conner kent x reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff
wc: 1.7K
The television glows in the dim of your living room, throwing shifting light across the walls. Some action film plays at a volume just loud enough to fill the silence, explosions blooming silently across the screen every few minutes. Neither of you are paying much attention to it. The bowl of popcorn on the coffee table has gone mostly untouched. Your focus is on the hand resting in your lap.
Conner’s hand is large and warm, the weight of it heavy against your thigh. His fingers are splayed obediently across a folded napkin while you guide the thin brush of black polish over his nails with careful concentration. The smell of varnish lingers faintly in the air. From the outside, it is an oddly domestic picture. Superboy, half sprawled on your couch with you perched comfortably in his lap, getting his nails painted.
“You realise,” you murmur, tilting his hand toward the light, “most superheroes probably aren’t doing this on a Tuesday night.”
Conner snorts softly behind you.
Your back rests against his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing pressing through the thin fabric of your shirt. His arm curls loosely around your waist, careful not to jostle you while you work. He has been suspiciously cooperative about the whole thing. You expected teasing. Maybe a complaint or two. Instead he has been holding still like a statue.
“I’m starting a trend,” he says. “Next week Batman’s getting glitter.”
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you dip the brush back into the bottle.
“I would pay actual money to see that.”
“Careful,” he replies. “I might arrange it.”
You guide the brush slowly across the curve of his thumbnail. The black polish catches the light like ink, smooth and glossy against the natural pink of his skin. His fingers twitch once before settling again when you press them gently back into place.
“Hey,” you murmur. “No moving.”
“I’m not moving.”
You glance up at him sceptically.
“Your hand literally just twitched.”
Before he can respond, the television erupts with a sudden explosion — a deafening crash of sound and collapsing metal from whatever action sequence the movie has stumbled into.
Conner reacts before he even thinks about it.
His shoulders tense sharply, posture straightening as his head snaps toward the screen, every instinct going alert in the space of half a second. For a moment he looks exactly like what he is: a hero wired to respond to danger.
Then he realises.
You are staring at him.
The film continues playing its ridiculous destruction in the background while he slowly relaxes back into the couch, expression flattening with mild embarrassment.
You cannot help it. A laugh slips out of you.
“Wow.”
He frowns slightly. “What?”
“That was the fastest threat assessment I’ve ever seen.”
“There was an explosion.”
“It was in a movie, Conner.”
He glances at the television again like it might argue his case.
“You never know.”
You shake your head, smiling as you turn his hand back toward the lamp.
“Relax, Superboy,” you say, dipping the brush into the polish again. “The fictional city is going to be fine.”
He mutters something under his breath but lets you reposition his fingers anyway, this time making a visible effort to stay still while you paint the next nail.
You continue painting in careful strokes. The room is warm and quiet, filled with the low hum of the television and the soft sounds of the city outside your window. For a while you simply work, turning his hand slightly this way and that, making sure the polish covers evenly.
Then you start talking again.
It begins with something small.
“My car’s still in the shop,” you say, frowning faintly at his ring finger. “They say the part won’t arrive until Friday, which means I have to take the bus to work all week. Which would be fine, except the bus schedule makes absolutely no sense.”
Conner hums thoughtfully.
“The 7:40 bus is never actually the 7:40 bus,” you say. “It’s more like the 7:55 bus with wishful thinking.”
“That sounds dishonest.”
“And I had to move money around in my account so I’d have enough for the fare, because I forgot how expensive it is when you buy individual tickets instead of a monthly pass.”
Your voice is casual. Absentminded. You are focused on the tiny line of polish along the edge of his nail.
You do not notice the way Conner goes very still.
Not the careful stillness he had before, trying not to smudge the paint. A different kind. Quieter.
He watches the top of your head while you speak. Watches the way your brow furrows slightly when you concentrate. Watches the small crease that forms beside your mouth when you are annoyed about something minor.
Groceries.
Bus fare.
Car repairs.
Your world is built from ordinary things. Tiny practical concerns that fill the spaces between days.
He finds it strangely fascinating.
You blow lightly across his nails.
“You know what I mean?” you say. “All these little boring life things.”
Conner shifts slightly beneath you.
“Define boring.”
You glance back at him over your shoulder.
“Normal things.”
You gesture vaguely with the polish brush.
“Budgeting for groceries. Figuring out bus routes. Remembering to buy laundry detergent before you run out.”
Your mouth curves into a small smile.
“Stuff like that.”
You pause, then tilt your head thoughtfully.
“Actually, it must be kind of weird for you.”
“Why?”
You glance down at his hands again.
“Well.” You shrug. “You’re Superboy.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“And?”
“And nothing about you is really normal,” you say simply. “You can lift cars. You can hear things from miles away. You fight aliens and robots and supervillains.”
You tap the brush gently against the rim of the bottle.
“I’m over here stressing about bus fare.”
You laugh softly, the sound warm and easy.
“It’s just funny to think about.”
Conner does not answer right away.
Instead he studies your profile in the glow of the television. The curve of your cheek. The quiet focus in your eyes.
You finish the last nail and lean back slightly to inspect your work.
“Okay,” you announce. “Don’t move for thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds is a long time.”
“You can survive.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
You sit there together in comfortable silence. The film on the television reaches another dramatic climax, music swelling loudly through the speakers. Neither of you look up.
Your fingers still rest lightly around his hand.
After a moment, Conner speaks.
“Being a hero’s cool,” he says.
Your eyes flick toward him.
His tone is casual. Almost offhand. But there is something thoughtful beneath it.
“Laser eyes come in handy sometimes. I can heat pizza,” he says. “Very efficient.”
You smile faintly.
“I can imagine.”
He tilts his head back against the couch.
“But that stuff’s loud. There’s always something going on,” he says quietly. “Something exploding. Someone yelling. Another thing that needs punching.”
His thumb shifts slightly beneath your fingers.
“This though?” he says after a moment, lifting his hand slightly so the wet polish catches the light. “Didn’t know manicure appointments were part of the movie night package.”
You glance down at the glossy black line you’re painting across his nail.
“You’re lucky you’re getting one at all,” you say. “Most people have to pay for this kind of service.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“Please. If the Titans saw this, they’d never let me hear the end of it.”
“Then don’t tell them.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely telling them,” Conner replies. “I need everyone to know I’ve got someone who’ll paint my nails while I sit around doing nothing.”
“You’re watching the movie.”
He glances lazily at the screen for half a second before looking back at you.
“Not really.”
Your eyes narrow slightly. “You said you wanted to watch it.”
“I did.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
Conner tilts his head, studying you with that easy, lopsided confidence that always feels a little unfair.
“Because this is way more interesting.”
You try very hard not to smile.
“Well,” you say, brushing the last careful stroke across his nail, “there. Done.”
Conner lifts his hand slightly, examining the glossy black finish like it’s something rare.
“Not bad,” he says.
“Not bad?” You scoff. “That’s a professional job.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he replies easily. “Very intimidating.”
“Black suits you.”
“I know,” he says with mock arrogance.
You laugh. “Careful. It’s still wet.”
“Right.”
He freezes instantly, hands lifted away from everything like he’s handling explosives.
“I am now completely defenceless.”
You reach for the popcorn bowl beside you and pluck out a piece, holding it up toward him.
“Open.”
He obeys without question.
You place the popcorn into his mouth with exaggerated care.
“See?” you say. “Problem solved.”
Conner chews thoughtfully, eyes drifting back toward the television for a moment before settling on you again.
“This is nice,” he says after a moment.
“What is?”
“This.” He gestures vaguely around the room with his elbow. “The movie. The couch. You bossing me around.”
You grin. “I do not boss you around.”
“You absolutely do.”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider the accusation.
“Okay,” you admit. “Maybe a little.”
He shifts slightly behind you, leaning his chin against your shoulder.
The warmth of him is steady and solid at your back, familiar in a way that still surprises you sometimes.
Outside, a car passes slowly down the street. Somewhere in the distance, a siren rises and fades again.
For now, the world is quiet.
You take his hand again, turning it carefully beneath the lamplight to check the polish.
“Still drying,” you murmur.
“Tragic.”
“You’re very patient tonight.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
You glance back at him.
“Liar.”
His mouth curves into a small, easy smile.
“Maybe.”
You lean comfortably against his chest again, the television flickering across the room. The film continues its noisy chaos on screen, but it feels distant. Irrelevant.
Your fingers lace loosely through his.
For a boy who can break the sound barrier and punch through concrete, the stillness seems almost impossible.
Yet he sits there, perfectly content, because for once the world is not asking anything from him.
No villains.
No battles.
No expectations.
Just you on a quiet Tuesday night and the glossy black shine of nail polish catching the light while the movie plays in the background.