Something In The Rain | Jungkook

something in the rain | jungkook

summary: you moved in next door to jungkook in a tiny european town to save yourself from a bad relationship and your extreme burnout from your job. warnings: drug addiction mentioned, toxic relationship struggles, infidelity, storm/bad weather, some slightly suggestive dialogue genre: fluff

You are looking for literally anything to mask the roar of the sea outside, your hands shaking as you turn over your house looking for your noise-canceling headphones. When you had decided to come to this picturesque European seaside town as a sabbatical from your demanding job as a rare antique dealer, you hadn’t imagined how much rain you’d see. This, however, was the worst storm yet, shaking the timbers of your cottage and seemingly threatening to blow the whole house away like something from the Wizard of Oz.

There is a sudden knock at the door. With an inkling as to who is there, you run to answer it, and are unsurprised when the door blows open to reveal the only person you know who is crazy enough to be out in weather like this: your next-door neighbor, Jungkook. His curly hair is plastered to his face with rain, and his clothes cling to his well-muscled frame, soaked through. “Can I come in?” he asks breathlessly. 

“Yeah, of course!” You say, ushering him in and running to grab a blanket. “What are you doing here?” you can’t help but ask as you toss your largest and softest one over his shoulders. 

He pushes his hair from his eyes, grinning. “I came to help you build a fire,” he says, pulling a bag off his shoulder to reveal dry wood inside. “I guessed your power had probably gone out too, and I wasn’t sure if you knew how to make one.”

“I most definitely do not,” you say, feeling a rush of gratitude once again for his thoughtfulness. This is not the first time Jungkook has swept in and saved the day. 

He bends over the fire, and you can’t help but remember what’s happened in your life since you met him. Down the street from your house, there is a small community gym. On your second day in the town, you’d gotten a pass, noticing someone with broad shoulders and an arm full of tattoos and fluffy black hair punching at a bag with tremendous force. His back had been turned, but you had been intimidated by the fervor of his strikes. He had been gone when you left.

On the way home, you’d stopped into a quaint little cafe for a pastry and hot chocolate. It had begun to rain, and you told yourself that you just wanted something to warm you before you walked the rest of the way home. The truth, you knew, was much more complicated. You despised the rain, and wanted desperately to be out of it, so that the attached memories wouldn’t come flooding back. You had pushed open the door to the cafe, pulled off your hood, and looked up — right into a pair of bright doe eyes.

You had been taken aback when you had recognized his tattoos and his hair as the boxer from the gym. His face was so kind and open, despite the piercings and tattoos. And he was handsome, in the way supermodels were handsome — almost too beautiful to be real. It was love at first sight. 

You had been so engrossed in him that it had startled you when the church bell next door started ringing. You had jumped, and he had giggled at you. “I’m sorry,” you had said automatically.

“It’s okay,” he’d replied, his voice soft and gentle and entirely captivating, his wide eyes literally sparkling, his smile warm enough to be an environmental hazard. “You were in the gym this morning.”

You had been shocked he’d noticed you. “I was,” you had agreed, not sure what to say. 

“I’m in your way,” he had realized, shaking himself. He’d stepped to the side. “I’m Jungkook.”

You had given him your name. He watched you with interest as you examined the hanging menu. “Do you have any recommendations?” you ask him.

“They have a spinach and cheese pastry that is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten,” he says. “But their coffee cake is also great, if you’d rather have something sweet.”

You ordered the coffee cake and the hot chocolate and couldn’t help but steal a glance at him. He had sat down by the window with his coffee and his bagel, his eyes still on you, and had gestured to you to sit down across from him. 

“You looked like you were training hard this morning,” you said when you sat down at the table with your things. 

He shrugged. “I do my best. Did you just move here?” he asked. 

“Yeah, I’m here for the next six months,” you had replied, and his eyes had lit up. 

“Just six months?” he asked you, an extra question hidden in his words.

“I’m on leave from my job,” you had explained.

“What was your job?”

“I found and sold rare heirlooms and antiques.”

His eyes got wide. “Really? Tell me about it!”

And you had. He asked you every question there was and then some, until you had stopped him. “I feel like I’m talking a lot,” you said, your tone apologetic. “Can I ask questions about you too?”

He had blushed a bit. “Sorry,” he had said . “You’re just interesting.” He had smiled when you had looked shyly up at him, a bit embarrassed. “Ask me anything you want.”

And you’d asked him almost as many questions as he’d asked you. It turned out he owned the gym. He taught fitness classes there. And it seemed like he had made a lot of money from a different business he owned, but had sold, and then he'd settled in this small town to escape the pressure of being in charge of his own company. He now lived a life he loved.

Talking to him had inspired you. You had been feeling burnt out yourself - hence the sabbatical - and it had been interesting to hear how he’d just walked away from everything for the sake of his own happiness.

“So, do you think you’ll ever leave here?” You had finally asked him. “I mean, aren’t you bored?”

He smiles. “I’m never bored. I have a lot of good friends around me, and every day I get to do exactly what I want.” He gives a contented sigh. “Although, I am about to be late for a class at the gym.”

“Oh my gosh,” you exclaimed, looking at your watch. “I’m so sorry!”

He leans forward. “I had a great time, so you don’t need to apologize.” Then he stands up. “Do you live in town?”

“Um, yes. Right by the cliffs,” you say. 

“The Rock House?” He asks, naming the cottage where you live.

“Yes,” you reply. “How did you know?”

He gives a small smile. “I live next door.” He holds out his hand for you to shake. “I guess our meeting was fate.”

You took his hand and met his gaze, his eyes sparkling into your own. Despite everything that had happened in your life so far, a part of you hoped he might be right.

There were plenty of meetings after that. You found yourself bumping into Jungkook at every turn -- it was a small village, and he was everywhere, assisting the small grocery store with shipments, helping elderly townspeople across the street, even lifting wheelchairs up the gym stairs. He was always helping someone, and he was always smiling. And he somehow always caught you looking. His smile every time you met eyes became something you looked forward to every day. 

One particularly memorable Saturday, the weather was milder and drier than normal. You had taken advantage of the warmth and sunlight to hang up your clothes on a line between two trees. You couldn’t figure out how to tie the knot to make it stick, and were staring at the line in defeat when you heard his voice behind you. “Can I help?”

You had nearly jumped out of your skin, and he’d giggled. “It’s just me,” he had said, throwing his arms up in a placating gesture.

“You scared me,” you’d admitted, and he beamed.

“I can tie that knot,” he told you, taking the line from your hands and deftly twisting it around the tree in a quick, sturdy knot. He caught your impressed gaze and winked. “I’m good with my hands.”

His tone was light and neutral, but you still had to keep yourself from imagining what he meant by that. “I can see that,” you said coolly, hoping he would attribute your blush to the warmth of the day. 

Unprompted, he began hanging your clothes up to dry. You silently thanked everything that was holy that you had left your undergarments inside and helped him. “Thanks,” you had said. “I was struggling with that knot.”

He laughs. “I know. I watched you try for like five minutes before I came to help.”

Your jaw dropped, and you had whacked him with the damp t-shirt you were holding. He laughed, swatting at you with the towel in his arms, which you had dodged with a giggle. Satisfied, he had gone back to hanging up your clothes. “That’s more like it,” he’d said.

You’d looked at him curiously. “What?”

He looked at you, his smile a bit sad. “Not to sound like a creepy old man, but I wish you'd smile more," he said. "I have a feeling there's a good reason you don't, but it eases my mind when you laugh."

You had watched him go, feeling that fluttering in your stomach that you knew meant you had a crush. Was it really too much to hope? you had remembered thinking to yourself. Almost immediately, you tried to shake the feeling from your chest. Hope had been a liar too many times for this to ruin your carefully constructed, comfortable, peaceful loneliness.

Still, it was hard to dispel the tenderness that had taken up residence in your heart for Jungkook -- it went too deep, like a particularly stubborn dandelion whose roots had twisted around the earth in tight knots, impossible to pluck out entirely. Your daily routine involved the gym, and you saw him every day. It was rare that he didn’t speak to you, and you couldn’t bring yourself to treat him with the cold indifference you had used on others who had tried to befriend you back home. It was the same with everyone in this small village. So many of them were elderly, and many had never been outside their small country, but they were open-hearted and kind people who wanted to help. You were the recipient of plenty of dinner invitations, and despite the uneasiness you felt around people, you found yourself accepting more than declining. Jungkook came to a fair few dinners with you. He knew everyone, somehow, and always brought something to share with everyone. 

Watching him now as he stoked the small fire he had built in your stone fireplace, you realize that your heart is in a much better state now than it was when you’d arrived five months ago. This village, and the man who had welcomed you to it, had healed a part of you they had never hurt, and the thought of leaving -- not just for awhile, but for good -- made you ache with despair. You tried not to think of it at all, instead focusing on Jungkook.

“So,” he says, turning around. “I have some questions for you.”

“You usually do,” you counter, smiling wryly at him. He sits on the stool across from you and knits his hands together. “Ask away,” you encourage.

“I’ve noticed something about you.” He seems a little nervous. “And the rain.”

Your heart drops. “Really?” you squeak, your voice an octave higher than usual.

“I don’t think you like it very much,” he says carefully. “Can I know why?”

You are torn between two options: kicking him out of your house and moving out of the country, or spilling your guts. You’re leaning toward the former when you make the mistake of looking up into his eyes. They are so kind and so completely non-judgmental, and you suddenly know that nothing you say to him will change the way he looks at you. So you take a deep breath and tip over the edge.

“I was engaged, about a year ago,” you finally admit to him. “To this...guy. He used to dance with me in the rain, every time there was a storm. And now, it’s gotten a little better, but I still don’t like to be out in the rain. I don't even like to hear it, most days.”

He nods slowly. “Painful memories,” he guesses.

You nod back, confirming his words. “That’s actually why I came here when I did. We would have been married on the day I arrived in town, and I was having a hard time moving on when I was surrounded by all the same things I was surrounded by when we were together.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches. “I’m sorry,” he says. “A broken heart brought you here. I should’ve known.”

“I feel kind of silly,” you tell him. “I’ve had plenty of friends who broke it off with someone, and it didn’t take them long to be over it and doing well. But for some reason this messed me up bad.”

His eyes are understanding. “Heartache is some of the worst pain there is,” he tells you, his tone comforting but not pitying. “What happened between you two?”

He leans back, his gaze fixed on you as he listens to your story. The warmth from the flames casts a soft glow on his face, highlighting the tenderness in his expression. Your stomach turns over as you realize that for maybe the first time in your life, you are being listened to with patience and a desire to understand.

"He was... well, charming at first," you begin, your voice tinged with a mixture of bitterness and nostalgia. "We met at an art gallery, and he sort of swept me off my feet, to be honest. He was charismatic, and he had this vibrant passion for life. And we both loved art and history."

You pause, memories resurfacing, threatening to break the surface of your carefully calm tone and reveal how torn up you are inside. Jungkook's gaze remains steady, silently urging you to continue.

"We were engaged within months, and everything felt perfect," you say, a wistful smile playing on your lips. "We would spend hours strolling through museums, exploring flea markets, and envisioning the stories behind each artifact. It felt like a dream."

Jungkook's brow furrows slightly, sensing the shift in your tone. "But dreams are just dreams," he remarks softly. “They aren’t real.”

"Exactly," you reply, your voice heavy. "As time went on, I started noticing... things. He missed social engagements without any warning, he started keeping things from me, and I started feeling this mental distance from him. I didn’t know what it was, I just knew something was wrong. It ate at me. For months."

Jungkook's expression darkens, his eyes reflecting a mix of concern and anger. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he says sincerely.

You take another deep breath before continuing, words spilling from you like the water spilling from your roof's rickety old gutter. This is the first time you will tell anyone any of this out loud. "The breaking point was when I found out about -- about all the lies. First, I found out he had been dishonest about his financial situation. He had amassed a significant amount of debt from gambling in Macau three years before we met, and he expected me to bail him out of it."

Jungkook clenches his fists, his jaw set in a firm line. "That's ... well, it's manipulative and unfair."

"Exactly," you repeat, your voice growing stronger. "And then, I found out he was a drug addict. He'd had a habit for years but hadn't told me. I tried to get him help, but he refused. The final straw was when I found out...” You suddenly pause, the emotion rising in your chest, tears welling up in your eyes.

“What?” Jungkook whispers, leaning in toward you and watching your face carefully. His mouth opens as the first hot tear rolls down your face, and he kneels down in front of you, putting his tattooed hand over yours. 

“You can tell me, honey,” he whispers, his expression determined and encouraging.

“It’s the most embarrassing part. After all that I’d done -- paid off his debt, checked him into and out of rehabs, bailed him out of jail -- I found out he’d been cheating on me.” You look up at him, and he looks absolutely devastated. 

“No,” he says. “That is terrible.”

“It was,” you agree, wiping your eyes. “So I finally left. That conversation was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I had to watch my entire world crumble into nothing. My life, my future plans, all of it was gone in such a short amount of time.

Jungkook takes a seat beside you on the sofa, pulling you into his arms. “Wow,” he sighs, running a hand down the back of your head soothingly. “I’m glad you got away from him.”

"It wasn't easy," you admit, a hint of a tremor in your voice, but you still allow yourself to rest against his neck. "But coming here...it helped. More than I thought. Meeting you, meeting all of you, has really done me so much good. I don’t want to go back,” you confess.

“Then stay,” he urges, looking down at you. “We’ll take care of you.”

You look into his eyes. “You will?”

“Of course!” he says. “Imagine it. In a couple weeks, we’ll see the beginnings of spring. You and I can plant some seeds in your backyard as early as tomorrow, and you won’t have to leave before you see them become flowers.”

“But my job --” you begin. He cuts you off.

“You lived and worked in America, right? Do you even know how much better Europe is for historical artifacts?”

This is hard to argue with. You look out the window at the storm, trying and failing to think of another excuse for why you can’t stay with him, even though all you want to do is give in. You are terrified of what will happen, of what it will mean if you remain here, in this place, with this man who has revived feelings in your chest you were sure had died with your last relationship. You know you couldn’t survive it if you got so close to Jungkook, only to have your heart shattered once again.

Jungkook, for his part, has grown tired of your silence. “Listen to me,” he says, sitting back and holding you by your shoulders. He is sterner than you’ve ever heard him be. “You deserve to be happy, no matter who made you feel like you don’t.”

You can’t help but stare at him -- so beautiful and fierce in the firelight that he looks like he came from another world. It is impossible to speak in the face of so much beauty and emotion. His eyes are searching your face, willing you to believe his words, and you want to. You feel more tears stream down your face as you wish you could.

He draws in a breath, standing up. “I think you need some time,” he says. “I’ll let you process. I’m sorry if -- if I was out of line.”

And a couple seconds later, he has closed the door gently, rejoining the storm.

The pain in your heart is palpable. You feel it with every beat, like something is trying to explode from you. You deserve to be happy, you repeat to yourself. You try, in your raw state, to figure out what happy even feels like. And your mind latches on to a foggy afternoon meal with Jungkook and an old widow from the village. He had helped her knead bread dough, and you had watched them as the hazy light shone on their faces from the big front window. Just as he’d met your gaze, the sun had finally emerged from the fog, and a golden beam illuminated him as he’d smiled. It becomes clear to you in that moment: he is happiness. Your happiness. 

With this realization comes another: he is absolutely worth the risk of pain that comes with love.

In a split second, you have thrown on a pair of slides and run after him into the rain.

The wind is sending the frigid drops pelting into your skin like bullets, and you run against it without a coat, arms stinging, hair loose and wild, your pajamas quickly getting soaked. It takes you longer than usual to arrive at Jungkook’s door, and when he opens it and sees you, his jaw drops.

“You make me happy,” you shout over the gale. “You make me happier than I can ever even remember being!”

His smile is so bright that you could see it from space. “Did you come out in the rain to tell me that?” he says back, his eyes welling up with tears.

“Yes,” you say, slurring a bit, your lips numb from the cold. “I did.”

He rushes into the storm, lifting your wet body into a warm embrace. He holds you tight, and the storm raging around you seems to quieten for a moment. “I love you,” he says into your ear, his voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too,” you say weakly. “I really do.”

He pulls back and pushes your hair back from your face. Then he kisses you, holding your cheeks in his warm hands, gentle but firm and insistent, for so long that you grab onto his waist for warmth and support. He winds his arms around your waist as he continues the kiss, and you are grateful his arms are so strong, because your knees have given out, overwhelmed by emotion and the storm.

Finally, he presses his forehead to yours. “Rain is about to become your favorite kind of weather,” he promises, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead and cupping your face in both his hands again before continuing. “We’re going to rewrite all those memories so that you never have to think about the bad ones again.” 

Jungkook takes your hand, slow-dancing with you in the downpour, spinning you so that you splash in puddles you can only see by the one gas lamp right in the middle of your two houses. There are plenty of small, sweet kisses between you as you dance, resting your drenched head against his chest. You stay in the rain so long that it would look like you both showered in your clothes. He finally invites you back to his house.

“My clothes are soaked,” you say, hesitating on the threshold, but wanting to come into the warmth and his company.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice light and neutral again, but you can hear a hidden humor in his tone. “You can wear mine.”

Wedding Bells

Summary: Choi Seungcheol, your bff's older brother, is at your house when you get home from a very long day.

TW: Academic abuse of power, s3xual harassment

1.8k

Leave it to you for him to be here right now. Seungcheol, your best friend’s older brother, who had won your heart when you were twelve years old when he, two years older than you, had punched a school bully who was picking on you, just had to be there on the worst possible day for him to be sitting at the kitchen table.

You had had a tough childhood. The best thing about it had been meeting Bug in the second grade, when Seungcheol had been in fourth grade and you both still believed the opposite gender had cooties. You had grown up side-by-side, spending time at Bug’s house more than your own, and for the first several years you knew him, Seungcheol was just a thorn in your side: the one who teased incessantly and ruined perfectly good fun. 

But then, you had gone to junior high. Within weeks, you’d become the target of the local bully. He had singled you out because you were quiet and studious and tried not to draw attention to yourself, and he had made your life miserable for two weeks straight. He never touched you, though, so it was difficult to catch him at it. Until one fateful day when he had tripped you, sending you stumbling into a thorny bush and knocking your mouth against a curb. You still remembered the taste of blood as you pushed yourself up, crying.

And then it happened, so fast you barely registered. There was a thick smacking noise, and the bully tumbled backwards, landing on his butt in the dirt. You looked up to see Seungcheol standing there, his eyes flashing with rage. “Pick on someone your own size,” he’d growled. 

His eyes grew tender as he turned to look at you. “Are you okay?” he’d asked, helping you up and dusting you off. He winced when he saw your bottom lip, which was still bloody. “That looks bad.”

Your eyes had spilled over. Seungcheol had waved away the group of people who were staring at you before holding you against his shoulder and calling your mom to come get you. You had cried quietly into his school uniform until she’d come, but that day had changed the way you saw Seungcheol forever. 

You had spent your teenage years being quietly smitten with him -- popular, funny, talented, and smart, there had been plenty of girls who had liked him, and even a few he’d dated. You tried not to let it get to you, but you’d spent plenty a lonely night wishing it was you he was asking out. It was, to date, the only secret you had ever kept from Bug.

When time had come to select a college, you knew where you had wanted to go -- wherever he was. The college was close enough to home that it wasn’t suspicious why you’d like to go there, and Bug got in too — an easy excuse. You knew you’d wanted to study journalism since grade school, and the program was just what you needed. Within your first two semesters, you worked hard enough to make honor roll and dean’s list, although the highlight was still seeing Seungcheol’s eyes light up with pride whenever you mentioned a new achievement. Even if he still thought of you only as a little sister, his support meant everything to you.

“So it’s been that kind of day,” Seungcheol says languidly, turning his attention back to his phone. 

“You be quiet,” you say indignantly. “I’m not in the mood.”

He looks a bit surprised and displeased at your tone. “Bug isn’t here,” he says, standing up, “so if you’re going to be rude, you can do it by yourself.”

“This is my apartment,” you remind him, eyes on your papers, “so if you don’t like it, you can always go back to your own house.” You mentally curse your voice for how it shakes toward the end of the sentence. 

He notices the change in your tone, watching you now, eyes sharp and discerning and almost black in their intensity. “Hey,” he says, his voice gentler. “What happened? Why are you especially prickly today?”

You look at him to check if he’s sincere. His phone is nowhere to be seen, and his dark eyes are steady on your face. So you breathe in deeply, and then let it all out. “It’s that guy in my graphic design class again.”

Seungcheol wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Not that guy,” he groans. “What’d he do this time?” 

You robotically pull a microwavable burrito out of the fridge and unwrap it. “He just…said something really gross,” you say, still avoiding his gaze.

“Gross?” he presses, walking to stand across the table from you with his hands in the pocket of his gray sweats.

“It’s really not worth repeating,” you say, putting the burrito in the microwave looking through your tote bag for your laptop charger, although you feel Seungcheol’s gaze on you like a laser beam.

“No,” he says, moving closer, so that he’s standing right beside you, and places a hand on the countertop to prevent you from brushing past him. “You never go into detail, and I’m starting to get worried that that’s because it’s worse than you’re letting on.” 

When you still don’t look at him, he leans down toward you so that his eyes are nearly level with your own. “Hey,” he says, soft but firm. “Look at me.”

You finally do. He’s looking at you with a gentle half-smile, one dimple visible. He nods encouragingly.

You rub at your forehead in distress. “He told me that the teacher probably gives me extra credit for the way my legs look in these jeans.”

Cheol’s expression shifts, his gaze going icy. He raises an eyebrow, and his jaw flexes for a split second. “Is it always that bad?” he finally asks in a slightly strained voice, tense as a rubber band pulled tight over a watermelon.

“Well,” you say, hesitantly, “That’s actually pretty mild, but the real issue is…”

“Is what?” Cheol asks sharply. “Please tell me how this situation can become any less awful for you.”

You close your eyes as though trying to block out the memory. “He’s faculty,” you finally admit. “Tenured faculty.”

Your hands are shaking with anger. You brush your hair out of your face to try to hide it, but Cheol catches one of them and holds it. “Hey,” he says again as tears sting your eyes. “Look at me, love.”

You force yourself to meet his gaze. A single tear slips out, and he brushes it away with the hand you’re not holding. “I am so sorry,” he says, “And I’m going to do what I can to make it right, okay? No girls should have to deal with that.”

You nod. He’s looking at you with a burning look, worry mingled with iron-hot rage. “And I hope,” he says, his voice low, “That you’re not forgetting that you are the reason you’re here. Nobody else gave you your drive or your intelligence. You worked so hard and pushed yourself to succeed, and you have.” He hesitates, seeming to catch himself in his passionate words. Then, in a tender tone you rarely hear from him, he says, “I’ve never met anyone who does it like you.”

You look up at him, and his eyes are burning with something like anger — fierce and fiery, but not quite as hard. Your vocabulary has never failed you, and it doesn’t take long before you can name what you see on his face. Desire.

He’s still really close to your face. But now you’re looking at him with a question like his eyes know the answer. And they do — for a split second, they flick to your lips. He leans in slowly, and you involuntarily find yourself reaching for him as he closes the distance between you. 

He brushes your lips with his so softly at first — more of an experiment than a kiss, really. He pulls back to look at you again, and his face is red and his eyes are wide. Somehow, your hand has found its way to his cheek, and you brush the redness that has appeared there with your thumb, feeling your heart pounding. He seems to process for a moment — and then his face lights up with a realization. He leans in again, more sure of himself this time, and kisses you more deeply.

You wrap your arms around his neck as he does. Somewhere between kisses you feel him lift you off the chair into his arms, and he carries you to the couch where you kiss some more. Finally you slowly ease slightly apart, your foreheads still together, both of you breathing heavily. 

“Whoa,” you say, smiling at him sheepishly.

He laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Have you been wanting to do that awhile?”

You roll your eyes, blushing furiously. “Since seventh grade,” you admit, and he chuckles, pulling you into his chest so you’re snuggled in tight. 

“You mean that time I slugged that dude?” he laughs. “I’ve wanted to too,” he says, “except for me it was like two years ago.” He tucks your hair behind your ear. “But it felt like forever,” he complains.

“So…just so we’re clear,” you say, sitting up to look into his eyes, “that wasn’t a one-time thing, right?”

He scoffs. “Absolutely not. I would never think of kissing you like that if I wasn’t at least planning on dating you, but I’m pretty sure I’m planning to marry you.”

“Come on, be serious,” you protest, slightly panicked. 

He smiles. “I am so serious right now,” he says, cupping your face with his hands. “I haven’t been able to get you out of my head for two years straight. You’d think that amount of time to fantasize about kissing you would make the actual first kiss a total letdown, but it was somehow better than I thought it would be.”

You gape at him. The door opens and shuts, and you hear Bug’s voice. “Hey, where are you guys,” she calls, then walks into the kitchen to see you snuggled up with her brother. 

She pauses for a minute to look at you. “So is this finally happening now?” She asks, a knowing half-smile spreading on her face. 

“Bug, your brother just told me he wants to marry me,” you say incredulously. 

“That’s great! Now he can stop telling me about how he wants to marry you. You probably like hearing it a lot more than I do.” She heads to the fridge and starts putting groceries away. “Just don’t make out in front of me,” she warns.

You look at Cheol. He is beaming at you, looking utterly in love. “I can’t wait to file a lawsuit to get your teacher fired,” he says, rubbing the back of your arm with his hand. “Happy day one of being my girlfriend.”

reader, i [kissed] him | Choi San

summary: you have a dumb rude rich dad who hired a bodyguard because he's paranoid...enter choi san who is literally the man dreams are made of but he works for you so that's weird. you're a lit student and you've been giving him book recs. warnings: absent/sucky dad, mention of papercuts, a few minor jane eyre spoilers?, storm, fire

You look up at the sound of a book shutting. San pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “Finished,” he says.

You shut your textbook. “What did you think of the series?”

He leans back in a stretch. “You were right,” he admits. “Percy Jackson is pretty meaningful for a kids’ story.” He replaces his glasses, smiling at you. “So what’s next for the book club?”

You chuckle. “Are you enjoying my reading assignments?”

“Honestly, yeah. I can’t believe I’m getting paid to read books with you,” he says. “There are literally no downsides.”

“You’re getting paid to protect me,” you correct, a teasing smile playing about your lips. “Keep an eye on these books. They’re notorious for giving me paper cuts.”

“I will personally destroy any book who dares to mess with your fingers,” he vows dramatically, and you laugh. “But seriously, are you done studying for the day or do I get another reading assignment?” 

“I still have a bit of work to do,” you say, pulling out your copious notes. “So you get another hour or so to read. Don’t you want to choose one?”

He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I’d rather live inside your head for awhile. Why? Did you run out of books?”

You make a mock-offended face. “Absolutely not,” you say. “I just wanted to give you the option to read what you want to read, instead of what I want you to read.”

“What you want me to read is what I want to read,” he tells you, standing up. “Now, lay it on me.”

“Jane Eyre,” you say. “It’ll be in the B section.”

You watch as his broad shoulders retreat into the library shelves, admiring the muscles clearly visible underneath his tight black shirt. Shaking your head, you turn back to your studies, reminding yourself that ogling your bodyguard is a fruitless and unnecessary activity that will not help you pass your college classes.

He takes a seat shortly afterward, holding up the copy of Jane Eyre. “Why this one?” he asks — his constant question before he reads any of your suggestions. 

“Well,” you say carefully, “it’s actually…my favorite.”

His eyes get wide. “This book is your favorite?” he asks, pointing to the gray cover. 

You nod. “My absolute favorite, of all time, ever.”

“I thought you were gonna save your favorite for graduation,” he says. “Why are you moving it forward in the queue?”

“Because I feel our friendship will remain intact even if you don’t like it,” you say. “I wasn’t sure for awhile there.”

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Are you saying you’ll still love me even if I don’t like your favorite book?” he asks with a glint of humor in his eyes.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” you say. “Although it’d be hard for me. This book is a must-read if you hope to understand anything about me.”

He leans back, opening the book to the first page. “Then I don’t see how I couldn’t like it,” he says. “I don’t know why you were worried. Brief summary?”

“Terrible childhood, brooding gentleman, house with a dark secret, romance.” His eyes stay on you as you list the themes. Then suddenly your phone buzzes. You look at it and make a face.

“Your dad?” San guesses.

You nod, answering the call. “Hello?” you say in trepidation.

“Where are you?” he barks. 

“At the library at school,” you say, trying to keep a calm tone. “I’m studying.”

“Good,” he says gruffly. “Is San with you?” 

You sigh quietly. “Yes,” you say. 

“Perfect. I’ll be gone the next few days for a trip. Don’t call.”

“Okay, I won’t,” you promise, hanging up.

“What happened?” San asks immediately. “Was he unkind?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “No more than usual,” you reply. “He’s going out of town and wanted to make sure I knew not to call.”

San’s jaw clenches briefly, before turning his attention back to the book in his hand. “So why is this book your favorite?”

You consider him for a moment. You know a major motivation for him to ask you this question is to distract you from thoughts of your father, but he nonetheless looks earnest, so you answer honestly. “The book is written from the point of view of a young woman whose frank honesty is pretty inspiring. She doesn’t extol her virtues or edit out her failings. And it’s a story of how she comes into her own and finds herself. I don’t know, it’s just compelling.”

He gives you a large, dimpled smile -- that smile that stops the world, that makes you want to give him everything he ever wanted. “She sounds like you,” he says.

You blush. “Well, I haven’t found myself yet,” you say. “I’m still looking.”

“You might not be perfect yet,” he admonishes, “but you know yourself well. Now get back to studying or else we’ll be here all night.”

You can’t help but smile softly to yourself as you turn back to your books.

***

Later that night, you’re alone in your room with a candle burning, the window open to the cool night air. Your father’s large house is quiet, and you thumb through your personal copy of Jane Eyre, remembering how when you and San had left the library, he insisted on checking it out. “It’s your favorite,” he’d said, confused, when you asked him why. 

You smile in spite of yourself once again, thinking about how all the things you want feel just out of your reach. You have family — but they aren’t close. You have money — but no ability to use it due to your father’s curmudgeonly nature. And here is the perfect man — silly, intelligent, handsome, and the kindest person you’ve ever known, and yet he works for you. That is a line you know it would be unfair to him to try to cross, especially with a father like you have. 

Lost in thought, you slip on your favorite blue nightgown. Perhaps tonight, with the chill air on your skin, you’ll wander the halls of the house with your candle just like the secret Mrs. Rochester herself. You even consider going down the hall to where San sleeps to see if he’s made it to that part yet, but stop yourself when you realize just how inappropriate that would look. Instead, you sink into your bed and stare at the ceiling, urging sleep to come and whisk you away into a dream world that is hopefully happier than the one in which you live. 

You have scarcely closed your eyes when the rumble of thunder wakes you. The open window is swinging dangerously on its hinges as a storm rages outside. You shriek as rain begins pelting the carpet, and hop up to shut the window. With the sound of the storm now muffled, you try to flick on the bedside lamp, but either the bulb is burnt out or you’ve lost power. You go to the main light and flip the switch — nothing. You sigh. It’s about to be very cold.

Just then there’s a knock at the door, making you jump. You crack it open to see San, in his pajamas, holding a candle. “Everything okay in there?” he asks you. “I heard a scream.”

“Yeah, I just forgot to close the window before I fell asleep, and then the storm started,” you say sheepishly. “Sorry to wake you.”

He shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says. His eyes travel down your body, taking in the sight of you in your nightgown. Goosebumps erupt on your arms, and he notices right away. “Are you cold?”

You shiver. “Uh, yeah,” you say. 

He smiles. “Your dad’s sitting room has a fireplace. Let’s go.”

“Won’t he be mad?” you say, even as you step out of your bedroom with a blanket. 

“He’ll never even know,” San assures you. Minutes later, you are sitting on a couch with a blazing fire in front of you, blankets tucked around you as San leans his back against the couch, looking proudly at the fire he made. 

You adjust the strap of your nightgown, looking at him shyly. “Thanks,” you say.

He smiles in reply. “So, Jane’s quite the heroine,” he says, shouting you a glance.

You smile. “How far did you get?”

“I’m at the part where the fortune teller talks to the party guests.”

Your eyes get wide. “What? That’s pretty far.”

“It’s pretty good,” he says earnestly. “I’ve always wanted a little girl like Adele.”

“Pretty?” you ask him.

He grins. “Spoiled,” he says. “Although I’d be sweeter to her than Mr. Rochester is.”

“I’ll bet you would. What do you think about Mr. Rochester so far?”

He shrugs. “Probably similarly to how most people in his life feel. He’s a mysterious man. I don’t think I trust him.”

“Can I give you a tiny spoiler,” you beg, and he laughs. 

“I think I am contractually forbidden to say no to you,” he says, “and also, yes, as long as it isn’t major.”

You lean forward, nearly whispering to him. “The next bit is some of the spookiest stuff in the book.”

You move your legs to give him room on the couch as he stands up to sit next to you. “Am I gonna get scared?” he asks. 

“You’re a bodyguard. Aren’t you supposed to be brave?” you tease.

He scoffs. “Being brave isn’t about not being scared. It’s about facing the fear.”

You nod, impressed. “Ah, how well-said. You know, for a bodyguard, you’re quite eloquent.”

“And for a pretentious academic, you’re quite down-to-earth,” he teases. “However, I will say that you don’t strike me as someone who’s scared of much.”

You think for a moment. “I suppose I’m not,” you say slowly, “although it isn’t quite that simple. I do have anxiety.”

“What’s the difference?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious. 

“I’m not scared of spiders or the dark or storms or even dying, necessarily. But any one of those things could make me overthink myself into full-on panic. I got bitten by a spider and it made me so anxious that I was convinced I would die every night.”

He nods, thinking, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. “What does it feel like for you?” he asks softly.

“Like a weight on my chest,” you respond immediately. “Sometimes it’s so bad I can hardly breathe.”

You have to turn away as he looks at you. His expression is so compassionate you are afraid that his empathy will pick up on the very real feelings you have for him. He asks a new question. “And joy — what does that feel like?”

You look at him, eyebrows raised. He raises both his hands in an innocent gesture. “You have such colorful descriptions,” he says. “I just want to get a little deeper into your headspace. It’ll probably help me do my job better.”

You shoot him a skeptical glance before giving in. “Joy feels like…the first step out the door when the air starts to turn cold and crisp for fall. It’s like something new but also so familiar.” You think about the feeling you get every time he smiles. “It’s…expansive. And warm.” You turn to him. “What about you?”

His eyes widen in surprise to have been asked. “Oh. Um…” he thinks for a second, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Joy feels like music to me, like the best part of your favorite song.”

“Beautiful,” you say, smiling back at him. “And fear? What does that feel like?”

“Being trapped. No freedom,” he says. He hesitates before he asks the next question. “And…love?”

You blush. “Love isn’t an emotion,” you protest, looking away from him. “Love is a verb. It’s an action.”

“You’re right,” he allows, “but it comes with a very specific feeling. How does that feel? For you?”

You look up at him, finally, unable to look away. “That’s one I’m not sure about.” You force yourself to ask what you don’t want to know — because he’s a little older than you, and has lived a whole life apart from you, a life that must have involved the whole spectrum of human emotion and loss and love, but to hear of him falling in love is too much — “Maybe if you describe it, I’ll recognize it.”

He opens his mouth, then pauses, searching your face before smiling bemusedly. “It’s…it’s this heat, everywhere,” he says. “Almost like you’re being lit up like a candle from the inside, almost like if someone were to really look at you, they’d be able to see light coming from every part of you, even…even underneath your fingernails.”

Your heart nearly stops as you realize he’s describing almost perfectly how it feels for you to be around him. You swallow nervously before replying. “It sounds…intense.”

He chuckles. “It is.” And then he does something so unexpected that you gasp. He leans in and catches your cheek in his hand. “When I’m around you,” he says, and his voice is shaking, “it sometimes feels like I might explode — it’s like you are firelight, filling up all the parts of me that used to be empty, and then some. I’m surprised you can’t see my veins from the outside, because I swear to God, I can feel you lighting them up. You’re everywhere.”

He gently brings your face forward so your lips are practically touching. “Everywhere,” he whispers once more, before closing the gap and kissing you. 

He pulls you into his lap as he does, cradling you in his arms, and you have to hold on to his shirt for dear life as you kiss him back. When he finally pulls back slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, he asks you quietly, “this, what does this feel like for you?”

You consider, touching his face with your fingertips as his eyes bore into your own. He looks positively desperate to know. After awhile you answer. “All the voices that are usually shouting at me in my head are suddenly very quiet.”

“And that’s…good?” he asks intently.

“It’s…more than good,” you admit with a blush.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he says, and his voice is breathless, his chest heaving.

“More than anything.”

He smiles, kissing you again. 

more seokmin comfort fics.. i read ‘sleepless’ and its so perfect i swear 😭

YOU MADE MY WHOLE DAYYYYYYY omg. Ran to write this for you, its a bit comfort, a tiiiiiny bit spicy, hope u like it!! please ask for more if you want!

Pillow Talk

genre: fluff with an implied spicy ending?? is there a word for that?? i'm new here lmao, comfort, established relationship

warning: implied mature behavior near the end, brief mention of a phobia of doctors and surgery, brief mention of blood, spooky beginning

words: 1.2k

The scrape of claws dragging slowly against tile floors is the only sound. You are trapped on an operating table, your arms and legs strapped down to prevent any protection from whoever — or whatever — was making its deliberate, terrifying way across the blood-spattered floor toward you. Steely-cold fingers slide up the back of your skull, and you scream yourself awake.

You’re shaking, safe in your bed, Seokmin beside you as he always is. But his hand is on your arm now, and he’s blinking at you sleepily. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, propping himself up on one arm and using his other hand to brush your hair softly from your face.

You lean into his touch, the warmth of his fingertips dispelling some of the chill in your soul from the dream. “Bad dream,” you say, trying to take a deep breath, still trembling. “Really bad dream.”

You know where this dream came from, too. In just a few days, you’ll have a surgery to correct a ten-year-old gymnastics injury. It’s a procedure that will vastly improve your quality of life, has very few risks, and has one of the easiest recovery processes in modern surgery, but you are petrified of doctor’s offices -- the sterile chemical scent, the people with faces mostly covered by masks peering at you from strange mechanical glasses, the powdery feel of latex gloves against your skin. And if doctor’s offices were frightening, it was nothing to the fear you had of surgery, which was just all of those things combined with a drug that made it impossible for you to fight back and the menacing glint of metal in a dim overhead light.

His brow furrows as he looks down at you. “Really? Do you want to talk about it?”

You give him a slow smile. “Why? So you can scare yourself into not sleeping for the rest of the night?”

He smiles at your teasing. “Fair enough,” he says, knowing he is a bit of a scaredy-cat. “Why did you have a nightmare, though? What were you thinking about when you went to bed?”

You sigh. “The surgery, I think.”

He nods in understanding. “I guessed it might be that. Do you want to tell me what you’re worried about?”

You give a humorless laugh. “Oh, just getting kidnapped, dissected, and sold on the black market. Or waking up with my brain in a different body. Or them accidentally operating on the wrong leg.”

Seokmin chuckles, but not in a dismissive way, and the mood immediately lightens. To say these things out loud is so ridiculous that it almost erases your fear, and you find yourself finally able to take that deep breath.

This isn’t lost on Seokmin, who is still watching you carefully. “Do you feel better after talking about it?” he asks.

You assess. Still a little shaky, still a bit panicky, but he’s looking at you with those adorably worried eyes ... it all kind of balances out. Plus, the way he’s leaning over you right now, and the way his biceps are handling his weight, and the tightness of his white t-shirt against his muscular chest...

You find yourself blushing instead of replying as you take in the sight of him, and Seokmin smiles at your expression. “You just thought of something that’s making you bashful,” he realizes, his eyes suddenly mischievous. “Tell me what’s going on in your brain.”

You avoid his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you claim, deciding to tease rather than be forthright -- you’re in the mood for a bit of a game. 

His expression turns dubious. “Really? No thoughts, head empty?” he asks, clearly in disbelief.

You nod solemnly. “Nothing but the wind whistling through my skull cavity,” you say in a spooky voice.

He chuckles. “You’re cute when you’re trying to be all weird and creepy.”

“And you’re cute all the time,” you admit, knowing Seokmin eats that kind of thing up.

True to form, his eyes light up at your words. “Go on,” he says, laying back down beside you and pulling you into his chest. “Was that what you were actually thinking about while you were lying through your teeth about not thinking about anything?”

“It was...a little different,” you admit, grateful he’s hiding your face so he isn’t able to see you blush even deeper.

He doesn’t catch the hesitation in your voice, but he does start rubbing a soothing hand up and down your back, brushing away any tension there. You melt into his chest, and his arms tighten around you. “Well, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine,” he says quietly, his voice gentle and sweet in the darkness. “But what a gift this is for me, to get to be here to hold you through the nightmares.”

You pull back to look at him. “Really?” you ask.

“Of course!” he exclaims. “I love that I can ease your mind in this way.” He pulls you back in and kisses your forehead several times in rhythm. 

You are extremely aware of another notable way that Seokmin eases your mind, especially when he’s holding you like this. Seemingly subconsciously, Seokmin’s hand slips under the back of your shirt, and your body erupts into chills as his warm fingers begin to trace soft patterns on your skin. You try to resist the urge to sit up and rip the clothes off both of you, reminding yourself to be patient -- you knew he’d never say no to you if you asked, but the longer he made you wait, the more delicious it was afterward. So you settle for a soft sigh against his chest. “Still, I’m sorry for waking you.”

He kisses your cheek this time, and you try not to tense up, knowing that will give away what you want, and then it’ll all be over. But it’s hard not to notice how Seokmin is inching his way down your body, seemingly innocently enough, but in a way that makes you wonder if you’re not the only one playing a game. Perhaps what this is is a game of chicken. Whoever gives in first loses. You decided to make your own subtle move, sliding your fingernails over the backside of his arm. “Nonsense,” he says, looking at you with a smile. “I wasn’t that tired.”

“How tired are you now?” you ask him, keeping a neutral tone, although you know your eyes are burning into his.

He adjusts his position so that he’s leaning over you again. This could just be so he can look at you -- but then again, as his hands glide down your side and over your hips, it could also be not that. “I’m wide awake, baby,” he says, and there it is -- an invitation.

“Hmm...in that case...would you like to know what I was thinking about when I was lying through my teeth?”

“Do go on,” he encourages, his eyes bright as he slowly slides in between your legs, burying his face in your neck and leaving a trail of kisses from your ear to your collarbone. “You might need to be quick about it, though. I don't know how much longer I can wait.”

You laugh. “Oh, it seems like you’ve already got the gist of it,” you tell him. “It’s almost like you read my mind.”

He brings his lips down on yours -- gently, but deeply and slowly and in a way that makes your heart pick up its pace, beating frantically against your sweatshirt. Then he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes and whisper, “it’s your turn, honey. Read my mind.”

You have to laugh -- because when he gets like this, his mind is an open book, the easiest book in the world to read. In response, you just grab the collar of that absolutely sinful white t-shirt, pulling him into another kiss, and let Seokmin sweep you away into his fantasy.

I am actively hoping someone will ask me to write something so I can avoid my thoughts

oh to be building furniture with jeon wonwoo

as sweet as peaches | jeon wonwoo

wonwoo sits cross-legged on the floor, ikea manual laying open on his lap. the half built coffee table sits upside down in front of him, loose screws and nails scattered around the piece of furniture.

“did you find the piece that goes in this corner?”, you ask in confusion from your spot on the floor opposite wonwoo, one hand holding what you think is one of the legs of the table. “is it this one?”

your boyfriend looks up at you and breathes out an amused laugh, cheeks puffing up. “that’s the spare piece, gorgeous”.

you look at him, cocking an eyebrow, “you sure, wonu? because the last time you said something was a spare”, you point at the singular leg attached to the table, “that fell off”.

he grins sheepishly, “well… uh, maybe it could come in handy”. you shoot him a fond smile.

you both work on the piece of furniture for a while, sneaking glances at each other and giggling at lame jokes, before you stand up and wordlessly walk over to the kitchen. wonwoo follows your movement with his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose as he does so.

you disappear behind the kitchen counter before re-emerging with a plate of sliced peaches and tangerines. setting it on the floor beside wonwoo you mumble, “odd combination, but it’s all i could find”. you peer at him and the softness you see in his eyes makes heat crawl up your neck.

“i love you”, he whispers.

“because of peaches?”, you ask shyly, taking a seat beside him.

“nope”, he breathes out, “peaches are just a bonus”. he picks up a fuzzy slice and holds it up to your lips. you accept the bite gratefully.

“the tangerines, then”, you mumble around a mouthful of fruit.

wonwoo laughs, it’s a very pretty sound, you think. low and deep, yet airy and relaxed. your giggles join his, the room filling with innocent delight.

the two of you continue to tinker with the coffee table, occasionally nibbling on pieces of fruit. with the build almost complete, you lean back on the heels of your palms, surveying your work.

“not bad for two amateurs”, you declare with a grin. “i think we could build all of ikea if we wanted to”.

wonwoo chuckles, “we’ll have many days of building furniture in our future”. you look at him in question. “dressers, bookshelves, cribs”, he elaborates.

your eyes widen and you feel your cheeks burn fiery red. cribs… baby cribs? did you hear him wrong? did he say it on purpose?

he turns to you, eyes dancing and cheeks slightly pink. oh. definitely on purpose.

you look at him, lips parted ever-so-slightly.

“one day, i mean… if you want to”. he whispers.

you don’t have a response. you’re breathless and giddy and so in love.

leaning forward, you press your lips against wonwoo’s. soft and careful. he hums in contentment against your mouth, kissing you back with fervour.

his hand trails up your arm to your cheek, cupping your face like you’re as delicate as fine china. his other hand snakes behind your waist, resting against the small of your back. he kisses you slowly, and when he feels you smile against his lips he melts. to him, this is bliss.

you pull away, breathless and heart racing. and suddenly, you’re 16 again. too shy to meet wonwoo’s eyes, a soft blush colouring your cheeks when he squeezes your hand with a hum.

“baby?”, he peers at you, trying to catch your attention.

when you finally look up at him, he’s dazzled by the stars in your eyes. the very same ones he thinks you hung up in the sky.

“you’re too much”, you mumble, just above a whisper. the chuckle it coaxes out of him drives the feeling deeper.

he drops a quick kiss to your cheek, his eyes dripping honey.

you point to the unfinished coffee table in front of you with furrowed brows, “we’ve been neglecting our magnum opus”.

his bright laughter booms throughout the room. “i don’t think an ikea coffee table is our magnum opus, baby”. he thinks he knows what will be, but he doesn’t say it. he’s hinted at it enough today. instead, he picks up a handful of screws and the last remaining leg of the table.

you take up a purely supportive role. handing him missing screws or nails you see him hunting for. you lean against the couch behind you, silently watching your boyfriend finish the rest of the build. you admire the way his hands move deftly to hammer in nails, the way he pushes the sleeves of his sweater further up his arms, the way he adjusts his glasses on his nose when they start to slip.

you’re happy, you think. just silently being in his company.

“finished”, he declares, pushing himself off the floor and offering you a hand to pull you to your feet. you stand beside him and look down at your work.

“not bad, jeon wonwoo”, you praise.

“not bad yourself”, he responds with a squeeze of your hand. he smiles fondly when he feels you squeeze back.

he looks at you, eyes warm, and drops a chaste kiss to you lips.

warmth floods your body. he’s just so sweet, you think.

“you taste like peaches”, he mumbles.

as sweet as peaches.

—

ahh wonwoo…

writing this was really fun!! sweet wonu thinking about how urs and his masterpiece will be ur baby…omg

i hope u enjoy this one! as always, my requests and asks are open <3