#i have this theory that mostly the older generations are so cold and constrictive

[existential-dread-in-the-am]

God forbid anyone act like they have any value as a person in this country

[lovelyirony]

Title: I wish i could forget you

Tony Stark was not supposed to be in the car when Howard and Maria Stark attended a Christmas holiday party for another company. In fact, Hydra had wanted him to stay home. 

Unfortunately, Tony had ticked off Howard a bit too much, and so here he was in a tuxedo that was a bit too big, uncomfortably shiny shoes, and a temper that was close to blowing. 

Thank god they were almost home. 

When a car crashes, one almost can’t believe it. Tony can see the outside blurring, and he can hear glass crunching, and he hears things that he really doesn’t want to hear. He is fairly sure that Maria screamed. 

A metal arm. 

Huh. 

Well, not the most typical. He also doesn’t think that the man knows he’s here. 

Howard and Maria Stark are killed. Tony feels like shit because he couldn’t do anything. His forehead is bleeding and he didn’t want to move out of fear for himself, which seems selfish, but also maybe a survival instinct? 

God, his bow-tie is still constricting air flow. 

Once the man turns, Tony realizes that he wasn’t the target. They probably had no idea he was in the car, whoever “they” were. 

He gets out of the car. The car door creaks, and the man whips around. 

His eyes widen. 

“You--what?” 

The voice is surprisingly American. 

Surprisingly? He’s not sure why it’s surprising, it’s not like an American can’t kill just look at history, but still, Kind of surprising. 

"What, wasn’t supposed to be here?” Tony rasps out. He realizes now that he’s basically sent himself a death sentence as the man surges forward. 

“What are you doing here?” 

His eyes are piercing. Also very, very familiar with some photographs that Peggy has on her mantle and her desk. 

James “Bucky” Barnes. Son of a bitch. 

“What are you doing alive?” Tony asks. “I thought you were lost in a ravine in Europe somewhere.” 

“What--huh?” 

“Ravine. In Europe. You know who you are, right? Is this some kind of sick...what did they do to you?” 

“I do not know what you are talking about.” 

His eyes get cold again. 

“Who are you?” 

“I am the Asset.” 

It is now that Tony realizes that every single shitty sci-fi book is probably right, and his disdain of “wacky science” and “magic” have all been for nothing, because here is Bucky Barnes, who apparently has no idea who he is. 

Then Tony gets knocked on his ass. His body slams against the icy road, and Barnes is rushing towards a motorcycle. 

And he’s alone. He can’t breathe, all the wind knocked out of his chest. He thinks he broke a couple of ribs. 

- 

No one believes him. At all. SHIELD brushes it aside. 

“There’s no way Barnes could be alive. You were probably just seeing things,” they tell him. “Would you like us to find you a therapist?” 

“No,” Tony says, and they ask why. He laughs, sipping on his water. “SHIELD has so much loyalty to itself, I’m afraid I’d be compromised.” 

“Therapists aren’t supposed to divulge any information,” Nick Fury adds carefully. “And we’re a secret-keeping bunch. Nothing goes out that comes in.” 

“Unless, of course, it’s necessary,” Tony drawls, staring at Fury. God, the leather outfit...that’s weird. “Then I’m out in the open, Nicky. And what fun is that unless I get to show off an outfit in full-coverage?” 

“...I’ll have an agent escort you home. We’ll have guards overnight.” 

“Don’t bother.” 

“And why is that? Think you can handle it by yourself?” 

“Fury, my family has made a career out of thinking a lot of things. You’re not being as detrimental as you think.” 

He finger-waves, grinning and winking at agents on the way out. 

- 

Now comes paranoia. This is welcome, actually, because it’s allowing him to work up new security measures and hack into various security cameras around the world to see if he can find Barnes. 

It’s like he’s a ghost. And fuck, maybe Fury was right. Tony doesn’t like that, but that may be it. 

Merry fucking Christmas. 

- 

Years go by, and Tony keeps a tiny ear to any news about mysterious deaths that can’t be explained. A man that glows in lamp-light, has no identity. He’s not sure if it could be Barnes. God knows he’s no longer seventeen, and Barnes--it if it was Barnes--would be way older. He should’ve been an old man in 1991, but he wasn’t. 

It kind of reminds him of the conspiracy theory that Walt Disney was kept cryogenically frozen, which is just ridiculous, because as far as he’s concerned, you’d need a bit more to you than just regular skin and bones. 

And this is where it hits him. 

Barnes was experimented on when he was captured by Hydra. Peggy told him that Rogers told her that he was repeating his dog tag number over and over, as if someone was trying to take him over. 

Yeah, you’d need a bit more. 

Like a fucking super soldier serum. 

- 

This then delves into Tony realizing that if Barnes is flash-frozen, then...well, could Rogers have survived? He always thought his dad was crazy, but a broken clock is right twice a week or however the hell that saying goes. He never used it, he wasn’t a broken clock. 

(He was broken, but he’s not going to compare himself to a clock. Perhaps  Model-T.) 

- 

They find Rogers. Tony realizes Howard did his math completely wrong for years, and probably never let anyone look at it because he was a World Super Genius. And a Colossal Dick. 

Steve Rogers is one tough cookie to crack. Tony chips off some of the ice and puts it in a glass of scotch. 

“Do you really think that’s the most appropriate thing to do?” Phil Coulson asks. 

He’s shocked, but mainly because Tony has seen his Cap collection, and that man has so many limited edition cards and lunchboxes that it’s a bit crazy. But at least he knows how to decorate with it and not have it look like an absolute nutjob swept into his house and did it all in red-white-and-blue. 

“Phil, my darling, when have I ever done anything the appropriate way?” Tony asks. He stares at the face that’s emerging out of the ice. “Besides, what else are you going to do with this ice, hm? Besides melt it all off?” 

Steve is a miracle. Every scientist on earth wants to poke and prod at him. 

Tony breaks him out of SHIELD in a week, because he swears to shit if one more scientist asks to take blood samples “to see how going under Arctic temperatures affects the bloodstream” (and also take DNA for cloning) he’s going to lose it. 

Fury yells at him for two hours. 

Steve flips Fury off from the couch, where he’s been channel-surfing for the better part of three hours. 

“You’ve already corrupted him,” Fury scowls. “Rogers, we need to talk--” 

“He’s retired,” Tony says. 

(Steve is not, technically. Hasn’t said anything. But Tony is putting him on mandatory retirement for at least a year.) 

“What’s...what the ever-loving fuck is that?” Steve asks. 

An infomercial. For an automated chair. Mostly used for old people. 

Tony grins. 

“You wanna see how fast I can launch you out of one?” 

“I’m going to say yes. Professionally.” 

Ten miles an hour, and Steve goes flying across the room into a pile of pillows. 

It’s not the end-all solution. God knows Steve calls him “Howard” and asks where a lot of nasty food is, and sometimes can’t tell the difference between what his brain is seeing and what is actually there. 

But Tony gets him help. And Steve goes to art school. 

It’s all very funny, actually. Steve rants about “modern art” and how “if he could kill any concept it would be abstract expressionism, what the fuck.” 

Tony buys and then donates a Rothko in his honor. 

Steve fumes, but finds it hilarious. 

Then, there’s the attack on New York. 

Norse god of mischief decides to end New York, blah blah blah. 

Captain America reappears, everyone loses their shit, and Tony almost dies. 

Then he gets four other roomies besides Steve, and he has to make a chore chart. Ugh. 

- 

Barnes reappears in France. Tony gets a fairly good image, and Natasha stills. 

“You know about Winter Soldier?” 

“Barnes? Yeah.” 

“You know who he is?” 

“James Barnes. At least, I think. He tried to kill me, wasn’t very successful at it.” 

Steve overhears. 

This leads to a chain of events that ends in Steve not coming to family dinner because he’d rather sit in his room and listen to Green Day or Glenn Miller or whatever the hell gets him even more upset. 

“Listen, Steve, I’m sorry. But up until this picture? I was only about sixty percent sure I wasn’t full of beans.” 

“Why is that the phrase you use?” 

“What, full of beans? Bruce says I have to work on my cursing. Apparently, children are impressionable. Who knew?” 

It’s not a total success. Steve still doesn’t like that Tony didn’t outright tell him, but Tony isn’t going to tell Steve that he has the mental stability of a single cashew. 

So begins the hunt for Barnes. Which actually isn’t too bad. 

He’s in DC. Not for any political clean-up, unfortunately. He’s trying to kill Fury. Tony doesn’t know why, at least until he looks up Pierce, who’s technically, mostly retired from SHIELD. 

And yet still uses most resources that technically? He needs more than one authorization from multiple people. 

God, people are getting bad at covering their tracks. Used to be harder to catch and see if someone was doing dirty deals. 

(Okay, not like he can talk because Obie was...well, no use in discussing that now. He needs to focus.) 

Nat and Steve are bad at lying. This kind of surprises him, because Steve is usually a successful liar. He’s convinced Clint that it’s not him who keeps eating his peanut-butter-fudge ice cream, but Thor. 

And Natasha used to be Natalie Rushman. Then again, Tony was poisoned during that one, so that might just be on him. 

-

Helicarriers go in the water. 

Tony’s working on making sure most of the information doesn’t reach the general public, although he can’t stop it all. 

Barnes falls off the face of the earth, and Steve wants to go on another treasure hunt. 

“Let him come to us, or figure himself out.” 

“This isn’t a college kid going backpacking in Europe for a year,” Nat snaps. “He’s...you know who he is, who he was, and what he can do.” 

“Counterpoint: we don’t know if he secretly really wanted to see traditional decoration of Ukrainian Easter eggs,” Tony says. “God knows that I want to learn more about that.” 

“Is everything a joke to you?” 

"Only on federally mandated holidays,” Tony says with a shrug. “But let him be. Steve, it’s one thing that he didn’t kill you. It’s another thing that he hauled you up from the Potomac. I’m not sure I would’ve done that because who goes up alone to a helicarrier?” 

“Historically nobody,” Natasha says. “Most people don’t have any helicarriers.” 

“God, this situation sucks,” Tony says. “What if. We potentially. Ignore all of it and have spinach and artichoke dip? Hm?” 

“With toasted bread?” 

“I’m not an animal, Steve.” 

“Your penchant for four a.m. coffee while you don’t realize you’re singing songs from the seventies says otherwise,” he responds. 

“Well well well, if it isn’t the punishment of you getting the aux taken away for a week,” Tony taunts. 

“Oh, come on!” Steve whines. 

“Nope, just you having to listen to more of Bruce’s questionable tastes.” 

“Fuck.” 

- 

Barnes comes stateside. The only reason Tony knows this is because Jarvis says that he may have spotted Barnes, but he’s not sure. 

“J, you’re the most advanced system in the world, not to mention my son, and you like to hack into the Pentagon for funsies.” 

“All of that could not have prepared me for this.” 

Barnes is wearing a neon green tank top that is advertising Coco Beach in Florida. 

“Can I laugh? Or is that sad?” 

“Multitask, Sir.” 

“Oh, true.” 

- 

Barnes is not in New York. Tony has to near-about put an electric fence around the whole state so that Steve doesn’t go on a road trip. 

Hell, Tony doesn’t even trust him to go to coffee alone, but that’s a bit much. 

“We have to wait,” Tony says. 

Sam Wilson is a godsend. Also the funniest man Tony knows. 

He is also emotionally healthy and very perceptive, so he has been noticing that Tony is nervous. 

Because how do you face the man who killed your parents? Technically? 

“Are you talking to your therapist?” Sam asks. “Just thinking you should.” 

“Sam, we’re working on my issues from 2007. Believe it or not, it will be taking a full year.” 

“I don’t like that I can never tell if you’re serious.” 

“I know you remember the tabloids from 2007, I wrote a mesh vest. Clearly, I need so much help.” 

Sam snorts. 

“Maybe. Hey, I’ll catch you later. Clint and I are gonna go try and find some questionable shirts to crop.” 

“Did his little protege convince you? Bishop, right?” 

“Kate, yeah. She’s convinced our public image will go viral or something. Good luck with helping Steve and Nat with your super-soldier hunt.” 

“Thanks. Let me know if you find a shirt with my face on it. I want it.” 

Sam snorts. 

“Will do.” 

- 

Bucky Barnes comes to New York in early May. The springtime is slowly but surely fading off, sun approaching more and more. Tony is enjoying coffee on a veranda, and then suddenly his waiter is nowhere to be found and he’s not entirely sure if his visitor takes credit or debit. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Maybe. Depends on if you’re gonna kill me or not.” 

“I think Steve would be a bit broken up about it.” 

“Do you care what he thinks?” 

“On this situation? Yes. When it comes to culinary choices? No.” 

There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. Tony’s trying extremely hard not to remember shattered glass and a motorcycle on ice. 

“Can we, uh, table this conversation? For later. Espresso and all that, plus the added bonus of our shared history, so...” 

“Shared history?” 

“You don’t remember?” Tony asks. Bucky shakes his head. “Ah. Then this is truly a comedy of errors. Maybe. Um. Listen, I, uh...I gotta go. You need to talk to Nat or Steve or hell, maybe even Thor. Is Thor a good option?” 

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Barnes, I can’t exactly face you right now.” 

And then he jumps off a balcony. 

A fucking balcony. 

Jesus H. Christ, his therapist is gonna be so excited for their next session. 

The suit wraps itself around him, and he can finally breathe, and he’s thinking about calling Pepper and see if she would like to schedule him a vacation for maybe anywhere but New York and Iowa. 

“Why not Iowa?” Pepper asks. “They have good antique stores. I’ve gotten quite a few good finds for clothes.” 

“I can do shopping retail literally anywhere else, absolutely not.” 

“Spoilsport. Steve know you’re leaving?” 

“I didn’t even really tell Steve what happened with my parents.” 

“Oh, your therapist called. She sounded concerned, but also intrigued.” 

“It’s because Sally almost became an employee of NASA and still has a soft spot for aerodynamics.” 

“What exactly did you do when faced with Barnes?” 

“Check the front tabloid page tomorrow, just tell everyone I’m out of town.” 

“Got it. And Tony?” 

Her voice is soft. 

“Yes, dear?” 

He can feel her rolling her eyes. Affectionately, of course, but rolling all the same. 

“Be safe, and come back. You know Rhodey and I miss you.” 

“I miss you too.” 

- 

A week is spent in Malibu. He really is thinking about selling this place. But for now, it suffices. 

Steve texts him. 

bucky’s back. holy shit 

be back in a week. radio silence. 

got it. no more messages from me. thor tells me to tell you that he broke the sink 

:(((( 

And that’s it. He’s sitting in the house for a week, has already called Sally once and explained how his suit works, and then listened to her talk about how “his reliance on the suit to help him escape unfavorable situations is not exactly the healthiest but also none of my clients have had to face someone who is of weird standing.” 

It’s no secret that Tony doesn’t like Howard Stark. Who would’ve liked that sorry excuse for a father, a man who was so cold-hearted the Arctic looked like a tropical paradise? 

Maria was...Maria was different. 

She wasn’t a good mother. No, she was never a good mother. But she tried, and she didn’t deserve her fate. 

And then there was the question of Bucky Barnes. Who wasn’t Bucky when he was there, but still so damn recognizable. 

It’s kind of like when there’s a movie about a famous person, and another person plays them. Like Tom Hanks, essentially. Bucky played whoever the fuck they get Tom Hanks to play and it’s similar: you see the resemblance, but it’s not it. 

So yeah. 

There’s also the little tidbit that things get complicated when you involve personal feelings and rationality, and really? Tony misses New York. A lot. And he’s not going to let someone else overtake his life just because he’s uncomfortable. 

So he flies back to New York. 

- 

He’s in a bad way, Barnes is. 

“He remembered you,” Steve says. “What he did.” 

“Ah, there’s that.” 

“He doesn’t have to be here,” Natasha says. “I have a couple of SHIELD safe houses to choose from.” 

“None would be adequate to house something like me,” comes the response. 

Barnes looks remarkably shitty, as if he hasn’t slept in eighty years. And maybe he hasn’t. 

“Jail would be more fitting.” 

Tony rolls his eyes. 

“You are literally the most dramatic person ever, and Bruce threatened to take over the government because Thor ate the last croissant. Put those on the grocery list, Steve

“We’re not gonna throw you in jail,” he continues on. “Not because you happened to be used as a goddamned Swiss army knife. I have issues, sure, but I’m not going to be going all Hannibal Lecter or whatever.” 

“Who the hell is that?” 

“Cannibal. I realized that that’s a terrible comparison, please forgive me.” 

“Why a cannibal?” 

“Couldn’t think of anything else but Anthony Hopkins, the actor. My mistake. Point is, we’re gonna have to go through some channels, and I’m introducing you to BARF, as well as a new person who’s gonna rock your world.” 

“I’m pretty much well-acquainted with vomit.” 

“No, not that,” Tony says. “Although we can cover that through my 2005 edition of partying if we really wanna dig up some old magazine interviews. No, I’m introducing you to something that’s going to change your life.” 

-

After that, Tony doesn’t have much to do with Bucky’s life. 

He serves as a permanent guilt trip, nothing says “well, shit” much like being a permanent guilt trip. 

Sally tells him that they should talk it out. Do all that “and how do you feel?” questioning that makes his skin crawl and his eyes ascend to the ceiling. 

I mean yeah, they share a living space. Tony has seen Bucky laugh and smile with Sam, talk with Bruce about a really interesting article about regeneration of plant cells or whatever, and Bucky enjoys videochatting with Wakandan royalty. 

(It also helps that Shuri is blunt as ever, but so blisteringly smart. He’s reading her paper on regeneration of nanotechnology, and it just...it’s the Pieta of research, that paper.) 

But he never speaks to Bucky. Well, he does. But it’s more along the lines of “hey Barnes” and “how are you?” which aren’t exactly the Most Thought Provoking Statements Ever Made. 

Summer comes swiftly, and about near with a vengeance. Tony’s dealing with a heat wave and trying to figure out if going outside is even worth it, and then he and Bucky are alone in the kitchen. 

Tony was debating getting a couple of popsicles from the freezer. Bucky is considering sabotaging Clint’s smoothie that was supposed to be special for tonight, but that he’ll most likely forget. 

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Um, can we talk?” 

Shit. 

He’s been avoiding this, officially, for a month. Potentially more if you’re going to count a few choice events that have been brought up by his psyche. 

“Sure thing, buttercup. What are we talking about. Economy, world crises, the great debate on financial advice?” 

“Isn’t the third thing just the economy?” 

“We can break it down over coffee.” 

“Mm, maybe another time. No, I’m talking about us. About how I--I kind of ruined your life.” 

Tony blinks. 

“You didn’t ruin my life. If my life was ruined you’d be hit with so many lawsuits that I could make the rest of your life look like the third circle of Hell, or wherever it is that people go nowadays in Dante’s eyes. No, you didn’t ruin my life.” 

“I still killed your parents.” 

“If you hadn’t, someone else would’ve. Believe me, there were about fifteen others in line. Sometimes, myself included.” 

“You can’t not take me seriously,” Bucky stresses. “I still did a terrible thing. I just want to make sure you know that you’re being too kind.” 

“I most certainly am not,” Tony says. “Being too kind would have me feeding you grapes.” 

Bucky’s face blanks. 

“Don’t. I...I don’t wanna take advantage of your hospitality. I don’t want to remind you of what happened.” 

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t wanted,” Tony says. “Believe me. And if you want to leave, you’re free to leave. I don’t want to make you feel like you need to stay here.” 

“I...I want to make it up to you.” 

“Then use BARF and review it,” Tony says. “I’m serious. I need user feedback, and you’re the best candidate for it. Also, please try to convince Steve to wear neon yellow. I just want to see if he’ll do it.” 

- 

Steve wears neon yellow. Tony laughs so hard he cries. 

Bucky smiles. 

It’s a nice smile, really. It’s wide and happy and wow. That’s all worth it. 

And then BARF. Bucky just gives user feedback, nothing else. Tony doesn’t want to know anything else, but they start talking more. 

Tony finds out that Bucky’s been doing crosswords to catch up on current events, and he’s bought taped recordings of World Series games. 

He loves antique stores. He visits them and brings home little trinkets that he remembers in his own house, or what he remembered. He watched old commercials from the fifties and sixties, laughed as he remembered the Sears catalogs that would come in the mail. 

“Me an’ my sisters would beg my mom for new clothes from the catalog, and she never would. Always sewed our pants and skirts so damn well, I probably could’ve used them for the next ten years.”  

Tony laughs. 

“Well, I can’t promise I can sew. But I could give you some armor that could last you twenty years, if you want. Steve told me you’re thinking about doing some distance missions.” 

“Just observation, no armor required.” 

“Sometimes it’s the simple missions that get the worst hits,” Tony says. “Believe me, I know how it goes. So, do you want some armor?” 

Bucky smiles. 

“Sure.” 

“I’ll need feedback.” 

“I’ll give it all I’ve got.” 

- 

Bucky is a goddamned dream to design for. He knows exactly what he needs, what areas are most likely to be pierced, and also has a flair for the dramatic: he requests an Iron Man helmet be embroidered on the back. 

“You’re really just trying to be sweet on me, aren’t you?” Tony teases. 

“My master plan to gain your fortune,” Bucky teases right back. “I’ll waste it all on champagne pools and the worst-looking but most expensive shoes I can find.” 

Tony laughs. 

“Sugar, that’d be incredible if you could spend all of my money on that. I’d commend you.” 

Bucky smiles, and it shouldn’t be as nice of a smile as it is, but here Tony is with his opinions and his concerning thought that maybe he wants to see more of Bucky. 

- 

In the morning, there begins a routine. Tony is always up at eight o’clock. It’s a rare lull in Avenger-morning-routines: Nat, Steve, and Bruce are all done, and Thor and Clint won’t be in until ten o’clock at the earliest. 

(What can he say? Thor’s a god and Clint...well. He needs a lot of beauty sleep.) 

Tony makes coffee, and Bucky makes them both breakfast. Says that officially, it’s to test and make sure that his prosthetic is still performing under optimal conditions. 

(They both know that’s not it.) 

Tony always says he pours too much water, makes enough for two cups. 

- 

Steve calls them out on it. 

“You two are being weird,” he says. “And not like Thor and Bruce trying to reenact that one show about ghosts and unsolved things.” 

“That’s their form of courtship, don’t be fucking rude,” Clint remarks. Natasha snorts. 

“What, us being weird?” Tony asks, pouring a bit more coffee into Bucky’s mug. He always uses too much creamer and then won’t finish his coffee unless there’s more. “Why do you say that?” 

“It’s because you both do couple shit,” Bruce says, breezing into the kitchen. “Also, Steve, lovely to see that you have volunteered to be the next guest on Avengers: Unsolved. We’re planning on using you as a guilt-trip in order to access files about aliens.” 

“Truth will be found!” Thor adds. “But also, yes. Bucky, I thought you were taking him on a date to the art museum on Saturday.” 

Bucky turns red. So does Tony. It really is quite inconvenient. 

“I mean, we could go on a date there,” Tony says. “If you’re okay with that.” 

“You’re doing this in public?” Natasha asks, eyebrows raised. “Hm. Would not have called that.” 

“You owe me fifteen dollars,” Bucky says. “Not you Tony, quit looking at me like that. Yes, it will be a date on Saturday, I’ll wear a nice shirt. Nat said that I couldn’t do anything that surprised her.” 

“Technically, Tony surprised me.” 

“I thought dates were mutual events, hm? Fifteen dollars. I’ll use it to buy the best bouquet in New York.” 

“The best bouquet costs over a thousand dollars,” Thor answers. 

“Not questioning how you know that, but I’m scared of you,” Bucky says. “Then I will get the best fifteen-dollar-bouquet in New York.” 

Tony snorts, smiling. 

“I guess I’ll spray a bit of my perfume on my pillow then, soldier.” 

“I’ll pick you up at noon sharp,” Bucky says, grinning. He finishes his coffee. “We’ll make fun of Steve’s art exhibit together.” 

[exhausted-joy]

SCARY HOURS [YANDERE!JUNGKOOK] [05]

CHAPTER FIVE.

SYNOPSIS: Jeon Jungkook is a high school delinquent who also happens to be your awful new next door neighbor. Every night at three am, you jolt awake to the bangs and screams that leak through the thin walls of your apartment. Eventually, you can’t stand it anymore and decide to confront your problematic neighbor. But as it turns out, Jeon Jungkook is no ordinary high school student, and the screams are not that of his own.

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NOTE: Let me know what you thought! ((: (I loved writing this chapter omg) Please excuse any grammatical or spelling errors!

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Jungkook awakes with an awful pain in his stomach.

It’s the kind of stomachache you get when you move around too quickly after you have just eaten yourself full, and it’s incredibly unpleasant in every sense of the word. But, honestly, he’s used it. A handful of painkillers and he’s good to go - he will be able to remain competent throughout the day, for the most part. It’s usually around lunchtime when he crashes and it’s also usually the time where his urges are most content in laying themselves to rest, at least for a little bit.

Jungkook finds himself most at peace when he’s with you. He knows, it’s weird. He can’t seem to figure it out, either. Ever since the incident on the third floor stairwell last week, every couple days you meet him there for whatever reason. He thinks he recalls you saying something about that stupid class president being occupied on certain days or something. He believes it’s a load of crap.

Jungkook supposes that he does congest the way up to the rooftop when he takes his midday snoozes, and you have just given up trying to get past him. He lets you sit with him, fair and square. Now, don’t get him wrong, he actually doesn’t particularly want you around, nor did he ask - he finds you annoying, too happy and, despite it being mostly silent when you are in his presence, you just talk too much. But you insist on sitting on the stairs with him, babbling away endlessly about something he couldn’t care less about.

It’s a simple theory. He doesn’t want to be your friend. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t even remotely like you. But it’s the thing inside of him that does. At night, the urges and contortions get so extremely unbearable that he can hardly stand it. He goes crying and wailing in his pillow like a helpless baby whose turned over too far on his back, unable to bear the pressure of it all. And, in a snap, it all goes away when he’s with you.

Jungkook remembers a sensation similar to this, but almost backwards. He felt the pull with his old friends and he now feels it with you. How careless could he get? It’s your fault for confronting him that one dreadful night; if not for that, he could have been living in this new life free of worry, without losing control, without getting too close to people.

He’s fighting down his murderous thoughts because as much as he doesn’t like you, he doesn’t want to hurt you. It’s this conflicted feeling, one he’s never felt before, that is the only thing he simply doesn’t understand.

━━━━━━━━━

TODAY IS the day Jungkook is being released from his isolated prison in Director Shiwoo’s office to another prison, which is filled with other more obnoxious and irritating prisoners. Basically speaking, he’s getting nudged back into the general population as his in-school suspension duration has run its course. And he is not excited in the least.

It’s because Jungkook knows he will have to see you. And the dumb face of that class prez, but mostly you. He doesn’t want to feel confused. He doesn’t like having the thing inside him repressed just to feel it crashing into him tenfold come midnight. He doesn’t get you or why you try so hard to be nice to him, or go out of your way to try and befriend him. It’s stupid. You’re stupid.

Jungkook shuffles down the hallway with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his uniform slacks, slowly making his way towards his class with half-lidded eyes. He would give anything to skip right now - anything to not be stuck in a room with people who probably think he’s some kind of monster. Like he’s off his rockers or belongs in remedial classes or something.

Scoffing at the thought, Jungkook shakes his fringe out of his eyes and exhales deeply, rounding a corner and watching as the classroom comes into view. He’s not nervous, no, he’s just simply not used to being around so many people at once. All his other schools were pretty small, so he didn’t feel overwhelmed with an influx of too much socializing. Since this was an international school, it was bigger - much bigger than what Jungkook was comfortable with.

Reaching the door, the dark haired boy stops in front of it, hand hovering over the knob. He thinks about knocking first, but decides against it. It wouldn’t matter, would it? All mannerisms were thrown out the window when he decided to throw hands with that kid. The door swings open with a creak, drawing the attention of practically every single person in the room, save for the ones who had already dozed off during the lecture.

A woman with cat-eye glasses, the teacher, he assumes, pauses mid-sentence to look over at the newcomer, raising a paper thin eyebrow at the sudden intrusion. Jungkook stares back in disinterest, eyes flickering towards the class who all quickly avoid eye contact at the shift in attention. It takes a second for the woman’s eyes to light up in recognition and a warm smile spreads across her face when they do.

“Ah, you must be Jungkook! Come in, come in,” she ushers him in towards the front of the room, the door slamming shut behind him with a deafening thud. “Class, this is Jeon Jungkook. He will be joining us as of today, and I expect he is treated with the utmost respect and kindness.” Her voice is stern with warning undertones, as if he were a ticking time bomb that could be set off at the slightest prod. Perhaps it was true.

“Your assigned seat is there,” she points to an empty seat beside a painstakingly familiar girl and Jungkook thinks he can hear his stomach dropping to the floor. “[Name]-ah, please raise your hand.”

Upon hearing your name, you force yourself out of your daydream stupor, biting back a yawn as you timidly hold up a hand to make your presence known. You watch with jaded eyes as Jungkook makes his way over his new desk, his features hardened in a way that makes him look, for lack of a better word, scary.

He doesn’t look at you as he sinks down in his chair, carelessly dropping his black backpack on the floor and facing forwards with a steely gaze. You sleepily peer at him, taking note of the way he disregards your whole existence. You aren’t surprised.

“[Name]-ah, I trust that you will take very good care of Jungkook-ah, hm?” The older woman sends you a sharp look and you gulp, quickly nodding with a shaky smile. She then turns around to resume whatever she had been teaching, the occasional squeak of her dry erase markers and click of her too-high heels making you feel sick.

You glance at Jungkook who already looks bored with his cheek resting in the palm of his hand. With clammy hands, you reach into your bag to grab the extra Tupperware of food you had prepared. Your heart is racing at a million miles a second - you think it might explode if you don’t calm yourself down. You just can’t believe you are actually doing this. Seriously, what is up with you and being a good person? Did you get struck over the head with a ‘good spirits’ stick or something?

“Jungkook-ah.” You whisper his name quietly. He doesn’t move.

Making a face, you whisper his name again, this time finally capturing his attention. Jungkook slowly turns his head to look at you and you can’t deny that you are a little bit intimidated at the cold glare he regards you with. Usually he just glared at you without any heat behind it, but this one was different; it was detached and unfamiliar, almost burning with some kind of fire.

“I-I, uh, made you this,” you slide the container of fresh bulgogi and seasoned rice towards him, watching as his expression softens slightly. “I hope you like it.”

It’s not abnormal, but it suddenly kind of feels like Jungkook can’t breathe. There’s a constricting feeling in his throat that cripples his airflow like there’s a vice around his neck, cruelly squeezing tighter and tighter. His hands drop into his lap and they lay there, shaking beneath the desk - he hopes you can’t see it.

His dark eyes glower intensely at the container of food. Jungkook can feel it stirring within, practically purring at your selfless gesture. Why couldn’t you just leave him alone? Shut up, he hisses at it, shut the hell up. It only grows louder and before he can say ‘don’t want it’ like he usually does, he’s already reaching out to accept it, spurring on the purrs that rumble through his chest.

You study the boy in the seat next to you as he seems to be going through an existential crisis. Pushing aside his strange, constipated expressions, you can’t control the grin that splits from ear-to-ear, watching joyously as he shoves the receptacle in his bag. The feeling you get is indescribable; maybe he was finally warming up to you.

As juvenile as it may seem, you really did want to be Jungkook’s friend. Or at least give it a shot. You didn’t know what it was that brought you to up to the third floor stairwell time and time again. There’s a sort of pull, a connection of some sort. Maybe it was how he was always alone that reminded you of yourself in a way. He looked like he needed a friend. Or maybe you were just being delusional. Either way, you were too committed now, so there was no use in backing out.

The rest of the class period consists of you glancing at Jungkook with shy smiles when you think he isn’t looking, and him knocking his knee into yours when you begin to doze off.

At the end of the class period, though, it’s you who has to tap him awake, for he was the one who had fallen asleep.

━━━━━━━━━

“NO WAY, you got assigned cleaning duty with that psycho?!”

You huff in annoyance as Jimin dramatically throws his head back to let out an obnoxiously loud laugh at your misfortune. If he weren’t so handsome, you’d give him another bruise next to the one still slightly visible on his left cheek.

“He’s not a psycho, Jimin-ah. And it’s only temporary. Haneul-ssaemnim said she would even give me extra credit if I let him help out.” You defend yourself, trying to make it seem not as bad as he is making it out to be. Jimin shoots you a look, almost surprised at your willingness to expend Jungkook for the sake of not failing a class.

“You know you can always come to me if you need help,” He leans forward, drawing in close to your face and watching in amusement as you flush red. “I’m pretty good at chemistry.”

You playfully shove him away, shaking your head. “I can tell. Your fanclub won’t stop looking over here.” You jerk your head in the direction of the group of girls that sit across the outside courtyard, creepily staring over at their class prez in timed intervals. Jimin frowns at your comment as he looks back at them, quick to replace it with a charming smile and a small wave.

You watch as the girls erupt into a fit of flustered giggles and googly eyes due to Jimin’s small gestures. A sullen look crosses your face. It’s moments like these that remind you that your new friend could be with literally anyone else right now, but instead chooses to sit with you. He could literally get anything and anyone he desired, yet being your friend was something he apparently wanted, too. In another dimension this could have made a lick of sense but, right now, you weren’t quite understanding.

“Hey, Jimin.”

The brown haired boy turns back around to face you once again, his face settled in question. Letting out a deep breath, you hope you don’t regret asking what you are about to ask.

“Why do you hang around me? I-I mean, not that I’m being ungrateful, I enjoy talking to you and all, but I’m kind of a loser an-“ Jimin cuts you off before you can ramble the both of you into the next century.

Having averted your gaze down to your lap, you see the older boy reach for your hand and you feel the warmth of his much larger one enveloping yours. You reluctantly look up through your lashes, ears hot from the skinship. He was really touchy when he wanted to be, you notice.

“[Name]-ah,” Jimin starts softly. “Let’s go to the arcade after school. I’ll wait for you.”

There’s a mushy, gooey feeling coursing through your chest all of a sudden. Your heartbeat speeds up slightly, the heat in your ears spreading to your cheeks as you look into his innocently slanted eyes. With a large grin, you eagerly accept his offer, watching him return your smile with just as much vigor as he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

You don’t need much more of an answer than that.

━━━━━━━━━

THE REST of the day goes by slowly, but eventually.

Before Jungkook knows it, the last dismissal bell rings, officially marking the end of yet another painstakingly boring, exhausting school day. He almost thought it would never end; the day seemed to go by more leisurely when he wasn’t allowed to kick his feet up on Director Shiwoo’s desk and mess around on his phone.

His train of thought is cut short by an angry growl of his stomach, the pangs of hunger gnawing uncomfortably at his gut. Ah, that’s right. He was actually able to nap today due to your absence and as much of a relief as that was, he was unable to emotionally feed off the tranquility you offered when you were around.

When you didn’t hang around him, Jungkook experienced a different kind of peaceful. It was the kind that was too quiet and rather lonesome, if he had to describe it realistically. The silence was annoying but so were you, and he didn’t know why he would ever prefer to be around you than have some actual peace and quiet for once. Shaking his head, he clears his mind of those intrusive thoughts. If only he could rid himself of the monstrous cravings, none of this would even be a problem.

Maybe in another life you two could have actually got along. Become friends, even. Jungkook snorts mockingly at the thought, unable to imagine such a thing. He could be friends with no one - it was his curse to bear until the day he died.

His stomach growls again. Rolling his eyes, he suddenly remembers the container of food you had graciously gave him. Having caught a brief look at it before throwing it into the black hole that is his bag, it was one of Jungkook’s favorites; a simple dish of bulgogi and rice. He hadn’t had a home cooked meal in such a long time that he couldn’t resist allowing himself to indulge just a bit. Besides, who was he to turn a blind eye to free food?

Jungkook halts in the middle of the semi-deserted second floor hallway to reach into his bag and retrieve the desired treat. As he’s digging, he’s stopped short when he hears his name being called from down the hallway.

“Jungkook-ah!”

A knot of dread sinks heavily in his stomach as he slowly looks up, his big brown eyes clashing with your own. You approach with a dustpan in one hand and a large broom in the other, and Jungkook can feel the knot growing larger and larger with each of your steps that close the distance.

“I’m sorry I forgot to tell you earlier, but you’re on cleaning duty with me.” You say as you stop in front of him, a polite smile plastered on your face. Jungkook raises an eyebrow and clicks his tongue in annoyance. Cleaning duty? What is this, child slave labor?

“No.”

He makes a move to leave but a desperate tug on his backpack pulls him back.

“Please!” Comes your plea, your grip on his bag tightening. A moment passes and you clear your throat, appearing slightly embarrassed at the sudden raise in your own voice.

“I, uh, wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with Haneul-ssaemnim..” you trail off, averting your eyes. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

Jungkook sighs, ultimately giving in. He really didn’t want to get into any more trouble than he’s already gotten himself into; not that getting in trouble really mattered to him, but he didn’t want to once again relocate and put more stress on his already sickly mother. He couldn’t be reckless anymore - it would catch up to him sooner or later.

“Fine. Let’s go.” The taller boy snatches the broom from your hand and makes his way down the hallway and back to the classroom. Sliding open the door, he breathes in relief to see its already empty despite the fact that class was dismissed just a few minutes ago. The state of the room, however, summoned another sigh, though for a different reason.

To be frank, the room was a complete mess. Jungkook hadn’t noticed before - having been asleep the whole time he was in class - but the place looked like an absolute pigsty. Crumpled up sheets of loose leaf paper pile beneath the desks, snack wrappers decorate the linoleum tiles in colorful streaks, and discarded pencils and spent pens are strewn idly amongst it all.

You enter the room moments later, your shorter form having a bit of trouble catching up in comparison to his longer strides. Huffing, you set your sights upon the garbage dump that is both of your guys’ classroom. A disgusted look warps your features and Jungkook can’t help but agree with it; it was truly shameful to see.

Wordlessly, the dark haired boy gets to work with you hovering over him closely. He sweeps articles of garbage into one big pile before scooping it into your dustpan, where you then take it to the trashcan nearby to empty it out. It’s rinse and repeat from then on until about only half of the room is fully clean. You both decide to take a break - it’s hard work.

Jungkook props the broom up against one of the desks and leans against it, uncharacteristically out of breath. You peer at him in concern, watching as he runs a hand through his hair to expose a sweaty forehead. His breathing grows heavier and he turns to face the desk completely, planting both of his palms on the surface of it to keep himself steady. You had never taken the tall, lean boy as one to be out of shape, so this was certainly a sight to behold.

Not now, Jungkook pleads, please don’t be like this right now! He can feel those pangs of hunger ruthlessly tearing away in his gut and he knows it’s not because he’s hungry. No, this is the feeling he gets when he wants more than food. He can feel his head begin to swim with lightheadedness, his body tipping to one side but quickly correcting himself in attempt to keep upright.

“Jungkook-ah…? Are you okay?” Your voice sounds so far away. But his dark eyes glance up to see you standing right before him in such crowded proximity, a hand slowly reaching out to touch him.

“Maybe you should sit down.. y-you don’t look so good. Should I get the nurse?” Your hand lands on his shoulder and all the muscles in his body instantaneously tense obscenely. A chord in his brain snaps.

As if possessed, Jungkook violently swipes at your unfamiliar touch, his inhumanely sharp nails raking across the easily broken skin of your wrist.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” He roars, stumbling back from you as if he had just been burned.

You let out a startled squeal at the attack, shock filtering out any other emotion despite the blood that spurts from your newly attained wound. Burning tears well up in your eyes at the sight of the scarlet that runs down your arm and drips from your fingers, the wound pulsing across the length of your wrist. A wave of stinging hits you all at once and you look up at Jungkook with fear. In all the few times he’s snapped at you, this is the first time he’s ever seriously laid a finger on you. And it’s absolutely terrifying.

“Stay the hell away from me. We are not friends and we never will be. Get that through your thick skull, you useless nobody,” The words he spits at you hurt, much more than the cut, as the arrows of heartbreak pierce through your chest. Lip quivering, you take a couple tentative steps towards the door, and the next thing that comes out of his mouth sends you in a full sprint towards it.

“I hate you.”

It only takes a choked sob and the gust of wind from you sprinting past and blowing him back a bit to make him realize what he’s done.

“[Name], wai-“ The slam of the door cuts him off, leaving him in a lonely, jarring silence that slices through him like a knife.

What did he just do? Slamming a fist down on a nearby desk, the plastic cracks beneath the pressure but he’s too angry to care. Jungkook looks down at his shaking hands just in time to see his sharp nails retracting back to their original state. You had looked at him with those eyes.

Scared and helpless and hurt. Usually the gnawing feeling went away when he smelt the sweet waves of fear and emotional pain, but it only seems to have grown tenfold. Jungkook doubles over on top of the desk, gripping the edge in an iron hold as he lets out a guttural groan at the way the pain slams into his abdomen like a brick. Something wasn’t right. It was supposed to help him feel better. Your terrorized expression briefly flashes in his mind and another blow of pain flexes in his gut. Panting, he rests his sweaty forehead against the desk top, mind swarming with muddled confusion as the strings of his heart are twinged taut.

Why, then, was he so unsatisfied?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

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