i probably should've put in when his voice goes up and down

Hate You (Wonho)

Originally posted by kookforever

Chapter 3

Previously: |Chapter 1| |Chapter 2|
Paring: Wonho x Reader
Genre:  Romance, Fluff af, kinda mad af Wonho

“Wonho?” he turned towards me. “Be my one night stand.” I confidently stated while I climbed on top of him. I must have shocked him because he froze. A smirk played on my lips as I leaned forward. One hand found its way to the back of his neck while the other trailed down his chest, toying with the buttons on his shirt. My lips grazed against his before they gently made contact with his neck.

He must have finally realized what was happening because his hands instantly went to the small of my back and my hips, in an attempt to pull me closer to him. I pulled away from his neck to look at him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more serious look on him. his hands trail up my body to my neck. He pulls me into a passionate kiss, so passionate it knocks the breath out of the both of us. My hands pull on his shirt before unbuttoning it. I could feel his muscles underneath my hands.

Wonho was suddenly everywhere. He was all around me. Consuming me. Pulling me into bliss. I couldn’t think anymore. My mind clouded over. His hands were everywhere all at once. And then he wasn’t.

“Wait.” he hesitated. “You don't want to do this.” 

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Kacchako 04: “Come home with me”

Genre: Drabble/Fluff

Pairing: Bakugou x Uraraka

Rating: [PG]

Word Count: 1285 Words

Drabble Prompt: #19: “Come home with me”

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arysthaeniru  asked:

25, yoonkook?

(this has been in here for ages but i was feeling angst last night after reading baby me’s journal entries so this bullshit happened)

(1.4k, depression, mention of suicidal thoughts, therapy, talk of overdosing) 

yoonkook, 25 ‘I honestly don’t think that you’re like me at all.’

At the words, Yoongi lets out a laugh, a sharp bark of a thing that almost has Jungkook flinching. Yoongi’s eyes flick over to him, coughs into his curled fist, sobering as he lets his head bump against the bathroom drawers.

‘Is that right?’ Yoongi says and Jungkook scowls.


It’s not the witty response he would’ve liked. Jungkook’s never been all that good with witty, yet alone when he’s doped up on his meds that make him feel like a zombie. The response makes him look like the petulant asshole everyone seems to think he is. Even the people in group all give him looks the second he walks into the room, as if they have as much right to call him fucked up as all the normal people outside the room do. 

Jungkook’s sure Yoongi would’ve levelled him with the same look at some point in time, but when he racks his memories, all he can come up with is an image of Yoongi in one of those stupid plastic chairs wearing the same expression as he is now. Jungkook used to think that expression was one of boredom, but upon reevaluation it looks more patient, like the group therapist’s face, minus the over-load of kindness.

Yoongi’s staring at him with that look, and whilst there’s no abundance of kindness pouring out of him, there’s still a little something that Jungkook can’t bear to look at for too long. So he turns and stares at the wall in front of him, well aware of the fact that Yoongi’s still looking at him. Still studying him. He hugs his legs tighter and pinches his lips.

There’s less than a metre of space between the two of them, they’re only really separated by the wall of the bathtub Jungkook’s huddled inside. Yoongi never asked why he was in it, which is a good thing because Jungkook’s not all that sure either. He just is. Besides, he hasn’t asked Yoongi any questions as to why he’s here in Jungkook’s house and how he’s here. So Yoongi has zero right to pry either.

Yoongi had came into the bathroom not ten minutes past and would’ve scared the living shit out of Jungkook had his medication not left him with a delayed reaction. Yoongi had groaned as he sunk to the cold tile floor. He’d said ‘Hey’ and Jungkook had grunted in response and then kinda sat there until Yoongi had said they were similar and Jungkook had tensed all over.

There’s a bottle of pills on the counter top just inches above Yoongi’s head. It’s Jungkook’s medication, prozac, it makes him feel tired all the time and he’s dropped a lot of weight over the months he’s been taking it. The doctor says they should be helping, but Jungkook honestly can’t remember a time in his life he’s felt so miserable.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Yoongi says, and Jungkook blinks at him. ‘Don’t do it.’

It figures that Min Yoongi would draw conclusions like that. The self-proclaimed genius that thinks he knows Jungkook so damn well after staring at him in their group therapy sessions with ten other nut cases and having perhaps four measly conversations with him.

Through the haze the meds put him under Jungkook can feel contempt bubble up at half the speed it might’ve once upon a time. Yoongi presumes to know his thoughts before he does and Jungkook grits his teeth. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind, dying, but he reluctantly admits to himself that it might’ve headed into that territory in due time.

‘Why not?’

Yoongi shrugs, his leather jacket squeaks against the counter. ‘I’ll stop you.’

‘How you gonna do that?’

‘Shove my fingers down your throat the second you swallow those things,’ he glances upwards, cocking his head towards the bottle. ‘Call your parents. A psych ward, maybe.’

Jungkook glares. ‘You’d call my parents?’

‘Without hesitation,’ Yoongi says, with the factual air of a news journalist reporting on the hundreds of lives lost in whatever war-zone this week. ‘They need to know, it’s the smart thing to do. You wouldn’t die by the way. The shit you’re on is prozac, right? It’s pretty hard to OD on prozac. You’d just have some shitty side effects and cry a lot, probably.’


Yoongi just shrugs again. Doesn’t seem to have a care in the world.  

‘Why are you even here?’ It’s been hard for Jungkook to imagine things, his creativity’s been shot to hell and he hasn’t drawn in ages. It’s impossible for him to conceive an explanation as to why Min Yoongi would be sitting on the floor with him in his bathroom, telling him not to try kill himself.

‘You haven’t been to group in a while,’ Yoongi says. And he hasn’t, he’s missed the past three, his parents drop him off and he bails, goes off walking in a daze with the sweltering summer heat beating down on him but it’s just better than being in that cramped room.

‘But why do you care? And don’t say it’s because we’re the same. We are not the same.’

Yoongi’s four years older. He has friends that pick him up from group sessions and ruffle his hair and he smiles as they do it before swatting them away. He’s well dressed and washes his hair regularly and has the capacity to give a shit about his appearance. He talks in group, albeit sparingly, about music and channelling frustrations into that, because his outlet isn’t all soaked up through meds and mental stuff. He’s not sick

‘Maybe not anymore,’ Yoongi says, ‘but you remind me of how I used to be. Fifteen year old me would’ve been a mirror image. Except shorter and paler.’

The self-debilitating humour quirks Jungkook’s interest and it takes a moment for him to realise it’s because he recognises it within himself. It should irk him, it doesn’t and he finds one corner of his lip curling up in a smirk.

‘Is this where you start preaching to me about how it gets better?’

‘Fuck no. Fifteen year old me would’ve broken the jaw of anyone who tried to pull that shit.’

‘So what then?’ Jungkook says. ‘You’re not here to preach? I don’t get it.’

Yoongi sighs and stretches his legs out, groaning with the minimal effort.

‘Your experiences are your own,’ he says. ‘So I’m not gonna sit here and say this is what happened to me and it’ll be the same for you just because we’re alike. That’s bullshit and I hated it. And I remember hating it.’

Jungkook stares at him, he can hear blood thumping in his ears, knows his mouth has parted a little as Yoongi’s been speaking but he can’t bring himself to snap it closed.

‘There isn’t actually anything magical I can say that’ll make it all go away,’ Yoongi continues and Jungkook notes, with a little jolt of surprise, that there is a bit of a strain to Yoongi’s voice. And he likes that awkwardness, because it feels that much more honest. ‘If it were that simple, it wouldn’t be a problem to begin with. And I’m not good with comforting. Never have been. But I do remember when I was fifteen, that the one thing I would’ve liked would have been someone to be there, not trying to fix anything, just being there in general.’

For a moment, Jungkook expects Yoongi to continue, but a minute passes and the silence doesn’t waver and Jungkook realises there’s a proposition there. From Min Yoongi, who must’ve somehow found out his address and broke into his house to sit down on his bathroom floor and tell him they’re the same.

Jungkook takes Yoongi in. He’s not a shining beacon of hope, all flashy and unattainable. He’s stilted and honest and real and he might be the closest someone could come to getting it.

‘You can tell me to fuck off if you want,’ Yoongi says. ‘I won’t leave, but I’ll sit in the other room and give you air to breathe until your parents come home. Or I can sit here with you and you can talk. It’s up to you really.’

Jungkook considers it, digs his bitten nails into the flesh of his biceps subconsciously as Yoongi squirms a little under his gaze, the tables turned.

‘I don’t want to talk,’ Jungkook says and Yoongi blinks at him, nods once and moves to stand. A watered down version of panic jolts in Jungkook’s brain and he hurriedly adds, ‘I don’t want you to go though.’

It takes a moment, for Yoongi to realise just what Jungkook’s asking of him and when it dawns on him he smiles, this gummy smile Jungkook’s only seen him use with his friends.

‘No talking then,’ Yoongi says, settling back against the counter once more.

‘No talking,’ Jungkook mimics and they fall into a comfortable silence.