「 tws + notes: gn!reader, no tws, implied romantic relationship, unedited, reader likes reading (and waylon), the fluffiest of fluffs because i adore him 」
↳ ft. waylon jones/killer croc
author's note: i like reading and my little book collection but i wish i had more people to talk to abt the stuff i read!!!! this is just wish fulfilment for me,,, oh to annotate together,,, i love sharing books with my friends,,, also. hehe. if u noticed, i'm changing up formatting a bit! hoping it works nicely :-]
★ Waylon Jones enjoys classic French literature. It's a secret he holds close to his chest — easily, given the fact that most people don't start guessing what his taste in books might be when they encounter him. What is not a secret, however, is that Waylon Jones is lonely. There aren't many people around him willing to strike up friendly conversations about Dumas or Camus. Not in the parts of Gotham that he finds himself lingering in.
How you uncovered the secret of Killer Croc's love for literature? An inadvisable combination: a startling lack of survival instincts and an openness to strangers in strange places.
★ Building rapport with him takes time and patience, but slowly and surely, you manage. Waylon, who knows a heart is not safe when worn on a sleeve, tries to hide the fact that he's happy about the simple fact that he has someone to talk to. As you get closer, it evolves into a weird, informal sort of book club.
He remembers the way your eyes lit up when you caught him, book in hand. How could he forget?
★ Most of these chats would take place in the sewers, unfortunately — but he really does appreciate the company. More often than not, he finds himself in periods of waiting, quietly wondering what commentary and books you'd bring along next. You manage light up the bleakness with your presence alone.
★ Though he's tried, storing books safely in the Gotham sewers is a futile quest. There's no escaping the inevitable of pages ruined by unidentifiable sources of moisture. Waylon's personal collection doesn't stay in good condition long term and is therefore, always rotating. Damaged copies get discarded and new ones — he's always managing to get his claws on something one way or another — are held onto until the unavoidable.
Because of this, Waylon is cautious when you offer your own copies of of books for him to read.
"Y' sure 'bout this?" Waylon asks, staring down at the novel you've extended to him. His fingers flex at his side, not quite reaching for your sudden offering.
"What?" You laugh softly, "You're not judging a book by it's cover, are you? It's a good read, I promise."
Waylon grunts, "'s'not that."
He has to tear his eyes from you and your sunny smile, like he's convinced he could hide himself from it. There's something about you and your laughter that warms him from the inside out. He hadn't even known he was cold all this time.
After a moment of reluctance, he speaks up again, his voice quiet, as if the prospect of you hearing his admission terrifies him. "I... don't wanna ruin it."
Your smile drops for a moment. But then, with a look of determination, you press the book against his chest. Stubborn thing that you are, you are 100% resolute in your decision that he has to take it, stating simply, "books are meant to be read."
There's no fighting you, is there? His hand reaches to take hold of it, your soft skin brushing against his scales. You don't pull away at the feeling. Once he's got the book in his grasp, you grin up at him once more, satisfied with his cooperation.
"Read it and tell me all about it, okay?"
The act of sharing your favourite stories with him makes Waylon sentimental in a way he forgot he could be.
★ He becomes overly apologetic when he returns one of your books in less than stellar condition. The guilt practically eats him alive when he holds it — what's left of it — for you to see. Waylon vows get you another almost immediately.
"I'll getcha another — shit, I'll even getcha two—"
Yes, he's already done the mental gymnastics of berating himself relentlessly for the incident. It might seem foolish, but to him, it's material evidence of people's preconceived notions of him: Waylon Jones can't leave a good thing alone. He only knows how to ruin and tear things apart. He knew this would happen.
"Did you… um… manage to finish it at least?"
Waylon nods sheepishly.
"Couldn't put it down," he admits, staring at what used to be your beloved book in his hands. You take it and set it aside before grasping his hands in yours.
"'Then it's fine, Waylon," you reply, "….why don't you tell me about your favourite parts?"
There's a beat of silence when you forgive him without much complication. You grant him kindness and patience as easily as your novels. How could he not fall for you like this?
★ Waylon adores hearing your thoughts on what you've read. When he reads your books, he finds himself tracing the annotations and words with his claw, trying to gauge not only the significance of the text itself, but the significance it holds in your eyes. He follows the words you've jotted down in the margins and the spaces you've managed fit them in, hanging on to each one of them, even if it's just silly commentary. Might even catch himself grinning down at the pages like an idiot — one of the few times he is grateful to be alone.
Your thoughts and perspective are precious to him — every passage you highlight and every note your scrawl down he reads over and over again, trying to commit it to memory, as if the words let him hold onto you a little longer.
★ Waylon feels the most understood when someone actually listens to what he has to say. He's got a lot of thoughts on his own favourites, little things he notices and loves about the classics he's revisited countless times — but he's never had anyone to share it with until you came along.
Being able to tell you these things feels like being seen for the first time. Not as Killer Croc, but as Waylon Jones.
It's surprising, really, how you seem genuinely happy with what you found in him. Your gaze glitters with so much kindness that it's almost too good to be true — he loses track of his thoughts once or twice when you listen so intently. The feeling that you ignite in him settles in his chest, unfamiliar and somehow not unwelcome at the same time. It almost scares him, how willing he is to let you close and see this side of him. You might not even realize how much of his soul he's bearing, or how he can't stand anyone else seeing the things you do. God forbid he show a sign of weakness.
Yet, he wouldn't trade those moments for the world. His deep rooted insecurities stop gnawing at him, the scars of his past stop stinging — just a chapter longer.
hi hi!! can I request the lipstick and a split lip prompt with jason? maybe like a date night gone wrong and he shows up late and bruised but reader is mostly just happy he’s okay <33
lipstick and a split lip + hanif abdurraqib, “fall out boy forever” in they can't kill us until they kill us
He felt the world pulsing at the side of his head.
Even now with an ice pack pressed against his blackened eye and bloodied lip, the ache of a slow heal burned him as he sat on your couch. The night was too early to come home to you broken and bleeding as he did. Especially on a night like this, a night young and ripe with the plans to spend time together haunting some diner that hugs an overlooked yet well-loved corner of Gotham before letting the night pull you towards wayward wanderings or some movie theater replaying silver stories the both of you had yet to witness.
But instead, he sat on your couch letting the blackened eye bruise violently under the cooling ice and his reddened lip burn open while he saw from his half-vision that you were getting ready for what won’t come. And he hates having to bear this bad news to you, that at the very sight of him the night you looked forward to all week would be stripped from your hopeful imagination as if suddenly reduced to sand slipping from your fingers with no forewarning.
His head hung over the edge of the couch’s spine, unable to risk the chance of seeing your shadows move gracefully along the floor, spilling swiftly into the living room where he lay in self-inflicted banishment. You must not have heard him come in—and he thanked god for those little miracles—as your night rolled on with expectation and excitement tuning the weight of your steps. While he sat poorly nursing these small wounds, graciously decorated by some punk that got lucky once, you continued to get ready for what you assume will be a lovely evening spent in the life of the world.
The soft music rolled from your barely opened room, the door slightly ajar to the acoustics of a night vastly different from his. This is how you’ve always gotten ready for what you looked forward to: your music playing quietly along your room’s walls as you padded around searching for the best outfit, the best accessories, with the world melting away at your side as if its presence did not matter because it did not matter—you had better things to attend to, better business to make of what glimmers you can adorn for the night.
Jason stayed on the couch holding the burning freeze of the ice pack to his bruised face, eyes closed to the ritual of your symphonic sound. From where he sat, a near distance away from your arm’s reach, it felt as if the warm reddish-pink hues and the melodic jazz of what he assumed to be the used Nina Simone CD you purchased earlier that week forged some barrier, some intangible distance that he dared not cross. The disk spurred on, the delicate fabrics of your closet feathered under your thoughtful gaze (for he can see clearly in his mind’s eye how your brows furrowed in contemplation), and an unspeakable wave crashed over him. It was this overwhelming uproar of desire to hide away in the smallness of his swollen, splitting lip, to disappear into the pooling blood embellishing his skin, to draw the curtains and retreat under the covers—to call if a life and be done with the sorry mess of it all. You a blushing warmth and he a bloodied cold. In some wired entropic experiment played out in this apartment’s stage, it was only logical that he vanished into some corner of this space, into some balconied edge of your life.
The pull towards a smallness grew and settled deep within him, beckoning him like some siren song antithetical to the calming reach your presence from another room provided. Yet, for all the horrors and violences he has faced, for some reason the streak of disappointment that would paint over the glimmer in your eyes, that would sullen your perfect smile and weigh heavy on your orchestral voice—it was all a sight too much for Jason to bear. It would be easier that way, he thought, easier to flee and vacate your home and life, to rid himself of his bloodied apparition that haunts you whether you indulge in that gruesome truth or not. He ruined your night after all—and isn’t that a crime deserving a hefty punishment?
He felt himself sinking into the depth of your couch as his body pillared in refusing the crashing of his mind’s wanderings. Leaving, of course, would make this all easier: climbing out the window he entered routinely from and pushing his body north toward some forsaken safe house scattered around the city, offering him a sham place to rest his tomb of guilt, even if it was for one night. In leaving, sneaking through the front door possibly, he would be spared from your ache and your sullen expression that would overtake your form, and he would avoid shouldering the sole responsibility for this onset of grief at another failed night out together.
Yes, leaving would make this all easier, but what of his life has been easy up to this point? Even getting into a hapless altercation with some jerk that wanted to boulder the risk of hurting him on a night he had already promised to you strayed from his easy task of laying low and out of trouble. Not even loving you has been easy solely because of his own lingerings, his own mind’s temptations naming him villain as you slept peacefully in his arms. Every glance and touch and smile you offered him in those quiet moments of your life shared with him made his heart ache for what kindness had your eyes marked him as, for what damning truth had your soul mischaracterized him for. Your love—gentle as a well-missed summer breeze caressing his being on the turn of autumn’s leaves; beautiful kisses remembered on warm skin—crept so easily into his heart before it was his own faulty wiring that wrenched him small, cornered, and undeserving. Was there, after all, a place for a love this gentle for vanished men? It was a bloody thing, this guilt, and while it was mostly confined to the bruises now blooming along his eyes, lips, and jaw, the guilt had marked him into threaded smallness, some lump craving a disappearance as if it would ease any heartache of yours to come.
He moved from his upright position to lay down on your all-too-small couch, letting his head pillow along the armrest as the rest of his body shrank into the curves and grooves of the worn material. He tried to stay as silent as he could hoping that his stillness would maintain the shining illusion that your night had not been altered. Of course, an enemy to all that which is easy, Jason’s shuffling to find some semblance of comfort in his growing kingdom of small things carelessly knocked over one of your knitted throw pillows, its plush landing onto the floor somehow carried over the jazz harmonies into your room alerting you to his presence.
“Jason?” you called out to him from your room, your voice melodic in its own beautiful, rhythmic cadence—music for his tainted ears. “Is that you?”
“Yeah,” he offered back without hesitation, his voice attempting to masquerade the bruises forming on the terrain of his throat. How he wished to vanish now, to retreat into the crevices of the world and disappear from this disappointment that will mark you. He kept his eyes closed and concealed, unable to witness the pending ruination ticking into reality.
You moved towards him, your footsteps coming closer and closer before the door of your room creaked into its open embrace to the rest of your small apartment.
“Jason? Are you okay?” you questioned as you approached his shrinking form on the couch, one arm tossed over his eyes to hold the barely noticeable ice-pack in place (intentional on his part, hoping that he could conceal the truth as long as possible) while the other rested limp on his torso. You kneeled beside his place on the couch as your hand brushed against his bicep, gently urging him to look at you as if the gesture of your hand resting along his skin alone could melt his defenses and wither the moat he’s hidden himself behind—and, as it has now, it often did. Jason moved his arm from his face, grabbing the ice pack in his slow and labored movement, revealing fully what crimes and mistakes and faults have done upon his features.
You looked at him with a mix of shock and worry with how your posture straightened slightly and your breath hitched briefly, but his mind could only read this as the disappointment he expected the moment he entered the threshold of your apartment. Your brows furrowed as your hands came to hesitate into a caress of his face; your eyes widened, your mouth slightly open to the bruised creature he returned to you as. He couldn’t bring himself to fully look into your eyes, but he knew from how your fluidity and buzzed excitement of the night waned that he had singlehandedly undone you. The waves of his mind and smallness calmed and he knew it akin to the end of time.
“I’m sorry,” Jason remorsefully said, shame clinging to the only string of words that his mind could conjure, that his voice could bear the weight of on his tongue. You looked down at him from your place on the floor, the contact of your divine eyes meeting his was almost too much; the beauty that enveloped you, like some diamond cave glimmering brightly in the depths of some forsaken cave, distracted his mind, stunning him and his heart into a dumbfounded silence. He softly bit his lips, forgetting the injury sustained at its site. The slight taste of blood landed on his tongue, and he confused its rusted salt with love.
He shuffled, freeing himself from your hands’ gentle caress in attempt to sit up as if the position would remedy the guilt weighing heavy on his chest: “I just- I didn’t think. I didn’t expe-”
“Jason,” you said in such kindness that felt unbelonging to him, cutting his stuttered mess of words cleanly in two. Your hands came to rest on his thighs, and his hand—habitually, instinctually, as if destined in its path the way nightly constellations map the season’s sky—came to yours. You continued, grounding and calming, like waterfalls in springtime marshes: “Shut up.”
He needed your firmness, especially in moments like this where his mind taunted him, stretched him into a desire for disappearance. He felt your eyes upon him, the soft blinking of your lashes a lighthouse calling upon his return.
You reached to hold his face once more, “Look at me.”
Following your words like a command meant for some wounded dog devoted solely to your kindness, he did. You appeared to him as divinity, like light withstanding the darkened shadows of Gotham; the beauty you possessed, especially in how you had readied yourself for an evening of unbridled laughter and smiles, a barrier of joy in a city that worked to jostle its stability, was unearthly in its angelic chorus ushering you to him.
Under your gaze, worry draping the corners of your perfected face, he found himself at some crossroad of big and small, of love and guilt. Your hand carefully caressed his bruising wounds, the warmth of your skin against his, uncomfortable at first, melted into the cool in some minute and ancient practice of healing neither of you were aware. He shuddered at your hesitant touch before leaning fully into the love your palm carried.
“Your face is cold.”
“The ice,” his words slurred.
Your fingers traced a path along his bruising blackened eye, almost excavating the ruins of his skin after being pillaged and stormed. You studied him with worry never ceasing against your features, unyielding along your form in contrast to the adornments and style you spent the evening preparing. He ruined not only the night, but you—plaguing your manicured beauty with his ailments and trappings of blood, dirt, and grime.
At the warmth of your gentleness against his cooled skin, it was as if all he can bring you was pain: bloodied knuckles that you would stay awake into the early morning patching up, unsavory gashes to his torso that you would cautiously hold in sleep, split lips that now threaten you with ruin. If loving you was not easy for him, as he rationed in his perverse labyrinthine thinking, loving him had to be a newfound layer of hell—one which his presence here, your hand upon his cheek, had doomed you to.
The call to vanish rose within him again, louder than before as if the shadows inhabiting the darkened corners of your barely illuminated lamp-lit apartment yearned for his disappearance just as much as his cells screamed. But your steady hand stayed firm along his skin beckoning him into visibility, into submission. Your thumb now hesitated along the rust-blood stained contours of his split lip.
“I’m sorry,” Jason started again.
“Don’t.”
“I know you were really looking forward to tonight.”
“Jason.” You said firmly, softness grasping each syllable of his name. You spoke his name like it was a reaffirmation of life and present-ness: a call to look into your eyes, your voice some kind of siren song that doomed him from ever hiding. Your hand rose to move rebellious strands of hair from his face, you as well rising with this gesture to let your hand fully meet the forest of his hair as you moved fluidly to sit beside him on the shrinking couch.
“Who cares,” you continued. “We can order takeout and watch a movie here. I just wanted to spend time with you. That’s all I ever want. I don’t care how.”
Your fingers lightly brushed through his loose locks and Jason felt himself undone. He met your eyes once more, unable to find anything of hatred or disappointment in their diamond-shine, anything that would prove the voice in his head correct. No, instead all that was verily there was a softness you always looked at him with, a profound gentleness that witnessed and made him whole, and not stretched or split at the seams. His head moved, almost out of its own volition, to rest on your shoulder, your hand remaining in the garden of his hair to play at the soft curls, to compose harmonies through the gentle pull of his scalp.
Jason had always expected love to be something violent, something bloody and rusted, but all you have ever given him was music: melodic gemstones of kindness and tender touches that feel anything but damning. Your touch was salvation, Nina’s cry—playing still from the other room now forgotten—for a saved world.
synopsis: you like teddy, teddy likes barbara... or does he...?
word count: 1545
warnings: mentions of food, you wear a dress, you feel jealous, dick x babs mentioned
a/n: FINALLY I DID THIS! its been a while since ive written for tedward... so i relied on this scenario ive been thinking of for literally a year... please lmk if you enjoyed!
Joining the Justice League was one of the biggest opportunities you’d ever been given. You were just a C-List hero, but after a particularly successful mission you came in contact with a brilliant woman, Oracle- or Barbara Gordon who vouched for you to join. The two of you had struck up quite a friendship. Barbara was in every way- wonderful.
When you first joined the Justice League, you were so nervous you thought you were going to pass out. Everyone felt so big. The heroes you’d idolized all your life were now standing in front of you, shaking your hand and welcoming you to the team. Batman, the real Batman, stood in the corner- his eyes fixed on a case file while Martian Manhunter introduced you to the others. He was taller than he looked on TV, and they always had to adjust the cameras to get him into frame.
As the introductions and expectations went on, you could feel yourself practically shrinking smaller and smaller. You were way out of your depth, what was Barbara thinking?! All of these people are real heroes. They stand with constantly perfect posture and blindingly white smiles. Is no one here seeing how intimidating this is?
Just as you were preparing to turn on your heel and run for the hills, a loud crash is heard and a flash of blue and gold bursts through the wall. You can barely see anything given the way J’onn moved to shield you, but what you do see, you’ll never forget.
Two men lay on the floor in front of everyone, Blue Beetle and Booster Gold. The latter rubbing his head and grinning sheepishly at a very angry Batman. His blue companion, on the other hand, was staring right at you. His eyes were wide behind his visors, his cheeks lightly flushed. It felt like you were staring at each other for minutes, though he snapped back to reality in a matter of seconds when Batman started to scold them. Despite the terrifying situation, he flashed you a smile that made your shoulders relax for the first time that day.
From that moment onwards, Blue Beetle took over your every waking thought. The man made such an impression, putting you at ease without even saying a word. You introduced yourself the next day, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that he was just as charming in conversation as you’d hoped.
Ted Kord, as you’d learned, was hilarious. Even on the scariest missions he’d say something to crack the tension and leave you doubled over in laughter. You spent the better part of your first month with the League spent by his side, and quickly found yourself falling head over heels for him.
One night you were on a call with Barbara, and you decided to see if she had any intel on him. She laughed, “Oh, Ted? He’s a handful. We’ve been close ever since he joined the Justice League. Why do you ask? He’s not giving you any trouble is he?” The familiarity in which she talked about him made you feel a bit uneasy- a strange, ugly feeling budded within you. You shook it off, knowing it was far too early to make any judgments.
“Oh- no! He’s nice, actually. Really nice.” You reply, watching the light reflect off of Barbara’s glasses through your phone screen. “Yeah well, make sure he doesn’t get too comfy,” She says, “To be honest, he’s been giving me some trouble.” You turn all your attention to her, “What do you mean?” Barbara sighs, “I’m pretty certain he likes me. I’m just trying to ignore it for now in hopes it goes away but…” she trails off.
You feel your heart sink. Of course he likes Barbara. Who wouldn’t? A part of you knows these kinds of jealous thoughts aren’t helpful. Babs is your friend, and you don’t want to be holding any kind of ill will against her. That being said, hearing her continue on about how much Ted likes her, and how hard that is for her to deal with- it started to get to you.
Months passed and you slowly grew more and more distant from Ted. It wasn’t that you wanted to, but every time he mentioned Barbara, you felt the pit in your stomach deepen.
Ted noticed, of course he noticed. When he saw you he realized the Justice League was going to change forever. You tagged along on his misadventures, you laughed at his jokes- he wanted you by his side every hour of the day.
It was true that Ted liked Barbara, but he knew she’d never reciprocate his feelings. After a while, liking Barbara felt more like a celebrity crush than anything else. Plus, post meeting you, he realized that even if Barbara woke up one day and decided she was obsessed with him, he’d probably turn her down.
You made Ted feel things he wasn’t used to feeling. You looked at him like he hung the stars themselves. When you talked to him, you meshed so well that he finally understood what people meant when they called their partners their “other half”.
When you started to pull away, Ted had no idea what to do. He wasn’t confident enough to run after you, what if he’d done something wrong? So, he reached out to the one mutual friend you had who may know something.
Barbara figured out what was going on the second Ted came to her with the saddest puppy dog eyes, whining that you weren’t giving him as much attention any more. She thought back to the conversations she’d had with you, and recognized her folly fast.
After leaving Ted with a non-committal answer, Barbara realized just how much pain she probably thought. Being in a (kind-of) situationship with Dick came with a lot of jealousy on her part, and the last thing she wanted to do was make you feel that way.
Thus, she got to work. First, she invited Ted to a gala Bruce Wayne was throwing. Then, she invited you. After that, she sat the two of you together on the seating list before mysteriously getting the flu and cancelling the second you’d gotten into the car she’d sent for you.
You nervously adjusted your dress, walking down the carpet and into the large museum where the gala was held. Part of you wanted to strangle Barbara for leaving you, but you were too caught up in nerves to think about that.
Ted was getting a little anxious too, not going out in his Blue Beetle persona had him sweating. He missed hiding behind his mask, his suit suddenly feeling too warm. That was only made worse when he spotted you from across the hall.
He glanced at you the same time you saw him and suddenly you felt the rest of the room fade away. Just as you were about to take a step back, Ted crossed the distance of the room to you.
It’s not like Ted to be so straightforward, but he couldn’t handle being away from you for so long. To see someone he treasured so much starting to pull away- he wouldn’t let it happen without a fight.
Grabbing your hand gently, Ted pulled you away from the crowd. You could’ve easily wriggled out of his grip if you wanted to, but you let him pull you away. By the time the two of you were outside and away from the cameras, Ted wipes his brow, catching his breath.
“Why haven’t you been talking to me as much?” He asks through breaths. You feel your face warm, your eyes struggling to meet his. “I… I don’t- I didn’t mean to.” You stutter out. You’ve never seen Ted so serious as he responds, “Talk to me. Why are you doing this? Did I do something wrong?” He pauses, “I miss you.”
You could tell him everything, but as far as you knew, he was still head over heels for your friend. So, you bit your tongue, settling on turning away from him instead. The second you start to move your head away from his, he places his palm on your cheek and tilts you to face him again.
Ted’s free hand goes to hold yours, pulling it to his chest as he continues, “I wasn’t going to say this, but I had one two many glasses of champagne before you arrived and I’m getting desperate- I love you, and I don’t want you to leave me behind.”
You can see it in his eyes, he’s not lying, “But, I thought you liked Babs…” You whispered. You can see it click in Ted’s mind, “That’s what this is about? Barbara?” He laughs, “Listen, Barbara is really cool, but- I wasn't serious. I haven’t liked her like that in… well- as long as I’ve known you.”
The two of you stand there for a while, feeling the pieces falling into place. “So… uh- what do we do now?” Ted asks, holding your hands in his. You hum, looking out into the night sky, “I’m hungry.” Ted grins, “A girl after my own heart. Let's get out of here, I know a good restaurant I’ve been meaning to try.”
a/n: hope this makes sense! happy to contribute to the tedward love on tumblr <3
pairings: Jason Todd, Wally West, Dick Grayson x reader
summary: based off this request, but basically just them with a partner who has an iron deficiency :p
warnings: fluff, mentions of fainting, not proofread
a/n: I sprained my hand and it hurts to type </3
Jason Todd
The temperature in Gotham this summer had taken a toll. It was a rare occasions for Gotham to reach anywhere near this degree, making it a perfect occasion for Jason and you to take a day off and go out together.
You had agreed to out for a walk through the park, assuming the trees would cast enough shadows for the both of you.
The warm air blew against your skin as Jason tangled your arm with his, talking away about a book he had just finished reading.
You nodded along his words, trying your best to keep up with him despite the dizzying feeling in your head.
Your footsteps got heavier by every step, making it hard to feel control over your own body. Jason only then noticed your discomfort when you suddenly stopped dead in your tracks.
“What’s wrong doll?”
You didn’t answer as you clutched his bicep tightly, going so far as to imprint the indents from your nails into his skin.
“Can you…” you breathed out, mind heavy from the fog in your brain, “Can I just… hold on for a second-”
You were cut off when your knees completely gave out and your vision blackened, making you fall down towards the concrete.
Jason’s eyes widened before he quickly slid a hand behind your head and held you up by your hip.
“Shit. Come here.” He muttered out as he brought you to a nearby bench, setting you down.
Your vision was still blurry, your only point of coordination being Jason’s voice.
He pushed away his panic, focusing on helping you as he dug through your purse to find something that could elevate your blood sugar.
Jason slowly brought the tiny dextrose tablet to your lips he had found in a pocket. You parted your lips weakly, taking the candy in your mouth.
He stayed by your side as you slowly regained consciousness, rubbing soothing patterns on your forearm.
When you finally did get up again, Jason made sure to help you up back onto your feet. Later, after you tried to continue your walk, keyword tried, Jason kept pestering you about your current health.
“Baby if you feel lightheaded again just tell me.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“You look like you’re about to faint again. Let me just-”
“No, Jace-”
Your protests died in your throat as he suddenly picked you up, turning away to walk in the other direction.
“We’re taking the day off, I don’t want anything else happening to you.”
Wally West
You were laying in Wally’s lap as he absentmindedly traced patterns along your hairline, both of you watching a movie on the tv in the meantime.
You dropped a piece of popcorn into your mouth and then reached over to the bowl just to find it empty.
“Oh, I’m gonna go fill the bowl up.”
Wally gently held you into his lap before you could get up. “You don’t want me to do it?”
You shook your head, flashing him a small smile. “No thanks Walls, I can do it.”
He let you get off of his lap slowly, grabbing the bowl simultaneously.
It all hit you too hard. You stumbled back, your vision getting blurry and knees getting weak.
You felt the hard descend onto the floor approaching you before two arms came to wrap around you.
“Hey, easy baby, easy.” Wally slowly lowered you back onto the couch.
His voice came out as muffled, your brain having trouble processing what had just happened.
“Shit, okay.” Wally sped to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water in the process.
You tried your best to drink down the water, letting out a small choke when you were done.
Wally cupped your cheek, gently tracing your jaw.
“You okay?”
His touch brought you comfort, making you groan a little when he pulled back.
You started blinking your eyes back open, slowly regaining your strength.
“Wally?”
He popped out of nowhere, holding a container of pills.
“Did you take your supplements today?” He shook out a single pill onto his hand.
You shook your head, “No… I must’ve forgot.”
He sighed and placed the pill in your hand, then leaned down to grab the glass of water he put next to the couch earlier.
“Cmon babe, drink up.”
You swallowed down the pill with ease. Afterwards, Wally sat down next to you again and lowered you back into his lap.
He kissed your cheek and then grinned.
“Let me get the popcorn next time sweets.”
Dick Grayson
Your feet sweat heavy through the bumpy, muddy floor as you watched Dick climb the hill woth ease.
Stupid hiking. And stupid Dick for being so athletic.
“You doing okay sweetheart?” He called out.
You waved him off, “Yeah, just fine!”
You were not just fine. Your body felt like it was about to collapse right then and there.
It was pretty noticeable considering that Dick sprinted over to you in the speed of light without you even having to say anything.
“You don’t look fine baby.” He said, already sliding one hand under your arm to help you steady.
“Im okay, just…” you tried convincing him to let you go, but he wouldn’t take it.
Suddenly, he tore his arm away from you and walked forward, crouching down a little.
You tilted your head, “What are you doing?”
“Get on my back.”
You laughed, “What?”
He sighed, “Cmon babe, I made you go on this hike with me and I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. You clearly can’t walk all the way up by yourself.”
You stared at him as he turned his head sideways to eagerly glance at you. His expression told you he had enough patience to put up with you until you gave in and let him carry you.
You rolled your eyes, “Seriously Dick, you don’t have to-”
“Get. On. My. Back.”
Your shoulders slumped in defeat as you took a few steps toward him and wrapped your arms around his neck.
Dick took the opportunity to grab onto your ankles and slide hi hands further down to your thighs to be able to hold you up better.
He immediately began to walk up the rocky path effortlessly. “See babe? Nothing to worry about.”
You finally relaxed and buried your face in the back of his neck, humming slightly.
He smiled, “You can always lean on me, baby.”
Ty for reading! Likes, Reblogs & comments appreciated<3
pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader
cw: mentions of death, pure fluff
wc: 2.5k
an: currently going through a horrible block and im incapable of finishing my disgusting porn-ridden works, so we go back to the basics. how i love Jason </3 i missed writing him. hopefully you enjoy!! (I SWEAR THE OTHER WORKS ARE COMING).
Jason woke with dirt in his mouth.
In actuality, his tongue found only the stale dryness of sleep and the metallic taste left by a split lip from two nights ago, but for several seconds his body refused to accept it. The dark above him was a coffin lid, the blanket was packed earth pressing against his ribs. Somewhere close, wood groaned beneath a terrible weight, and every breath came back warm against his own face because there was nowhere for the air to go.
He opened his eyes.
The bedroom ceiling hung above him, gray in the weak light coming through the blinds. A water stain spread over one corner in the shape of a continent; you had been asking him to talk to the landlord about it for three weeks because, according to you, you could not bargain with anyone who sighed at your complaints.
The mattress was beneath him. The radiator ticked near the window. A delivery truck drove through the intersection below, its brakes squealing against the street; somewhere in the building, pipes knocked inside the wall.
The grave disappeared.
His body did not believe it yet.
Jason lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling while his heartbeat struck against his ribs with such force it felt like something was trying to claw its way out. His hands had curled into fists beneath the blanket, his fingernails pressing crescents into his palms, and the muscles across his shoulders felt drawn tight enough to tear. Every breath wanted to become a gasp, but he held it behind his teeth and let the air out slowly through his nose.
He had learned how to wake without moving.
It was a skill, like clearing a room or stripping a gun in the dark; one of the softer, stranger techniques his life had required. He knew which floorboard creaked near the bed and how much weight the mattress could take before the springs complained. He knew how to swallow panic without letting it make noise, how to pull his hand away from a weapon before he was awake enough to understand whose apartment he was in.
Most importantly, he knew how not to wake you.
You slept beside him on your stomach, one arm beneath the pillow and the other folded near your face. The blanket had slipped low over one shoulder. Your breathing remained deep and even, untouched by whatever had dragged him out of sleep.
Jason turned his head toward the clock.
5:03 a.m.
The middle of the night, as far as he was concerned.
He had gone to bed a little after two, which counted as an early night by his standards. You had already been asleep, though you had left the lamp on beside him and a note on his pillow reminding him to rinse the plate in the sink.
The nightmare had not been one of the worst ones, he told himself, though that was a truth that only felt comforting after dawn. There had been no crowbar this time; no laughter scraping against the inside of his skull, no bright camera flash, no chemical stink so foul it seemed lodged permanently behind his eyes. His mother had not been shooting up in the next room. His father had not been disappearing through the door with a careless glance over his shoulder. Bruce had not stood above an open grave, silent and too late.
It had only been the coffin.
Only waking beneath six feet of earth with his lungs already beginning to burn.
Jason loosened his hands and flexed his fingers beneath the blanket. Pins and needles moved through them. He concentrated on the small irritations of the room—the seam of his shirt twisted beneath his back, the ache in his left knee, the dry air catching in his throat. Mundane discomfort helped; it gave his mind something ordinary to dislike.
Beside him, you made a sound.
Jason froze.
Your breathing changed, but you did not wake; your face pressed deeper into the pillow, brow drawing together as though you were arguing with someone inside a dream. He watched you for a moment, waiting for your eyes to open.
They did not.
Carefully, Jason began to sit up.
The mattress shifted by a fraction. He moved one shoulder, then the other, keeping his weight close to the edge so the bed would not dip beneath you. His feet had nearly reached the floor when your hand moved across the sheets.
It found the space he had left.
Your fingers opened and closed once against the warm indentation in the mattress; then, still asleep, you reached farther.
Jason stopped.
Your hand brushed the back of his shirt, merely a drag of your fingertips over the fabric, but something inside him wavered. You made another sound, quiet and incomprehensible; the words had no true meaning, no more than a soft complaint.
Jason looked down at your hand.
He had no idea how you did it.
He had become nearly perfect at leaving the bed without disturbing you; he had done it on mornings when patrol ran late, on nights when sleep refused him entirely, on the occasional emergency that pulled him toward the window before his phone finished vibrating. You rarely woke. Yet there were times—only these times, only when the nightmare had followed him out—when some hidden part of you seemed to notice the difference.
You did not answer clearly. The next sound might have been his name, or it might have been a demand to lie down, or a complaint about the dishes, or an accusation directed at some unrelated figure in your dream.
Your fingers remained curled in his shirt.
Jason looked toward the window.
The blinds rattled in the draft. The city beyond them was beginning to pale from black to the opaque blue that came before sunrise, though the alleys below still held their darkness. He could get up. Drink water. Stand beneath a shower until the memory of dirt left his skin. He could sit in the kitchen with every light on and wait for his pulse to come down.
He had done all of that before.
Your grip tightened again.
Jason let out a slow breath and eased himself back onto the mattress.
You moved immediately, your knee catching against his thigh and one arm sliding heavily across his stomach. Your face found the space beneath his chin, your nose pressed against his collarbone, and your breath warmed the skin above the neck of his shirt.
Jason went still beneath the sudden weight of you.
You sighed. The sound was quiet and deeply satisfied, as though this had corrected whatever had gone wrong with the night.
One of your hands spread over his chest.
His heart was still beating too hard. There was no possibility you could miss it; it struck beneath your palm with embarrassing force, fast and uneven, the rhythm of an alarm that had not yet realized the fire was out.
You did not wake. Your thumb moved against his shirt.
“Here,” you murmured.
Jason closed his eyes.
The word had come out blurred by sleep, almost incomprehensible; he might have imagined it. Even so, it sank into him slowly, warmth moving through cold muscle.
Here.
He was here.
Not beneath the ground. Not inside that warehouse. Not sixteen and choking on blood and deafened by laughter. He was in a badly insulated apartment owned by a landlord who believed mildew was no more than a cosmetic defect. There was a plate in the sink he had almost rinsed, and a grocery list on the refrigerator in your handwriting, and your elbow was digging into the tender space below his ribs.
The pressure hurt a little.
He loved it.
Jason lifted one arm and settled it around your back, carefully, because some part of him still believed too much movement would break the spell. You responded by pressing closer, your leg sliding over his until half your weight rested against him. The blanket bunched awkwardly between your knees.
“You’re a furnace,” he whispered.
You breathed against his throat.
The answer was entirely unintelligible.
Jason rested his cheek against the top of your head. Your hair tickled his nose. The room smelled was cold, smelling of morning, old radiator heat, and the citrus hand cream you used before bed. Beneath it was the warmer, softer scent that was simply you, familiar enough that his body began to unclench around it.
His hand moved slowly up and down your back.
He did not need to think about the motion anymore. Somewhere along the way, he had learned the shape of you in sleep—the place between your shoulders where his palm fit, the way your muscles softened when his fingers traced small circles near your spine, the exact pressure that made you sigh and go heavy against him.
You had learned him too—more than anyone else ever had.
Everyone who knew Red Hood knew he carried weapons inside his jacket and anger beneath nearly everything else, but you knew the ordinary details. You knew he hated being cold after a nightmare because it reminded him of graves and winter dirt, so you tucked your feet between his calves even though they were usually freezing. You knew silence was sometimes safer than questions; you knew not to touch the back of his neck suddenly, and that he could tolerate almost anything if he felt your palm against the center of his chest.
You also knew he left cabinet doors open.
You knew he always used the last of the coffee and returned the empty container to the shelf as though perhaps a new supply might generate inside it. You knew he would wash every dish in the apartment complex if you asked directly, but somehow remained incapable of rinsing one plate before sauce hardened on it.
Love, Jason had discovered, was humiliatingly domestic.
It was not only the grand things—the nights you cleaned blood from his hair, the mornings you counted bruises while pretending not to worry, the arguments about risk and honesty and whether a person could belong to a city without letting it consume them. It was also you standing in the kitchen holding a fork with dried egg welded to it, asking what thought was going through his brain. It was you handing him the landlord’s phone number and saying, with complete sincerity, that you could not bargain.
Your hand shifted over his chest.
Jason looked down.
Your face was relaxed again, your mouth slightly agape against his shirt. There was a crease on your cheek from the pillow. You looked nothing like the holy thing his mind sometimes tried to make of you after nights like this; you were a real person who stole the blanket, forgot where you left your phone while holding it, and had once started an argument at midnight because he had used your good towel to clean gun oil from the table.
You were not an angel sent into the dark to drag him toward the light; you were sleepy and warm and drooling on his collarbone, holding him because some part of you had noticed he was hurting.
Jason’s throat tightened.
He lowered his mouth to your forehead.
The kiss barely touched your skin.
You shifted beneath it, brow furrowing for a moment, then tightened your arm around him. Your hand caught a fistful of his shirt and held on.
“Don’t go,” you murmured.
This time, the words were clearer.
Jason stared into the dim room.
He had not been planning to leave—not the apartment, at least—but he understood what you meant anyway. There were many ways to go without opening a door. He had spent years mastering them; he could leave a conversation while sitting across from someone, could vanish behind a joke or a fight or the blank red face of the helmet. He could make himself absent even while his body remained.
You always noticed eventually.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.
Your grip loosened slightly.
Jason settled deeper into the mattress and pulled the blanket over your shoulder. He tucked the edge behind your back, creating the tight pocket of warmth you preferred, then he let his hand rest at your waist.
His pulse slowed.
The coffin still existed somewhere in his memory, waiting with all the other rooms he could not demolish; if he closed his eyes too hard, he could feel wood beneath his bloody nails and taste soil against his teeth.
Jason breathed in.
Your chest rose against his.
He breathed out.
The tension eased, pain draining from his muscles. His jaw unclenched. The ringing in his ears faded until he could hear the refrigerator humming in the next room and the scrape of branches against the building.
You made another noise.
Jason ran his fingers along your side. “What are you saying?”
Your mouth moved against his shirt. He caught only the last word.
“—dishes.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. He pressed his lips into your hair to hide the sound. “I rinsed them.”
You frowned without opening your eyes. “Liar.”
Jason looked toward the bedroom door, through which the edge of the kitchen counter was just visible. The plate sat in the sink.
There was probably still sauce on the underside.
“Mostly,” he amended.
You exhaled, clearly disappointed. Then your hand drifted upward, slid over his collarbone, and came to rest against the side of his neck.
Your fingers were warm.
Jason leaned his face into your palm.
“I’ll do it in the morning,” he whispered.
You were already gone again, sunk deep into sleep; still, your fingertips threated lightly near his jaw, not quite a caress and not quite accidental.
He closed his eyes.
The nightmare waited at the edge of sleep, as it always did.
Sometimes it wore the Joker’s face. Sometimes Bruce’s. Sometimes his mother was calling from a room he could never reach, her voice drowned beneath the sound of a train. Sometimes Jason was still dead, and everything after had only been a final chemical spark moving through a broken brain.
Tonight, the grave remained open.
But you were heavier than the dirt.
Your arm lay across his chest, your leg pinned his beneath the blanket, and your breath warmed the hollow of his throat. Every place you touched him carried a small, undeniable pressure.
Here.
Here.
Here.
Jason covered your hand with his and held it against his heartbeat. Your nose was cold where it touched his neck.
By the time the blinds began to glow pale around the edges, his breathing had finally fallen into the same rhythm as yours. His last clear thought was that the landlord still needed to look at the ceiling; his second-to-last was that he should clean the plate before you woke and discovered his definition of rinsed remained questionable.
Beneath those thoughts, quieter and deeper, was the certainty of your arms around him.
Jason let sleep take him again—not because the darkness had become safe, but because you had found him inside it without even waking, and held him.
“So that’s it?” The question cut through the air—sharp and bitter in its delivery, yet still edged with a kind of hurt that only a woman scorned could muster up. The tremor in your hands was blatant. White-hot fury illuminated your eyes in a way your lover hadn’t witnessed before.
Never had you directed your anger toward Bruce, at least not like this.
You were the fun girlfriend who brought joy into his demanding life. You were the supportive girlfriend who didn’t ask too many questions. You were the understanding girlfriend who gave forgiveness freely.
You weren’t meant to lash out, weren’t used to letting those pesky doubts pave the way for actual conflict. You didn’t want to do this.
But with every passing month spent by Bruce’s side—knowing what everyone said about him—spite had been festering within you. Almost like a parasite, it’d taken a hold of you before you could even realize it.
You saw the tabloids daily. You knew what the public perception of your relationship looked like. In fact, you were painfully aware of how certain the majority of people were in their assumption that Bruce Wayne would surely return to his playboy roots sooner or later.
Proving them right was a bitter pill to swallow.
Stupid; that’s how you felt after not having predicted this outcome. With all the warnings you’d been ignoring, you almost blamed yourself.
The silence stretched on, and your heart broke a little more at his lack of a response. You used to love how calm and collected Bruce was—thought it balanced out the temper you could barely control at times. Now you found yourself hating how unreadable his face was.
Frustration turned into rage, as you pushed against his chest and shouted, “Speak up already! You owe me that much, don’t you?!”
A disbelieving scoff left your parted lips. “Or is that also too much to expect after the two years you have spent making a fool of me in the public eye?” Your voice held steady, but your eyes betrayed you.
Beneath the surface, Bruce could recognize the hurt pooling in them.
But he couldn’t tell you the truth. Not involving you in his life of fighting crime had been a conscious decision. Keeping you in the dark was for the best, even if holding on to this secret would break your trust in him.
Bruce would rather have you hate him than have you be in danger as a result of his selfishness. He couldn’t be selfish; not with you. His love for you had stopped him from that before even his morality ever could.
He wasn’t deserving of good things. They never lasted. He knew that now. Hurting you had never been his intention, though. Fuck, he hadn’t even intended for you to get as close to him as you did. You were a civilian—someone who only knew him as Bruce, and not as the Bat.
You had no idea of what being with him truly meant. So he had tried to keep his distance, to stop whatever was happening between you two before it could ever truly ignite. But it was pointless. Your persistence, your affection, your warmth; they’d cracked his resolve quicker than he could have prevented it. You made it impossible for love not to bloom.
The seeds of trust you’d planted in the beginnings of your relationship blossomed in spite of the light Bruce lacked to nurture them at times.
Your love had felt like a magnolia in May. Seeing you like this made Bruce wonder if his neglect had truly caused its petals to wither away.
Bruce wanted to pull you closer. Instinct called for him to reach out to you, to reassure you, to tell you that none of these claims held any real substance to them. It seemed impossible to convince you, though, that the damning pictures paparazzi had leaked of him leaving a notorious strip club downtown meant nothing. He couldn’t tell you the actual reason why he was there—not without exposing his vigilante lifestyle.
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it once more. Still, no words.
You felt a familiar burning sensation in your nostrils—a warning for the tears that were already beginning to sting at the corners of your eyes.
Schooling your expression, you took a step back from Bruce, as though being near him filled you with disgust. “Fuck you,” you spat out, but your voice lacked its previous passion. Then, you turned around and left. With you, you took any hope he had held onto for a brighter future.
A flower simply couldn’t persevere in the face of darkness, and if Bruce was honest with himself, he knew that the darkness had become a part of him a long time ago. He’d settle for admiring his magnolia from afar.
And he did. Letting you go had wrecked him, yet seeing you shine once more brought him back to life. Months passed, then a year, and still, Bruce found himself wishing he could have been the right man for you. If only he could’ve been the gentle-faced blonde man on whose arm you hung these days. The one that had no secrets to keep from you.
The one who Bruce heard had proposed to you recently. The one you had said yes to. In another world, would you have said yes to him too?
In a world where Bruce had been the one to ask you to be his wife instead of breaking your heart? A simpler world, one that allowed for him not to be the twisted man he was doomed to be in this one.
Marriage had been a thought for him at the time. More and more often had he looked at his late mother’s wedding ring and thought of what a future would look like with you by his side forever as Mrs. Wayne.
Bruce wondered if you would think of him when you walked down the aisle toward another man, stepping into a life that should have been his. A rotten part of him hoped you would. The astute part knew it.
em’s masterlist | bruce wayne masterlist wc: 1.0k request: no
˙⋆✮ a/n: feel like i started strong but got rly lazy at some point 💀 tbh i’m a bit cringed out by my metaphors in this but i cba to change ts 😬
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summary: Jotaro doesn't like you or so you think.
pairing: Jotaro x reader
tags and warnings: modern au (please assume some modern equivalent of stardust crusaders), jotaro and reader are like 19-20, fluff, humour with an undertone of sadness, Biker! Jotaro agenda, first time writing for jjba, so pls be kind, bad summary, one mention of dress, also ty @batwngs for proofing!!! mwah! and maybe some innacuracies
wc: 1.5k
"Hop on."
It was a summer evening — the supposed season of light, yet gloom surrounds you. According to the weather report today, it was going to be sunny, marking the start of the season, but, as if it were almost a ritual, the forecast was wrong as dark clouds cloaked the light blue of the sky. The metal of the bench digs into your skin while you wait for the bus to arrive.
You hadn't expected the day to go the way it did. It was supposed to be fun. A cute little ice cream date at the parlor with a guy you met on one of the dating apps you had downloaded a few months back. It had been a while since you even thought about dating, but the guy seemed nice.
Yet here you were sitting alone at a lonely bus stop.
Men disappoint.
A gruff voice pulls you out of your thoughts, eyes blurry from pressing them against your palms as you try to find out which idiot decided to interfere in your wallowing. Etches of black fill your vision before you realized it was a leather jacket. And you only knew one man in your town who wore leather jackets and was as tall — Jotaro Kujo. Your crush. No, ex-crush. The boy who rejected you under the cherry blossom tree was here again in front of you after you had been rejected by a stranger.
Fate loved you the way you loved pineapples. It didn’t.
"Hop one," Jotaro repeats, his arms folded as the leather scrunched against the crevices of his biceps. Sea green eyes trace over your slumped figure with an air of nonchalance that you definitely don't need right now. Maybe you were too hurt to see the way his eyes softened with guilt at your reddened eyes.
"Leave me alone."
He doesn't.
Because Jotaro was nothing but stubborn.
A few minutes pass by. You have your head on your lap, cradled by your hands, wishing the bus would just put you out of misery. Kids who were out and about on the streets laugh, the happiness tinging the air with sweetness but it doesn't reach you.
"It looks like it's going to rain," He says, the same impassive look carved on his features like something permanent. It was true; it did look like it would rain, and you knew your mother would get worried if you got caught up. Letting out a huff, you stand before brushing against the fabric of your clothes.
"Fine," you murmur, standing next to the gleaming vehicle. He hands you the helmet, a circular black one that shined against the remaining beams of sunlight that filtered through the clouds.
"What about yours?" you ask him as he grips the handlebars, looking straight ahead. He doesn't look at you, just murmuring something about how it was a short distance. After strapping the helmet on, you climb behind him, sitting at the edge of your seat so as to put as much distance as one possibly could. Jotaro looks at you through the side mirrors, "Hold on to me, or you will fall."
"No. I can fig—" The string of words is cut off with a yelp when Jotaro starts driving the bike at a speed that was well beyond the speed limit as you instinctively hug his waist, pressing your head against the leather of his jacket. Once he feels your warm arms around him, he slows down slightly.
"Fuck you, jackass," you punch his bicep lightly before laying your head against his back, the cold winds striking you like chords of music, the fabric of your dress fluttering in the air. Maybe if you had looked a little longer at him through the side mirror, you might have noticed the slight curl to his lips.
You hadn't looked around your surrounding during the ride, all your will focused on making sure you don't fall of the bike. The slow stop of the bike paired with the smooth breeze made you believe you had finally reached home except when you open your eyes, you are greeted with the sight of the local bakery — your favorite bakery.
"Get down."
"Jotaro, why are we here?" you ask, your voice as calm as it could possibly be. No, you were not angry at the fact that you were greeted by the sweetened smell of vanilla and chocolate. It was the fact that Jotaro was being a confusing man right now.
"Get Down." Jotaro turned, his sea green eyes a lot more blue in the sunlight. Oh god, did he look beautiful! He always was. It was almost like the clouds dispersed, waving way for the blue sky just so you could see him in the light. Just so you could never forget how beautiful he is. But you needed no reminder. You couldn't forget the face of the boy you had loved since you were fifteen. Even if you tried, you couldn't after all, being next-door neighbours doesn't warrant that.
"No, take me home, and then you can do whatever the fuck you —- hey!"
"Good grief." Jotaro plants his feet on the asphalt below, tilting the bike towards the ground. You squeeze your eyes, clutching onto his arms as you shout. "Fine, fine. I'll get down."
Jotaro parks the bike while you step into the bakery to find an empty booth, the owner — Shizuka — waving at you. You had been at the tiny bakehouse more times than you can remember becoming one of their most valuable customers.
The ding of the bell sweeps your attention away as Jotaro stepped in. He was everything the bakery was not. Black leather jacket draped over white t-shirt paired with black jeans while surrounded by drapes of pink silk and white cotton. He looked straight out of a magazine, his hat with gold borders sat on top.
You look away when he catches you staring, heat warm in your cheeks. After a few minutes, a ceramic plate with hanami dango is placed in front of you. Jotaro slides onto the opposite side of the booth, face as nonchalant as always.
"What's this?" you ask, though you knew the answer as well as a person knowing their own name. He rolls his eyes before folding his arms. Minutes pass by, and you were sure you would not get an answer from him, as you take the skewer.
"Your favorite," he mumbles, voice so soft you could have missed it. Your eyes widen, almost loosing grip on the bamboo sticks.
"How did you know it's my favorite."
You were not sure whether you were wafting in a dream when you saw the slight red coating his cheeks. Jotaro blushed? Maybe you were dreaming. No, you are dreaming. This was the same man who rejected you under the cherry blossom tree a few months ago with a simple, impassive No.
You ignore him, munching on the pink dumpling. Once the first skewer was rid of all the three dumplings, you huff , settling back onto the cushion. Jotaro was on his phone, eyes focused intently like he was reading something.
"Why are you doing this, Jotaro?" you ask. Why was he being kind to you after that day? Though you were neighbors, you may have met him only two times in the entirety of six months — a result of avoiding him.
"Because you deserve better." It's almost immediate, like the words were sitting on the tip of his tongue waiting to be let out. To be heard. Jotaro doesn't look at you, he couldn't. Not when he was the reason behind it. You might never know, but he liked you; hell, he loved you. Loves you. But he couldn't bring you into a life of uncertainty. A life that could hold no promises. You deserved someone better. Better than him. But he didn't tell you that instead added something more credible "And your mother told my mother about your date."
The initial shock wears off as you roll your eyes. Of course your mother told Holly. They were best friends after all. But his words stayed like the cold in the air even when the sky cleared up. What did he even mean by that?
The bike ride back home was a lot more solemn. Something had changed, but you couldn't place it. Through the visor, you could see the front lawn of both your houses, bushes covering each side with pink blossoms. Once you got down, you gave him back his helmet with a roll of your eyes. Maybe it was easier being rude to him than figuring out what the words at the bakery meant.
His mother never told him about your date. He had heard it when your mother spoke on the phone to you in the garden. He heard how your date had stood you up, and you were at a part of the city that had sporadic bus routes. He hadn't even thought much about it, immediately grabbing his bike keys as a reflex as he ran out the door. A reflex for you.
Jotaro looks at your form disappearing past the front door. It was for the best to let you go. For you. For him. But did he really believe that? Will he ever do? He doesn't know, but the words stay like a bandage on his broken heart that he himself was the reason for.
thinking about jotaro as a visiting marine bio prof and how terrible he’d be bc his office hours are probably like 7:55 - 7:56 and his class is at 8 but he’s also gonna show up 20 minutes late anyway and also everyone is failing
