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.
"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.
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.
A Superman AU | Immortal Clark Kent x Fem!Reader | soft fate | tender beginnings | melancholy | romance |
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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.
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.
