the baby. 

“Oh, he’s gorgeous!” the lady says. “Come here, little one,” she motions for Namjoon to bring the baby into her arms where she’s seated in the plush leather club chair.

She settles the baby expertly in the crook of her arm, drips a few drops of formula from the bottle on the inside of her wrist to check its temperature and then stuffs the bottle into the babe’s mouth.  

Eagerly, the baby starts sucking in loud gulps. 

“You’re a hungry little one, aren’t you?” she coos. 

“You’re a natural, Ma’am,” Namjoon says, as he bends down to work the conditioner into the shoe. With his son contentedly drinking, Namjoon lets instinct take over, fingers sliding a soft rag supple with mink oil over the beautifully cut leather.

“Well, I did raise three children after all. They’re all grown now, and the little shits aren’t giving me any grandbabies,” she says wryly. “I guess this little guy will have to do for now,” she lets her fingers linger over the plump of the cheeks. “Right little fella? You’re gonna drink up and be handsome just like daddy. So. Where’s Mom?” she asks, “Or Dad?”

Namjoon is working on the other boot, when the question comes like a salvo, stilling his rag mid-polish. “Mom,” he says tightly, willing his voice not to crack with emotion. “His mom–my wife–is uh––”

She senses that she might have crossed the line. Perhaps this question is too personal.

“Well. You don’t have to tell me. From how good looking this baby is, she must be beautiful.”

She is. Namjoon bites the inside of his jaw. No one has said that before just seeing his son. His voice cracks a bit. “His name is Haneul. Haneul means heaven.”

“Oh,” she says, realizing perhaps she really should have just kept her big mouth shut in the first place. “Oh.” A long pause ensues and then she says, “Well, I guess this is when I would put my foot in my mouth except that you’re still cleaning the boot it’s still stuck in. I’m sorry for your loss—”

“Oh no no! It’s not what you think. His mom–my wife–she’s not in heaven–” 

More like hell. 

“She’s in–”

“In?”

“Incarcerated.”

Slowly, with the baby drowsily draining the last dregs of formula, Namjoon busies himself with brushing on the first layer of polish of the boot—making sure to get the toe box, then the instep, the vamp, followed by the shaft. 

At each part of the boot, he pauses, gathering courage to retell each step of your story. How you both met in the vegetable truck. The border police. The mountain pass. The avalanche. The arrest. The stupid court appointed lawyer. The chief who sat in this very same seat. The baby. Oh so much about the baby. 

“We named him Haneul because he’s our little piece of heaven, bridging the hell of separation between my wife and me." He swallows hard before continuing, "And because only heaven can help us now to reunite.”

There’s silence as she takes it all in.  

Namjoon curses himself as a drop of his tears–one, then two–slide along the now polished boot. He cleans it off quickly, and is startled to see his own gaunt reflection staring back at him.

It’s truly been hell.

“I’m not sure how heaven can help. But I’m sure as hell getting my husband to help you.”

Namjoon looks up, startled.

“My husband is a lawyer—”

“It’s okay, Ma’am. We have a court-appointed one. He’s shitty but we don’t need to bother your hus—”

“You don’t understand. My husband a fucking good lawyer. He’s the best of the best—the Lee in Lee and Partners.”

—-------------------------------------------

Chapter 9

Sometimes even when you’re far from home, you find family. 

Here at the one-year celebration of the birth of Baby Bear, you’re surrounded by familiar faces who’ve become your family. 

There’s Jin and his wife and all the boys from the shoeshine shop. There’s the social worker from the hospital. There’s your lawyer Lee and his partner (she always says she made partner before anyone else), with Baby Bear in her arms. Even Namjoon’s befuddled art professor with his mismatched socks managed to find the right address. 

Your heart is so, so full.

There’s a tradition from Namjoon’s hometown that every one-year-old celebrates. The baby gets to pick one item from an array of items as an act of choosing his destiny. Here on the tray table, each guest prepared an item for the baby. There’s a play stethoscope, a clipboard (from the social worker), an artist’s sketch pencil, a horsehair brush from a shoeshine kit, and a gavel. 

The baby makes a grab for the pencil and everyone cheers. “Just like Daddy!” they say, while you and Namjoon exchange smiles. 

When everyone has gone home, and Haneul given his bath and his favorite bear plushie to babble to in his crib, you and Namjoon clean up. It's your very own place bought with the settlement from the government for human rights abuses by the border police. The Chief is now in jail for life. 

Lawyer Lee found three other women who came forward to testify against him, each bringing children to court who not only resemble him in face and feature, but also in DNA. All were granted amnesty from deportation and a huge settlement. 

And your murder charge? It was thrown out. The court learned that Chief has been bribing the public prosecutor to charge witnesses with bogus crimes like drug possession so as to discredit them in the future if they ever press charges against the border police.

In your brand new bed, with Namjoon by your side, you melt in his arms, relishing the warmth of his body. 

“Tired?” he asks, lips ghosting at the back of your neck.

“No. Not really,” you sigh with pleasure, arching at the contact of his tongue behind your ear. 

“Wanna try?” he asks tentatively in between nibbles at the shell of your ear. 

Months of being separated as man and wife has made you feel skittish. The first night together was difficult, and awkward. Namjoon ended up in a chair next to the bed, holding your hand and stroking your hair until you fell asleep. Over the next few nights, he eased you back into sleeping next to him, cuddling, getting used to his touch, his hands, his mouth on you.

You wish you could just go back to how you once were, frustrated at how long you’re making him wait to finally be your husband in the fullest sense again. 

But he’s patient. And kind. And doesn’t insist. He just loves you and loves you and loves you.

“Y-yeah,” you say with a shaky breath as you feel his fingers find their way to the hem of your nightgown and trail up, up, up your knee then your bare thigh, over the round of your ass, caressing your hip, and your belly.

“I love your body, you know?” he says, spooning you tight against him, fingers dipping down from your belly button, to go lower. 

“But the baby has changed so much of it–”

“Still my hot wife,” he whispers, a finger now boldly parting your folds to tease the hidden heat there. “My very hot wife.” Bringing his thumb to your clit, he rubs a light circle there. “This okay?”

“Very okay,” you moan, pushing back into him to feel the hard length of him against the cleft of your ass. “Shit, you’re so hard, Bear.”

“Hard just for you.” he gasps, rocking his hips. 

Urgently, you clench your thighs around his hand while you bring his other hand up to your breast. “Please, baby. Want your mouth here.”

Namjoon doesn’t need another prompting. He turns you over and unbuttons your nightgown, and gives himself a second to drink you in, your breasts bare and beautiful before him, neck arched with want just for him. 

He bends down and teases your nipple with his tongue, fingers stimulating you in the hot slick between your legs. 

“Just my mouth, here?” he says as he laves at the other nipple. “Nowhere else?”

“Joon, Joon.”

Namjoon chuckles quietly. The last few nights of helping you to get to a place where you want him as much as he wants you has paid off. 

“I gotcha, love.” He blows against your skin inside your thighs, placing little kisses everywhere, before descending on your clit, full lips kissing then licking you.

He eats you gently, patiently waiting for your fingers to pull on his hair, for every exhalation to come out in sharp, desperate gasps. You might have forgotten how he feels on you, but he remembers all your tells, remembers the thrill of pleasure when you whimper for his cock in broken breaths: Bear, Bear, Bear.

He slides a finger in, massaging your walls, enjoying the wet heat. “You’re dripping, love.”

“‘Only for y-you,” you warble as you grind yourself against him desperately. 

Namjoon keeps at it, nose then lips then tongue on you and inside you; his hands sometimes playing with your tits, sometimes stroking along the outside of your thighs, trailing ever so lightly that your very cells on your skin are drawn to his fingertips.

“Shit. Bear. Bear.”

There it is. 

“‘Want it,” you cry. “Wanna cum.” Your fingers find your clit, and rubbing yourself with one hand, you reach to palm his erection through his boxers. “Cum with me. Inside.” You can’t wait any longer. 

“Yeah? You sure?” he asks.

You nod, frantic, as you paw at the waistband of his underwear. “Need you.”

Namjoon scrambles off the bed to shove down his boxers, groaning the moment you wrap your hands around his length. 

“Let me get some lube, baby. It’s been a long time. Don’t want it to hurt, love.”

“Hurry.” 

Laughing, he reaches over the side of the bed and grabs bottle from the nightstand. “Haneul is asleep. We have all the time in the world.”

“I just really want you,” you say, growing more aroused as you watch him lube himself. “Let me, Joon.” 

You squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, hands taking over the bottle and stroking him with firm, full strokes, from the tip to the base, adding some pressure to his balls before stroking up again and thumbing the slit on the tip that’s leaking pre-cum. 

“Your hands feel so good,” he chokes. “Best hands in the world.”

You savor how his cock throbs at your touch, how his very being seems to tremble when your hands are on him.

“Inside, Bear. I’m ready.”

He kisses you, kisses you and kisses you on your jaw, your neck, your nose and your eyes. Kisses you everywhere because he can’t believe you’re here, and you’re real. He angles himself above you and steels himself to make it last, make it good for you. With your hand guiding him into you, he lets you set the pace.

You whine at the first intrusion of his thick cock and Namjoon stills himself, resting on his elbows, making sure not to crush you with his weight, but breathing so hard because all he wants is to fuck right into you, right now. 

He kisses your hairline. “You okay? Want me to pull out?”

“N-no… want you,” you say, a little teary, not from the soreness but from how he’s so, so good to you. 

“Brave sparrow… let me make you feel good,” he pants, as his hand reaches between your bodies to play with your clit. 

You relax at his touch, letting his expert fingers carry you on a wave higher and higher. With each of his circling of your clit, you cant your hips a just little more, just a little closer to him, take him just a little deeper. 

Namjoon clenches his jaw. You feel so tight, and warm, and wet and he’s about to lose his fucking mind. The way you take him is so agonizingly slow; slow–-but perfect. He will have you no other way than on your terms and on your time.

“Bear.” You feel the tremors take hold of your limbs, your synapses on heightened alert as your body readies to hurtle over the edge. 

“Cumming?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

You fuck into his cock wildly, compelled by raw need to have him reach your g-spot over and over. Your fingers claw at his back just so you can cleave completely to him. 

Namjoon fights off the urge to buck his hips into you. He wants to see you cum on his cock. God he’s missed the way you moan and arch into him in deep desperate heaves of your body. 

Your orgasm comes in wave after wave, cunt squeezing his cock so tightly that it makes him bite down on his lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Sweet Sparrow. So good to hear you sing,” he praises as you come down from your high. 

Grabbing your waist, he gets on his knees and pulls you to him, loving the way you instinctively wrap your legs around him. He wants to see your cum all over his dick, wants to see evidence of what he does to you. Pulling out a little he sees the evidence of your arousal coating his length. “You came hard, love.”

“Want you to cum, too,” you blush. “Fuck me hard, Joon.”

He loses it then, drives his thick cock back into your tight heat, pounds into you, hands on your ass to give him the leverage to thrust even deeper into you. All those nights of missing you, wanting you, needing you elides into this moment. 

He looks on with satisfaction as your breasts sway with each hard thrust, every moan from you timed to each surge of his hips.

“Eyes on me,” he pants. “You’re too tight. Too goddamn tight—agh–”

He cums hard, harder than ever in his life, face twisting as his balls tighten before that sweet release. Hot streams of his cum fill you, each one accompanied by a sob of your name. Sparrow. Sparrow. Sparrow.

Your hand cradles his face. He looks so vulnerable when he climaxes, when everything he needs in the world is what only you can give him. 

He collapses hard over you, breath hot on your neck, body slick with sweat, cock still inside you.

“We made it, Bear,” you say, smiling at him. 

Startled by your words, he grins. “We made it.”

Later that night, you watch the steady rise and fall of Namjoon’s chest. Next to him, Haneul, in the baby monitor, looks just like his father, mouth slightly agape with the head tilted to the right. 

It certainly feels like you’ve made it, together, for real. But you know there will be other times on this journey where you’ll again and again face the fear of whether you’ll make it. 

Whatever the case, you’ll walk with your Bear, and he with you. 

And that makes the journey altogether worthwhile. 

----------------------------------------

Posted on Dec 30, 2020, completed on Aug 7, 2022 by @sahmfanficbts. All Rights Reserved © 2022. @sahmfanficbts. Please do not translate, post or upload this content on to any platform including YouTube without permission. This is a work of fiction.

Dear Reader,

What a ride. Thank you for sticking with me and with Bear and Sparoow. The immigrant story is close to my heart. My father was an illegal immigrant, as was his father, fleeing ethnic cleansing on a little boat piled with screaming children and terrified men and women. My grandmother died stateless in a country that did not recognise her 60 year contribution to society all because she had no birth certificate since the entire family fled in a hurry.

Witnessing the indiginity of how incarcerated women and women of ethnic minorities are treated in the labor and delivery ward in a land I now live as an expat, I crafted this story to tell the story of women who have little opportunity to let their voices be heard.

This fic carries parts of me that I carry all the time. I hope that a part of you will carry a part of it wherever you go. May it give us all a sense of compassion for the outcast, courage to stand up to injustice, and connection with our fellow sojourners on life's journey.

All best,

Sam

wicked • 5

↳ Summary: In a desperate hope to stop war from breaking you are a serviced to wed the most vile man alive, the one who has committed atrocities and war crimes beyond comprehension, he who is responsible for the fall of many nations, the wicked prince who’s heart is made of stone. You are to marry a man who challenges every belief and moral you stand for, all while being faced in a foreign land with nobody but yourself too trust…But are you both truly that different? Or is hate not too far from love?

↳ Pairing: Jungkook/reader

↳ Genre: arranged marriage AU, enemies to lovers, it’s kind of a period AU??? Historical but also technically not? prince!AU, eventual smut

Word Count: 5.3k

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Note: bye this took me way longer then needed to write but its finally here and lemme tell yall, they might as well already kiss T_T

“I can’t apologize to you enough Wheein.” 

Your morning had been horrid, your head pounded and you had vomited whatever you had eaten the day before right up. The tight dress you wore, the sun shining on your face, everything made you feel sick.

“M’lady,” Wheein frowned gently, “It’s not a big deal…” 

“No it is!” You insistent as you walked side by side with her to the arena, you had slept in later than usual, perhaps Wheein had known you wouldn’t be able to wake up as early and you had no intentions of eating breakfast at this rate. 

“I was utterly irresponsible last night, I shouldn’t have let those men persuade me to drink and above all else I shouldn’t of made you drink with me!” You stopped as you faced her, your expression firm before it softened a little as you mumbled, “Please forgive me. I’m sure it was an unpleasant night having to get me up all those stairs and somehow into bed.” 

“M’lady,” Wheein offered a weak smile as she nodded her head, “Of course I forgive you. I only wanted to make sure you were safe last night, and you are! No feelings harm.” 

She tenderly hooked her arm around yours as she began to walk once more as she spoke, “And don’t give me so much credit m’lady. His Highness helped you to bed after all. There was no way we were making it up the stairs last night.” 

Wheein laughed tenderly but your body had stiffened at her words as you did a double take. His Highness…? 

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