ive read the argument that kaiba would stay in school to beat yuugi at grades, but i don't really think this squares. i think kaiba would see yuugi's "D+ SEE ME AFTER CLASS" on his math test and laugh his way to the administration office where he files his "i am dropping out of school and you won't stop me" paperwork and never steps foot in a high school classroom again.
like i think he went to high school as some kind of boring formality more than anything else. gozaburo seems to have had him in some kind of accelerated curriculum of languages, social studies, business management, and judging by DM, STEM as well (and being some kind of STEM prodigy just makes sense for him anyway, no matter the canon; he designed the duel disk!) so in the end he's just miles ahead of any high school curriculum regardless.
in addition, "beating yuugi at grades" is like... a perpendicular exaggeration of his competitive tendencies. first of all, he knows and acts like he is the smartest person in any room he walks into. he shows no signs of wanting to prove anything in that respect. he does not feel the need to prove he's smarter than yuugi because he already knows he is. second of all, "grades" is not the same as "duel monsters." grades are, in the end, a measure of how well you can take a test. Duel Monsters means something entirely different to kaiba--it is connection, passion, a vehicle of emotion; it is rising to meet the challenge of someone else, through an antagonistic/responsive zero-sum card game, with your whole being. a grade is something you can earn by yourself--a solitary victory. someone else can also "win" at grades and it has nothing to do with you. duel monsters is something you have to play with someone else, with an outcome constructed via interactions with other people.
in other words: he dropped out of high school the end
Aurora walked into the History of Panem classroom, her head held high despite the nervous flutter in her chest. Today, she had resolved to engage with the class, to prove—to herself more than anyone—that she deserved to be here. Clemensia and Arachne had wished her luck before parting ways to their own classes, their reassuring smiles helping steady her nerves.
Dean Highbottom was already at the front of the room, scribbling key dates and events from the Dark Days onto the board. Coriolanus sat at their shared table, flipping through a notebook with an air of detached focus. Aurora slid into her seat next to him, determined to keep her resolve, though her presence felt as if it tilted the axis of the room.
Highbottom cleared his throat. “Settle down, class. Today, we’ll review the foundations of the Dark Days—essential knowledge to guide your upcoming projects.”
“Who can tell me,” Highbottom asked, breaking his lecture, “the primary reason the war started in the first place?”
The room fell silent. Most students either didn’t care to answer or feared the glare of Highbottom’s sharp eyes. Aurora hesitated. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: You are to listen, not speak. No man will ever tolerate a woman who overshadows him.
But then she remembered Archer, sneaking her books at night, whispering encouragement. And she slowly raised her hand.
“Miss Laurent.” Highbottom’s tone carried a hint of skepticism, but he gestured for her to speak.
“The districts rebelled because of the exploitation and inequality imposed by the Capitol,” she said confidently. “They were overworked, underfed, and treated as tools rather than people. It was only a matter of time before resentment boiled over.”
Highbottom nodded slowly. “And why didn’t the rebellion succeed?”
“They lacked unity,” Aurora replied without hesitation. “The districts were too isolated from one another to coordinate effectively. The Capitol exploited that weakness by targeting them one at a time.”
A murmur spread through the class. Highbottom tilted his head, studying her with renewed interest. “Correct. And what strategies did the Capitol use to regain control?”
“They manipulated resources,” Aurora said, her voice clear. “They withheld food and medicine, forcing the districts into submission. They also used fear—public executions and severe punishments—to deter resistance.”
More heads turned in her direction now. Even Coriolanus, who had already been impressed by her sharpness the day before, leaned slightly closer, intrigued.
Highbottom walked slowly toward her, his hands clasped behind his back. “You seem to know quite a bit about rebellion, Miss Laurent. Care to share why?”
Aurora hesitated but decided to answer honestly. “I’ve read extensively about it, sir. My brother’s library had books on the history of Panem.”
Highbottom raised an eyebrow, then addressed the class again. “Let’s move forward. The Treaty of Treason marked the end of the rebellion, but it also introduced new systems of control. Who can name one of them?”
Coriolanus’s hand shot to this time.
“Mr Snow?.”
“The Hunger Games,” he said. “It was designed to remind the districts of the Capitol’s power and to prevent future uprisings by turning them against each other.”
Highbottom’s didn’t express any approval. “Well done. And what does that say about the Capitol’s approach to governance?”
Aurora preceded to answer again, “The Capitol relies on fear and division to maintain control. But fear isn’t a sustainable way to rule—it breeds resentment, which eventually could lead to rebellion again.”
The room fell silent. Even Highbottom seemed momentarily taken aback by her insight.
Finally, he smirked. “Miss Laurent, you were homeschooled, correct?”
“Not really, sir,” she replied. “Just… at home.”
“You’ve never received a proper teaching?” His eyebrow raised
“The only teachers I’ve ever had are my brother’s books, sir,” she said, her voice steady despite the weight of the attention now fixed on her.
Highbottom clasped his hands behind his back. “Hmm. So, help me visualize this, Miss Laurent. The only education you’ve gotten is, what, reading?”
“Precisely.” She nodded.
“Fascinating.” Highbottom looked out at the class, then back at Aurora. “You are incredibly bright for someone who’s never received formal instruction, Miss Laurent. I’m eager to see how you’ll improve throughout the year.”
“Thank you, sir,” Aurora said, offering a small, polite smile.
Highbottom’s smirk deepened as he glanced at Coriolanus. “And for you, Mr. Snow… it seems like you’ve finally got yourself some competition.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room. Coriolanus didn’t react outwardly, but Aurora caught the subtle twitch of his lips, the faintest hint of a smile.
As the class moved into project work, Coriolanus leaned toward her slightly. “You’re full of surprises,” he murmured.
Aurora looked at him, unsure of how to respond. For the first time in her life, she felt seen—not as a pawn, not as a disappointment, but as something more. Something unfamiliar.
WAIT! I forgot the otp LOL. Here it is again: 12 & 94 for Lokane, pretty please 🙂🙃🙂🙃
Roommate AU and Hair Brushing/Braiding
Loki is in... kind of a weird situation.
He has to go to grad school. He knows that and has been planning it his whole life. Ivy league is well within his reach. In fact, he’s already accepted a full-ride scholarship to Princeton. With his brains and charismatic charm, he has no doubt of his success and that he will go on to do so many great(er than Thor) things.
Trouble is, in order to accept this scholarship, he can’t start school until next semester. That’s not good. If there’s one thing Odin hates its laziness and taking a gap year or even just a gap ‘few months’ is the pinnacle of ‘not trying hard enough’ in the old man’s mind. Just look at Thor who went right to Stanford and is now third in his class.
That’s a lot of pressure to put on someone. Luckily, Loki is up for the task.
First step: do not tell his parents about Princeton at all. In fact, as far as they know, Loki still has all those college applications saved away on his laptop. He will definitely get to it next week guys!
Second step: instead of rushing right into the classroom, find a productive way to spend his time before he makes his great big leap into university life. If Odin doesn’t want him to toil away doing nothing when he could be working his ass off at something, that’s perfectly all right.
Fortunately, the local cosmetology school is now enrolling students for their next semester. Hair design is certainly a useful skill in many ways after all.
Now, you might think all of this would not make Odin happy at all. It might sound like Loki did this specifically because the sight of Odin red-faced and pissed off while he enthusiastically discussed his salon management classes over dinner added years to his lifespan every single time.
And you would be right!
So now that Loki is all set up for the next few months, he needs a place to stay. He finds an add online from a young woman in the area looking for a roommate. He answers and goes to see her place. It’s a nice two-bedroom apartment. He learns that Jane, the would-be roommate, is a science major who needs help paying her rent for the next few months before she goes away to grad school.
Admittedly, after spending an hour in Loki’s presence, he is definitely not the kind of person she’d want to room with. However, he’s the only applicant after a week and she’s desperate, so Loki it is!
He moves right in and continues taking his classes. He’s been intentionally vague about his personal details, and so as far as Jane knows, he’s just another broke student like her struggling to make ends meet.
Slowly, they start to get along better. Whatever time Jane doesn’t spend studying is spent with her boyfriend, Donald Blake. Donald is an okay enough guy, though he is a bit unsure of Loki. They more or less get along and as Loki learns more from his cosmetology classes, he starts helping Jane get ready for dates. He does her hair, helps with her make-up, everything. It’s like My Fair Lady except Jane was already beautiful and he’s just doing her a favor as a friend. Nothing weird about it.
Except then Jane and Donald break up. Nothing he or anyone else did, just the natural progression of things. They grew apart, Donald got really into his work, Jane got really into her studies, just one of those things.
On the plus side, Jane has a lot more confidence in herself thanks to Loki’s help. Not just giving her a makeover, but his general attitude of always pushing her to do her best at school. Being smart enough to bounce ideas off of. He trusts her enough at this point to admit he’s going to Princeton in the spring and his cosmetology classes are just a front to piss his father off. Jane thinks it’s still been worthwhile for him to do this. Even if he does eventually leave beauty school behind, he’s still clearly learned some valuable lessons from being involved at all.
The more he thinks about it, the more he agrees. His father may see cosmetology as a waste of time, but it’s an incredible amount of work and he has come to respect both his instructors and fellow students. One guy, Clint Barton, is especially good with hair design, and if you ever say he isn’t, he can shoot you through the eye with an arrow from a mile away.
While all this is going on, Thor is crushing it as Stanford’s number one quarterback. He’s gotten so big, even Jane has heard of him. Loki, who uses his birth last name rather than his adopted last name, is having a much harder time keeping his secret from Jane. He’s starting to wonder why he keeps it a secret at all.
The semester ends and Jane invites Loki to attend a big party with some of her classmates. By some horrible coincidence Fandral, an old family friend, is also there. He spots Loki and tries talking to him. The trouble is Fandral is also on the Stanford team (he’s in town visiting family) and Jane is now wondering how this big shot football player from another state knows her weird but endearing beautician friend.
That’s how it all comes out.
So now Jane knows the truth about Loki. She doesn’t know what to think or why he was so desperate to hide it. She’s been completely transparent with him from the start, perhaps too much so. Now she doesn’t even know if she can trust him anymore, and it really hurts.
Loki has no idea what to do other than kick himself for being so stupid. He ends up calling his mother. She’s always the best person to speak to at times like this. Loving as she is, she’s never afraid to tell the truth.
Indeed, she tells him right away how stupid it was to lie to Jane. She also shocks him by revealing she knows about Princeton and always did. She tells him he needs to talk to Jane and that no matter what he does, whether he takes the scholarship like he planned or remains in beauty school, she is and always will be proud of him.
When Loki goes home, he does something he’s never done before: truly and sincerely apologizes. Jane doesn’t know what to think, and Loki agrees to give her some space. He does, however, ask her for one more favor. When he tells her what it is, Jane can’t help herself but accept.
And so, on her graduation day, Jane gives a speech before classmates dressed in her best looking better than ever with expertly designed hair and makeup. Don is shocked and definitely a little regretful when he sees her, exactly as Loki had planned.
Afterward, Loki completes his semester and should be making plans to move to New Jersey. He finds himself unsure of what to do. He admits to Jane that he’s going to miss her and beauty school. He’s starting to wonder if he should stay after all, to Hell with his father’s expectations. He has nothing to prove anymore.
Jane agrees with him about that but also tells him he’d be a complete idiot not to take this opportunity. It’s not about Odin, it’s about him and what he wants, and they both know what he wants is Princeton.
So Loki begins his schooling as planned. The next few years go by like a blur as Loki and Jane pour themselves into their studies while still making time to regularly call, text, and facetime each other. During the summer, Loki splits his time between Jane (who always makes sure to visit) and classes at the local beauty school, and by the time he has his master’s degree he is also a fully licensed cosmetologist on the side.
That Jane eagerly accepts his marriage proposal the day after he receives his degree is just the icing on the cake. Life really is good.
Mmm sounds delish 😋 so resourceful. I had cookie dough in the fridge and got super excited for a hot minute before I realized it expired last year. speaking of baking, do you think Marika bakes
marika fandom population of us and a shoelace and also a ten-cent coin
I HATE WHEN THAT HAPPENS i just found reese’s cups in my cupboard but they went bad like eight months ago and i have a highly irrational fear of food poisoning. the temptation. The Temptation.
listen. Listen. LISTEN.
ugh i am QUAKING just thinking about this. depression moms own my entire ass
SO. she is and has always been a suspiciously good baker. she and her mom used to bake a lot around the holidays and donate cookies where they could. when her father was working in the winter months and marika was off from school, she and her mother would end up with warm banana bread and some blueberry muffins coming out of the oven as soon as he walked in the door. they used to make coffee cake on christmas morning, using a handed-down recipe on a fading, yellowed notecard, her grandmother’s penciled handwriting giving very exact measurements, the directions very colloquial and hard to understand but, of course, unnecessary to read given how many times they’ve all made it. when she Very Very First started dating her husband (ie like a week in let’s be real), she claimed she was the Buttermilk Pancake Master, so when she stayed over the first time, he told her that morning that he had All Of The Ingredients in the kitchen, and that she had to prove it. the way he grinned in expectation, knowing even before she showed him that she would earn the title, and the way he put a dollop of whipped cream on her nose (he always had a sweet tooth) made her think for the first time that this would last, actually last, that it wasn’t just infatuation. she kissed him goodbye and went home scared, a lighthearted kind of scared, the kind of scared that made her feel like asking for more. she was scared of how she knew already that, given enough time, she would love this man, scared of letting someone have that kind of power over her. within a week, he was coming by to her parents’ home for sunday brunch, invited mostly in the student/colleague capacity, and when he kissed her on the porch as he left that afternoon, hand dangling toward hers as if to squeeze in just a few more seconds together, she stopped being afraid.
he was an intelligent, horrifically practical, starving student type. they got married in her parents’ backyard in march, springtime weather thankfully having come early that year. (in which i have accidentally gone off of canon and am desperately trying to save it this is fine everything’s fine). she and her mother baked the cake together, three tiers, borrowing from the library a video cassette that taught about fancy icing patterns like flowers so that it would look festive. she wore her mother’s gown, and the conversation about alterations - making just a few certain parts bigger - was how she told her mother she was pregnant. not far along, not enough that she would have wanted to tell anyone other than her husband-to-be, but long enough for this one thing, in only one size, intended for only one other woman, to have fit. no real reception, just seeing guests in her family’s living room, the guest list small and intimate. she hadn’t even wanted to share this day with much of anyone; it was more of a box to check than anything else, for she’d known they would be married, that they’d grow old together, and didn’t need accompanying pleasantries to make that feel any more real. however, in later years, she would thank him for insisting that they have some kind of party, even just a small one; she would look back on the pictures, all of them, even the disposable camera ones of her and her mother icing the cake, and feel a melancholy but underneath joyful fondness. even if the day didn’t matter, the pictures did, and whenever she looked back on the pictures, she could feel a combination of longing and realness, a missing of exactly those moments but also a visceral reminder of how real they were, how the house smelled of flowers and vanilla icing on that day, how he canceled the classes he TA’d for on that monday and then last minute on that tuesday too. it was like tasting the last dregs of the love, looking at those pictures. it was just a little, but it was enough to make her feel real again.
her mother brought by zucchini bread three mornings in a row after their son was born. they wondered where she could possibly have been getting that many zucchinis. still, it was a relief to have someone else in the house, to let him work or study, to give her a moment for a sketch, just a tiny little sketch, usually of something benign and irrelevant, sometimes even the container of floss on their bathroom sink. she asked her mother for the recipe but never ended up receiving it. years later, she asked her father if he had it, but he said he didn’t. as always, he offered to let her look through what he had left of her mother’s things, and as always, she declined.
after her mother died, she stopped baking. he used to come home from studying in the library on weekends (an inevitability, she knew, but one he avoided as much as he could) to find chocolate crinkle cookies, coconut bars, and now, nothing. he would prompt her, ask if she’d been painting all day, and she would say no, just finishing a few things, tidying it up. he first asked about it after thanksgiving, when she didn’t make honeyed cornbread or anything else he knew she would usually make. that year, the holidays were hard, their son a toddler and unable to understand and her father all alone, struggling with the repercussions, struggling with his health. with her son put to bed, she ended up crying in her husband’s arms in bed on christmas eve, presents having been put under the tree in a daze, her mind and body focused on not feeling as much as possible. the strangest thing about him was how he was so in-tune to what she was feeling but also could remove himself when necessary, letting her be irrationally upset and angry, grounding her in those cases but never judging. she kept him up until three in the morning, but at six, he was bright-eyed and excited when their son and her father woke them up, their son having been restless and, though her father wouldn’t admit to it, annoying enough that it was of the absolute utmost importance to pass on the Can We Open Presents Now sentiment to mom and dad. she lagged for a moment, but he was present as ever, lifting their son up and asking him if he thought santa brought him any presents, looking back at her and asking if she would like him to make her a cup of coffee. she nodded in response, and with his open hand, he motioned for her to come here, then wrapped his arm around her back, kissed her, and said to come down whenever she was ready.
it took her twenty minutes, but she made it down. that morning, her father baked cinnamon buns, the kind that come in a refrigerated-section tube. she said she wasn’t hungry.
once her son was in grade school, they inevitably came up: PTA brownies. they were part gimmick, part stereotype, part icon. the school was having a bake sale to raise funds for something like a new gym or a new board for the classrooms, she didn’t know, she didn’t exactly care, and they wanted her to bake brownies. in the end, she got the simple task, other mothers having to make royal icing or meringue cookies, but she felt her hands shake in the baking aisle of the grocery store, her son sitting in the cart, pointing to the food coloring, and asking if it would turn him all red or blue or yellow. she didn’t even need a recipe to follow; she knew her old one by heart, could make it without consciously or really purposefully taking the actions. when her son asked (insisted) about having one after dinner, he pushed a little too far, and she snapped at him, her husband stilling with the comment, no judgment there but knowing something was wrong. while she showered that night, she felt an aching kind of horrible, nauseous and uncomfortable, unable to stop replaying the sequence of events all over in her head. at least he hadn’t cried. at least he’d stopped asking. but still, she knew she was getting shorter by the day, that her tolerance was waning, that months ago she would’ve had a more visceral and denying reaction to the brownies. back then, she would have made an excuse, done something else instead, but now, she made the brownies without thinking. in bed that night, she told her husband that she had a sinking feeling that something was wrong, and he told her that the next day they would figure out what to do to make it easier together.
things do get easier. the patterns aren’t impossible to track. it’s medication, light exercise (her husband wakes up early with her so that they can walk the neighborhood before work, and sometimes, they meet up for their lunch hours and loop campus together), enough sleep, and support. she knows she’s lucky to have support, and it’s instrumental, really is. he won’t do much of anything until she’s out of bed. it’s gotten to the point that she knows his primary tactic, his near-last resort, which is to say, hey, why don’t we wake our boy up together? when they ask her to bake brownies again, it’s a family affair, her son on a stepstool and her husband melting chocolate in a double-boiler on the stove. it’s almost shocking how she can just sit down and make art now. until now, she didn’t even realize how hard it had become, how almost unrewarding. for christmas that year, she makes the coffee cake, and though there are feelings as she does so, she’s relieved to find that at least it doesn’t hurt.
oh, and she knows it’s all working when she can bake her son a birthday cake. two layers, with icing patterns exactly like the ones from that video cassette years beforehand. she knows it’s getting better when she can design things like dragons in frosting, adding little ornaments and getting praise-filled commentary from the other mothers at her son’s birthday parties. one of the last pictures of her family together that she has shows her and her husband above their son while he wears a party hat and blows out the candles on his birthday cake that year. it was lego-themed, for he’d been obsessed with legos at the time. it had taken her four tries to figure out how to make little blocks out of fun-sized candy and fondant.
after her husband dies, they stop asking her to bake brownies. when they broach the topic again, she says she’ll bring in cookies, then buys some from the grocery store, unpacks them onto a frilly plate, and crumbles the edges of a few, in order to make them look a little less packaged. eventually, she just brings them in their packages and lets someone else deal with the rest.
Summary: Tim spends his first night as a real Robin
Next you're going to tell me how simple it all is."
"Well, yeah. It's pretty basic math."
On his first night living in Wayne Manor, Tim lies, unable to sleep, staring up at the roof of his bedroom.
He had stayed in The Cave, curled under the weight of his cloak, until four AM, pretending to work as he monitored Batman from the cave and then watched him go through his warm down and debrief. The truth is he hasn’t retained more than a half-dozen data points all night about the villains he had been tasked to study.
When even Batman was ready to finish up for the night, he had asked to stay down in the cave a little longer, to more fully accustom himself to the computer’s system. But Batman had been stern. “We sleep when we can. That’s as important a part of the job as any other if we want to maximise operation at peak capacity.” He had said, not unkindly and sent Tim to go change.
It was easier to be Robin. As Robin, he felt tougher, safer. He could keep the pain at arm’s length. It was all harder to deal with when he was just Tim. The pain felt sharper, more immediate.
At the foot of the stairs, Bruce, now in sweats, had reached out and, when Tim gave a tiny nod, placed his hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing very well.”
“T-thank you.”
Bruce had walked him to the door of the guest room – no, not the guest room any longer – his room now, Alfred had said, for as long as he needed it, but hadn’t come inside. “I’m just down the hall. You know where to find me?”
“Yes.”
“Good night.”
It’s a nice room, if impersonal. His duffel bag and boxes of belongings still sit on the floor. Alfred had wanted to unpack them, but Tim had asked him not to, preferring to do it himself.
There had been a tray sitting on the table by his window when he came in; a glass of milk and a sandwich. Alfred had gone to bed as soon as Bruce had jumped out of the car and proved himself not in need of stitching up. That was, apparently, his custom, but he had left the snack for Tim before retiring. Tim just hadn’t been able to summon up an appetite.
Now he is lying in bed, staring straight at the ceiling, willing himself to sleep.
Bruce will be disappointed with him if he doesn’t sleep.
He has been released from school this week, in deference to his father’s illness and his mother’s death. The funeral will be Thursday. There was no family to help organise the fine details of the memorial, so his father’s lawyer had looked after the legal side, and Alfred had looked after the personal details. Alfred is good at that sort of thing. Tim is beginning to realise that Alfred is good at everything.
So, it doesn’t actually matter if he doesn’t get any sleep. It’s okay if he wastes the rest of the night thrashing, or lying, gazing up at the roof. He doesn’t actually have anywhere to be.
Except, if he does not sleep now, he won’t be sharp come tonight and there is no excuse for that.
Nightwing had promised to come over later today too and play video games with him. Tim had told him thank you, but that his aerial work was still weak and could they practice that instead, please? They had compromised on Dick taking him to the track and showing him how to do pin turns on the bike as long as Dick could take him out for burgers after.
He tries shutting his eyes. Whenever he does, he sees his mother’s body on the slab in the mortuary when he had been taken by Bruce to legally identify it - her. He hears the beep of the respirator doing his Dad’s breathing for him. When he thinks about those things, his stomach bucks and his breathing quickens. All the control, the mastery over fear he had maintained during their kidnapping, is slipping through his fingers like smoke. To his mortification, he realises he is crying.
He buries his head in his pillow and bites down on it, trying to stop himself from making a noise. God, please let Bruce not have heard that. Please.
After a while of quiet sniffling, he throws the covers off himself, pulls the throw from the end of the bed and wraps it around himself like it is Robin’s cap. He discretely wipes his eyes on the corner. Then he slips out of his room.
The mahogany panelling makes everything in the manor’s upstairs corridor seem darker, but dawn is starting to slide through the eastern window, enough to see by. Alfred had told them that the floorboards are designed to squeak, a nightingale floor to act as an extra layer of security if someone dangerous makes it as far as the manor. He hasn’t learned the trick to walking silently across it yet, but he does the best he can. He reaches the top of the stairs, wonders about the likelihood of being able to get into the cave without Bruce or Alfred being alerted and decides it is not very likely. He keeps walking.
Eventually, he comes to a door and eases it open.
The room is spotless. Alfred wouldn’t abide dust. There is a copy of The Big Sleep thrown down on the bedspread, as if the room’s occupant has just left for a moment and will be right back. But things are too tidy, and the air is thick, undisturbed. After less than a year, the room is already turning from a bedroom into a museum.
He walks a circuit of it once, afraid to touch anything in case it would be seen as an intrusion. It’s just an ordinary room, books, a sleek laptop closed on the desk and a closet full of clothes that will never be worn again. There is a big bay window, east facing with a window seat set beneath it. Outside, the woodlands are a riot of autumn colours, red and gold and deep green. Silver mists gird the lawns. Beyond the forest, the city lies, handsome and unthreatening at this distance, like a lounging apex predator.
Wrapping his blanket-cape around him he sits down, curling into the deep pillows of the window seat.
Ives had called yesterday, and the day before that and there had been a card sent over signed by all the kids in his homeroom. People know how to do these things properly in Gotham. He has signed a couple himself in the past. One for Cecily when her sister had been hit by joker venom. One for Mark after the fire that had killed his dad.
There had been one for Jason too, or for Bruce and Alfred. It had been passed diligently around the classroom and Tim had felt unable to sign it. Anything he could have written would have felt too much like a lie.
“What was he like?” He had asked Dick about Jason once, and Dick had squirmed and said, “You’re nothing like him,” and quickly changed the subject.
But lately, Tim has realised that Dick didn’t really know Jason at all. They had been legally foster brothers for almost three years, but Dick had managed it so their lives were kept carefully separate. Tim thinks about it from time to time, when Dick’s helping him with his rapelling or teaching him capoeira or they are just sitting on the couch, scoffing popcorn and playing videogames. He wonders if Dick’s doing this because he enjoys Tim’s company or because of an obligation to the dead boy for whom he didn’t have room in his life.
It occurs to him sometimes that even though he only knew him through a lens, he might have known Jason better than anyone alive except for Bruce, Alfred and maybe Barbara. That this is true, that this will always be true and that there is no way for him to fix it, sits like a small stone in the pit of his stomach.
He has missed his chance. He will never know Jason better than he does now.
Just like he will never know Mom.
He blows on the glass and traces geometric shapes with his finger. Up and down. He tries his breathing again, tries to put all the raw, broiling emotions back on the high shelf, not gone but... removed.
When every window pane has a hexagon or a tetrahedral drawn on it he instead switches to tracing the loops and eyes of the window seat’s wooden panelling.
...And sees the knot.
It’s an imperfection in the wood just where the wood panels become window frame. Close enough to the window to be well camouflaged, but not so close it will interfere with the sensors. You would have to be sitting precisely where he is sitting even to notice it.
There is something squeezed inside.
After a minute and a couple of wooden splinters beneath his fingernails to get it out. It’s a piece of ordinary copybook paper, rolled up like a cigarette. He can see the faint blue copy lines.
He unrolls it and holds it up to the light. On the side facing him is just the letter “R”, simple and un-stylised. He turns it over. On it, in neat cursive script are five lines of text.
He reads it. He reads it again. He reads it a third time. He rolls it back up into a cigarette.
He is crying again. He’s not sure why. He longs absurdly, pathetically for his mother, as if she had ever been the sort to hold him and rock him to sleep.
Outside, sunshine is starting to line the distant skyscrapers in gold. He presses his head against the window. The glass is cold against his cheek.
The next thing he knows, there comes a gentle knock on the door and he realises he has fallen asleep. “Master Timothy?”
He lurches up, remembering where he is, remembering what a violation it is to be in here, let alone sleep here.
Alfred looks around the edge of the door and seems entirely unsurprised. “Ah, there you are. When you weren’t in your room I began to worry.”
Alfred waves this away. “Calm down, lad. It’s alright. I just came to see did you want your breakfast and when I couldn’t find you I was worried.”
“You were?” Tim is confused.
Alfred crosses the room and joins him at the window. Tim expects him to sit, but Alfred is not the sort of person who sits. “Shall we say, it would not be the first time a grieving young man left this house to go do something... impetuous.”
“You mean Jason?” He glances around the room as if the ghost will be sitting cross-legged on the bed or over at the desk.
“Not exclusively, no. Grief is, I’m afraid, this family’s constant companion.”
Tim realises that ‘this family’ includes Tim himself and doesn’t quite know how he feels about this.
“At least,” Alfred’s eyes sparkle a little, “You are not dangling from the chandeliers.”
Tim smiles a watery smile. “I could dangle from some chandeliers. Would it make me feel better?”
Alfred returns his smile. “Perhaps. It often worked wonders on Master Dick.”
“And Jason? What worked for him?”
Alfred would never do anything so gauche as to flinch, but there is a definite loosening of his hold of his sang froid. “The roots of his pain had grown rather deeper. He was alone for a long time before he came to us. I sometimes wonder...” He trails off
“Bruce says he was angry.”
“Often, yes.”
“Bruce says that it made him reckless, that that’s what got him killed.”
Tim realises he was mistaken in his assessment, because this time Alfred does flinch. “Ah,” he says, “Yes.”
“Alfred?”
“Yes?”
“I want to be Robin but... I don’t want to die.” His face burns with shame at saying it and he wants to bury his head in his hands.
But Alfred smiles and says, “I am glad to hear it. I don’t want you to die either.” He hesitates and then says in a kind tone. “Do you want to stop being Robin.”
“No!” It comes out much louder then he meant and the depth of emotion, of alarm that it might be taken away from him, surprises him. He never wanted to be Robin, not truly. He’s an understudy and when the time comes he will step aside. But now, just now, having Robin, having this life makes him braver. When he feels better, when the pain faids, it won’t be hard to give it up. “No thank you, I mean. I still want to be Robin. I just have worries, sometimes.”
He shoots Alfred a nervous glance. “You won’t tell Bruce?”
“On my honour.”
“Thanks.”
“Perhaps you would like to come help me prepare breakfast in the kitchen?” says Alfred. “I could certainly use the company.”
“And Bruce doesn’t like people in this room?” he guesses aloud.
This time Alfred makes a show of irritation. “Well, you know him. Something of a hoarder. Cards and pennies and dinosaurs. “ And glass cases, neither of them say. “He likes when things remain as they were.”
Tim’s hand must have tightened on the roll of paper, because the movement attracts Alfred’s attention. “What do you have there?”
“Nothing.” Tim crumples the note he found in the knothole up in his hand. “Just a message someone sent me.” He looks around the room again. “Alfred, were we anything alike? Jason and I?”
Summary: Jung Hoseok has had an awkward Thing for Min Yoongi for four years of his school life. He is certain that the only thing that gets in the way of them and everlasting love is the fact that Min Yoongi doesn't know he exists, but that all changes due to one drunken text message: a pick-up line.
Ready to flee to another country under a false identity in mortification, he finds himself ruining their blossoming friendship and confessing when Yoongi asks why Hoseok had tried to flirt with him. However, things take a turn after his confession when Yoongi starts to (awkwardly) flirt back.
Chapter Nineteen - don't look at me warily, it's eating me. you eat me. please
The next few days were mediocre at best. With limited to no access of his gaming consoles or his music speakers at home he found himself with nothing to do except for watching videos Hoseok sent him on his phone and studying. Due to his extra hours of revision, he managed to ace the science test and therefore convinced his parents that he was responsible enough to have a friend over his house on the weekend. Hoseok practically glowed at the news.
Namjoon got across his disappointment by tactically avoiding Yoongi so that they only spent time with another’s company when Jeongguk was around. He seemed to be intent on avoiding Hoseok as well, as when they played a game of basketball it consisted of only Yoongi, Jeongguk and Hoseok. Due to his own curiosity, and the requests of Jeongguk, Yoongi cornered Hoseok one day and asked where Taehyung kept clearing off to.
“Ah, he’s kinda busy lately,” Hoseok excused, his eyes moving from his locker to Yoongi’s face. “He’s joined the Maths club recently so they want him involved there as much as possible, especially during lunch times.” Yoongi couldn’t disprove this, nor would he want to push it, so he let it go, reciting to Jeongguk what Hoseok had told him but not quite believing it.
He didn’t mention that whenever Jimin had disappeared, Taehyung seemed to have vanished as well.
Yoongi didn’t really have a chance to talk to Jimin either, like Namjoon he appeared to have made a vow to avoid him at any opportunity. He only saw glimpses of him in lessons and in the hallways where he slunk away after a lesson. Despite what Jimin may or may not have said to Jinsoo, he found himself missing the boy, missing the mischief and free-spirited nature that Jimin evoked in him.
On Friday, he couldn’t take the silent treatment and he approached Namjoon who was sitting away from their usual table in the canteen with a few of his friends from Science club. “Hey,” he began. “Can I talk to you?” Namjoon looked up to him, excused himself from his friends, and followed Yoongi out of the canteen.
They walked until they found an empty classroom. Yoongi tested the door, it opened. He made his way inside and Namjoon followed after him.
“Why are you avoiding me?” Yoongi asked, getting straight to the point. Namjoon didn’t look caught off guard though, he simply pulled up a chair and gestured for Yoongi to take one. He sighed, but complied.
“Why won’t you tell Hoseok that you like him?” Ah. So it definitely was disappointment. Namjoon, yet again, believed he knew what was better for Yoongi than Yoongi did for himself.
“What does it matter to you?” He deflected, and then hated the childish defence in his tone. “Have you considered that it’s my decision to make?”
Namjoon sucked in his cheek. “I think that’s maybe why I’m so worried, Yoongs. You’ve made the exact same decision before and it only ended up hurting the both of you. You may have talked to Hoseok, and you may be friends now, but you didn’t fix your mistake. Have you explained yourself to him?” Yoongi was silent. “Hoseok doesn’t know you like him, Yoongi, he still thinks that you want to be friends and nothing more. I don’t see why you haven’t told him-”
“Maybe it’s because I care too much about him?” Yoongi exploded, frustration entwining with his blood and creeping through his veins, possessing him. “Maybe it’s because I don’t want to jeopardise what we have, friendship or whatever, because I know that eventually I’ll disappoint him? I’ve never done this before, but I know I’ll fuck it up like I have been doing already, and Hoseok doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve me, he deserves better.” It burst out of him like blood from an open wound. Yoongi didn’t think he’d ever seen Namjoon look so taken aback.
Namjoon took a few seconds to recover, Yoongi uncurled his fingers from where they had formed into fists. “Yoongs, you don’t believe that about yourself, do you?” Yoongi just glared at him, refusing to open up. Namjoon sighed, ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his glasses he had jogged out of place. “I think I’ve told you already to stop jumping to conclusions. I think you and Hoseok are a match made in heaven, to be honest, and I’m sure it’d probably be easier to talk to him about your feelings than it is to me.”
Yoongi opened his mouth to retort, to call Namjoon a hypocrite for wanting him to talk about his feelings but then backing away from him, but mostly he wanted to disagree with everything that Namjoon was saying. Namjoon rose from his chair before Yoongi could get out a syllable.
“Your decision may have good intentions, but the actuality won’t be what you think. Talk to him, Yoongi. It sounds like you don’t know what you want. Talk to him, tell him everything you’re not telling me. You’re just torturing him if you don’t.”
Friday came and went, but the thunderstorm remained inside of Yoongi’s head. His judgement was clouded, shaken by Namjoon’s words. One side of him whispered to him, saying that Namjoon was just trying to prove himself correct and that he didn’t really care about Yoongi’s situation at all, didn’t understand, while another side of him told him that he was being ridiculous and should rethink things.
In the end, he listened to neither, he chose instead to immerse himself in the latest album one of his favourite producers had dropped. Maybe he needed to stop thinking, and when he was alone with Hoseok let whatever happened happen. Maybe he needed to be natural about everything and not have a pre-meditated plan beforehand. Or maybe that was an excuse to get him to stop thinking.
So when Saturday afternoon dawned and his doorbell rang, he greeted Hoseok with a smile that slid naturally across his face when seeing the other boy shining with the sun behind him.
“Hey, Yoongi! You must be Yoongi’s parents, right?” Yoongi had to look over his shoulder to register the presence of his parents. They were watching the scene with wide smiles, apparently ecstatic that Yoongi had a new friend.
By the time Yoongi managed to escape upstairs with Hoseok in tow, his parents had offered Hoseok the entirety of the kitchen’s supply of food and seemed to be ready to give Hoseok Yoongi’s room. Hoseok hadn’t even had to sweet talk them like Jimin had, he simply had to flash his radiant smile and thank them for letting him see Yoongi.
Yoongi couldn’t shove Hoseok into his room in time as his brother had opened the door with slicked back hair and adorning a clip-on tie, explaining it was because their parents had told him to be on his ‘best behaviour’. Luckily, Hoseok seemed to find the whole thing extremely funny and was almost in tears by the time Yoongi slammed the door on his brother and slid a hand over his face in defeat.
“Your brother is hilarious,” Hoseok was still laughing, his voice was a wheeze.
“He’s embarrassing,” Yoongi muttered, gesturing that Hoseok could collapse onto his bed as Hoseok was standing in the centre of his room. Yoongi took his desk chair, which wasn’t as comfortable or as nice as Hoseok’s. He realised that Hoseok’s spare uniform was hanging from his wardrobe door. “Oh, I’ll put that in a bag for you before you leave.”
“Oh, man, you’re already talking about me leaving?” Hoseok whined, a teasing smile curving onto his face. Yoongi pretended that his heart wasn’t about to burst as Hoseok leant back on his bed. He shoved away the hope that his covers would snatch the smell of Hoseok and his cologne and save the scent until he climbed under the same covers that night. “Was it what I said about your brother? Okay, I take it back – you’re the hilarious one. In fact, are you a comedian? You know, I’ve always thought you looked familiar-”
“Please leave,” Yoongi couldn’t keep a straight face at Hoseok’s affronted expression. “Fine, you can stay. While you’re here, I wanted to show you something, though you may have already seen it. Have you listened-?”
“-To Grand Design’s new album? Yeah, of course! Have I been living under a rock?” Yoongi, who was going to lend Hoseok his copy of the album, had been grabbed by the wrist by an energetic Hoseok and pulled down onto the bed. “I haven’t listened to the bonus tracks though – whoa, do you already have the album? May I...?” Hoseok held his hands out like he was a poor orphan boy begging for more gruel.
Yoongi laughed, tipping his head backwards. Hoseok was such an easy person to get along with, it was so easy to forget any negative thought that rampaged around in his brain when Hoseok was talking to him, his eyes entrancing and his mouth inviting- Yoongi sobered up quickly, pressing the album into Hoseok’s hands.
Hoseok held it up as if it were some kind of deity. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” Hoseok whispered as the gold in the cover art shimmered in the sunshine that poured through Yoongi’s window. Yoongi’s heart clenched as he recalled Hoseok saying almost the exact same words to him in the same tone.
He said the first words the came into his head, remembering that he was going to act naturally. “Maybe you should give it back to me, you sound like you’re going to nut over it.”
Yoongi was almost knocked off of the bed when Hoseok let out an alarming snort and proceeded to laugh into his ear, his body lounging over Yoongi’s, meaning they were practically entwined. He didn’t pay it much mind though, Hoseok seemed content with howling into his ear and he was fine with joining in; Hoseok’s laughter was infectious. Although his heart was pounding in his ears, he didn’t care. He was here with Hoseok, he was safe, and Hoseok liked him back-
Suddenly, he couldn’t stop the thoughts. He remembered his vow to let everything go at its own pace, to let whatever happened happen. He stopped laughing.
Hoseok’s laughter turned into soft snorts, dissolving into the warmth of his neck. He must have felt Yoongi’s chest no longer heaving in sync with his as he looked up curiously, his eyebrows knitted together with a relaxed smile lounging on his face. “Yoongi?” He asked. “What’s up? I promise I won’t nut over your album, I’ll be on my best behaviour...” Hoseok trailed off, just like he had done at the bus stop. He had seen Yoongi looking at his lips.
Hoseok opened his mouth, probably to say something. Yoongi ripped his eyes away, denying his body what it wanted and tried to regain self-control by staring at his hands.
“Do you want...” His stomach tensed at Hoseok’s words, they sounded hesitant, careful, as if he were approaching a wild bear. He heard Hoseok clear his throat as Hoseok was still positioned close to his ear. “Do you want to try it?”
Yoongi’s eyes flickered towards the nearest exit. The window, or the door, it didn’t really matter which one. But then he made the mistake of looking at Hoseok who seemed so careful, so considerate. Everything that Yoongi wanted. He found himself nodding, his heart increased in pace causing his pulse to throb dangerously against his skin.
And then he couldn’t think anymore, he didn’t have to worry about whether his actions felt authentic or not, because Hoseok had reached up, sliding his palm over Yoongi’s shoulder and clasped the back of Yoongi’s neck, tickling his hair and making his nerves tingle.
Hoseok looked up at him, Yoongi’s breath was wrenched out of his lungs and was held captive in his throat. Hoseok looked divine, gorgeous, beautiful. No adjective could describe how Hoseok looked, and no words could describe how Hoseok looked at him. His eyes were searching, gazing at Yoongi like he were the most beautiful sculpture ever carved by man. Hoseok reached upwards, his head tilted. Yoongi gave in to what his heart was screaming at him to do and he slanted forwards to meet him.
Hoseok captured his lips in a kiss.
It was the last thing that Yoongi wanted to do, it was the opposite of what his plan entailed to protect both him and Hoseok, but as Hoseok leant into him, moving against him and pushing his lips open like delicate petals of a flower, feeling Hoseok’s warmth in his mouth and against his body, he found that he didn’t much care.
Hoseok’s kiss, the reactions he teased out of Yoongi and the way that Yoongi felt under Hoseok’s careful fingers had undone him, melting all thoughts of failure out of his ear.
The only fear he held was gradually overtaken by pleasure, both of them cried for the same thing: he didn’t want Hoseok to stop.
Despite everything, despite the promises he had made himself and all the pain he had caused, he had been taken over.
the prompt: can i get song vased scenario with Taeyong?? X) Lana Del Rey-Queen of disaster?
words: 2957
category: song rec + fluff
author note: don’t ask me how i came up with this plot from this song bc i don’t know.
- destinee
-
“When I saw your face it was incredible, painted on my soul, it was indelible.“
You wanted to get to know him, honestly. He was the boy you couldn’t touch, the boy who had nothing to do with you.
He was a rebel, caring not when class actually started or when an assignment was due. Yet he seemed to be passing well above the average student.
Perhaps he was some kind of sorcerer. That would explain how he managed to not study and still get good grades. Even when you spent all night studying, there were some tests you couldn’t seem to pass.
So maybe you were just jealous of the narrow-eyed boy who was gifted with natural intelligence. His permanent smirk only proved that he knew how good he was, too.
You wanted to be him. You wanted to be able to sleep for twelve hours, come into school late, and still somehow avoid detention.
Still, you were too shy to ask him how he managed to get away with everything. You wished to be as outgoing as him. You wished to have an abundance of friends like him.
Logically, you were a lot like him. You owned a motorcycle like him, you owned a denim jacket like him, and you were rather rebellious like him.
The sole difference was that he was loud and proud of his ways and you couldn’t bring attention to yourself if you tried.
One lucky day, you managed to get detention. You were three minutes late. As you leaned against your desk, mulling over your bad fortune, Taeyong waltzed into the room.
He was ten minutes late, and yet the teacher didn’t bat an eye at him.
You did. You glared at his figure as he slowly made his way to his desk, greeting his friends along the way.
Then you made the decision that would change your life forever. You rose your hand. “Mrs. Kim? Taeyong came in late as well. Where is his detention?”
The entire class turned to you, including Taeyong. He was smirking with one eyebrow raised, wondering what you were going to say when the teacher ignored you.
Mrs. Kim frowned. “I suppose you’re right. Taeyong, detention.”
Now you only felt fear, as it was Taeyong’s turn to glare at you. A few of his friends snickered at him, but he only stared at you. Challenging you.
So you silently accepted by giving him an innocent shrug and a smirk of your own. “See you in detention,” you whispered.
-
Maybe you shouldn’t have acted so big and bad in front of Taeyong. For now you had to follow up and actually spend an hour alone with him in detention.
You arrived after him, enough of a regular to know that the detention monitor never came in on time.
Taeyong didn’t know that of course, and you felt somewhat smug knowing that he had been waiting in the empty classroom, alone and bored.
You entered and sat at your usual desk. Taeyong was already seated beside you, doing whatever homework he could before the detention monitor came in.
You folded your arms on your desk and laid your head down, hoping to get some shut-eye.
“Don’t tell me you sleep through detention.” Taeyong mumbled.
You turned your head so that you could face him while you were lying down. “Yeah, so?”
“So, I thought you would do your homework or something, at least.”
“Oh no,” you said, your eyes closing. “I’ve got to take a nap before I can start doing schoolwork again.”
Taeyong snorted. He looked around the room. “Hey, where’s the detention monitor?”
“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “He’s always late.”
Taeyong began to pack up his books and stood up.
Then he offered you a genuine smile, one that you had never witnessed before. You found yourself hoping he would show it more.
“Where are you going?” You asked him.
“I’m ditching,” he answered. “You coming?”
He didn’t have to ask twice. You swung your back over your shoulder and followed the boy out the door.
-
“You’re the king and, baby, I’m the queen of disaster.“
Taeyong bumped his shoulder against yours as soon as the two of you entered the parking lot of the school. “Where should we go?”
You were both matching, with your skinny jeans and your denim jackets. Taeyong had a pair of sunglasses hooked onto his white t-shirt, lowering the neckline and showing off his collarbone. Your dirty sneakers were scuffed and torn, while his combat boots were tied and neat.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I usually go to the ice cream shop when I skip school.”
“Lame,” Taeyong commented, rolling his eyes. Then he stopped and turned to you, his boots scuffing against the asphalt. “Wait. You’ve skipped school before?”
“Yes.” You rolled your eyes. “I hope you don’t think you’re the only rebel in this school.”
“I don’t,” Taeyong defended himself. “I just never imagined it would be you.”
“If you had taken time to notice me, you would’ve.” You said. Once you reached your motorcycle, you turned around. “Alas, no one in this school notices me.”
“That’s not true,” Taeyong mumbled.
You shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to be noticed.”
Taeyong examined your bike. “Is this yours?”
“Yeah. My grandad and I fixed it up,” you answered proudly.
Taeyong looked up. “Wait, does your grandfather work at the garage down the road?”
“He owns it,” you corrected. “I can’t believe you didn’t know that.”
“I love his work,” Taeyong said, that smile appearing on his face again. “Isn’t he the one who does paint jobs on old motorbikes?”
“He does,” you said. Then you looked up at him, a great idea popping into your head. “Hey, do you want to go meet him?”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” you returned his bright smile. “We’ll go separately and meet up there. I’ll introduce the two of you.”
Taeyong was already seated on his own bike. “Let’s go!”
-
“Grandad?” You called as you and Taeyong entered the garage. It was closed during the weekend, so you had to use your spare key to get in.
Still, you knew your grandfather would still be there, working on the cars in peace.
“I’m in here!” His joyful voice replied, albeit muffled and low.
You smiled reassuringly at Taeyong as the two of you followed the voice. Your grandfather was underneath a car, only his legs showing as he working underneath a red Mustang. “I brought someone who wants to meet you.”
“Really? You have a friend?” He joked as he pushed himself out from under the car.
You frowned. “Hey, I have friends.”
“You’ve never had a friend that’s a boy,” your grandfather corrected, his eyes meeting Taeyong’s. He held his hand out for the boy to shake.
Taeyong let out a nervous laugh and accepted the handshake, “I’m Taeyong.”
“We’re skipping detention,” you said.
Taeyong elbowed you. When you turned to him, he gave you a look. “I don’t want your grandfather to think I’m a bad kid.”
“You’re not a bad kid.” Your grandfather clarified that he had been eavesdropping. “Everyone skips detention. Now, tell me why you’re here.”
“Taeyong is a huge fan of your work and I told him I would introduce you two.”
“Oh. Sorry I’m not very exciting in real life,” he said, looking at Taeyong. “I’m about to go home for dinner, but if the two of you want to stay, you can. The gallery is open.”
“Gallery?” Taeyong furrowed his eyebrows and looked at you.
“What do you think he does with all the bikes after he paints them?” You asked.
“I thought he sold them,” Taeyong said, as if it was obvious.
Your grandfather nodded, “Most people do. I find that I can’t part with them though. Feel free to look at them, just lock up when you leave.”
He gave Taeyong a friendly clap on the shoulder and left.
You grabbed Taeyong’s arm and pulled him to the back of the garage, where the gallery was located. “Get ready to see the coolest room your eyes have ever witnessed.”
You pushed open the door, and Taeyong let out an audible gasp. His eyes widened as he stared at the many bikes.
In the large room, bikes were lined up in rows, each painted with a different design. The walls were covered in spare parts, each painted as well. A few bikes were set up on pedestals: these were your grandfathers favorite.
Taeyong couldn’t take his eyes off of one that was set upon the farthest pedestal away. You pulled him closer to it. The rich violet covering the rusty metal gave it some sort of character. Blue, pink, and yellow made up a honey suckle that covered the majority of the bike.
“This was his first bike,” you said. “After my grandmother died and he came to live with us, he painted this. This was Grandma’s bike, and the honeysuckle was Grandma’s favorite flower.”
“So it’s therapy,” Taeyong said softly. He reached out and let his fingers brush against the seat of the bike.
“Yeah. Grandad was never really one for following the norm. You remind me of him, you know.”
“Me?” Taeyong snorted. “I’m just a lazy kid. Your grandfather makes art and shares it with the people of the town. I mean, if people knew he had all of these in his garage, they would go crazy trying to buy one.”
“Maybe,” you said. “But he would never agree. Like you said, these bikes are his therapy.”
Noticing the mood dimming, you attempted to lighten it. “Want to see the bike I’m working on?”
“You’re working on a bike?”
“Yep!” You said proudly, skipping over to the back of the room where dozens of paint cans and paintbrushes lined the walls. You gestured to the rusty bike barely standing on a torn piece of tarp. “Ta-da! I found it myself. I call her the Queen of Disaster.”
Taeyong found your enthusiasm contagious as he glanced at the bike, which honestly looked like it was about to fall apart any second now. “Where’d you find it?”
“In the junkyard down the street. Grandad said if I paid for it, I could use any of his paints. I’m thinking of entering it into a paint job competition. All I have to do is take a picture of the finished project and email it to the judges. If the art is enough, they’ll give me twenty grand towards college.”
“Twenty thousand?” Taeyong’s eyes widened. “How much did you pay for the bike?”
“Only one hundred dollars,” you said, patting the seat. “The junkyard owner knows gramps so he let me off easy.”
“How are you going to paint it? When does the contest end?”
You smiled in embarrassment. “About that…the contest deadline is in a month and I have no idea how to paint it.”
Taeyong closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. “You’ve named it, yet you don’t know what design you want?”
“I know,” you said, squatting on the ground and pulling the paint cans towards you. “It’s horrible. I have this idea of polar opposites. One side jet black and one side stark white, but both connecting in some way, maybe mixing to gray on top? It doesn’t match the name though, and I don’t know what else to do.”
Taeyong hummed. He walked over to the wall and plucked a paintbrush off of it’s hook. “You know, what if you only named half of it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Taeyong started. “Multiple people can enter the contest, right? So both of us enter. You do one side and call it Queen of Disaster. I’ll do the other side and call it King of Disaster. We’ll connect the designs, but they’ll be totally different because they’re painted by two different artists.”
You grabbed a paintbrush. “I love that idea.”
-
“What you do to me is indescribable.“
Taeyong sat with Yuta at lunch. "You’re coming to my soccer game tonight, right?”
“Of course,” Taeyong answered.
“Are you coming to the pizza place afterwards? Coach said he’d pay for the whole team and whoever we wanted to bring.”
Taeyong took a sip of his coke and shook his head. “I’m going over to Y/n’s. The contest ends tomorrow and we’ve got to get all the finishing touches on the bike.”
Yuta clicked his tongue. “You’ve been hanging out with Y/n a lot lately, you know. It’s like she’s your new best friend.”
“She is not,” Taeyong denied. “We’re working together for college money.”
Taeyong didn’t tell Yuta about how some days the two of you would skip painting altogether and go on a trip to the ice cream store instead. Or other days, when the two of you would lounge around your house, binge watching The Hobbit series until your mom kicked you out and told you to be productive and go paint.
He didn’t tell Yuta about all the times he had caught himself absentmindedly watching you. Just watching, as he told himself there was no harm in that. Ultimately there was harm in it, because Taeyong discovered that he could name all of your nervous ticks and your mannerisms. He had your laugh memorized, and your smile forever pinned as the first thing he saw when he closed his eyes to go to sleep at night.
Of all the people Taeyong thought he would have a crush on, you were the last. Not that you weren’t pretty, or nice. Just that you were quiet, and Taeyong never knew what you were thinking.
He never took the time to talk to you and see what you were all about. After he did, he wished he had done it a lot sooner.
Because he had uncovered a wonderful person who managed to make his heart beat out of his chest. He couldn’t really describe the way you made him feel.
-
"No other boy ever made me feel beautiful.“
You traced over the calligraphy you had painted in black yesterday, this time with pink paint.
Taeyong worked silently on the other side of the bike, painting a few flowers over his own written words. Your grandfather’s radio played out an old sixties station, and every once in awhile a song would appear that you and Taeyong both knew. This would call for an impromptu dance party in the middle of the garage.
Eventually, the two of you had finished your individual projects and stood up to celebrate.
With paint on your elbows and in you hair, you laughed along with Taeyong as The Monkees blasted through the speakers.
As The Last Train To Clarksville played, Taeyong grabbed your hands and pulled you close to him, a wide smile on his face.
The two of you jumped around like complete idiots, singing along to the track as loud as you could.
The black paint on his fingers mixed with the pink on yours. The cold sensation made you giggle as your fingers intertwined with his.
He pulled you lazily around the garage as an unfamiliar song replace the last. He quickly caught on to the tune and began to hum it, laughing at himself when he hit the wrong note.
You giggled as he hid his face in the crook of your shoulder. "Taeyong, that tickles.”
Just to make you squirm, he nuzzled further into your neck. His soft hair brushed your cheek.
You finally managed to push him away, only for him to press his forehead against yours.
“Why are you so clingy, today?” You asked, feeling hot under his gaze.
“Did you know that you are beautiful?” Taeyong asked, his face so close you could see the little flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
You had never even been called pretty before, let alone beautiful.
Yet here Taeyong was, making you feel like the most beautiful person in the world.
-
You stood in your grandfather’s garage, handing him whatever tool he asked for from under a large monster truck.
You were itching to go home and check your email, just to see if the winners of the contest were announced.
Your Saturday was otherwise boring, just helping your grandfather around the garage.
The door to the garage opened suddenly, and Taeyong ran in, having known where the key was hidden. He waved his phone in the air. “We won! Y/n, we won!”
“What?” You dropped the monkey wrench in your hand. “We won?”
Taeyong lifted you up and spun you around, holding you flush against him. He couldn’t stop his laughter from tumbling out of his mouth. “Do you want to read the email?”
“Give it to me!” You said as he put you down and gave you his phone.
You scrolled down the email, “Dear Taeyong and Y/n, you have been chosen as the first place winners because of the individuality showcased on your work… Taeyong! We’re rich!”
“I know!” Taeyong screamed back. “I could kiss you right now!”
At that you found yourself, in excitement, grabbing him by the shoulders and getting on your tiptoes. Without a thought, you pressed your lips to his.
Taeyong reciprocated with vigor, moving his lips against yours eagerly. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, smiling into the kiss.
“Are you guys done kissing? Can someone hand me a monkey wrench?” Your grandfather’s muffled voice interrupted the moment.
Taeyong threw back his head in laughter, his hands pressed against your lower back. You felt yourself falling faster and faster for the boy in front of you.
"Isn’t hard to see what’s goin’ on, I’m so far gone.“
{No, seriously. @ayayalahale This is essentially my retelling of the beginning of the series, incorporating Season 0′s aspects and… Yeah just, uhmm. Enjoy, I guess. I’m just gonna.. lie down now-}
It was all over the city. Every paper, every radio station, every news outlet; everywhere was buzzing with word that Seto Kaiba had ascended to his late step-father’s throne. In only a matter of months the thirteen-year-old magnate had torn down every weapons factory and testing facility the company previously owned, and upon their ashes new factories were built in order to mass-produce games, toys, and electronics for children and adults alike; leaving his peers, employees, and associates as a loss for words. Though they knew the boy was ambitious, no one was aware of just how seriously he would take his position. Just like his step-father before him, he ruled that company with an iron fist - like a King, with little tolerance for slowness and lazy work.
Rumor quickly spread that Seto had become exactly what his father was. Media articles were shared on a number of social media sites, though the subject itself was never up for debate – Seto wouldn’t allow it. Every public event, every interview, designed to make him look exactly the way he wanted the public to see him. The cool tone of his voice and practiced smile were enough to fool most, but to Kaiba Corp.’s employees - and especially Mokuba - this serene facade was far from the truth. Some employees had taken to calling him “The little dictator” behind his back, though strangely enough, after a few familiar faces ended up on MISSING posters, the name-calling ceased, and production within the main KC branch had never been better. It became clear to anyone who knew or dealt with Seto on a regular basis that he had become, for lack of a better term, a tyrant, resorting even to using his little brother of only eight years to do his bidding.
Mokuba noticed soon after Gozaburo’s death that something within Seto was very wrong. He soon came to fear his brother so much, however, that he was at first forced to pretend nothing had changed.
He’s still my brother. He’s just a little different now, that’s all. Maybe he’s just stressed out, tired…
And he “needed” as much of Mokuba’s help as he could get!
Little did Mokuba realize, though, that he, too, was changing for the worse.
As time went on, a year had finally passed. The brothers came to be known as the King and Prince of Domino City – they had already owned a fourth of the city, and staying true to the Kaiba Way, Seto sought to conquer it all. However, he could not do it alone. This meant conscripting Mokuba to the task of locating something for him; something very important. Mokuba, seeking only to please the King, his nii-sama, and gain even an ounce of his approval, was more than happy to oblige.
“ — I’ll come back with it this afternoon, nii-sama. Just you watch!”
“Don’t disappoint me, Mokuba. You would do well to remember what happens when I’m disappointed.”
The boy’s head dropped respectfully. Seto had never been “disappointed” with Mokuba - not to the full extent. But Mokuba had seen the full extent.
“Yes, nii-sama. I promise I won’t let you down.”
A sentence he struggled not to stutter.
He always left his brother looking over his shoulder, wishing he might say goodbye – but it never did happen. Not anymore.
Though mokuba hadn’t lived up to his “this afternoon!” pledge - which Seto expected anyway - it was a week later the boy finally came back with results, although completely empty-handed, meaning his hands were completely devoid of the object he was looking for.
“ — Nii-sama!” Mokuba cried excitedly, bounding toward him with his backpack strung around his right arm.
“Nii-sama, be proud of me! I found it. I found the Blue-Eyes, just like you said!”
Without a moment’s hesitation Seto stood from his desk, taking a good hard look at his brother below him.
“And? Where is it?”
Anger was apparent in the way his tone shifted. Mokuka gulped, continuing with a stammer he knew Seto couldn’t stand.
“D-don’t be mad, n-nii-sama,” the boy pleaded.
“I don’t have it with me, but I know who does..!”
His confidence picked back up as he began rummaging through his backpack, pulling out a sheet of paper he had tucked away. It was a small file, briefing the identity of a high school student named Yugi Motou. After taking the page from Mokuba, Seto quickly studied the details, a small smirk creeping onto his face.
“Well done, little brother. This may be the best thing you’ve ever done.”
With his statement came a smile from the younger brother; a genuine smile with tears to match. If he hadn’t been so mindful respectful of Seto’s personal space, he would have hugged him and not let go. Now was not the time, however – Seto had a plan brewing in that head of his, and if Mokuba were to interrupt the flow of ideas, he would have hell to pay.
The very next day – on a Monday, no less – at the Domino City high school, none other than Seto Kaiba himself had arrived, limousine and all, clad in the school’s very blue uniform. Truthfully, Seto had tested out of a prestigious university two years before, but as he informed the school (and, naturally, the media), he “Wanted a real high school experience” to “help him connect with Domino’s youth”, as if he himself weren’t fourteen years old at the time. Regardless, this fact excited both the school’s faculty and its students – mostly the female students. But this wasn’t what he was there for. At 8 o’clock sharp, class began. The teacher introduced Seto to his small portion of the student body, Seto himself stating additionally that he was ecstatic to be there, claiming he hoped to make friends during the time he stayed. With a curt bow he left the front of the class, taking an available seat – one he reserved for himself – in a middle row to the back of the classroom, coincidentally near his target.
Class came to a close an hour and a half later, leaving students yawning and stretching before making their way to the next period. Seto fully intended on confronting Yugi before he left the room, but he had missed his chance by only a few seconds. It seemed the boy had friends.
“This may prove troublesome – No matter. I will find a way around it.”
Rest assured, he would. Seto was adamant about having Yugi’s exact schedule, so there was physically no way he could miss another opportunity. One way or another he would speak with him; even if it took following him all day long. Luckily enough for Seto, this did not come to pass. It was at noon, lunchtime, that he finally got his next chance. Yugi and one other blond were playing a mock-game of Duel Monsters in the back of the lunchroom. Taking no time at all to seize this opportunity, Seto calmly walked over, and interrupted the flow of gameplay.
“—Duel Monsters, eh? I play, you know. World Champion.” He stated, his tone coolly upbeat. The taller blond was the one to respond first, much to Seto’s annoyance.
“Hey, wait a minute – is that seriously you? The Seto Kaiba? I mean, I thought you looked like him, but yaknow, I just-“
“Fantastic,” Seto replied all-too quickly, if only to get him to shut up for a few seconds. The blond was suddenly offended, and easily ignored.
He inquired to Yugi once more.
“I see you’re about to win.”
Seto had looked down at Yugi’s hand after scanning the duel field. The blond’s emotions quickly switched again, now looking to Kaiba with complete disdain. So, what? Was his conversation not good enough or somethin’? And just how was he so sure Yugi was about to win? It was in that instant that he began to wonder what made Seto feel so off, but the game caught more of his interest than that did. Insistent on proving Kaiba wrong, he played a card he was sure would grant him victory – but luck was not on his side that day.
“Ah, Jonouchi,” Yugi responded, feeling guilty about leading his friend on, “He wasn’t wrong.”
He proceeded to play the one card in his hand that sealed his victory, and while Jonouchi steamed over another agonizing defeat, Yugi continued on with Seto.
“So, you’re him then? I’ve seen you in all of my classes today. Pretty cool we got the same schedule, huh?”
“In the flesh,” he shrugged, ignoring the other half of his inquiry, “but I’m more interested in you. I’ve heard you’re the best player in this school, Yugi Motou. Your reputation precedes you.”
A lie.
“I’m not here to play, however.”
With one swift movement, Seto swung his briefcase up and over, setting it down on top of a nearby table, proceeding to open the case, showcasing its contents to a growing crowd.
“I’m looking for something very specific, Yugi. It’s an extremely valuable, rare card, and as trade, I will give you the contents of this case for it, no questions asked.”
The boy’s eyes had never widened so much. In fact, the whole crowd’s eyes never had. Seto’s vast collection had everyone pushing and shoving to see it, though they dared not get too close. Some students did speak up instead, insisting Yugi take them already. As great an offer that sounded, though…
“—This is more than generous of you, Kaiba, but it really depends on the card. I can’t just give my possessions away like that. They mean something to me.”
The crowd groaned, Jonouchi had asked if Kaiba wouldn’t mind giving it to him instead, and Seto’s eye twitched, his plastic smile and nice-guy façade ready to crumble. If this had been anyone else – anyone at all – Seto would have had them beaten. There was too much at stake here, however. The beating would have to come later.
He kept his cool.
“I understand,” he eventually said in a sigh, closing the briefcase gingerly.
“In that case, would you mind simply showing it to me after school? I’m looking for the Blue-Eyes White Dragon; I hear it’s one of the most powerful cards in the game. I’m… Simply curious to see what it looks like up close.”
Yugi blinked, pondered, and then nodded.
“I’ll… See what I can do.”
“Perfect.”
Seto left that day feeling quite confident, though he hadn’t expected what might happen next. As soon as he was out of earshot, Jonouchi finally let Yugi in on his suspicions. He would have done so earlier, but with that guy’s reputation, he didn’t want to take any chances.
“Yug. You know I trust ya – and I hope you trust me, too, because there’s somethin’ off about that Kaiba, and I don’t think showin’ him that card is a good idea. He’s a World Champion, remember? What would he even need a card like that for?”
Yugi thought for a moment, his brows furrowed.
“Well, he seemed to have quite the collection. Maybe he was looking to complete it.”
“Tch – Yugi. I might not be the best at this game, but I’m not an idiot. I keep up with the circuits. He already has three of the four that exist. Yug, if you have it, buddy, I would keep that thing locked up tight.”
Exactly a week passed before Seto heard word from Yugi. During that time Seto’s patience had worn thin. He had backed off quite a bit in school, only staying for half a day due to “urgent business”, and hadn’t shared a word with him since Monday. Needless to say, he was not happy, as evidenced by his treatment of Mokuba. During aggravating periods such as these, he tended to succumb to a deeply-rooted anger he’d never been able to let go of, and always took it out on the nearest thing – that thing, nine times out of ten, being his brother.
“Don’t tell me you were wrong about this.” He stated, his arms crossed as he glanced at Mokuba from across the room. The boy’s posture tensed, his arms and legs close together submissively.
“N-no, n-n-n-nii-sama!” He stuttered.
“Spit. It. Out.”
“I swear, that’s what I heard! My friends—“
“Your friends are nothing but a group of little thugs who have no idea what they’re doing! Who did they hear this from, anyway, huh? Some squirrel on the street? Please.”
Mokuba bit his lip, clasping his hands together in an attempt not to cry.
“Here come the tears,” Seto mocked, his expression becoming more and more disgusted.
“If you’re going to cry, then do it somewhere else. It’s annoying, and I don’t want to hear it.”
Dutifully Mokuba nodded, silently, wiping his eyes before turning to leave the room. He debated for what felt like forever whether or not he should try to apologize, but he never got the chance. The phone rang, and as always, Seto was quick to answer.
“What?”
“There’s a… Miss Hale on line two. She’s been calling all day on and off. We’ve blocked one of her numbers already, but she keeps calling back. I’ve told her I can’t put it through without your say-so, but she insists she knows you. She threatened to come here herself if I didn’t put her through.”
Damn, damn, damn. She must have heard the news.
Mokuba, from a few feet away, only barely overheard the voice on the other end.
Hale. Miss Hale. Where did he remember that name..?
Seto knew. He knew full well. He was tempted to tell his receptionist to keep blocking her calls, but with one extremely brave movement, Mokuba ran over and swiped the phone from his brother.
“Skyler! Put her through!”
{Proceeds to sing “fuck this shit i’m out” while squiggling away into the dark recesses of my mind}
