"it was only a kiss (it was only a kiss!)"
- (kon 'conner' el kent x batsis!reader)
- desc: what had initially started as him flirting with you to piss the bats off has now spiraled into a long term and painful crush.
- dividers by @saradika-graphics
part two of the first one and um yeah id like to say that i have been slaving away and refining this for like three months but i actually logged into tumblr many times and completely ignored the requests to finish it so um...... my bad
also this one is still angsty like guys idk what my problem is okay i can't help it
The air feels a little thick after that night, under chandelier light, with champagne wafting in the air. And it's a strange thickness, a charged, musky and obscenely fond air, one that disconcerts you, leaves you feeling a little barer. Or maybe it's the weight of his arms, the ghost of his warmth lingering on you. You try to convince yourself, when you're alone and disparaging over the thought of his loss, over the realization of just how monochromatic your life was without the most colorful man alive.
Love is born in grief, sometimes, you find. You learnt that lesson the hard way when your parents died, when Bruce took you in and you fell into routine with a few other orphaned children, with baggage so heavy it'd kill anyone with less conviction. You hardly let anyone in, in true Bat fashion.
But then you did, and fate took him from you.
And now he's back and everything is still somehow worse. Because Conner Kent is a lot of things, but committal is not one of them. You almost want to crack his head open, but halfway on the way to hatred, you run into his pretty smile. Your Sun.
"You've got something on your face," Damian Wayne, of all people, says to Conner on a lazy Sunday night, and by lazy, a Sunday night spent trying to figure out the drug dealings that are circulating between Metropolis and Gotham. It's the typical bunch laundering it all, the fat and happy up top, and Conner had made a joke that the suspect kind of looks like Tim, and immediately shut his mouth when the previous Robin asked him 'How old are you?'
Kon raises a brow, and pats his cheek dumbly. "Do I?"
"Yeah, drool. Stop looking at my sister, you hormonal loser."
Oh. Okay.
He blinks, kind of thrown off and a little impressed by the wit of it. And it's true, though he hadn't really processed it, but he's been spaced out on the sight of you in an intense conversation with Tim, Barbara, and Dick, somewhere on the subject of narcotics, going over connections to Black Mask, the Penguin, any other major rogue in Gotham. You know, actually doing something.
It's not his fault though! You're gorgeous, and the flutter of your eyelashes evokes a similar flutter in his heart, and when you furrow your brows at your older brother, he's half tempted to come over there and smooth the wrinkle with his thumb. And yeah, that's certainly not fair of him, but he's been avoiding Tim too, so it's not just you! ...maybe he's been a dick.
"Wow. I wasn't staring at your sister, dude," he defends himself, though he's totally still looking. In truth, he'd withdrawn. Not defensively, proactively. Because he really loves you, and simultaneously understands that when he really wants something, it is almost guaranteed to fall through. He cares more about your preservation than he does about the fate of his weeping, wilting heart. No matter how tortured he feels when you laugh three states over.
The youngest Wayne just glares at him, and it makes him feel way too sheepish for a 14 year old. "Why are you even here?"
"Uh, why do you hate me? I thought you were like, best friends with Jon--"
"I mean why are you here, now," Damian corrects. He wishes he could say that he doesn't really know what he means, and he wishes he didn't feel so clocked when he continues, "Because as I see it, you have deserted her on the occasion that she needed you, gave her false hope, and now shown up again on some foolish mission that I'm aware and you're aware that you are not imperative to, just to ogle her. So, why are you really here?"
And he could admit to this fourteen year old with the mind of an Arabic poet that he's here because even in his attempts to push you away, you live in the corners and crooks of his mind, and when he wakes up in bed, he reaches for a pillow to pretend it's you, reminisces on that night he held you for real for the first time. He could tell him that he shouts like a canary in a coal mine for you, in every effort and gesticulation, in every breath of every day. He could tell him that he's terrified to hurt you with his super-enhanced hands and his adventure for comfort. He could tell him that he loves, but doesn't know if he believes in it.
But that's too philosophical for a Sunday night, and anyway, he's never been good with vulnerability.
So he just says, "Thought you could use a hand."
It's by a very cruel Stephanie Brown's design that you and Kon are stationed together on top of this raggedy, rural building in downtown Gotham three days later. Because she'd found a little loophole in Bruce's resistance, as she always does, and noted how the listening devices had each been damaged in an encounter with the Riddler, and it would just delay the course of events to replace them, so a Super's incredible ear would just be 'business efficient.' She's got her mind set on getting two of the most avoidant people ever together, and she's somehow gotten Dick, Duke, and Cass on her side. Barbara's leaning neutral, Jason and Tim would rather be latched to a crucifix and pelted with rocks than see you and Kon together, and Bruce might just kill himself if he has to witness it.
The possibility seems a little unrealistic, what with your current dynamic. He doesn't think you've said a word all night to him. He's trying to tell himself it's just that you really do love to completely focus when you're out here, but you'd joined in on the group flaming of Jason that Kon was not allowed to be privy to.
So he sits next to you, ducked behind crates, twiddling his thumbs. Hardly really listening to the group conducting the exchange. Besides, they're talking about the new Lorde album, not methamphetamine. He twiddles his thumb. Coughs. Clears his throat. You don't flinch.
Finally, with a sigh, he says, "C'mon, why are you ignoring me?" Even though he knows damn well why.
"I'm not, Superboy," you respond, scathingly, your gaze still fixated on a guard strapping a gun to his waistband, "I'm focused on the mission, because, you know, some of us have the brain capacity more advanced than a toddler."
And it stings but it's familiar. But from a different time. Different life.
He pauses a beat, and studies you. You reflect in his eye like a gorgeous watercolor painting. It's a testament to his growth in maturity that he doesn't snark something back, and instead, softens. Recognizes that it's defensive, hurt. Not vigorous.
"You sound like you did when we were sixteen," he comments, trying to keep the tenderness out of his tone.
"Well, maybe sixteen year old me had the right idea." Yeah, ouch.
"Don't be like that-" he tries, softly, but immediately regrets it when you pull back from your binoculars finally, and behind your mask he can almost see the sharpness of your eyes. Like a tense spring, coiled and ready.
"Don't be like what," You demand, with a still tone that sounds an awful lot like your father's and nothing quite like your harmonious cadence.
"Like..." he sighs, failing to articulate himself as he always does. The words pile up in his throat, but they never make it out, just like they'd sat in his stomach when you'd all but told him you loved him, and he could never tell you that he did too. He never grew out of the cowardice from his teens. "I don't know, distant. Weird." He cringes at his phrasing.
"Weird?" You cock your head incredulously.
"Not- weird, I meant like," he lets out a frustrated breath, "Nevermind, sorry," he resigns, and hates himself for it, because he's such a goddamn coward. He flinches away the moment something becomes real. He liked having Tana around because she made him feel like he was worth something, that someone could care about him, but she just wanted her story. He liked Knockout, very briefly, because she told him his body was an item of possession that many would yearn for, that it would guarantee him attention, but she was thousands of years old, and he was sixteen. No matter how dirty they made him feel, they validated him. But they never loved him, and he never loved them.
Not like he loves you, and you feel it. And that's what hurts so deeply, what makes the saccharine, honey soft liquid in your heart bubble and boil, burn your throat and make you cry. Somehow, he can always draw your walls down, even if he's being asshole.
"No, Superboy," you emphasize his name, making him feel stupid, "No, seriously, I want to know! How can I make your life easier for you?" You bite, and it's a little too watery for your liking, and you're embarrassed of it's waver, "Do you want me to throw rocks at your window and play fucking Bryan Adams for you, just so you can feel a little bit of that stupid, stupid gratification that you get out of girls and then leave them because they're not, or I'm not good enough for you? Do you want me to wait for you like some idiot bimbo doll, because god forbid you show up when I want you!" You sniffle a little bit, and look away, ashamed, because he's giving you those wide, hurt, eyes, and you can see the guilt in them and you want him to stew in it, but you also can't stand to hurt him.
"No, hey, that's like- way off base, you're not some... what would that even make you?" he stresses, quickly grabbing your bicep, forcing you to look at him. He doesn't know what to say for a beat, but he grasps at straws to figure it out
"I'm sorry, I know, I'm really, really goddamn sorry, I'm a dick, I'm an asshole, and I should really reevaluate my communication skills, but I need you to know this is not on you, okay?" he says, shifting his grip on your bicep to your cheeks, framing your face, and though he can't see behind the mask, he's memorized that tragic look in your eyes.
You don't look at him, feel like a child.
"I didn't mean to-" he sighs, "I didn't want to make you feel like that, sweetheart, you gotta believe me on that. I just..." he sighs, "Fuck, I'm so bad with this kind of stuff, I..." He chokes, and takes a deep breath. "Okay, I.. I really, really, care about you. Like, I dream about you, sometimes, if that's not creepy as shit. And- and that's never really... been a thing for me before, I guess? Because you know, you're- you're different. You're incredible. You're like, the coolest chic I've ever met, and you made and make every day better," he spills, nervously, "and I think I fell for you and it scared me shitless. I know it did when we were younger and I'd trip over myself trying to impress you, and- I knew I really loved you when I saw you at the gala, but there was just-" he runs a hand over his face.
"I guess I don't want you to... I don't want to start something nice with you and then mess it up, because, fuck, I don't... I don't think I could handle it." He confesses.
"But shit, I kind of feel like I've already lost you, and it's really scaring me, and I know it's my fault but-"
You cut him off. Not with a kiss, not with a hug or an equally romantic monologue, but a slap, and his heart drops to his ass, and he hardly feels it, but he's so sure that he's screwed it up and you hate him for life, and that hurts ten times more. But then you surge into his arms. "You're so stupid," you whisper, fragilely, feel his strong arms wrap around you, cling on just as tight as you'll let him. And his warmth floods into you, like a balm to the ache that started that day in the watchtower.
"I know, I'm a fuckin' idiot, sweetheart. Like, check for an extra chromosome stupid," he says, kissing the crown of your head gently. "I'm sorry. Never been more sorry."'
You nod, and lean in further into him, like you're trying to fuse, "God, you make everything so much more complicated than it has to be," you say, quietly, softly.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes again, rests his cheek on top of your head, "I'm so sorry."
You smile, roll your eyes, and kiss him. He sees sparks, and you taste the Sun.
Somewhere else in Gotham, Bruce feels a cold chill run down his spine.
holy buttcrack bro i need to get a job if this is how the writing gig is going
also two ppl asked to be tagged so yeah im afraid it has been a while but trust i was grinding to enhance my skill
@dreamzaremyrealityy
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