a/n ☆ the stuff i write after saying that i'm tired of writing smut:
main masterlist | letterboxd
You're still trembling when she lifts you, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back like you're weightless, like you're hers. Which you are. Every inch of your body aches, flushed and twitching from the last orgasm, but Diana’s eyes burn down at you like she’s just getting started.
“You’re not done,” she says, soft but firm. “Not even close, little one.”
You can barely nod, your throat dry. “Yes, ma’am.”
She lays you out on the bed again, this time flat on your back, and her fingers trail down your chest, reverent, possessive. You expect her to climb on top of you, but instead, she reaches for the Lasso. It slithers in her hand like it's alive, like it knows what she wants before she says it. This time, she ties it around your thighs, spreading them wide and binding them open.
And you realize, you’re completely exposed. Wrists still tied, thighs held apart by glowing truth, nothing you can hide from her.
“You’ve been keeping secrets from me,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “Haven’t you, sweet girl?”
You shake your head, instinctively.
The Lasso burns.
You gasp, your body jerking against the ropes, and Diana’s mouth curves in that slow, devastating smile.
“Liar.”
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
She presses a finger to your lips.
“No. Let me hear them.” She leans in, voice like honey over a knife. “Tell me what you think about when I’m not around.”
You try to look away. The rope pulses again. You can’t lie.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “I—I fuck myself thinking about your arms holding me down.”
“Go on.”
“I think about your thighs crushing me. Your hand around my throat. I think about you using me until I’m crying.”
“You think about crying for me?” she repeats, almost laughing. “Gods, you're filthier than I thought. Such a needy little pet.”
You nod, eyes wide. “I am. I’m your pet, I just want—want to be good—”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she coos. “You are good. Just so pathetic while you’re at it.”
She grabs your waist and flips you with one hand, dragging your body like you’re nothing but a toy in her hands. You cry out as your bound thighs press against the mattress, still spread wide, ass up, wrists tied behind your back. She climbs on top, pressing her body down on yours, her weight pinning you like an anchor.
“Tell me more,” she growls, mouth at your ear. “All those little dirty thoughts. What else do you imagine when you’re alone with your fingers in your cunt?”
You whimper, face hot with humiliation.
“I think about choking on your strap. About being too full to speak. I think about you calling me your—your dumb little whore.”
The Lasso thrums, satisfaction humming through it.
She laughs. Pleased.
“Look at you. Sweet little thing, all soft and obedient out in the world, but under me? You just want to be used. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her hand comes down hard on your ass—once, twice, again—until you're sobbing into the sheets, humiliated and aroused and so fucking far gone.
“You know what I see when I look at you?” she murmurs, her palm now stroking over the red skin she just punished. “I see a toy. Something soft to keep me warm. To fuck when I’m angry. To pet when I’m pleased.”
You moan—honest, wrecked.
“You like that,” she hisses. “Don’t lie.”
“I do, I do, I like being your toy, ma’am—”
Another slap. “Pet. Say it.”
“I’m your pet,” you gasp, completely soaked. “Your little bitch.”
She growls at that, biting your shoulder, grinding her thigh between your legs like she’s trying to stamp her claim on you. You’re crying into the pillow, babbling, totally incoherent—but she’s not done. She sits up, flips you again, another show of effortless, raw strength, and now she’s straddling you, rope still tight around your thighs, your body entirely hers to use.
She grabs your face. Forces your gaze to meet hers.
“Last confession,” she says. “Say the worst one. What haven’t you told me?”
Your breath catches. The Lasso pulses, demanding truth. It forces it out of you like a purge.
“I want you to ruin me so no one else will ever touch me again,” you whisper. “I want to forget how it feels to come without you. I want to belong to you so hard it hurts.”
She stares down at you like she’s going to devour you.
“Mine,” she says, low and fierce. “Say it.”
“Yours.”
She kisses you, violent and claiming, and then she fucks you. Strong, relentless, grinding herself against you with her whole weight behind it. She holds your face, watches your expression twist in helpless pleasure, praises you and degrades you at once.
“My good little toy.”
“My messy little thing.”
“My soft, needy, desperate girl.”
She doesn’t stop until you’re crying again. Until your body is shaking and you can’t think, can’t speak, can’t do anything but feel.
When you collapse against her chest, sobbing into her collarbone, Diana doesn’t look tired.
She looks hungry.
And you, helpless and wrecked as you are, want to give her more.
“You’re doing so well for me,” she says softly, brushing your sweaty hair from your cheek. Her strength is in everything she does, even her gentleness. You feel the tension in her fingers, the weight in her palm as it cups your jaw. “But we’re not done.”
You nod without thinking. Your throat is dry. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leans closer, lips brushing your ear. “Use your words, pet. Beg me.”
You swallow hard. “Please, ma’am. I want more. I want to be ruined. I want to be used until there’s nothing left.”
The Lasso pulses with approval. So does she.
She pulls back and stands beside the bed, watching you with a calculating gaze. You recognize that look. That’s tactical. That’s the way she assesses opponents on the battlefield.
And right now, that’s what you are: something to conquer. Something to overpower.
“You want more?” she murmurs. “You’ll take what I give you.”
You nod eagerly, thighs trembling from how long they’ve been held open.
Diana walks over to the drawer in your nightstand. Her drawer, now stocked with toys she’s chosen, ones she’s brought, others she’s bought for the express purpose of fucking you.
She pulls out the harness first. Black, thick-strapped, sturdy. And then the strap-on, long, thick, mercilessly shaped. You whimper just from the sight of it.
She hears you.
Of course she does.
“Too much for you, little one?” she asks, arching a brow as she tightens the straps around her hips.
You shake your head immediately. “I want it, ma’am. I want all of it.”
Her smile is slow, sharp, cruel.
“I know you do.”
She climbs back onto the bed and grabs the Lasso again, re-wrapping it around your wrists and tying them behind your back this time, forcing your chest to arch forward, exposing your throat, your breasts, your trembling body for her.
“You’re going to take every inch,” she murmurs, her voice a low growl now. “And you’re going to thank me. Every time.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you gasp.
And then she lifts you, effortless again. Her arm under your legs, your bound wrists pulled behind you, back arched as she positions you over her strap. You feel the head of it against your entrance and whine.
“Say it,” she commands.
“Please fuck me, ma’am. I want it—I want to be filled—I want to be used.”
She thrusts up hard, burying the strap in you with one brutal stroke.
You scream.
There’s no easing into it. She doesn’t give you time to adjust. She just holds you there, one hand on your waist, the other gripping your tied wrists as she uses you, bouncing you up and down on her cock like a ragdoll. Her strength makes it effortless, your body pulled down onto her over and over, each thrust deeper, harder, more punishing than the last.
“Such a tight little hole,” she groans. “So greedy. Look at you. Crying and cock-drunk and still begging for more.”
You’re sobbing, unable to stop the way your body clamps down around her with each thrust. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You’re slipping into that space she puts you in, where there’s only her, and pain-pleasure, and obedience.
“You were made for this,” she hisses. “Made for me. To be fucked, to be broken. My soft little hole.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you cry, voice wrecked. “Yours. All yours.”
She grabs your throat and holds you there, suspended half off the bed, bouncing on her strap, legs shaking. “You take me so well, my pet. Such a sweet, stupid little thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes—stupid for you—ma’am, I—please, I’m gonna—”
“Not yet.”
You whimper, whole body locking up as she pulls you down hard and holds you there, her cock pressed so deep it feels like she’s inside your stomach. You’re sweating, shaking, clenching around her.
“I said not yet,” she repeats, leaning in to bite your shoulder, your collarbone, your jaw.
You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she lays you back, still tied, still spread, and pulls out slowly. You feel empty without her. Desperate. She kneels between your legs again and brings out the vibrator—a thick, curved wand—and you try to scoot away, instinctively overwhelmed.
Her hand lands on your thigh with a crack, pinning you down.
“Stay still.”
You freeze.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She presses the toy to your clit, no warning, no buildup, and your hips buck, back arching off the bed.
The pleasure is immediate. Overwhelming. You cry out, throat raw.
“Count for me,” she commands. “Every time you come, you count. Or I start over.”
The first hits you fast, almost instantly.
“One,” you sob.
Then the second.
“Two—ma’am, please—”
She hums, watching you fall apart. Her cock still slick, her toy working your clit with brutal consistency, her hand holding you open like you’re her favorite thing to ruin.
“Look at you,” she says. “So obedient. So fucked-out and still trying to be good.”
The third has you screaming.
“Three.”
Your legs are shaking. Your voice is gone. You can’t think past the pulse of the vibrator, the heat of her body, the iron grip of the rope and her strength and her will.
When you hit five, you’re sobbing openly.
She finally switches the toy off and tosses it aside.
Then she climbs on top of you again, cradling your face between her hands. Her strength, still there—always there—but now it’s like armor turned inward, protecting you.
“My perfect little pet,” she whispers, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your jaw. “You did so well. I’m so proud of you.”
You choke on your breath.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
She unties the rope, slowly, gently, and pulls you into her lap, arms wrapped around you like a fortress.
“You’re safe,” she murmurs into your hair. “You’re mine.”
And you feel it, more than pleasure, more than pain. You curl into her chest and let her hold you.
And you don’t need to speak. The Lasso already told her everything.
bad boy x smarter girl | detention glances & rooftop secrets | don’t fall for him, don’t fall for him, don’t—"he kissed her like a dare. she kissed him like it was the last mistake she'd ever make. and neither of them stopped."
masterlist
chapter 1
He’s 6'4" of leather-jacketed annoyance.
You notice him before you want to, stomping through the school courtyard like he owns the place—or maybe like he’d burn it down just to prove a point. Broad shoulders, dark messy hair, fists shoved into his pockets like he’s daring someone to say something smart.
You don’t. Obviously. Because you are someone smart.
And you’ve heard all about Jason Todd.
Ex-Robbin-something. Got expelled from like, three schools. Rumor has it he once punched a substitute in the throat for calling him “Justin.” (You respect that one a little.) He smokes behind the gym, skips half his classes, and once stole a teacher’s car keys “for fun.” Your friend Ivy calls him a red flag in human form.
And now he’s staring at you.
Correction: smirking at you. Across the lunch quad. Like he’s already won something you haven’t agreed to play for.
You roll your eyes and flip the page in your book.
Love is a scam. Hormones are brain damage. Boys like him are walking, talking patriarchal distractions.
You're not impressed.
“You know he’s gonna try, right?” your friend Talia says beside you, watching Jason like he’s a wildlife documentary subject. “The bet’s already out there.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bet?”
“Oh yeah. Some rich asshole dared him to get you to go out with him before senior prom.”
You close your book with a snap. “Wow. Revolutionary. A man with no substance and too much time.”
“Emotionally, spiritually, academically,” you deadpan. “Maybe physically. Depends on his opening line.”
The first time he talks to you, it’s during chem class.
You’re dissecting formulas and he slides into the seat next to yours with all the grace of a hurricane. There’s a pen behind his ear. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his forearms could crush small cars.
“You’re in my seat,” you say without looking up.
He leans forward, voice smooth and shameless. “You sure? Or just afraid you’ll fall for me if I sit too close?”
You blink.
Then laugh.
It’s not polite. It’s loud, sharp, a little unhinged. He grins like he likes it.
“Wow,” you say, tilting your head. “Did that line work better in the mirror this morning or when you were thinking of it during homeroom?”
Jason’s grin falters, just for a second.
“You’re quick,” he says, almost impressed.
“I’m brilliant,” you correct. “And not interested.”
He shrugs, unfazed. “That’s cool. I like a challenge.”
You lean in, chin on your hand. “And I like my brain unrotted by testosterone.”
The thing is: you’re used to being unbothered.
Most guys back off after the first attempt. Or cry misogyny when you talk circles around them. But Jason? Jason is either an idiot or a masochist. Maybe both. Because he keeps trying.
He carries your books once.
(You drop them.)
He writes you a poem.
(You correct the grammar.)
He sends you coffee.
(You throw it out. You’re not bribable. Okay maybe you are—but only by women-owned bakeries.)
Still, every day, he finds a new way to piss you off.
And you find yourself sort of looking forward to it.
There’s one afternoon—when the sky is gray and the halls are half-empty—where he finds you alone in the library, legs up on a desk, reading something dense and feminist.
“‘The Myth of the Male Savior,’” he reads off the cover. “Sounds spicy.”
You sigh. “Don’t you have a motorcycle to go rev in someone’s face?”
He leans against the table, arms crossed. “You ever think maybe you don’t hate me?”
You look at him slowly. His jaw is all sharp lines. His neck veins are sin. His chest could double as a bookshelf if he wasn’t so damn cocky.
You swallow. Then smirk.
“Jason,” you say sweetly, “I would rather staple my own tongue to a wall than date someone who thinks Fast & Furious is cinema.”
His grin is full-watt. “You’ve got issues.”
“You’ve got a death wish.”
And still… his eyes linger too long on yours.
Later that week, you find a note in your locker. It just says:
Bet’s still on. But now it’s personal.
– J
You should hate it. Hate him.
But when you walk into English and catch him already watching you—those stormy blue eyes, that cocky half-smile—you feel your pulse kick in a way that’s probably illegal in at least five states.
This is war.
This is a joke.
This is the beginning of something you’re going to absolutely regret.
Mornings in the Wayne household are nothing short of a battlefield. You and Bruce have triplets—one girl and two boys—and every day begins with the kind of chaos even Batman isn’t fully prepared for. Bruce is always up first, of course, perfectly composed in his robe, sipping coffee and reading The Gotham Gazette like he didn’t spend half the night responding to a Batsignal. Meanwhile, you’re already under siege. Your daughter, ever the little diva, is dramatically sobbing because her pink socks “don’t match her vibe.” One of the boys has climbed onto the kitchen island and is eating dry cereal straight from the box, while the other has drawn a crude Bat-symbol on the living room wall and is now proudly asking Bruce if that officially makes him the new Batman.
Bruce doesn’t flinch. He looks up from his paper and says, “Technically… no. But that’s good form,” as if he’s evaluating a new recruit for the Justice League. You’re barely holding it together, hair a mess, one arm juggling a toddler, the other trying to keep breakfast from burning. Alfred, bless him, moves through the madness with silent judgment and a tray of crumpets, muttering that the Manor might need a panic room just for the tea set.
By 7:15, everyone is technically dressed, though one of the boys keeps removing his shirt and the girl insists on wearing a tiara to pre-K. Bruce somehow manages to scoop all three kids into his arms like a seasoned pro and gives you a soft, sleepy kiss before heading to the car. You blink, stunned. “You’re taking all three today?” you ask, half-joking. He smirks and replies, “I’ve fought intergalactic threats. I can handle pre-K.”
But not even two minutes later, the Batmobile is pulling a dramatic U-turn in the driveway. The kids forgot their snacks, one’s already crying, another’s shirtless again, and the third is asking why the Joker isn’t invited to Career Day. Bruce looks at you through the window like a man begging for backup.
Still, even with the noise, the mess, and the constant mini-crises, your mornings are full of love. The laughter echoes through the Manor louder than any villain’s threat ever could. And somehow, in the chaos, Bruce Wayne—the Dark Knight himself—has become the world’s most exhausted, most in-love, most devoted girl dad.
A Superman AU | Immortal Clark Kent x Fem!Reader | soft fate | tender beginnings | melancholy | romance |
masterlist
You met him on the quietest day of your life.
It was the kind of morning where the city hadn’t quite woken up. The air still felt blue. Soft. Like the hush before a song. The streetlights blinked amber against the pale dawn, and the world held its breath.
You were running late for your shift at the Metropolis Museum gift shop. You’d spilled coffee on your only decent blouse and missed the early train, so you’d taken the long way through Centennial Park to clear your head.
That’s when you saw him.
At first, he was just a shape. A man sitting alone on a bench near the fountain, shoulders broad and still, hands folded in his lap like he had nowhere in particular to be. You might’ve walked right past him if you hadn’t looked up at that exact moment.
But you did.
And he looked up too.
He smiled.
That was the beginning.
There was something about the way he smiled—quiet, like he didn’t do it often. Like he wasn’t used to being seen.
You didn’t know then that his name was Kal-El. That the world knew him by another one. That he could hear your heartbeat change when your eyes met. That he already knew yours.
To you, he was just… him. A stranger in the light.
You felt it like static in the air. Something in your chest shifted.
He stood when you got closer, politely, like people don’t do anymore. His suit was simple—dark, fitted, and too well-tailored for anyone trying to blend in—but his glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose when he moved. He pushed them back up with a shy smile, and somehow, you smiled back.
“Beautiful morning,” he said.
His voice was low. Warm. Almost out of place in a world that moved too fast.
“Bit cold,” you said, adjusting your coat. “But yeah. Beautiful.”
You didn’t know why you stopped. Maybe it was the way he looked at you. Not the way men usually do—like they’re trying to figure out what they can take. No. He looked like he was trying to memorize you. Like your face meant something.
“I’m Clark,” he said, offering his hand.
You blinked. Then, cautiously, took it.
His palm was warm. Strong.
“…Hi,” you said. “I’m—”
“I know.”
You laughed, a little nervous. “I guess I must’ve been in the paper or something.”
“You’re always in my mornings,” he said, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
The world got very still.
You didn’t know how long you stood there—fingers still touching, your name barely hanging in the air—but something shifted after that. Something gentle but permanent, like the start of a season.
Over the next few weeks, you started seeing him everywhere.
He wasn’t pushy. Never forced anything. Just… showed up.
He'd be in line at the corner café at the same time as you. Or reading quietly on a bench near your work when you took your lunch. You weren’t sure if it was coincidence, fate, or some third thing the universe hadn’t named yet.
You learned that he worked at the Daily Planet.
He told you he wrote small columns now—things no one noticed, tucked deep in the back pages. He said he preferred it that way. When you asked why, he just smiled.
“I’ve spent too long being someone people look up to,” he said. “Now I just want to look across at someone.”
You didn’t understand what he meant then. Not really.
But you would.
The first time he held your hand, you were crossing the street and a car came too close.
He stepped in front of you—not dramatically, not with any show—just a firm, instinctive move. His arm brushed yours and your breath caught.
You didn’t say anything.
He didn’t let go.
He told you he was older than he looked.
You laughed. “Like how much older? Thirty-eight pretending to be twenty-nine?”
He tilted his head, thoughtful.
“…Give or take.”
It became a joke. You’d tease him about being a secret vampire or a timeless god. He’d smile, eyes heavy with something you didn’t understand yet, and let you.
You didn’t know, not then, that he was older. Not thirty. Not forty.
Centuries older.
You didn’t know that time didn’t touch him.
But you would.
That winter, Metropolis got its first real snow in years.
You were walking home in it when he appeared beside you, no coat, hair dusted with flakes like a dream come alive.
“You shouldn’t be out in the cold without gloves,” you said, chiding.
He held up his bare hands. “Doesn’t bother me.”
“You’re impossible,” you said.
He smiled.
You didn’t know it then, but he would never forget that moment. The snow in your hair. The way your cheeks flushed from the cold. The way you looked at him like he was just a man.
Not a god.
Not a legend.
Just… Clark.
You fell for him slowly.
Like rain soaking into dry earth.
He fell faster.
Like gravity had been waiting for you.
He kissed you on the museum steps after your late shift one night.
It was quiet. Soft. Not the kind of kiss that marks a beginning, but the kind that confirms something already growing.
“I’ve waited so long,” he murmured.
You didn’t ask what he meant. You only leaned closer.
If you’d known then what he was—who he was—maybe you would’ve hesitated. Maybe you would’ve feared the difference in your bones and the years between your heartbeats.
But you didn’t know.
All you knew was that he looked at you like you were sunlight in a world of shadows.
And for the first time in a long, long time…
…so did you.
You married him in spring.
It was a small ceremony beneath the old elm tree on the Kent farm in Smallville, where the wind always smelled like wheat and warmth. His hands trembled when he held yours, though you knew he could lift the world without blinking. That day, you made him human.
“Are you sure?” you whispered, right before your vows.
Clark looked at you like you were the last sunrise left on Earth.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said.
There were only a handful of guests—Martha’s locket was tied around your wrist, and Lois Lane wasn’t there. Neither was anyone from the Planet. He’d told you he wanted to keep it simple. Quiet. Just for the two of you.
And it was. It really, truly was.
You didn’t know how rare that was—how many decades he’d lived without this kind of peace.
Your first home together was a cottage tucked at the edge of town, surrounded by tall grass and windows that always caught the light. You picked the house. He fixed the roof with ease, even though you didn’t remember him bringing a ladder.
He made you tea every night, even though he didn’t drink it.
He drew you often. Quick sketches in the margins of the newspaper, sometimes half-finished—your mouth mid-laugh, the tilt of your eyes when you teased him.
“I’ll forget these details if I don’t,” he said once when you caught him.
“You have super memory.”
“Yes,” he said softly, “but I want to remember you like this.”
You didn’t ask what he meant.
You noticed it gradually—the way time touched you but not him.
At first, it was small. The fine line near your eyes. The gray in your hair. You laughed about it. Joked. Called him your Dorian Gray.
He always laughed, but it never quite reached his eyes.
You started wearing longer sleeves in the winter. He never got cold. Your bones ached. He never did. Still, he held you every night, like he could hold off the seasons just by keeping you warm.
He stayed the same.
You… didn’t.
You never had children. You tried once. When it didn’t happen, he never brought it up again.
“It’s okay,” you said once, when you found him quietly staring at a pair of baby shoes at the farmer’s market.
“I know,” he replied. But his voice cracked.
Instead, you built a life together in quiet details—shared books, hand-sewn curtains, morning walks. You taught him how to bake pies from scratch. He taught you how to fly, just once, on a warm summer night when no one was watching.
Your feet left the ground, and you felt like the stars were clapping just for you.
The sickness came quietly.
At first, you blamed the tiredness on age. Then the pain started. You ignored it. He didn’t.
You found him crying alone in the laundry room one night, face in his hands, shaking like a man breaking.
“Clark?”
He couldn’t look at you.
“You knew,” you said quietly. “Didn’t you?”
He nodded.
You held him that night. You held him. The strongest man in the world, brought to his knees by something he couldn’t fight.
The doctors said it was slow. That there were treatments. But you’d already made your decision.
You wanted to stay home. With him. With your garden, your teacups, the sketchbooks filled with versions of you.
He stayed by your side every second.
You never once saw him in the cape again.
Your last winter together, he started painting.
He used the upstairs room, the one you always meant to turn into a library. You could hear the strokes of the brush sometimes when the house was quiet.
He never let you see them.
On your final day, the snow fell again.
Just like that first morning in the park. He sat beside you, holding your hand like he had then. Not tight. Just enough.
Your voice was soft, thinner than you remembered it being.
“Don’t forget me,” you whispered.
Clark brought your hand to his lips.
“I never could.”
You touched his face, still young, still perfect, and smiled one last time.
“You were… my favorite life.”
And then the light in your eyes dimmed.
You were buried under the elm tree, where the wind still sang and the wildflowers kept growing each spring.
Clark didn’t speak at the service. He only stood beside your grave with the stillness of a storm held back by sheer will.
He didn’t cry. Not then.
He saved his grief for the paintings.
Years passed. Then decades.
He stayed in the house. Let the world think Clark Kent had retired. Superman disappeared for a while.
Sometimes, when the sky was red, you could see the window lit on the second floor.
Ok, imagine you're comic accurate Clark Kent and you're a working-class immigrant raised on a farm. You grow up and dedicate your life to helping people while being a total malewife to your Pulitzer prize winner girlfriend. You're despised and targeted by an unethical, megalomaniacal billionaire who thinks his intellect and his power and his wealth entitles him to your inherent abilities and the adoration you've earned through years of nonstop altruism. YOU WERE CREATED BY TWO JEWISH MEN IN THE 1930S
And then people complain about a movie about you being too woke
bad boy x smarter girl | detention glances & rooftop secrets | don’t fall for him, don’t fall for him, don’t—"he kissed her like a dare. she kissed him like it was the last mistake she'd ever make. and neither of them stopped."
masterlist
Chapter 5
The universe, in its infinite cruelty, has decided that you deserve suffering.
Because this morning, on a perfectly normal Thursday, your AP Lit teacher says the words that will ruin your entire week:
“For this unit, you’ll all be working in pairs for the final presentation on modern themes in romantic tragedy. I’ve already assigned partners.”
You already know.
You already know.
And sure enough—
“Todd and (Y/L/N).”
You snap your head toward him across the classroom. Jason’s already looking at you. Smirking. Like he expected this. Like he manifested it with his criminal energy and cocky eyebrows.
You want to fling your annotated Wuthering Heights across the room.
You work in the school library during lunch that day. Or at least, you try to.
Jason, on the other hand, keeps talking.
Loudly.
“Okay, so I was thinking we do something easy. Like Romeo + Juliet. Baz Luhrmann style. I’ll grow sideburns, you get a gold gun. We’ll make out in a fish tank.”
You give him a look so deadpan it could bury him.
“No.”
“Come on. People love doomed love stories.”
“And I love not failing.”
Jason sprawls in the chair across from you, hands behind his head. The size difference between you is laughable—he takes up so much space without even trying. Meanwhile, your legs are crossed, your arms are folded, and your entire body is coiled like a trap every time he says something flirty.
He leans in. “What do you want to do? Something nerdy and depressing?”
You raise a brow. “Why, yes. How did you know?”
“Because you scream, ‘I wrote a college essay on Euripides for fun.’”
“And you scream, ‘I passed English because someone paid off the school board.’”
“Not wrong.”
You sigh and flip open your notes. “We’re doing A Streetcar Named Desire.”
Jason frowns. “That’s the one with the screaming guy, right?”
You blink. “You mean Stanley?”
Jason cups his hands to his mouth: “STELLA—”
You slap your hand over his mouth before the entire library kicks you out.
“Geez,” you hiss. “Shut up.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief under your palm. His mouth lingers a beat too long on your skin. You yank your hand back like it burns.
Jason’s smile fades a little.
And in the silence that follows, there’s something… charged.
Too quiet. Too heavy. Too real.
Over the next few days, things get strange.
Not bad.
Not good.
Just strange.
You and Jason actually work well together—annoyingly well. He listens more than you expect. When you bring up feminist theory and how Blanche Dubois is a symbol of post-war fragility and toxic femininity, he nods. He asks questions.
You almost forget who he used to be. Or maybe… you’re just seeing who he is now.
Sometimes your hands brush when you both reach for the same note card.
Sometimes you look up and find him already watching you.
Sometimes he says things like, “You’re a lot, you know that?” in this soft voice that doesn’t feel like an insult. Just a truth. One that he likes.
And sometimes—like today—it all goes to hell.
You're outside school after rehearsal, sitting on a bench, still in your uniform shirt and jeans, flipping through your notebook. Jason's late. Of course.
He finally shows up ten minutes before the bell rings for sixth period, wearing a black hoodie, jaw tight.
“You’re late,” you say, not looking up.
He sits beside you but doesn’t respond.
You glance at him.
His knuckles are bruised again. Fresh. His expression is locked down.
“What happened?” you ask carefully.
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
“Jason—”
“I said it’s nothing.”
You blink at the tone—sharp, cold. Not like him. Not like how he's been with you.
Your stomach knots.
“Don’t take it out on me,” you say tightly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“I never said you did.”
You snap your notebook shut. “You’re acting like I’m the one who ruined your day.”
“Maybe I’m just realizing this was a mistake.”
The words hit harder than they should.
You go still.
He exhales, dragging his hands through his hair. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Too late.”
Silence coils between you again—but this time, it hurts.
You stand up, arms crossed. “You don’t get to play sweet one second and snap the next like nothing matters.”
Jason rises, too. “I’m not playing anything.”
“Then what is this, Jason? What are we doing?”
He hesitates.
And that’s the worst part.
He doesn’t say nothing. He just doesn’t say anything.
You scoff under your breath and grab your bag.
“I’ll finish the project myself.”
You walk away before he can stop you.
He doesn’t.
[JASON]: I’m sorry.
That night, he texts.
And then…
[JASON]: Things are messy right now.
[JASON]: It’s not about you. It’s just stuff. With my family.
[JASON]: I didn’t mean to take it out on you.
You stare at your phone for a long time.
[YOU]: That’s not good enough.
You don’t expect him to show up to class the next day.
After all, Jason Todd is nothing if not consistent—consistently late, consistently charming, consistently someone who burns bridges just to see if you’ll still meet him in the smoke.
But when you walk into AP Lit, he’s already there.
At your table.
With the project folder in front of him.
His head is down like he’s reading something, but his eyes flick up the moment you approach.
You hesitate. You’re not ready to forgive him. You’re not even sure you want to. But there’s something about the way he’s sitting—shoulders drawn in, not trying to take up space like he usually does—that makes your chest ache in that slow, reluctant way.
You sit.
Silently.
Jason clears his throat. “Hey.”
You don’t answer.
He pushes the folder toward you. “I, um. I rewrote our scene breakdown. It was bothering me.”
You glance down, confused. Your last draft had been solid. You’d worked hard on it. Even stayed up editing it line by line. But when you start skimming his notes… your breath catches.
He didn’t rewrite it to erase you.
He rewrote it for you.
It’s neater. Clearer. Your analysis is still there, word for word—but now it’s supported by new sources. New formatting. Your scattered bullet points have been organized, with a clean structure that matches the rubric to a T. And in the margins—tiny, cramped handwriting in blue pen—are Jason’s own notes.
Blanche uses femininity like armor here. (Just like you said—v smart.)
I don’t think Stanley’s the villain exactly? But I like how you framed it—maybe he’s society’s consequence?
Added that thing you said about mirrors & fragility from class — good point.
You freeze.
This is… thoughtful.
Embarrassingly thoughtful.
It’s not flashy. It’s not public. It’s not a “look at me” performance with a marching band.
It’s just him. Quietly trying.
He watches you read, picking at a frayed thread on his hoodie sleeve. When you finally lift your eyes, his voice is low.
“I know you said that wasn’t good enough. My apology.”
You don’t say anything.
He licks his lips. “But I didn’t want to let the project die just because I suck at talking.”
You set the folder down carefully.
“You didn’t suck at talking,” you say, voice even. “You just sucked at not shutting me out.”
Jason exhales—half a breath, maybe even relief.
“I’ve got some stuff going on. With my brothers. And Bruce. And school, and—” he stops himself, shakes his head. “No excuse. I was just angry, and I didn’t want to feel like I had to explain myself. But you didn’t deserve that.”
You nod slowly.
The classroom is loud around you—papers shuffling, chairs scraping, someone whispering about the math quiz in third period—but none of it registers.
Not when he’s looking at you like that.
“I’m not gonna grovel,” Jason says softly. “But I’ll keep showing up. You can ignore me, yell at me, punch me in the face—”
“I’ve considered it.”
He smirks a little, but his eyes are serious.
“—but I’m not gonna stop trying.”
That shouldn't sound as good as it does.
Jason’s grin falters, turns crooked. “Yeah, well. Maybe I want to be more than ‘not a complete asshole.’”
You shift in your seat. “You shouldn’t have to try this hard just to convince me you’re not a complete asshole.”
He pauses. “At least to you.”
You hate the way your pulse jumps.
Hate the way it means something.
Your fingers brush the edge of the folder. “You really highlighted my points in blue.”
“Only the brilliant ones.”
“You wrote jokes in the margins.”
“You laughed at like two of them.”
“I snorted.”
Jason leans forward slightly. “Best sound I’ve heard all week.”
You shoot him a dry look.
“I’m still mad,” you say.
“I know.”
“I’m not ready to forgive you.”
“I can wait.”
There it is again—that damn patience of his. Like he’s not in a rush. Like you’re the only thing he’s willing to take slow.
You exhale and open the folder again. “If we’re going to survive this presentation, you’re annotating the second half of the text.”
Jason raises a brow. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, and you have to print it.”
“God, you’re ruthless.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you live.”
He smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it any other way.”
You don’t smile.
But your lips twitch. Just a little.
And Jason sees it.
—
The classroom lights are dimmed.
The chalkboard reads:
STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE — FINAL PRESENTATIONS TODAY
Group 3: Todd + [Your Last Name]
You pace in the hallway just outside the door, holding the stapled script like it might bite you. You’ve highlighted your lines, annotated everything, even color-coded your cue notes—but your stomach still turns.
This isn’t nerves. It’s something else.
It’s him.
Because ever since that damn apology, Jason’s been different.
He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t push. He listens.
And worst of all—he’s… good at this.
You thought you’d be dragging him through this scene like dead weight, but Jason’s performance during rehearsal was tight. Tense. Devastatingly aware of you.
You hated it.
You kind of loved it.
The door creaks open.
“Hey.” Jason’s voice is low. “You ready?”
He’s in a plain gray tee and jeans—nothing flashy. Just that stupid leather jacket slung over one shoulder and the kind of look in his eyes that says he’s not just playing Stanley—he understands him.
You exhale sharply.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He tilts his head. “You sure?”
“Why? Scared I’ll outshine you?”
Jason grins. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
—
The class is quiet when you step inside.
Your teacher sits at the front, a clipboard in her lap.
You and Jason take your places at the front of the room. No costumes, no props—just raw scene work. The moment you face him, everything else disappears.
He opens his mouth and begins the scene.
“You come in here and sprinkle the place with powder and spray perfume—” Jason’s voice is low, controlled, heat simmering beneath the surface, “—and cover the lightbulb with a paper lantern, and lo and behold the place has turned into Egypt and you are the Queen of the Nile!”
He’s staring at you.
No—through you.
Your reply snaps out like a whip. “That’s not fair.”
Your breath catches. You weren't supposed to feel this.
But Jason’s voice softens—just slightly. “I’m not sayin’ you’re lying. I’m sayin’ you’ve got to be realistic.”
His eyes lock with yours. And that’s when it happens
The scene bleeds. The lines fade.
It’s no longer just Stanley talking to Blanche. It’s Jason, voice laced with something quieter—something raw.
“And I’m not gonna let you lie to me,” he murmurs.
That line wasn’t in the script.
You blink.
Jason’s lips part like he hadn’t meant to say it that way. Like maybe he’s not sure what just happened either. But he doesn’t drop your gaze. He holds it, steady.
The room doesn’t exist.
Just your heartbeat. Loud. Wild.
You go off script too. “Then stop pretending you know who I am.”
Your teacher clears her throat from the front. You both flinch.
Jason breaks eye contact, dragging a hand through his hair. You turn sharply back to the script and finish the last lines in a rush—something about light and shadows—but your voice shakes.
The moment you say the final word, your teacher claps.
“Well done,” she says. “That was… heated.”
The class titters.
Jason gives a tight nod. His ears are red.
You grab your folder and head back to your desk, heart pounding.
Jason catches up with you just before you sit.
He leans down, voice quiet. “That wasn’t… I didn’t mean to—”
You cut him off, refusing to look up. “Don’t explain.”
“I’m not.”
You finally glance up.
His face is too honest. His voice is too gentle.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, “maybe it wasn’t just Stanley talking.”
You open your mouth—but no words come out.
You hate that he’s right. You hate that you wish he wasn’t.
You hate that your chest is still burning where his eyes were. Jason backs off slowly. “I’ll… see you tomorrow.”
You nod.
But you don’t look away until he’s gone.
—
After the Streetcar presentation, you think maybe he’ll back off again. But he doesn’t.
Jason doesn’t try to kiss you. Doesn’t crack a joke or send a text at 2 a.m. saying “so what was that?” He doesn’t even sit beside you in class. Instead, he lets the moment settle like dust—quiet, slow.
You find yourself watching him when you shouldn’t.
The way he leans back in his chair like he’s too big for the room. The way he mouths along with poetry under his breath, like he already knows the ending. The way his eyes flick to you whenever someone mentions the word love—like he’s waiting for your scoff, like he wants to hear what you really think.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because for once, you don’t know.
You don’t believe in love. Not the big, cinematic kind. Not the kind that makes people forget themselves. But the look he gave you during the scene? The line that wasn’t in the script?
It felt like something you shouldn’t touch.
So you do what you always do: you write it down. Three days before prom, your class gets a final creative writing assignment:
Poetry Slam Presentation.
Write a piece that explores a personal theme. Share aloud.
You pretend it’s stupid.
You pretend you don’t care. And then you go home and write until 2 a.m., your pen slicing across the page like it’s angry too.
Presentation Day.
You stand at the front of the room with your notebook. Jason’s in the back row, chewing the cap of a pen, legs stretched out like he’s not ready for this. You glance down at the title.
“Kill Me.”
You inhale.
Then begin:
kill me.
by [Your Name]
kill me with your stupid voice
your deep, careless, silver-tongued voice
that drips charm like oil on fire
too loud for a library
too soft when it counts.
kill me with your hands
that always hovered near mine
never touching
but never gone.
like you wanted to hold me
but didn’t think you deserved to.
kill me with the way you say my name
like it’s a dare
or a secret
or both.
kill me with your eyes—
kind and cruel,
like they want to read me
like they already have.
kill me because you don’t make sense.
because you’re the boy who made a bet
and then stopped smiling when i got hurt.
the boy who sang like a joke
and meant every note.
the boy who annotated my rage in blue pen
and said i was brilliant
like it was a fact, not a flirt.
kill me because you waited.
and i don’t know what to do with that.
no one’s ever waited.
kill me because i don’t believe in love,
but i’m starting to believe in
you.
Silence.
You close the notebook.
The room is silent.
Your teacher opens her mouth like she wants to say something profound, but even she is caught off guard.
Jason?
Jason’s just… staring. No smirk. No quip. Just his eyes on you. Locked.
You walk back to your seat like nothing happened. Like your heart isn’t about to cave in on itself. When you pass him, he whispers:
“…Was that about me?”
You don’t look at him.
You just say:
“If you have to ask, it wasn’t.”
And keep walking.
The day after you read “Kill Me,” Jason doesn’t show up to first period.
Or second.
He’s not in the cafeteria. He doesn’t text. And for someone who’s made a career out of being everywhere all the time, it feels… wrong.
The classroom feels colder without him slouched in the back row.
So when he finally shows up in English—five minutes late, hood pulled low—you don’t know what to expect. He doesn’t look at you. Not once.
But when your teacher calls his name for the Poetry Slam presentation, he stands.
And for the first time in forever, Jason Todd looks nervous.
He pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket, walks to the front, then pauses—eyes sweeping the room, landing on you.
“This is… uh.” His voice is lower than usual. “This is for someone. You’ll know who.”
He doesn’t wink.
He doesn’t smirk.
He just begins.
kiss me.
by jason todd
kiss me like you hate me.
because i know you want to.
i saw it in the way your hands shook
when you dropped your pen and didn’t want me to see.
i saw it when you called me a walking cliché
but still let me walk you home.
kiss me like it’s the only time.
because i’ll take it.
i’ll take scraps, i’ll take seconds,
i’ll take whatever you think you can give me—
and treat it like it’s everything.
kiss me when you're angry.
when your voice gets sharp,
when your eyes flash like fire alarms,
when you say you don’t believe in love
and still look at me like i might be
the first thing to change your mind.
kiss me because you wrote about me.
because every line in your poem was a bullet
and i still wanted more.
because even when you said you hated me,
you knew i’d be listening.
kiss me like it’s a bet.
kiss me like it’s revenge.
kiss me because if you don’t,
i’ll keep waiting.
and waiting.
and waiting.
because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
i’d wait a lifetime for a girl like you
to believe in something as stupid as
me.
The class is silent again.
But this time, your throat is.
Jason folds the paper once. Twice. Tucks it into his jacket and walks back to his seat. When he passes your desk, his hand brushes the edge—just once—and he doesn’t say anything.
You want to. God, you want to. But the words don’t come. Instead, you just watch him sit. And you realize—somewhere deep and awful—that maybe he was always telling the truth.
He was just waiting for you to believe it.
—
Two days before prom.
You find the note during detention.
The kind that shouldn’t exist anymore, passed like secrets in ruled paper, folded sharp and thin, slipped under your elbow as the teacher’s back is turned.
You uncrumple it without thinking. The handwriting is jagged. Familiar.
I wasn’t gonna ask.
Didn’t think I deserved to.
But you in that poem? You looked at me like I was already yours.So if you show up, I’ll be waiting.
If you don’t… I’ll still wait.
There’s no name. But there doesn’t have to be.
You press your lips together so you don’t smile.
And you fold the paper back up like it’s something you might want to read again later.
Prom night.
You don’t have a date.
You said no to everyone who asked, which wasn’t many—most too scared, a few too stupid. You told your mom you didn’t feel like it, that it was dumb, that you’d rather stay home and rewatch Little Women and scream about feminist rage.
But she made you the dress anyway.
It’s soft. The color is nothing like what you’d normally wear—something too pretty, too kind for the girl who argues with teachers and makes boys cry. But it fits. And it’s yours.
So you show up. For her.
Not for him.
That’s what you tell yourself.
The gym looks exactly how you expect: gold streamers, mismatched lights, a disco ball that spins like it’s trying to hypnotize you. There are too many people. Too many dresses. Too much laughter.
You hate it.
Until you see him.
Jason Todd, in a wrinkled black button-up and boots he didn’t bother to polish, leaning against the far wall like he belongs there. Not trying. Not performing.
Just waiting. Like he said he would. And when his eyes meet yours? He freezes. Like he didn’t think you’d actually come.
Like he can’t believe you look like that.
The song changes.
And suddenly, you hear it.
A slow, pulsing beat. Familiar.
Soft, dangerous, quiet at first—
But growing.
I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
Breathing in your dust…
Jason straightens. You take a step forward.
Neither of you says anything. Not yet.
And if you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot…
The room blurs. The music swells.
He’s standing in front of you now.
And you swear—for one breathless second—he’s going to say something stupid. Something like "I told you so,” or "You clean up okay.”
But he doesn’t.
He just holds out his hand.
You hesitate.
And then take it.
Because of course you do.
You don’t speak as he pulls you into the middle of the dance floor.
You don’t argue when his hands settle on your waist, unsure.
And you definitely don’t make a joke when you let your head rest lightly on his shoulder.
You just move with him. Breathe with him. Like maybe you’d been waiting too.
Let me be your 'leccy meter
And I'll never run out…
The words are ridiculous. You’d laugh, normally.
But Jason sways with you like he means every syllable. And suddenly, it’s not funny.
It’s terrifying.
Because if you look up now, you’ll say it.
All of it.
But then his voice—barely a whisper—cuts through the music.
“Why’d you really come?”
You lift your head.
And the truth spills out, small and brutal:
“Because you waited.”
Jason breathes in—sharp.
You expect him to kiss you.
But he doesn’t.
Not yet.
He just pulls you closer, like he’s memorizing the weight of you in his arms.
"Tell me. Tell me what stops a knight from looking at her princess like I’m the only thing keeping her breathing."
masterlist
The banquet hall shimmered with candlelight and decadence—golden chalices raised, lutes strumming in the corners, and velvet gowns brushing polished stone floors. It was a celebration in your honor, and you had never felt more like a prisoner.
Your throne was carved of ivory and duty. Your crown, heavy with expectation. And seated just behind you, silent and sharp-eyed, stood Ser Diana Prince—your sworn knight, your shield, your secret undoing.
She was the only one who saw through the silk and sapphires. The only one whose gaze made you feel real.
You caught her eyes across the hall.
Even now, among dukes and barons vying for your hand, her stare cut through the noise like her sword through air—fierce, unreadable, and aching.
She bowed her head when she realized she was staring too long. A respectful act. A practiced one. But you knew better. You saw the twitch in her jaw, the way her hand gripped the hilt at her hip when Lord Delon leaned too close and brushed your gloved hand with his lips.
She hadn’t spoken a word to you all evening.
Not since the announcement.
Not since your father declared that, come the spring moon, you were to be wed.
Not to her.
You rose under some flimsy excuse—your head ached, your dress too tight—and left the hall like a ghost fleeing its own grave. The corridors were empty, dim, and cold. The echo of your steps mingled with your own breath until—
“Princess.”
Her voice. Low and quiet like thunder before the storm.
You turned, your chest already tight. “You didn’t speak to me.”
“I couldn’t,” Diana said, stepping into the torchlight. Her jaw was clenched, her armor shining like ink. “You know why.”
“No, I don’t.” You said it too quickly. Too honestly. “Tell me. Tell me what stops a knight from looking at her princess like I’m the only thing keeping her breathing.”
The silence that followed was thick with held-back years.
She stepped closer. “You are.”
And then you were kissing her.
It wasn’t delicate. It was desperate—lips and breath and aching hands against cold armor. You tasted every vow she couldn’t speak and gave her your tears in return.
When she pulled away, it was only barely.
“I would burn kingdoms for you,” she said hoarsely, her forehead pressed to yours. “But I would not dishonor you.”
“You think I care about honor?” you whispered, fingers fisting the fabric of her cape. “You’re the only thing in this entire cursed castle that feels true.”
Her thumb brushed your cheek. “Then say the word. One word, and I will steal you away. Tonight. I will keep you safe. Loved. Mine.”
You almost said it.
Almost let her ruin you.
But you heard the bells ring in the distance—summoning you back. To the hall. To the throne. To the cage.
Your lips trembled. “Not yet.”
Her face cracked like a storm-split sky.
“I’ll wait,” she promised. “Even if it kills me.”
And with one final kiss—so gentle it tasted like mourning—she disappeared into the dark again, sword at her side, love bleeding behind it.
The wedding was to take place at dawn.
You stood in your chambers, surrounded by silence. The gown they had chosen for you was draped across the bed—white silk, gold embroidery, a symbol of a future that wasn’t yours.
You’d dreamed of this night so many times. The moment before everything changed. But in those dreams, it was never this quiet. Never this lonely.
You turned toward the window, where the moonlight spilled across the stone floor like spilled milk. Somewhere below, the city slept, believing their princess was about to marry a man she’d barely spoken to.
And in that shadowed stillness, there came a knock. Then—
“Your Highness. It’s me.”
You didn’t hesitate.
You opened the door and Diana stepped in, already dressed for battle—leather and steel, her blade strapped across her back, hair braided with ruthless purpose.
But her eyes? They softened the moment they found you.
“You’re sure?” she asked, voice low. “If we leave now… there’s no coming back. You’ll lose your title. Your inheritance. Everything.”
You reached for her hand. “Everything I lose, I lose for something.”
She stared down at your fingers wrapped around hers—like even now, she didn’t dare believe it.
“For what?”
“For you.”
A breath left her like it hurt.
You stepped into her arms, pressing your forehead to hers, just like that night in the corridor weeks ago—when you’d almost chosen duty.
Not tonight.
“I don’t want a crown,” you whispered. “I want a life that feels like mine. I want to wake up to your voice, to feel your arms around me without shame. I want to be free. With you.”
She kissed you then—slow and certain and holy.
The kind of kiss that sealed promises. That burned bridges.
Together, you slipped from the castle, down the servant’s stairwell, across the stables where a single black horse waited, saddled and restless. You rode hard, wind tearing through your hair, her arm wrapped firm around your waist.
The horizon bled gold.
By the time the city bells rang to announce a princess gone missing, you were long past the walls.
And in the safety of the trees, Diana dismounted first, then reached up to help you down like you were something sacred.
You laughed—free, giddy, breathless. “We’re fugitives now.”
She smirked. “You say that like it’s not the best idea you’ve ever had.”
You cupped her jaw. “Swear to me, Ser Diana. Swear this is real.”
“I swear,” she said without pause. “By the stars and the sword on my back. You are mine, and I am yours.”
Then she knelt before you, not as a knight, but as a woman in love.
And this time, you were the one who leaned down to kiss her.
A princess no more.
Just a woman finally free.
With her knight.
And her future.
The innkeeper gave no second glance. Just a room key and a knowing nod.
You could barely breathe as Diana shut the door behind you. The room was small—just one bed, a wash basin, a fireplace. But it was yours. No guards. No crown. No eyes to watch or hands to pull you away.
Just her.
Diana stood still for a moment, silhouetted in firelight. She looked like something ancient and holy—armor half-unbuckled, dark braid over her shoulder, lips parted like she wanted to speak but couldn’t.
“You’re staring,” you whispered.
“I’ve always stared,” she said, voice husky. “I just… never let you see.”
Your chest ached.
She moved toward you slowly, as if giving you time to run. But you stepped into her without hesitation, fingers finding the clasps of her chestplate. “Let me see you.”
She let you undress her.
Piece by piece, the layers fell. Leather, buckles, linen. You slid the fabric from her broad shoulders, palms mapping the muscle beneath, skin kissed by sun and battle. She was solid, warm, trembling under your touch.
She watched you the whole time—eyes soft, reverent. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you said, reaching for her hand and guiding it to your waist. “Diana… I’ve wanted this longer than I can remember.”
She leaned down then, slow and careful, brushing her lips against yours like a question.
You answered with a kiss that deepened until your knees gave out and she caught you, carried you to the bed, laid you down like a prayer.
She worshipped you with her mouth, her hands, her voice—low praises whispered into your skin. She pressed kisses down your throat, between your breasts, along the curve of your hip.
“You’re divine,” she murmured. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Her fingers moved with care, slipping between your thighs like she already knew your body’s secrets. The first touch made you gasp—gentle, slow, utterly devoted.
She didn’t rush. She never did.
She held your gaze as she worked you open, coaxing soft moans from your lips until your thighs trembled, your nails curled in her shoulders, and you came with her name in your mouth like it was all you’d ever known.
When your body stilled, she kissed your temple. “Still with me?”
You nodded, eyes glassy. “More than ever.”
And when she slid into bed beside you, arms pulling you close, you buried your face in the crook of her neck and whispered, “You are the safest place I’ve ever known.”
She kissed your hair.
“You’re not a runaway princess,” she said quietly. “You’re my queen.”
And in that quiet little room, tangled in her arms with her skin pressed to yours, you finally believed it.
yes, i watched the superman movie (twice) and YES i'm fully expecting lex & clark to have a genetically engineered baby next time aka give me kon-el or give me emotional damage
bad boy x smarter girl | detention glances & rooftop secrets | don’t fall for him, don’t fall for him, don’t—"he kissed her like a dare. she kissed him like it was the last mistake she'd ever make. and neither of them stopped."
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chapter 4
You’re late to gym class.
Which is ironic, because you hate gym. But today, your English teacher held you back to “discuss your essay on gendered archetypes in Macbeth,” which turned into a half-hour lecture on why your tone was too “aggressive.”
You’d like to aggressively throw the whole educational system into a dumpster.
By the time you finally make it to the field, everyone’s already halfway through laps, whistles blaring, coaches yelling, and you’re stuck at the edge of the bleachers in your PE uniform, chewing the inside of your cheek and trying not to stab anyone with your glare.
And then…You hear it. A voice.
A very familiar voice.
“You’re just too good to be true…
Can’t take my eyes off of you…”
You freeze.
The entire class turns toward the bleachers.
And there he is.
Jason freaking Todd.
Standing at the top of the bleachers like some unhinged Broadway delinquent, holding a mic he clearly stole from the AV booth, singing.
To you. Out loud.
With drums.
THE SCHOOL BAND IS PLAYING BACKUP.
“You’d be like heaven to touch…
I wanna hold you so much…”
You blink.
He starts walking down the bleachers—slowly, dramatically, shirt untucked, looking like a walking contradiction of bad decisions and charm.
People are cheering.
Someone screams, “HE’S SINGING TO HER!”
You want to die.
You want to punch him.
You want to melt into the grass and never speak again.
And still…
Your stupid heart stutters in your chest.
Because Jason isn’t smirking.
He isn’t doing the cocky lean. He isn’t pretending this is a joke.
He’s actually singing. Off-key, sure. But fully committed.
And he’s looking only at you.
“I love you, baby, and if it’s quite all right
I need you, baby, to warm the lonely nights—”
“IS THIS ALLOWED?” your gym teacher yells.
A whistle blows. A fire alarm goes off somewhere. The band is going full-throttle. Jason hops the fence and jogs toward you like this is the most normal thing in the world.
You want to run.
But you don’t.
Because something about the way he’s looking at you—wild and breathless and hopeful—makes your lungs feel too full to move.
He stops right in front of you, still singing:
“Oh pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay
And let me love you, baby—
Let me looooove youuuu—”
There’s a dramatic pause.
He winks.
And then he gets tackled by a security guard.
You visit him in detention an hour later, arms crossed, expression unimpressed.
He’s sitting in the back, legs kicked up on the desk, lip split and still grinning like he won.
“You’re an idiot,” you say flatly.
Jason shrugs. “An idiot with a heart.”
“An idiot with two Saturday detentions.”
“Worth it.”
You sit down beside him.
Don’t look at him. Don’t say anything for a long second.
Then: “You can’t sing.”
“I know.”
“You looked ridiculous.”
“Yep.”
“And you stole a mic.”
“I have regrets.”
You glance at him. “But…”
He raises an eyebrow. “But?”
You sigh. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
Jason leans closer, voice quieter now. “No. I didn’t.”
“So why did you?”
His eyes meet yours. No smirk this time. Just honest, stubborn, vulnerable.
“Because you told me to prove it. And I didn’t know how to say it.”
“Say what?”
“That I’m not playing anymore.”
Your chest hurts again.
Damn him.
You look away.
“I’m still not kissing you,” you mumble.
Jason smirks. “That’s okay.”
He leans back again, tipping his chair, that same cocky tilt in his mouth—but now there’s something warm under it. Patient. Real.
“I can wait.”
The desk creaks under your elbow as you shift in your seat beside him, arms still crossed, but fingers tapping restlessly against your sleeve.
You shouldn’t be here.
You really shouldn’t be here.
You came to yell at him. To ask what the hell he was thinking, putting you on blast in front of the entire school like some cliché out of a teen rom-com you’d never admit to watching. You came to make it clear that you’re not impressed by big gestures and even less impressed by boys who think you’ll fold the second they sing at you.
But now you’re just sitting here.
Next to Jason.
Who is being too quiet.
You glance sideways.
He’s fiddling with his bruised knuckles, tapping a beat against the desk. The grin from earlier is gone now—wiped clean like it never happened. His expression is… unreadable. Careful. Guarded in a way you’re starting to recognize as his real self, the one he keeps under all the sharp smiles and overconfident swagger.
You hate how that makes your heart twist a little.
“Was it a dare?” you ask softly.
Jason doesn’t look at you. “No.”
“A bet?”
His jaw tightens. “Not anymore.”
“But it was.”
He exhales like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Yeah.”
Silence.
The kind that settles in your chest like dust.
“I knew it,” you whisper, more to yourself than him. “I knew I was just a game.”
“You weren’t—” he cuts himself off. Runs a hand through his hair. “You weren’t just anything, alright? It was stupid. It was Roy—he dared me to talk to you, flirt with you, whatever. Because no one thought you’d actually—”
“Fall for it?” you bite out.
“No. Because no one thought I would.”
You blink.
Jason finally looks at you. Really looks at you. And it hurts—how intense his gaze is, like you’re a puzzle he keeps trying to solve but already knows he’s too broken to deserve.
“You’re smart. You don’t need anyone. You walk through this school like you’re carrying fire and you like being alone. And I thought… what if I could break through that? What if I could get you to look at me?”
You don’t say anything.
You don’t know what to say.
So Jason keeps talking, softer now. “Then I started actually listening. To what you say in class. To how you look at people. To how you tear apart assholes who think they’re clever. And I wasn’t pretending anymore.”
He leans back again, hand still twitching on the desk.
“I don’t wanna win a bet. I just wanna be enough for you to stop hating me.”
Goddamn it.
That lands hard.
You look down at your hands, now folded in your lap, fingers curled into the fabric of your uniform skirt.
“I don’t hate you,” you mumble.
Jason tilts his head. “No?”
You shrug. “I just… don’t trust you.”
“That’s fair.”
“And I’m not gonna be the girl who melts because some boy sings a Frankie Valli song with a marching band behind him.”
“I figured,” he says, with a crooked grin that almost makes you smile.
You glance at him again.
“It was kinda impressive,” you mutter.
Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re joking.”
“No. I’m telling you not to get arrested next time you try to prove a point.”
He laughs—like really laughs. The sound echoes off the empty walls of the detention room and makes something flutter stupidly in your chest.
Then: “So what now?”
You sigh. “Now I go back to pretending I’m not mildly entertained by you.”
“And I keep trying to make you admit you like me?”
“Not likely.”
“But not impossible?”
You groan. “God, you’re exhausting.”
Jason leans closer, voice low. “But not hopeless.”
Your face warms. You hate him. You hate how easy he makes it to fall for this version of him—the one that talks like everything’s a joke but watches you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.
“Fine,” you murmur. “One chance.”
He goes still. “What?”
“You heard me. Don’t make me regret it.”
Jason grins slow. “You’re gonna.”
You roll your eyes. “Not if you behave.”
“No promises.”
He’s still smiling when the detention monitor finally clears his throat and tells you to leave. You don’t look back as you walk out the door. You don’t have to.
You can feel him watching you.
And for the first time, it doesn’t make you want to run.
summary ☆ you went to celebrate with your best friends your promotion, only to wake up naked between them the next morning
warnings ☆ mdni, threesome, p in v, fingering, pussy eating, dirty talk, alcohol, mention to anal sex
a/n ☆ i am obsessed about writing threesomes when i personally never experience one. also i'm definitely writing more scenarios about this three. i know that Clark tecnically can't get drunk but i don't really gaf
main masterlist | letterboxd
"I will definitely remember this tomorrow!" you said with the biggest smile as Bruce poured you your fourth martini before sitting in the armrest closer to Clark, whose arm was resting lazily in your waist.
✶✶✶
Your head hurt so much that it took you a while to realize you had four arms of two men built like trucks wrapped around your body. Bruce had his chest against your back, one of his legs between yours, and one arm holding your waist, the other above your head. Clark was nestled against your neck, one hand on your hip and the other intertwined with yours. You were touching them too. You all formed a tangle of limbs and breaths that left you speechless.
You didn’t remember how you’d ended up in that situation. You stayed very still, first to organize your thoughts, and second because the men’s bodies were warm and it was cold. Because, obviously, the three of you were completely naked.
Clark let out a low sound against your chest and snuggled closer, freezing you for a moment as his dark curls tickled your collarbone.
You forced yourself to remember. You remembered you had just gotten a raise after closing a sale that would add some zeroes to your company’s earnings. You remembered telling your only two friends who could understand how important it was to you. You remembered Bruce inviting you all to the mansion to celebrate.
Jazz was playing softly on the record player, and there was alcohol. Between the first and second drink, only you moved to the gentle rhythm of the music while talking and laughter grew. Then Clark joined you with his third whiskey, wrapping his arms around your waist as you rested your cheek against his chest, glass still in your hand.
Of course, Bruce refilled the fourth glass and when he finished it, he pressed himself against you from behind, almost imitating the position you were in now.
The last thing you managed to remember was Clark kissing you on the lips while Bruce traced your neck.
Now, you try to move very carefully, wishing to escape that tangle of bodies without causing greater chaos. But as soon as you try to turn your head a little, Bruce growls in discomfort at the interruption and shifts slightly, pressing you tighter against him.
“Shh…” Clark whispers in a hoarse voice. “Don’t move.”
You try to take a deep breath, but the pressure of their bodies, the heat pressed against your skin, and the sound of their breathing make you hesitate. Still, you decide you need a little space, even if just to think.
You try to lift an arm carefully to separate yours from Bruce’s, but then his strong hand closes around your wrist and pulls you back, nestling you again between them.
Bruce, half asleep, opens his eyes a little and with a deep, hoarse voice, a mix of complaint and sleep, says:
“You’re leaving already? It’s still early.”
Clark looks at you with sleepy eyes but full of a tenderness that melts you, and traces a finger along your cheek as if to make sure you’re okay.
The movement breaks the delicate balance and, unintentionally, you end up moving a leg abruptly. Bruce stretches like a cat, and you take advantage to slide slowly to the side, between them.
“What did we do last night?” you ask slowly, clearing your throat.
The room is dimly lit, only a few sun rays coming through the curtains. You try to find some of your clothes, but the floor is clear. When had you gotten undressed?
“Don’t you remember?” Clark raised an eyebrow while Bruce placed a hand on your waist to keep you close.
You shook your head slowly, turning to look at them directly. Clark had propped himself up a bit, back against the headboard, his bare torso shining with the leftover sweat and cum from the night. Bruce and Clark exchanged a quick glance. Clark tried to smile, but it was more of a nervous grimace.
Bruce brought a hand to the bridge of his nose and murmured, almost guilty:
“I don’t know about Clark, but I remember from the first toast.”
“And the second. And when you started dancing,” added Clark, the smile a bit more honest this time. “You looked happy. We wanted you to stay that way.”
“And then you clung to me like two human muscle blankets,” you scoffed, brushing hair from your face.
“Technically, you let us,” Bruce pointed out calmly. “You leaned on Clark. Then you kissed both of us. It wasn’t one-sided.”
“I kissed you?”
“First Clark,” Bruce confirmed. “Then me, while you still had his shirt in your hand.”
Clark looked down, visibly embarrassed, but not regretful. His voice softened as he said:
“You were so excited about your promotion… you talked about everything you’d sacrificed to get there. You said you never celebrated anything, always moving on to the next goal. You said you wanted something unplanned.”
“And then,” Bruce continued, with the same analytical neutrality as if describing a chess move, “you said if you were going to lose control for one night, at least let it be with us.”
You brought your hands to your face, stifling a moan of embarrassment.
“God. How poetic I get when I drink.”
“Don’t regret it,” Clark said with a slight tenderness. “No one here regrets it. It was… well.”
You sighed, massaging your temples. “Wish I knew what.”
Bruce and Clark exchanged another glance, more knowing, with a lighter smile. Clark lifted his back off the headboard, moving closer to you again.
“We can help you remember,” Bruce whispered in a deep voice, a bit more confident now, brushing your skin with fingertip in a slow, deliberate path from your thigh to the curve of your hip.
“If you want,” Clark added, getting too close to your back.
You felt his breath on your neck and knew he was perfectly hearing how fast your heart was beating.
You recalled some sensations: Bruce’s firm touch sliding along your back, his fingers confidently exploring every inch of your skin; Clark’s touch trailing down your neck to your collarbone, his deep breath by your ear; jazz music wrapping the room, the dim light tinting everything amber.
You nodded slowly, first looking at Bruce and then Clark over your shoulder. “Okay,” you whispered shyly.
Bruce slid his hand from your waist to your thighs, squeezing deliberately while Clark’s fingers climbed your abdomen, playing with the edge of your ribs, exploring gently but firmly.
“Remember this?” Bruce murmured in a deep voice as he laid you on his chest.
With one hand he caressed your breasts, nipples reddened and already nibbled by them. You found yourself sensitive to every touch of those four hands, wondering how they’d treated you last night.
Clark kissed you first. Not like the previous night, not awkward or hesitant. This time he kissed you hungrily. With the certainty of someone who had already tasted you and wanted to do it again, slowly, without the filter of alcohol or euphoria. His lips moved rhythmically over yours, with intention. His hands circled your waist, and you felt the electric contact when he slipped between your thighs.
And Bruce was behind you, his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck. He kissed you like marking territory, like reminding you he was there too. That he had been there since the first toast.
Clark pulled away from you with a trail of saliva between you, wiped the rest off your corner of the mouth, and leaned over again, this time catching Bruce’s lips a little above you.
You were about to say something, but Clark’s hand had already slipped between your thighs, exploring your wet folds. You covered your mouth with your hand, stifling a moan. Bruce, without removing his tongue from Clark’s mouth, took your hand off your mouth, intertwining it with his own.
When they separated, it was natural, as if this wasn’t new to them. As if it wasn’t the first time you saw them like that. You felt a strange flutter in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was something more like vertigo. Like peering into a part of them that had always been there, waiting for you.
“That happened last night too?” you asked quietly, swallowing.
Bruce slowly turned his head toward you, still holding your hand. “Yeah.”
Clark nodded, his blue eyes fixed on you. There wasn’t a trace of discomfort in his expression. Only calm, like you could finally talk about it without hiding.
“It’s nothing new,” Bruce noted, kissing your collarbone again.
You made a motion to sit up though Bruce’s hand was still fixed on your waist. “I’m not getting in the way, am I?”
Clark let out something like a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t say nonsense.”
You couldn’t say anything more as Clark slid between your legs with his tongue already on you. Your hand went straight to his black curls. He settled between your thighs and opened you with both hands like you were something sacred. He licked slow at first. With a patience that hurt, making slow, soft, deep circles. Then he began alternating pressure and rhythm, playing with you until your body arched involuntarily toward him.
“You’re trembling,” Bruce murmured, now with one hand on your breast and the other holding your waist tight against him.
“Fuck, Clark,” you tried to speak but stopped when Clark slipped a finger inside you.
Bruce smiled against your cheek. He released your breast and lowered his hand to your clitoris, pinching it with little delicacy. Clark kept licking you, his hands marking your thighs while Bruce abused your clit and kissed your neck.
“Clark, please! So good, so—Mmh!” You tried to arch your back. “Bruce, gonna—I’m gonna cum!”
“Come for us, darlin’,” Clark whispered against your pussy.
You felt a whip down your spine, squeezed Bruce’s hand as you moaned with Clark’s face still buried between your legs. You ground against him, your red clit against his nose and tongue inside you as you came on his face.
Clark didn’t pull away. He kept going until you trembled a second time, weaker, your whole body vibrating and voice completely broken.
When he finally stopped, he climbed up your body and kissed your mouth softly. You could taste yourself in him. And you kissed him like you could thank him with your lips. You caught your breath, running a hand through Clark’s hair and stretching your arm behind your shoulder to cradle Bruce’s cheek with your hands.
“Did we only do this?” you asked with a small smile.
Bruce and Clark looked at each other. You knew Bruce had his stupid smile, and Clark had blushed a little before letting out a joint laugh. The Gothamite spun you easily, now your back was on the mattress, Clark on one side and Bruce on top of you.
You pulled Bruce to line up with you, eager for him to fill you. But it was Clark who put a hand on Bruce’s chest to stop him while massaging your breast.
“Slow down, doll. You might be a little sensitive,” Clark explained, caressing your left cheek.
“Mmh?” you managed to say, feeling Bruce’s cock against your throbbing cunt.
“You took us both last night,” Bruce said, kissing your knee.
You blinked, scolding yourself for not remembering anything.
“Did I?” you asked anyway, fluttering your eyes.
“You were… beautiful,” Clark said, half-closed eyes as if remembering it more clearly than he wanted to admit.
“You asked for it,” Bruce added, moving his mouth from your knee up to the center of your body, where his breath began to ignite something you didn’t even know you could endure again. “You said you wanted to lose your mind. With both of us.”
Clark leaned to kiss your cheek, then your temple, then your forehead.
“You said you didn’t want it to be easy. That you wanted it to hurt from pleasure. That you wanted to feel us for days.”
You felt a shiver run down your spine. From shame. From surprise. From desire.
Bruce looked up. His lips were red, his eyes dark. “You left us breathless.”
His gaze dropped again, like admiring something valuable. His fingers slid down your thigh to the center of you, opening you carefully. He watched you for a second before looking into your eyes.
“You’re still a little swollen,” he murmured, as if talking about a work of art, not you.
Clark swallowed beside you. His fingers stroked your cheek. He looked at you like you might disappear at any moment.
“We can stop if you want.”
“I don’t want to stop,” you said without much thought. “Just don’t wanna forget it again.”
Bruce climbed on top, settling over you. He aligned his body with yours slowly, letting his erection rest against your entrance, warm, hard, ready. He looked you in the eyes as he lowered his head to kiss you.
He entered you with a slow, steady movement. This time without alcohol’s filter, without the low lights of the living room, without the music. Just him, you, and the way you fit together with an almost painful perfection.
Clark positioned himself by your side, hugging your waist, pressing his body to yours. His breath brushed your ear, his fingers caressed your side with a tenderness contrasting with the strength with which Bruce pushed inside you.
“You’re perfect like this,” Clark murmured, kissing your earlobe.
Bruce gasped each time he entered, deep, sure, as if he knew exactly what you were feeling and wanted to push you to that edge again.
“Later,” Clark said, against your ear, his voice trembling. “I want to enter you when you still have Bruce inside. Like last night.”
“Mmph—You fit so good, baby,” Bruce groaned. He clenched his teeth. Pushed harder.
Clark kissed your neck while his fingers moved down your abdomen, nearing your center again. He massaged your clit, sometimes brushing Bruce’s cock.
“We took our time. You were so brave, so beautiful…” Clark whispered, then laughed softly. “You said you wanted to know how your name would sound from our mouths at the same time.”
Bruce started moving faster, panting over you. “Keep talking, Kent.”
Clark smiled, sitting up to kiss him while controlling the rhythm of his thrusts, slower and deeper, making you feel every vein of his cock. You were completely undone; memories came to you occasionally, only making you arch your back. Clark kept his hand on your clit while you clenched on Bruce.
“You behaved very well,” Clark continued, tracing imaginary lines on your chest that contrasted with how hard Bruce was fucking you. “Both of you,” he added, glancing sideways at Bruce. “Jesus, look at him. You should’ve seen him last night, whining like a bitch when I fucked him in the ass while he fucked you like this.”
Bruce groaned deeply, pounding into you as he pushed your head further into the pillow.
“Holy shit,” you breathed, looking at Clark. He caught your lips without letting you scream their names as you came.
“I—fuck,” Bruce stopped himself, seeing Clark devouring you while you came, your eyes glazed and sweat shining perfectly over you. “You are so fucking pretty, I’m gonna—”
Bruce tried to pull out even though you were sure that night he definitely didn’t, but Clark and you held him so he could spill his seed inside you with a few more thrusts. He collapsed beside you, kissing your neck and whispering sweet nothings.
Clark already had a hand between your legs, gathering some of Bruce’s cum to bring it to his mouth. You tilted his head, asking for a taste of his fingers, taking advantage of all the leftover saliva and cum on them. You let them slip out of your mouth with a dry pop and finally rested your head on the mattress.
You stayed there, between the two, breathing hard, body still trembling, heart racing. The silence filled with that intense calm that only remains after unleashing storms.
Bruce rested his head on your shoulder, his fingers still brushing your ribs with an almost unexpected tenderness. Clark kissed your forehead, his warm lips counteracting the cold seeping through the window.
“I’m hungry,” you said, shrugging.
“Hungry for dick or literally hungry?” Bruce asked, making you and Clark laugh.
“I think she means literally hungry, babe,” Clark pointed out.
Bruce sat up a bit, dragging the sheet with him, revealing your entwined naked bodies completely. He looked around, searching for his clothes. You noticed.
“Our clothes aren’t in the room, Bruce,” you whispered, trying to sit up though Clark held you to his chest.
“Fuck, that’s true,” Bruce ran a hand through his hair with a grimace, arms akimbo.
“Where did we start fucking?” you asked softly.
Clark laughed against your neck and let Bruce answer.
“You insisted on sitting on Clark’s face in the living room,” he said slowly. You closed your eyes, a bit embarrassed, running a hand over your face.
“Don’t ever let me drink again.”
Bruce gave you a look before closing the bathroom door behind him and hearing water run.
“But darlin’ I loved it,” Clark said, kissing the corner of your lips. “No need to be ashamed of anything we did.”
“Mmh,” you murmured to yourself. “And you?” you asked, looking at him intently. “Do you want this… to happen again?”
Clark didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the bathroom door where Bruce was still showering, then returned to you.
“I think I want more than that,” he admitted. “But only if you want it too. And if we can do it without losing what we already have.”
“What we already have?”
“Our friendship. The way you trust us. I don’t want to break that over one night.”
You rested your head against his chest, it radiated strong heat. The heartbeat was irregular, different from any human’s.
“And do you think Bruce will want that?” you asked, biting your lip.
“I can assure you we drive him crazy.”
Bruce came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, moisture still clinging to his skin, and smiled with that mix of tiredness and desire that made you want to throw yourself at him again.
“You can take whatever you want from the closet, just Clark don’t stretch my shirts too much.”
He looked so calm. You knew Bruce, how he stressed silently, staying awake until dawn, brooding around everyone. Now he was just rummaging in his closet, sliding some grey sweatpants low on his hips and tossing you a shirt long enough to cover your ass with a Batman logo.
This is definitely more than a two-times thing.
letters from leila @leilasletters - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
