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.

CLARK KENT

Sunlight through glass - @cherryysunshine Mama, a bald man behind you - @stcrgazerlily Title of your sex tape - @annaevermore superman day - @kryptidfiles have you raised a ticket? - @devisedplan

JASON TODD

lipstick and a split lip - @batwngs like father, like trouble - @arfemiz Coffee Shop Revelations - @fanfictionwarrior-chills Just us and your friend roy - @fleurmarjorieargent Baby - @brucewayneisavirgin knight in shining armor - @vianawaits you melt up my body and all my heart - @flimsily-flimsy arkham knight - @torupng

DICK GRAYSON

you wake him when the baby is being fussy - @sakunai between the lines - @oncasette Background arobatics - @fancy-possum House tour - @ghxstrobins the proposal - @gglouise23

ROY HARPER

nothing seems to walk the same - @waltzingphantoms Iris - @amoebadue fratboy! Roy Harper - @moviecritc

CASSANDRA CAIN

first kiss - @kooriandr

TALIA AL GHUL

morning lights - @cherryvvave

STEPHANIE BROWN

girl, so confusing - @froggibus

KARA ZOR-EL

Rockstar! Kara - @pixelbfs

SUPERBOY PRIME

for research purposes - @athenxt

MULTI

pillow talk - @brinawing A little favour - @gothamorphosis Who is this ? - @dontyouworrydaddy

MISCELLANEOUS

Pretty isin't pretty - @crookshanks-07 thinking about teen!nanami meeting gojo's childhood best friend for the first time.- @irisgrrl

KYLE RAYNER

Sunsets and honest opinions - @iridescentlightshow (platonic)

DIANA PRINCE

bicep shots - @sozzoe

Sometimes he'd lay his head on your lap, hands moving around as he explained the plot of some old Hollywood movie he found in the depths of the internet, or sometimes it would be about how the author could have made the plot twist better. Sometimes when both of you are meandering around the streets of Gotham, he'd tell you some tidbits about the places or about a specific dish cooked in a restaurant. Sometimes it would be when you were doing your skincare routine at the vanity, all while Jason was lying on the bed behind you, huddled in blankets with his hair all around the place, yapping about how his brothers did something wrong or about a dumb criminal he had caught last patrol.

You liked hearing him talk.

The way his voice changed its pitch according to what he was talking about — sometimes hushed, sometimes boisterous — comforted you, like a heavyweight blanket during the cold winters. All your worries would wash away as you listened to him talk about literally anything. Hell, sometimes it would help you sleep after not being able to do so for a while.

It had always been like this since your childhood, when you and Jason would spend hours talking about school.

But things had changed.

Jason had changed after coming back from the dead — angry, annoyed and frustrated, all hiding a deep layer of hurt. You couldn't blame him, not after all he went through.

It had taken a few months for him to start talking like he used to , without any annoying remarks every few seconds. You knew it came from a place of hurt and fury.

Now you were here, after four years of being together, as Jason rambled on and on about something he witnessed while getting you a bagel from the cafe across the street.

"The guy acted so immature —" he huffs. "Almost like a five-year-old child crying to his mother."

You hummed, fingers threading through his hair. He looked beautiful, always did. There's a moment of silence, nothing but the sound of the overhead fan filling in the space. You don't notice, too immersed in memorising his beauty.

"Do I speak too much?" Jason asks, eyes gazing at the floor below you. It surprised you just for a minute before you cupped his cheeks, fingertips dancing around the scars on his face. It reminded you of a moment years ago, when you both were thirteen, playing around in the lush gardens of the Wayne manor. He had asked you the same question after an incident that had occurred at school, where your teacher had pointed out how Jason had made even the most introverted kid at school — you — talk during class.

You remembered how blue eyes looked onto the green, hands fiddling as he waited for your answer with bated breath.

Years later, though everything has changed, nothing has at the same time.

You whisper the same words you did years ago.

"I love hearing you talk, Jay. It's my favorite sound."

Of course, loving hearing Jason talk didn't mean he never found ways to annoy you. All of them were silly, nothing that could really hurt you, but they did a good job of annoying you.

It's been a few weeks since that day.

It was two in the morning when the thud of boots resounded against the walls of the living room. Jason had expected you to have gone to sleep by now, only to find you sitting on the couch, face illuminated by the glow of the laptop screen. Your eyes were squinted, nose scrunched as you switched through various tabs.

You were busy typing, not even turning round at the sound of Jason's arrival. Jason knew you didn't like being disturbed when you worked, so he decided to take a shower before approaching you. Minutes passed by, and Jason had changed into his sweatpants, hair wet and droplets sliding across scarred muscles, yet you were as still as a statue, eyes glued to the screen.

"Baby, you need to sleep." Jason murmurs, hand over your shoulder, as he slides next to you. Tiny droplets sink into the cotton of your shirt as you shrug his hand off, back hunched, trying to finish the assignment that was due in two days.

"Not today, Jason."

"Well, it's actually tomorrow because it's past 12." Jason snickered, giggling to himself but there was no reaction on your face. It was almost three AM now, and he could see your eyes starting to droop, though you still typed.

Jason was a strategist at heart, so what better way than to use his rage-bait techniques to get you to sleep.

"chi-HUAH-HUAH"

See there were few specific words, when pronounced in a certain way had your vein pooping off in your forehead and this just happened to be one of them, that Jason was very well aware of. It was the intonation of the word that irked you — the initial low pitch transition to immediate high pitch.

There's a pin drop silence in the room, as you try to take a deep breath before typing again to complete the assignment and not stare at the godly man standing in front of you with absurd sounds slipping past his lips.

"Chi-HUAH-HUAH," he raised his voice again, moving behind the couch. You did not have to turn to know the teasing grin carved on his face.

"Chi-HUAH-HUAH, "Jason repeats.

"Jay," you mumble, continuing to type even as your concentration wears down every minute.

"chi-HUAH-HUAH"

"Jason."

"chi-HUAH-HUAH"

"Okay, that's it, I'm going too—" you place the laptop on the couch before running behind as he leaps towards the bedroom, looking back at you with the same grin. "Jason, you idiot, wait."

Only his glorious laughs resound in the apartment (your neighbours would complain the following day). An involuntary smile curls at your lips at the sounds before you try to grimace to show your annoyance.

Your shared bedroom was at the end of the hallway. Once you enter the dark room, large hands tackle you from behind to the soft plush of the bed, pulling you in close against his chest. His green eyes gleam under the moonlight flittering through the curtains.

"Jason, stop. You know I hate you saying that," you say, slightly punching his bicep, to which he only tightens his arms around your waist.

"I know, baby, I'm sorry," He mutters, head tucked into the crook of your neck. You stay like that for a minute, almost forgetting about the assignment. almost.

"Okay, let me go now." You push against his chest only for him to tug you further.

"Nope, you need to sleep." Jason looks at you, his scarred hand grazing your cheek. He knew you hadn't slept properly for the past two days, and you would fall sick sooner or later if it continued.

"No, I need to finish the assignment that's—"

"That's due on Friday. You can rest now." Jason continues, hands brushing the hair from your face.

"But Jay —"

"Angel, please," he pleads, bringing your fingertips to his mouth as he places small kisses on them. "Let's give your fingers some rest, and then I'll wake you up at seven in the morning."

"Fine," you grumble, before placing your head on his chest. "But I'm getting my revenge one day."

He laughs before tugging the comforter over both of you. It was easy to fall asleep, listening to his heartbeat like a lullaby.

A/N: Hope you guys liked it. Comment on this post to join taglist.

These were words that would never find themselves in a sentence together.

Till now, that is.

Your four-year-old daughter giggles, clutching your thigh while staring at her dad. It had been one of the very few days where you and Bruce were free from your packed schedules to pick up your daughter from school, and coincidentally, the school had indulged in some social media marketing in order to boost their reputation.

Among the several tactics, one was asking the children what their parents did for work and comparing the answers with what the parents actually did.

The video started with Avery, the social media intern of the school, who briefly introduced the challenge before shifting to one of the kids. Some of them answered vaguely about their parents like 'She works too much' or 'He presses a button', only for the video to shift to their parents answering their profession as an Accountant or a Marine Biologist. Some kids were more accurate by saying that their father worked with a computer or that their mother was a scientist. But when it came to your daughter, her answer was a mix of the above.

"Hi Elena," Avery smiles, hunching down next to the four-year-old clad in a pink frock. She moves the black spongy end of the microphone towards Elena. "What do you think your mom and dad do for work?"

Elena thinks for a minute, tapping her index finger against her chin before turning towards the camera with a bright smile, her deep blue eyes glittering in the light akin to that of her father's.

"Mommy makes the skin better, "Elena rubs the skin of her arm. "She makes it soft."

"And what about your Dad?"

Elena plays with her hair as she looks behind the camera, eyes gazing over her father, who had a gentle smile carved on his face.

"Daddy bakes bread, but not good bread."

For a minute, it's just silence before your laugh in the background slices through like that of a sharp whistle. Even Avery struggles to talk. Elena innocently looks at your form — back hunched and hands over your mouth with tears teasing your waterline. Bruce, on the other hand, went statuesque — eyes widened and mouth falling slightly open.

You were not sure how, out of all the things that could have been said, your daughter chose to say this.

Maybe it was the fact that he baked sourdough bread for the first time during your wedding anniversary with your daughter as his assistant chef, only for the insides to be still gooey batter. But that was okay considering it was a pretty hard recipe.

After all, practice makes perfect.

The second time he tried was during the summer when Elena insisted she wanted to make bread with her father. It had all but ended up with a messed up kitchen and your daughter crying. But she did not loose hope yet that her father could do better at his job.

The next time he tried was during your birthday. Elena had insisted to her dad that he must bake you the sourdough bread again because it was your favorite along with a cake — nothing extraordinary, just a simple chocolate cake, but turns out it was not so simple. Let's just say the night ended with two soot covered toque chef hats on the heads of your husband and daughter.

Alfred was pissed.

"Mommy, did I say something wrong?" Elena asks, tugging at your dress.

"No, no, sweetheart. It's nothing," you mumble, pressing a soft kiss onto her forehead, not daring to look at her father, who still stood in shock. You muffle another giggle that would definitely make you receive a glare from Batman himself.

"You did a good job, sweetheart." You ruffle her hair.

The camera pans to you.

"So what do you do?" Avery asks.

"Hi, I am Elena's mom, and I, in fact, am someone who makes the skin better— I am a dermatologist. " You squeeze Elena's cheeks as she squeals with laughter at the fact that she got it right.

The camera then pans to Bruce. Everyone around you knew who he was and what he did, but Avery asked nonetheless.

"And what do you do?"

Bruce clears his throat, coughing a little when he catches the mirth in your eyes.

"Hello, I am Elena's dad, and I run a company, " He mutters, taking a deep breath. " To be honest, she's not wrong"

Some Comments after the video was posted:

user1: BAHAHA not Bruce Wayne being outed as a bad baker by his own daughter.

user2: my sequence of thoughts : aww a sweet kid —> she got her mom right —> BRUCE WAYNE is a baker?

user3: Is Bruce Wayne's wife single?