Rating: PG-13 for all
Summary: 4 short drabbles inspired by girl!Ryeowook in this picture.
A/N: Written for oh_hesitate. Prompts for these drabbles come from her, g_myzo, and kayevelyn.
Of all his classes, Jongwoon hates Russian the most.
The classes are always held on Saturdays, which means that his weekends are burnt, and he has to travel back to his university for 3-hour-long lectures in which the Russian teacher, a burly bearded man whose thick accent mangles his minimal Korean into complete indecipherability, drones on about verbs and conjugations and forces them all to speak one by one, tongues tripping clumsily over the heavy unfamiliar syllables.
But he never once skips a class, not even when he’s been out till 4 am on a Friday night and has had barely 3 hours of sleep, not even when he knows that all he’ll do once he’s there is fall asleep, not even when he spends the next few days complaining to Sungmin about how horribly boring Russian is.
“Well, why don’t you drop the class then?” Sungmin wants to know, and Jongwoon hesitates, because he can’t tell Sungmin that the only thing keeping him going to that class every week is the sight of the tiny, delicate girl from the music faculty who always comes in with her dresses swinging prettily around her knees, the one with the clear, musical voice and the small sweet smiles and the shy little glances she gives Jongwoon whenever he’s near her.</blockquote>
There’s nothing Jongwoon likes better than to wake up in the mornings to the smell of cookies baking in the oven, and when he pulls his shorts on to walk out into the kitchen, it’s always to be greeted by the sight of Ryeowook at the kitchen counter, apron tied around her waist and her hands dusted with flour up to the elbows, as she carefully whips egg whites for meringues and decorates freshly-baked muffins with little hearts.
“For you,” Ryeowook will say with a smile, feeding him cookies from hands sticky with chocolate, and Jongwoon will eat every bite, lick the crumbs off Ryeowook’s thumbs, swipe chocolate sauce off her fingers.
“Is it good?” Ryeowook always wants to know, and he’ll say yes, he’ll always say yes, and then he’ll put his arms around her as she works at her baking and press his nose into her hair, her cheek, her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of cookies and Ryeowook.
Ryeowook’s skin is too delicate, too fair, and burns too easily, and yet she’s the one who always tugs Jongwoon to the beach or the park for picnics. Jongwoon finds them shady spots under trees and carries the picnic basket, always stuffed full to overflowing, while Ryeowook runs ahead, feet light in her slippers, sundress billowing behind her in the wind until Jongwoon catches up to her and tugs her dress down, glaring darkly at the men who are staring at her, at pale exposed thighs and neck and collarbones and slim arms.
“Wear something else next time, something that covers up,” he tells Ryeowook when they’re finally seated on a mat on the ground, safely shaded from the sun’s blazing rays, and Ryeowook looks astonished, arranging her dress so that it covers her legs, tucked demurely under her. It doesn’t do anything, though, to cover what’s up top, and Jongwoon’s torn between wanting to put a jacket around her or drink in all that perfect skin on display.
“Why?” Ryeowook asks, pouting, “it’s too warm out to wear anything more, Jongwoon.”
Jongwoon’s inclined to agree, until a jogger goes past them and almost runs into the next tree with how he’s staring at Ryeowook, and Jongwoon stands up while flinging a few choice epithets at him, and he takes off, running far quicker than he was previously.
“Jongwoon,” Ryeowook says plaintively, and Jongwoon reaches out and pulls her to him, arm curling possessively around her small shoulders.
“No one else should be looking at you,” he whispers, thumb tracing the curve where her neck slopes into her shoulder, envisioning his mouth following it, licking trails along petal-soft skin, and Ryeowook breathes into his chest, shaking her head slightly but melting into his touch.
Jongwoon knows that Ryeowook’s very pretty. Perhaps too pretty, he sometimes thinks, scowling as he slumps on the bench and watches a crowd of boys congregate around her, trying to get her attention. There’s Kyuhyun, whose smirk makes Jongwoon want to punch him each time; Kibum, the one who walks and acts like he’s the school’s hottest star; Sungmin, who’s close to Ryeowook and hugs her often – much too often, in Jongwoon’s opinion; and Jungsu, the noisy one with the dimple that Ryeowook seems to think is cute, for whatever reason.
In his heart of hearts, he’d be quite glad to toss every one of those boys into a burning bonfire, but nothing quite beats the sense of satisfaction he gets when Ryeowook brushes each of them away with a sweet smile and a quiet word and walks to sit with him instead, slipping her hand in his and tucking her head against his shoulder.
She’s mine, his face quite clearly tells them, until they finally slink off, and learn not to talk to Ryeowook so much, not unless they want a couple of bruises and black eyes from Jongwoon.
“Why are you so jealous all the time?” Ryeowook sighs at him. “You're the one I love, Jongwoon.”
“I can’t help it,” Jongwoon mumbles, pressing hot kisses to her eyelids, her cheeks, her lips, until she sighs again and gathers him into her, skin flushed and warm with desire.
“You’re silly,” she tells him afterwards, eyes half-closed and already sliding into sleep, and then adds, with typical obliviousness to her own desirability, “No one else ever even looks at me, it’s only you, Jongwoon.”
She’s right, Jongwoon thinks as he watches her fall asleep, hair spilling over the curve of her jaw and over her bare shoulder, the necklace with the interlinked couple rings that he’d given her months ago falling gently over the swell of her chest. No one else sees her like this, soft and vulnerable and so beautiful it’s almost painful to look at, only Jongwoon, and it fills him with a warm rush of happiness to know that this lovely girl is his.