#kon x reader

[deadendsociety]

† Legos!

⋆˙⟡ “me?”

⋆˙⟡ request/note: not one, just messages being my inspo. this is not meant to be some huge thing. i actually hate it ngl. ↦ taggies: @kitkatscabinet

↠ dick grayson. he adores it so much. the moment he sees it, he's picking it up and holding it next to his face with a bright smile. "oh, you even have the little escrima sticks.. this is so cute. i'm honored you have a little me watching over your place." he doesn't put it down until he leaves, seemingly absorbed in the idea that you went out and bought a tiny him.

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↠ jason todd. he blinks at it, confused at first, before a little laugh sounds when you tell him it's customized. "you really keep this where people can see it?" you only nod, smiling, like it's completely normal. "okay, yeah. thanks?" he's not entirely sure how to respond but every time he glances over to the tiny figure, he feels that content warmth in his gut.

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↠ tim drake. it's been on your shelf for a month, you're honestly surprised it's taken him this long to see it, and he only notices mid turn during a rant. "is that...?" the rant is forgotten because he's too busy turning it over in his hand, mumbling about how the staff is wrong. "they at least-" he only stops because you're staring, eyes narrowed. "it's incredibly cool," he finally says, setting it back down.

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↠ damian wayne. "this is..." he turns it once or twice, thumb plucking the end of the plastic sword, "inaccurate." he glances at you and sets it back on the shelf, not really having much else to say. you assume he doesn't think about it, until two days later, there's a new one - you - next to it. he, surprisingly, didn't change any of the inaccuracies.

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↠ ted kord. oh, he's in love right off the bat and absolutely everything else being talked about is now on the backburner for the next thirty minutes. "we could build a whole set up for him.. we could make it look like a little enclosure. i can sketch up the design and you could find the pieces."

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↠ michael carter. the moment he sees it, he lights up and gasps like it's the biggest honor of all. "is that me?" it's in his hand before you even register what he's talking about. "i'm really your favorite person, huh?" you don't have to look to know he's grinning like he won the lottery.

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↠ roy harper. "look, i'm fun sized" he says, leaning close to inspect it, purposely not reaching to pick it up. "i knew you liked me, just didn't know it was this much." he is, of course, grinning when he nudges you with his shoulder. "when are we getting a tiny you for him?"

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↠ wally west. "please tell me you bought this on purpose and it wasn't just in a pack with others-" he's suddenly beside you, wiggling the lego in your face as if you weren't the one who owned it. "look at him- me? i'm so tiny. it's so cool."

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↠ barbara gordon. you notice the moment she sees it because the conversation dies and her attention is on your desk. "you keep this next to your work stuff?" she picks it up, turning one of the wheels of the little wheelchair. "can't believe you did this.." you mumble that she already looks over every other aspect of your life and she sets it back down. "smart then."

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↠ bart allen. "no waaaaay.." he's on the floor, inspecting the figure, moving it's little limbs, turning the head, playing with the goggles. "the goggles are so cool.. and the colors are right." he's pretty much in his own world until the idea hits. "c'mon, we gotta build it a house and stuff. you can't just let me freeze out in the open."

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↠ kon-el. he's staring at it from the couch, arms crossed. "you always had that?" you shake your head, saying it's only been a few months. "man, they really went all out, huh?" his head tips to you, "you know, the real one is right here.. you didn't need to get a tiny one for company."

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↠ cole cash. "that is the worst- is this me?" he's already plucking it up to turn it in his hand, looking at it as if it's existence somehow offended him. "willingly letting the world know you associate with me is terrible." he puts it back, nudging your hip. "like it, though."

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↠ terry mcginnis. he's definitely not snooping like he does every time he's at your place. "is this.. supposed to be me?" he picks up the little cowl sitting next to the figure, taking note of the customization. "so.. you keep batman.. next to your bed. that's, uh.. something."

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↠ hal jordan. "you own a lego of me?" you don't get the chance to reply before he's enveloped in playing with the green plastic constructs that had been lined up beside it. "this is kinda awesome.." by the time he's done, your shelf looks completely different because he's made a whole scene for it.

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↠ kyle rayner. you hold it out to him after digging it out of the package that had been waiting by your door. "they made.. me?" it's out of your hold and in his own, mumbling something incoherent as he inspects the lantern ring.

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↠ guy gardner. you could have guessed his reaction before he ever saw it. "of course they made one of me." he's grinning, resituating the shelf entirely so that his figure stands out from the rest. "there we go, much better. front and center right where it belongs."

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↠ cassandra cain. "this is.. me?" she looks at you then picks it up, thumb brushing over the flat line that would be the seam of her cowl. "you picked it?" she brightens when you nod, setting it back on the shelf, changing the positioning of the arms. "i like it."

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↠ bernard dowd. he doesn't even knock when he visits, barely getting a word out when he sees the new figure on your shelf; how he noticed it from the door, you have no idea. "oh my god, you made a lego of me?" he's already across the room, bag on the floor. "this is so cute. i look so... nerdy."

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↠ jay nakamura. he notices it, turns to talk to you, then spins back around. "what is that?" he's already in front of the shelf when you say 'you', his thumb brushing along where the lego goes from solid plastic to clear blue. "it's custom.. it's kind of sweet you have it on display like this."

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↠ thaddeus thawne. "this is what you consider good decoration?" you're about to comment on how that's self deprecating towards himself when he plucks it up. "you wasted your time painting this?" he looks over at you, holding it to the side between his first and second fingers. he just makes a sound of acknowledgment before putting it back.

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↠ cissie king-jones. "wow, someone really bought this? or was it part of some lot?" she's examining the little bow, flicking the plastic string. "you know this is, like... an informal, legally binding proposal, right?" she looks over with a grin, waving the tiny arrow.

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↠ greta heyes. she goes when she sees it. "they remembered me?" it's more to herself, fingers brushing close but never touching the actual figure. "and she's out here in the open." you can see how she softens, smiling when she looks over to you.

[konkususwife]

nsfw alphabet // kon — medicine seller (PITR) (pt.2)

kon-kusuriuri, my beloved medicine seller.

reserved and intentional with his words, but such a goddamned tease.

⭑.ᐟ MDNI +18 only ⭑.ᐟ

note: i am a ride most would typically not survive, but i think he could keep up.

N = No (something he wouldn’t do, turn offs)

will not allow anyone else to touch you. even knowing in your past you've laid down with others, he refuses to share. will not let anyone else see you either (only under his preferred circumstance — see later under w = wild card).

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving)

Receiving

no doubt, Kon is a huge fan of receiving. big ego — in the way that he is fully aware of what he has and how much you love it, want it, and need it. he doesn't think he's a gift from god, however he knows that he can shut you up with it, fuck you dumb until you're dizzy, and you keep coming back for more. beyond ego though, he does genuinely love how you're insistent on focusing on his pleasure as much as he dotes on yours (he'd never willingly admit it, as he's always got to have the air of the cheeky yet aloof medicine seller). but, at the end of the day: he's more than happy to oblige when you insist he sit down in a chair — for you to get on your knees, gently pry his legs open, lay your cheek on his inner thigh, and look up at him with syrupy-sweet sinful half-lidded eyes. he'll grab a fist full of your hair to hold it back for you before he says:

"you want to make me feel good? mm, you always do. though, i have missed you...like this. very well, i am yours to use. i am at your mercy, dear."

Giving

oof, big ego because loves to please and knows he's good at it — his preference is giving. a giver of heart and mind — as well as hands, tongue, and other things. he loves to watch your eyes roll back, you beg him to stop, and grab a fistful of his hair to ride his face properly. he takes pride in his "humble work" as a medicine seller and as your pleasurer.

P = Pace (Is he fast and rough? Slow and sensual?)

both. he is hyper focused on giving the best experience and performance possible. whatever he knows you like and can tell in the moment in your micro-expressions or vocalizations that you're liking or want - he's on it, tenfold.

Q = Quickie (his opinions on quickies)

YES — there is no way you could convince me that he cares that much about waiting to get home/"better place" (though there is an appeal to it, see u=unfair/w=wild card). being impatient and impulsive is a treat he loves to indulge in because he doesn't really get to do so when he's out after mononoke where he has to understand the form, truth, and reason — meaning he has to be reserved, patient, and strategic. however, when he's with you — all bets are off (and the fact that you love it only encourages him more — like that one time you wore that new summer silk he got for you, see y=yearning)

R = Risk (Is he game to experiment?)

definitely - in terms of new positions, he's inventing new ones constantly. given his abilities he's bending you in shapes and fucking you at angles you never thought possible. he's unfortunately (fortunately) very creative and always excited to share with you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?)

at least 3-5 orgasms or 3 hours minimum. Kon will pull out all the stops every time he can and when he has a bit of unlimited time with you — you'll both be seeing the stars and seeing the sunrise, all in the same night, if you catch my drift. he will split an elixir with you that heightens your senses for stimulation and extends your human stamina to keep up with him (he drinks it for the taste and solidarity, he doesn't need a damn thing to keep going).

T = Toys (does he own toys? does he use them?)

ofc. some toys are hidden in the medicine box (that he can hide/bring forth at will, as to not accidentally pull out nipple clamps during an exorcism, not that that wouldn't get a laugh out of him though), as well as some with you at home — the only catch is he would only tolerate himself being inside of you — toys are exclusively external for you. when he's away, your fingers can play. when he's home, he is the only thing you need (and want) for pleasuring purposes — he makes sure of this and lives up to it very highly.

U = Unfair (how much does he tease?)

Kon loves to tease a terribly, terribly mean amount. he will hover his mouth over yours as his fingers float above your core or most sensitive spot begging for his touch, his curling of fingers, his hard length. he will laugh in your ear as you begin to physically burn from the inside with desire. he will lick a stripe up your neck, nipping at your jaw, and placing a quick kiss under your ear to then walk out of the room like he didn't do anything with a shit-eating grin on his face — but the payoff when it finally comes? bliss.

V = Volume (how loud is he, what sounds does he make)

he's hitting the 3 g's at whatever volume best suits the mood: grunt, groan, growl (with a delicious surprise: whimpering) of course, the most important g he hits is — ...you know it's the g-spot. (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for him)

back to his loving the teasing and denying and himself being teased and denied (see m=motivation from pt.1), he may or may not have a little fucked up enjoyment watching you do so to strangers (translation: he enjoys watching you tease someone and hates being jealous but loves what it turns him into. extra translation: he will swing in, snaking his hand around your waist, running his hand up your throat, catching your jaw between his fingers to pull you into a deep, messy kiss in front of someone who never had a chance. he for sure is rearranging your guts extra later, even though he asked for this (you're not complaining).

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes…)

slender build with an ethereal air about him. that being said, how Kon has Shingi, there is a duality about him. He is above average but average width. do not let the use of the word average put any preconceived notions in your brain — he is going to rearrange your guts based on skill alone — the additional length beyond the "average" is used to your pleasured detriment and his entertainment. i cannot say i have ever seen him eat anything throughout the duration of the mononoke (movie) series and i think it's because he's feeding himself off your soul leaving your body every time he comes home or stops by to visit (he definitely makes jokes about how "dinner is ready" every time he comes home, no matter the time of day).

Y = Yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

Kon is a yearner — high desire for you in all aspects. knowing that the safest place for you is back at home, he always has you in his mind when he's away. he's always thinking of how you somehow manage to wake up before him and have his favorite morning tea ready for you both, as well as the few times he's woken up before you (that he'd never spoil his secret treasure) where he watches the ups and downs of your chest as you breathe slowly, surely, and safely under his watch. alternatively, he is always thinking of new ways that he can equally: frustrate, turn you on, and impress you — all at the same time, of course. beyond his creativity, he's constantly traveling and seeing fashion trends across the country. he's constantly finding new outfits he knows that you would look divine in and that he is already imagining tearing off of your body with his hands or likely, his teeth, no matter where you are — like that time in the store room of your favorite tea house.

"i found this summer silk for you in the West. they're quite popular, it seems...and it looks lovely on you, i knew it would." "however, i'm afraid that i'm now missing your skin underneath this lovely silk. oh, don't fret at the torn fabric, dear — i'll buy as many as needed to see you in and out of each dress. i believe there is a storeroom that could cast shadows beautifully over your lovely silhouette, would you care to follow me?"

Z = Zzz (how quickly he falls asleep afterwards)

Kon hardly sleeps — it's just how he's built. you could say it has to do with being aware of the danger of mononoke and potentially horrid humans, but i would argue that he's just a night owl. the rare moments of actual rest are only when he's with you. despite wanting to stay awake to keep a watchful eye on you, knowing the world you live in, your warmth and way that you relax your body, melting into him, brings him the peace that he doesn't even realize he needs to fall asleep. in terms of sex, you will likely fall asleep first but he wouldn't be far behind. you are his peace, as well as what gives him a run for his money and endurance.

nsfw alphabet // kon — medicine seller (PITR) pt.1

definitely want to do more content with kon — but also ri! perhaps expect some ri content (and definitely more kon) in the future hehehe (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

i'm BACK,,, the ao3 curse is NOT exclusive to ao3, i'm going THRU IT but writing helps :3 love you ttyl xxx

owned and copyrighted by @konkususwife © 2026. no ai training is authorized.

[purplespiritimagines]

gotham trauma with dc men

characters roy harper here, wally west here, hal jordan here, kon-el kent, john constantine here

content gn! reader, 'babe' used, childhood trauma, trauma recovery, hurt/comfort, mentions of tim’s emotional neglect/early robin years/unhealthy responsibility, ma kent appearance, civilian gotham trauma and class/resource differences, arkham breakout references, panic-buying emergency supplies / survival preparation, mentions of gas masks/fear toxin/scarecrow/joker/two-face/riddler, school lockdowns/rogue drills, carnival/circus music as a trigger, nightmares

masterlist

word count 5.3k

kon-el kent

Kon thinks he has a decent understanding of Gotham.

Not great, because Gotham is basically a haunted escape room with a municipal budget, but decent.

He knows Tim. And Tim’s childhood was… not ideal.

Like, Kon knows Tim grew up lonely in a giant house with emotionally absent parents, spent way too much time stalking Batman and Robin with a camera, then became Robin at an age where most kids were still arguing with teachers about homework.

So when Tim talks about Gotham, Kon already has this mental file labeled: GOTHAM CHILDHOOD: concerning, but apparently survivable.

Tim says stuff like, “Yeah, there was a mugging near my school once,” or “I learned to tail people pretty young,” or “My parents were out of the country a lot.”

And Kon is like, “Okay, that’s sad and mildly insane, but it’s Tim. He makes everything sound like a chess move anyway.”

Tim’s Gotham trauma is polished. Organised. Alphabetised. It comes with contingency plans and a little PowerPoint in his brain.

So Kon assumes Gotham childhoods are bad in a rich-kid-detective-sad-eyes kind of way.

Then he meets you. And you are not polished about it.

You are casual. Way too casual. You say things in the same tone someone else would use to complain about a bad dentist appointment.

The first time it happens, you and Kon are hanging out with Tim at the Tower. Tim is working on his laptop. Kon is pretending not to hover over your shoulder while you make instant noodles because he likes watching you do normal things. It makes his chest feel warm and weird.

Tim mentions Gotham traffic.

You snort and say, “At least it’s not as bad as when the city shuts down for a rogue attack and everyone panic-buys bottled water.”

Kon laughs at first.

Then he realises Tim does not. Tim has stopped typing.

Kon looks between you two. “Sorry, panic-buys what now?”

You glance up. “Water. Batteries. Canned food. Sometimes gas masks if Scarecrow was out.”

Kon blinks. “Gas masks?”

“Yeah. They sold out fast, though. You had to know which corner stores had emergency stock.”

Kon slowly turns to Tim.

Tim is staring at you with the expression of someone hearing a familiar song in a much darker key.

Kon points weakly. “Did you guys have gas mask corner stores?”

Tim says, “Not in my neighbourhood.”

And that’s when Kon realises something important.

Tim’s Gotham and your Gotham were not the same Gotham.

Tim’s Gotham had distance. Manor walls. Boarding schools. Wealth. Alfred. Bruce. Eventually Batman-adjacent protection, even if Tim would never frame it that way.

Your Gotham had bus routes during Arkham breakouts.

Your Gotham had apartment buildings with broken locks.

Your Gotham had neighbours who taught kids which alleys to avoid.

Your Gotham had sirens as background noise.

Your Gotham had survival skills disguised as common sense.

Kon’s brain just kind of… pauses.

Because he thought he knew Gotham trauma.

He did not know Gotham trauma: civilian edition.

And he is immediately unwell about it.

You don’t notice at first.

That makes it worse.

You just stir your noodles and add, “It wasn’t always that dramatic. Sometimes it was just regular crime.”

Kon makes a sound.

Tim closes his laptop.

You look up. “What?”

Kon says, “Regular crime?”

“Yeah.”

“Babe, what is regular crime?”

You shrug. “Non-themed.”

Tim puts his face in his hands.

Kon stares at you like you have just revealed Gotham had a loyalty rewards program for childhood trauma.

“Non-themed,” he repeats.

“Like, not Joker or Riddler or Two-Face. Just normal gang stuff.”

Kon looks physically pained.

“Just normal gang stuff,” he says.

You nod.

Tim mutters, “That is, unfortunately, a Gotham distinction.”

Kon points at him. “Do not normalise this, Rob.”

Tim lifts both hands. “I’m not. I’m contextualising.”

“You’re both insane.”

You and Tim, at the same time: “It was Gotham.”

Kon throws his hands up. “That is not an explanation! That is a cry for help with gargoyles!”

After that, Kon becomes weirdly obsessed with comparing notes.

Not because he wants to make you relive anything. He just cannot wrap his head around the idea that Tim’s childhood, which he already considered bleak as hell, was apparently the premium subscription version of Gotham.

He asks Tim about it later, when you’re not there.

Kon tries to be casual. Fails immediately. “So, uh… was Gotham always like that?”

Tim doesn’t look up from his tablet. “Like what?”

“Like—” Kon gestures helplessly. “Like your city was trying to speedrun traumatising every kid in it.”

Tim is quiet for a second.

Then he says, “Depends where you lived.”

Kon hates that answer. He hates how calm Tim is when he says it.

Tim continues, “My childhood wasn’t great, but I had resources. Security systems. Money. Escape routes. Adults who were absent, but not usually physically dangerous. That’s different.”

Kon sits with that. It makes him feel sick.

Because he knows Tim’s childhood hurt him. He’s seen it in the way Tim overworks, overthinks, overprepares, and acts like needing affection is a security flaw.

But then there’s you.

You, casually mentioning that your school had “rogue drills.” You, knowing how to identify fear toxin symptoms. You, laughing about how Gotham kids had playground rumours about which villains were “better” to be near during an attack.

Kon does not know what to do with that. He is a clone. He has his own complicated origin. He was made, not born. He knows what it’s like to have your early life shaped by other people’s choices and experiments and expectations.

But he was not a little kid in Gotham. He did not have to learn that an ice cream truck playing music too slowly might be suspicious. He did not have to know which siren meant fire and which siren meant chemical exposure. He did not have to pack emergency snacks in case a villain shut down the bridge again.

And you say it all like it was annoying, not terrifying.

That is the part that destroys him.

Because Kon is loud. Emotional. Heart-first. He feels things in bright colours.

So when your past starts unfolding in front of him, he cannot just file it away.

He feels it. All of it. Hard.

The second big casual drop happens when you’re alone together.

You’re in his room, lying upside down on his bed, scrolling through your phone. Kon is floating three feet off the floor because he says it helps him think, but really he just likes making you roll your eyes.

A video plays on your phone with a carnival laugh track.

Your smile disappears for half a second.

Kon notices instantly. “You good?”

You wave it off. “Yeah. Just don’t love carnival music.”

He lowers himself to the floor. “Because Gotham?”

You snort. “Everything weird about me is not because of Gotham.”

Kon raises an eyebrow.

You pause. “Okay, a lot of it is because of Gotham.”

He sits beside you. “Carnival music?”

You shrug. “Joker thing. Not directly. I wasn’t, like, front row for anything. But there was an incident near my neighbourhood when I was a kid. For weeks after, everyone got weird about circus stuff.”

Kon’s expression goes blank. That is his processing face.

Then he says, very carefully, “How old were you?”

“I don’t know. Eight?”

“Eight.”

“Maybe nine.”

“Oh, yeah, nine is famously the emotionally mature age for clown-based domestic terrorism.”

You blink.

Kon looks upset enough that you immediately try to soften it.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Kon’s face changes.

He looks wounded by the sentence itself.

“Don’t do that.”

You frown. “Do what?”

“Make it smaller because I reacted.”

That shuts you up.

Kon’s voice gets softer. “I’m not mad at you. I just… I don’t know what to do when you say something like that and then look at me like I’m the weird one for being horrified.”

You look away.

He leans closer, not touching yet.

“I knew Tim had Gotham stuff,” he says. “But Tim talks about it like he’s reading a case file. You talk about it like you’re telling me the weather was bad.”

You laugh weakly. “Sometimes the weather was bad too.”

“Babe.”

“What?”

“Focus.”

You sigh.

Kon waits. He is not always patient. In fact, he is famously not always patient. But with you, he tries so hard.

Eventually, you say, “It was normal there.”

Kon’s eyes soften.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what’s messing me up.”

Because Kon understands being built for something you didn’t choose. He understands having people look at you and see the result instead of the damage. He understands being called strong when what they mean is you survived something you shouldn’t have had to survive.

And suddenly, he sees that in you.

Not as a concept. Not as a sad backstory.

As real.

You were a kid. A civilian kid. No powers. No cape. No Robin training. No alien DNA. No super-hearing. No tactile telekinesis. No team.

Just you. In Gotham. Trying to get through the day.

Kon lies down beside you, staring at the ceiling.

After a while, he says, “I hate that city.”

You turn your head. “You barely know that city.”

“I know enough.”

“You know Tim.”

“Exactly. I thought Tim was the worst-case Gotham childhood.”

You laugh despite yourself. “Tim?”

Kon looks at you, dead serious. “Tim became Robin because Batman was sad and somebody had to fix it. That’s insane.”

“Okay, true.”

“And somehow you’re making his childhood sound like the deluxe edition.”

You laugh harder.

Kon smiles, but it’s soft around the edges.

“I’m serious,” he says. “Tim had it bad. You had it bad differently.”

That lands.

Because people usually compare pain like there’s a scoreboard. Like someone has to win most damaged, which is the worst prize ever. Gotham loves that. Gotham practically runs on “someone had it worse.”

Kon does not do that. He just says differently.

And somehow that makes it easier to breathe.

After that, he starts noticing the differences between you and Tim.

Tim prepares like a strategist. You prepare like someone who once had no backup.

Tim has contingency plans labeled by scenario. You have emergency cash hidden in three places and never let your phone drop below 40%.

Tim distrusts people because he has analysed their motives. You distrust crowds because crowds in Gotham could turn into hostages in under ninety seconds.

Tim sits with his back to the wall because Batman training. You sit with your back to the wall because civilian survival.

Tim knows fear intellectually, tactically. You know it bodily.

Kon starts clocking how your body reacts before your brain explains.

A loud bang, and your eyes go to exits. A sudden laugh, and your shoulders tighten. Fog rolling in low over the street, and your hand finds his sleeve.

You always say you’re fine.

Kon starts understanding that “fine” is a Gotham word meaning not currently bleeding.

He hates it.

He starts gently challenging it.

You say, “I’m fine.”

He says, “Gotham fine or actual fine?”

You stare at him.

He smiles a little. “Yeah, I made categories.”

“That’s annoying.”

“Accurate, though.”

You sigh. “Gotham fine.”

“Cool. Want to get out of here?”

You blink. “You don’t mind?”

Kon looks genuinely confused. “Why would I mind?”

“I don’t know. It’s inconvenient.”

His expression shifts into something soft and almost hurt. “You’re not inconvenient.”

You look away.

Kon ducks into your line of sight. “Hey. You’re not.”

And because he’s Kon, because he is earnest enough to be embarrassing and sweet enough to get away with it, he adds, “I can fly. Literally nothing is inconvenient to me except emotional repression and waiting in lines.”

You laugh.

He beams, relieved.

Kon becomes incredibly focused on giving you control.

That is one of the first things Tim advises him on.

Not in a patronising way. More like Tim sees Kon spiraling and takes pity.

Kon says, “I don’t know what to do when they talk about it.”

Tim says, “Ask what they need.”

Kon frowns. “What if they don’t know?”

“Offer options.”

“Like what?”

“Listen. Distract. Leave. Stay. Physical comfort. No physical comfort.”

Kon absorbs this like holy scripture.

The next time you casually mention that you hate blackout curtains because they remind you of city lockdowns, Kon visibly glitches for half a second, then takes a breath.

“Do you want me to listen, distract you, or threaten Gotham as a concept?”

You blink. “What was the third one?”

“I’m workshopping it.”

You smile. “Threaten Gotham as a concept.”

Kon nods solemnly. “Gotham, count your days. You creepy little gargoyle swamp.”

You burst out laughing.

He lights up.

From then on, that becomes his thing.

He does not always know the perfect response, but he always tries to give you a choice.

“Do you want comfort or jokes?”

“Do you want me close or over there?”

“Do you want to talk about it or should I tell you what Bart did today?”

“Do you want me to call Tim and ask him if this is normal so we can both yell at him when he says yes?”

That last one is used often.

Tim gets dragged into it more than he deserves.

You: “One time my school bus got held up because Two-Face’s gang blocked the bridge.” Kon, already pulling out his phone: “Tim.” Tim, answering: “No.” Kon: “You don’t even know what I’m asking.” Tim: “Is it Gotham-related?” Kon: “Yes.” Tim: “Then no.” Kon: “Was bridge gang stuff normal?” Tim: “Define normal.” Kon: “I hate you.” Tim: “Valid.”

You find this hilarious.

Tim does not, but he tolerates it because he secretly likes that Kon cares enough to be annoying.

Kon’s protectiveness is raw. He is young in some ways. Not immature exactly, but new to so many kinds of love. New to building a life that wasn’t assigned to him. New to the terror of realising someone you love was hurt before you ever knew them.

He wants to go back in time and save you. He cannot.

He wants to punch every villain who ever scared you. He could, maybe, but that is apparently “not productive” and “legally complicated.”

He wants to wrap you in his jacket and fly you somewhere sunny where cities don’t have cursed vibes. That one he can actually do.

So he does.

The first time you mention that Gotham winters were the worst because cold weather plus city-wide emergencies meant people got trapped without heat, Kon gets quiet.

Then he asks, “Have you ever been somewhere warm just because?”

You blink. “Just because?”

“Yeah.”

“Not really.”

Kon is on his feet immediately. “Pack a bag.”

“What?”

“We’re going to the beach.”

“Kon, it’s almost midnight.”

“So? Beaches don’t close emotionally.”

“That sentence makes no sense.”

“It does if you’re romantic.”

He takes you somewhere warm. Not crowded. Not fancy. Just a quiet stretch of sand where the air smells like salt instead of smoke and the sky is huge.

You stand there barefoot, wind pulling at your clothes, and for a while you don’t say anything.

Kon watches you carefully.

Not like you’re fragile.

Like this matters.

You finally whisper, “Gotham didn’t have skies like this.”

Kon looks up. “What were they like?”

“Low,” you say. “Heavy. Like they were waiting for something bad, too.”

Kon’s chest hurts.

So he reaches for your hand.

You let him take it.

He squeezes gently. “This one isn’t waiting for anything.”

You look at him.

He smiles, a little shy. “It’s just sky.”

That becomes one of the safest things anyone has ever said to you.

Just sky.

No signal lights. No smoke. No bat-shaped shadow against the clouds. No sirens below.

Just sky.

Just Kon’s hand in yours.

Just warmth.

Kon starts collecting those moments for you.

Not in a “fixing you” way. In a “Gotham does not get to be your only archive” way.

He gives you memories Gotham can’t touch.

Beach at midnight. Flying above clouds. Eating greasy diner food at 3 a.m. because neither of you could sleep. Watching stupid movies where the villains are too ridiculous to be scary. Farm visits with Ma Kent, where the quiet is soft instead of threatening.

That last one really gets him.

He takes you to Smallville eventually.

At first, you’re tense. 

Too open. Too quiet. Too few places to hide.

Kon notices. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “Just different.”

Ma Kent, because she is Ma Kent, takes one look at you and seems to understand more than anyone should. She doesn’t fuss. She doesn’t ask invasive questions. She just gives you warm food and tells Kon to stop hovering because he’s “about as subtle as a flying tractor.”

Kon blushes.

You laugh.

Later, you sit on the porch with him, watching the fields move under the wind.

You say, “It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“No sirens.”

Kon leans back beside you. “Good weird or bad weird?”

You think about it. “Suspicious weird.”

He nods gravely. “We can work with suspicious weird.”

You huff. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m emotionally supportive.”

“You are.”

He goes pink at the ears.

Kon gets flustered when you acknowledge his care. Like, badly.

He can lift cars, fight monsters, and stare down world-ending threats, but you saying, “I feel safe with you,” makes his brain turn into dial-up noise.

The first time you say it, he freezes.

You’re half-asleep against him after a long day. He thinks you’re already out, but then you mumble, “I feel safe here.”

Kon stops breathing.

Not because he needs to breathe that much.

Because his whole body forgets how.

“You do?” he whispers.

You hum. “With you.”

Kon stares at the ceiling like he’s just been entrusted with the nuclear codes to your heart.

He does not move for the next two hours. His arm goes numb. He does not care.

Tim finds him later, still sitting in the same position, looking emotionally devastated.

Tim whispers, “Are they asleep?”

Kon nods solemnly.

Tim eyes him. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“Shut up.”

Tim’s mouth twitches.

Kon whispers, “They said they feel safe with me.”

Tim’s expression softens. “That’s big.”

“I know.”

“No, Kon. For someone from Gotham? That’s big.”

Kon looks down at you, tucked against him, relaxed in a way he rarely sees.

His voice is tiny. “I know.”

And he does.

By then, he really does.

He understands that trust from you is not casual. It is not automatic. It is not easy.

It is something built from proof. Again and again.

Kon showing up when he says he will. Kon telling you before he touches you. Kon not laughing at your emergency habits. Kon keeping snacks in his jacket because you once mentioned Gotham lockdowns could last hours. Kon learning the difference between your normal quiet and your danger quiet.

Kon asking, not assuming.

Kon staying.

He is so proud when you let him stay.

Not in a smug way. In an awed way. Like he knows he has been handed something precious and slightly dangerous, like a tiny star.

The funniest part is that Kon starts getting personally offended on your behalf by Tim’s “that’s just Gotham” energy.

You’ll say something alarming.

Tim will, from across the room, say, “Yeah, that tracks.”

Kon will whip around. “Stop saying that!”

Tim looks up. “What?”

“That tracks? That tracks? They just said their elementary school had a no-ransom-note-without-calling-an-adult policy.”

Tim pauses. “That one’s weird.”

You point at him. “Thank you.”

Kon gestures wildly. “That one? That one is weird? What’s the baseline here?”

Tim opens his mouth.

Kon points harder. “No. Don’t answer. I’ll get mad.”

Tim closes his mouth.

You are laughing so hard you’re crying.

Kon looks betrayed. “This is not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“It is Gotham funny, which I’m learning means horrifying.”

You wipe your eyes. “You’re catching on.”

Tim mutters, “He’s adapting.”

Kon groans. “I don’t want to adapt. I want Gotham to stop sounding like a child-endangerment theme park.”

Tim says, “Good luck with that.”

Kon throws a pillow at him. Tim dodges without looking.

That becomes a running theme.

Kon vs. Gotham normalisation.

He loses often. But he fights valiantly.

You: “It was only a minor evacuation.” Kon: “No evacuation involving children is minor.” Tim: “In Gotham—” Kon: “You are on thin ice, Drake.”

Or:

You: “I learned to pick locks because sometimes landlords chained emergency exits.” Kon: “I’m sorry, what?” Tim: “That is extremely illegal.” Kon: “Oh, NOW you know normal.” Tim: “I didn’t say it was surprising.” Kon: “I’m going to scream.”

He talks to Cassie about it once, because he needs someone outside the Gotham ecosystem to confirm he is not overreacting.

Kon says, “They told me their school had a Scarecrow protocol.”

Cassie stares. “A what?”

“THANK YOU.”

Bart, overhearing, says, “Oh, Gotham kids are built different.”

Kon points at him. “Not helping.”

But even through the jokes, Kon struggles with the helplessness of it.

One night, you wake from a nightmare at the Tower.

It’s bad.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

You just sit up, breathing too carefully, eyes scanning the room like you’re looking for smoke.

Kon wakes immediately.

He can hear your heartbeat.

Too fast. Way too fast.

His instinct is to grab you, to pull you close, to shield you with his body.

But he remembers.

Choice. Control.

So he sits up slowly.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft. “It’s me. Kon.”

You don’t answer.

He keeps his hands visible. “You’re at the Tower. My room. Door’s locked. Window’s closed. No alarms.”

Your eyes flick toward him.

He adds, “No gas.”

That does it.

Your face crumples just a little.

Kon hates Scarecrow with a clarity that surprises even him.

Not in the abstract superhero way. In the deeply personal, you scared someone I love when they were small and now I want to throw you into the sun way.

But he keeps his voice gentle. “Can I come closer?”

You nod.

He moves slowly, like he is approaching something sacred.

When he sits beside you, you lean into him immediately.

His arms come around you, careful and warm.

You whisper, “Sorry.”

Kon’s throat tightens. “Nope.”

“I woke you up.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m being stupid.”

“No.”

He says it so firmly you blink.

Kon pulls back just enough to look at you. “You’re not stupid. Your brain is trying to protect you because Gotham taught it too much weird information.”

Despite everything, you laugh. A tiny, broken sound.

Kon smiles softly. “There you are.”

You press your face into his shirt.

He holds you until your breathing slows.

Then, very quietly, he says, “Was it one of the old things?”

You nod.

“Do you want to tell me?”

A pause.

Then: “Not yet.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not going to ask?”

“Not yet means not yet.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

That matters more than he knows. Or maybe he does know. Kon has had so much of his life defined by other people deciding what he is ready for. What he is made for. What he owes. What he should become.

He will never do that to you.

If you say not yet, he respects it. If you say stop, he stops. If you say stay, he stays like it is the easiest thing in the world.

Eventually, you tell him pieces.

That’s how it happens.

Not one big tragic monologue.

Pieces.

You tell him about the time the Narrows flooded and emergency services took too long.

You tell him about learning which adults in your building were safe.

You tell him about city-wide curfews.

You tell him about the smell of smoke after rogue attacks.

You tell him about keeping your shoes by the bed in case you had to run.

That one ruins him.

He tries not to show it too much.

Fails.

“You kept your shoes by the bed?”

“Yeah.”

“How old were you?”

You shrug.

Kon closes his eyes. “I hate that question now.”

“What question?”

“How old were you. Because the answer is always too young.”

You go quiet.

He looks at you. “You were always too young.”

It hits like a bell.

Clean. Brutal. True.

You whisper, “Everyone was.”

Kon’s face hardens, not at you but for you. “Then everyone was too young.”

And that’s Kon.

He refuses the Gotham logic. He refuses the scale where pain only matters if it was the worst version possible. He refuses the idea that survival makes it okay.

You half expect him to get used to it, eventually.

He doesn’t.

He learns how to respond better, but he never becomes numb.

That is strangely healing.

Every time you say something terrible, part of him still reacts like, What the hell? And oddly, that helps.

Because it reminds you that it was terrible. That Gotham was terrible. That maybe the things you filed under “normal” were never normal at all.

Kon becomes a mirror that doesn’t distort.

Not pitying. Not horrified by you.

Horrified for you.

And he loves you loudly enough that you slowly start believing some of it.

He tells you, “You’re allowed to hate what happened.”

He tells you, “You’re allowed to miss parts of Gotham and still hate it.”

He tells you, “You’re allowed to be scared.”

He tells you, “You don’t have to be chill about your own trauma to make me comfortable.”

That last one comes after you apologise for “dumping too much” on him.

Kon looks genuinely offended. “You’re not dumping.”

“I kind of am.”

“No. You’re telling me your life.”

You look down.

He ducks his head to catch your eyes. “I want to know your life.”

“You say that now.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. That’s why it counts.”

Kon’s relationship with Tim also shifts because of you.

Not badly. Just… deeper.

He starts understanding that Tim’s Gotham stories were also bad, even if Tim frames them like “mildly inconvenient origin lore.”

But now Kon can see the layers.

Tim had privilege, yes. Tim had neglect, yes. Tim had resources, yes.

Tim was still a kid in Gotham.

Kon gets softer with him too.

He notices when Tim minimises things. He calls him out more gently.

Tim says, “It was fine.”

Kon says, “Actual fine or Gotham fine?”

Tim freezes.

Then glares. “Did they teach you that?”

Kon smiles. “Maybe.”

Tim mutters, “Traitor.”

But he answers.

“Gotham fine.”

Kon nods. “Yeah. Thought so.”

You have accidentally made Kon emotionally smarter about the entire Bat ecosystem.

Terrifying. Beautiful. 

He still loses it when you and Tim compare experiences.

You: “Our lockdown room had emergency crackers.” Tim: “Ours had bottled water and first-aid kits.” Kon: “Why are you both saying this like you went to rival summer camps?” You: “Did yours have gas masks?” Tim: “Only after the second Scarecrow incident.” Kon: “THE SECOND?” Tim: “Different school.” Kon stands up. “I need air.” You say, “We’re outside.” “I need different air.”

He flies straight up for thirty seconds, comes back, and says, “Okay. Continue. I’m emotionally prepared.”

He is not.

But he tries. That’s what makes him good for you.

Kon tries. Messily. Loudly. With his whole chest and zero chill.

He does not always get it right. Sometimes he overreacts. Sometimes he looks too sad and you feel exposed. Sometimes he asks a question too quickly and then immediately apologises.

But he learns. He listens. He lets you correct him. He never makes his discomfort bigger than your history.

And when he does get overwhelmed, he tells you honestly.

Not in a way that blames you.

He’ll say, “I’m not upset with you. I’m upset because I love you and I wish none of that happened.”

That is hard to argue with.

So you stop trying.

Eventually, you start telling him things before they slip out.

Not always. Not everything.

But sometimes.

One night, you say, “I want to tell you something, but I don’t want you to make the sad face.”

Kon immediately rearranges his face into something absurdly blank. “This face?”

You laugh. “That’s worse.”

He tries another expression. “This?”

“Now you look constipated.”

“I’m doing my best.”

You’re laughing before you even start.

And somehow, that makes it easier.

You tell him about a bad memory.

He listens. His eyes get sad anyway, because of course they do. But he also smiles when you need him to. He holds your hand.

He says, “Thank you for telling me.”

Not I’m sorry first. Not that’s awful first.

Thank you. Like your trust is a gift.

Because to him, it is.

Kon’s love becomes a place where Gotham logic slowly loses power.

In Gotham, fear was practical. With Kon, fear is something you can name.

In Gotham, silence meant danger. With Kon, silence can mean his heartbeat under your ear.

In Gotham, looking up meant checking rooftops. With Kon, looking up means sky.

In Gotham, “fine” meant alive. With Kon, fine starts meaning fine.

Actually fine.

Not perfect. Not magically healed. But warm. Safe. Loved.

There is one moment that seals it.

You’re with Kon and Tim, walking through a city that is not Gotham. There’s a street performer nearby making balloon animals. A kid laughs. Someone drops something metal behind you.

You flinch.

Not badly. But enough.

Kon notices. Tim notices too.

For a second, you brace for the usual embarrassment.

But Kon just shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours.

Tim, very casually, steps to your other side.

Neither of them makes a scene. Neither of them asks if you’re okay in that heavy public voice.

Kon just says, “Hey, I think there’s a bakery down the block.”

Tim says, “There is. Good reviews.”

You look between them.

Kon smiles. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing. It is being understood without being exposed. It is Gotham kids and almost-Gotham kids and clone boys with too much heart making a tiny protective formation on a sunny street.

It is ridiculous. It is sweet. It is yours.

Later, Kon asks, “Was that okay? Back there?”

You nod. “Yeah. It was.”

He looks relieved.

Then you add, “You and Tim flanked me like bodyguards.”

Kon grins. “We looked cool.”

“You looked obvious.”

“Cool and obvious.”

“You looked like emotionally constipated meerkats.”

Kon gasps. “I am telling Tim you said that.”

“Please do.”

He does.

Tim just sighs and says, “I’ve been called worse.”

Kon points at him. “Gotham fine.”

Tim groans.

You laugh. And Kon watches you laugh with this soft, impossible look on his face.

Because he knows now. He knows Gotham hurt you. He knows you might always carry pieces of it. He knows there are stories you haven’t told him yet. He knows some jokes are shields. He knows some silences are old alarms.

But he also knows Gotham did not get the final word.

Because you are here. With him. Laughing. Letting yourself be loved by someone who once thought Tim Drake was the baseline for Gotham trauma and then met you and immediately had to mentally redesign the whole scale.

Kon still thinks Tim’s childhood was bad. He thinks yours was bad too. He thinks comparing them is useless unless the comparison helps someone understand where the wounds are.

Mostly, he thinks both of you deserved better.

But you are the one he gets to hold at night.

You are the one who curls into his chest and slowly, slowly stops listening for sirens. You are the one who taught him that some people survive haunted cities and still become kind.

And Kon? Kon loves you like sunlight with a heartbeat.

Warm. Earnest. A little blinding.

Always reaching for you. Always reminding you, with every touch and every terrible joke and every flight into open sky: You got out. You’re here.

And this time, nothing is coming through the window.

[mamushidc]

I dont know if you do Kon el / conner stuff as well so if you don't just don't write him and leave him out 🫶

What if kon and tim are in a relationship with reader. Who isn't a hero but owns a flat on a top floor, now imagen kon and tim comming back from patrol or hero stuff and just all meeting up on the top of the roof eating burgers and kon and tim eagerly explaining what happend to them today. Reader who is a tired and confused college student who doesn't actually know about other villains or heros that well ( to many deadlines to keep up) just nodding along giving occasional mhm's and kisses to the check .

Quite long so I am sorry!!!

Pairing: Tim Drake x Kon-el x gn!reader Synopsis: Five Guys, a Gotham rooftop, and two superhero boyfriends who can't wait to tell you about their latest mission. Midterms can wait. Content: fluff, gn reader, newly dating Tim x Kon x Reader, reader knows about their superhero stuff

a/n kon...you mean the world to me. i miss when you were the child star with the leather jacket...

They got Five Guys this time.

Sweet. Your boyfriends are spared another night of waking you up during midterms.

They knew better, and it was too cold.

It's a cool night in October. Damn near freezing if you think too hard about it, and you won't, because you're still mentally lagging behind. You're extremely tired but also a little happy to see them.

You always worry about them before they go on patrol…or a mission or something? You're not quite sure, but you know they're risking their lives for the world.

That just made them your world.

"Fries?" Kon asks, holding up his box of fries for you to share. You nod and take one with no hesitation.

How sweet.

Kon deserves the biggest, wettest kiss for that.

So you give him one right on the cheek.

You watch the blush settle on his face as he smiles at you.

"What about me? No fries for me?" Tim teases and tries to reach over you to grab a fry too, but Kon has already leaned away in protest.

"Nope. We are not doing this today, boy wonder! You told me you and y/n were good on fries. I was being nice enough to let our tiny partner have some of mine." He finishes with a bite of his burger.

Tiny partner? You're literally taller than Tim.

You could protest, but instead, you kick your feet over the edge of the roof.

All three of you had decided a while ago on the rooftop overlooking the Gotham River. This has now been your "Babe! We just got back from kicking ass and want to hang out with you" spot since the three of you started dating. If you look close enough, you can see New York, which is nice... sometimes. When you don't catch the occasional fire or explosion that has you worried for the people that live there...as a Gothamite.

"Now that we're settled, we have GOT to tell you about the mission today. Bart ate SHIT." Kon giggles at the memory, "It was fucking awesome."

Tim sighs and leans back on one hand, the other holding his double cheeseburger, "You make it sound amusing when it was actually pretty nerve-wracking. He could have gotten badly hurt."

Kon nods and waves Tim away, "Yeah, yeah, but he didn't because he recovers fast. It's why I look up to him."

You snicker and lean your head on Tim's shoulder. "Kon looks up to Bart."

"How sweet." Tim finishes with a mischievous glint in his eyes that Kon catches and rolls his own eyes at.

"Fine. Why don't you recap then, since Bart eating shit wasn't spectacular enough to retell."

"Fine." Tim sighs long and hard like the task is too daunting to bear, but the smile that plays on his lips says otherwise, "Let's start from when we found the evil lair underneath the Whole Foods."

You hum at that.

Evil lair. Whole Foods.

Evil Whole Foods.

Your foggy mind conjures up an image of a Whole Foods with gargoyles, vampires, and zombies in it.

Maybe even tiny devils working at the checkout.

Okay...it just sounded like a Gotham supermarket.

You look up at Tim as he talks and sneak a quick kiss on his cheek. He looks pretty cute as he calmly explains how he got thrown four feet in the air by a killer robot.

You look over at Kon and see him looking at Tim the same way you are - all heart-eyed and cheesing. You catch the tail end of him jumping in to add, "And the evil mastermind thought he could best Cassie, but she is like the smartest person I know. She showed his ass with his dumb riddle and even dumber escape plan."

Tim hums and continues on from there.

You feel so content and warm with them there.

Maybe your textbooks and notes could wait a few more hours.

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED

[sinounluheart]

I yearn for tim drake x kon el x male reader fics

And youre amazing so I am asking you this

Lowkey Autistic reader that always stays at tims place, but suddenly collage is asking for to much work so they decide to go back to their place, which is jsut a small ass flat. We talking kitchen living room and bedroom is one room if there is even room for a couch. Que kon and tim not even knowing their boyfriend even had a own flat ??? And them finally seeing the flat.... and maybe using the one single bed reader has in that small flat for things other then sleeping...🕺

Bye Bye...☹️

Warnings: AMAB male reader, handjob, established relationships. No use of y/n.

Note: I am not autistic, so I didn't go too much into detail, but it's implied. I think Tim and Kon should throw each other around more.

!!------------------------------------!!

Your boyfriends are busy people; if it's not one thing, it's another. From Wayne Enterprise to LexCorp Incorporated, Gotham to Metropolis, Titans Tower and back again, you've learned that your best shot at consistently seeing them is simply crashing at Tim's. His apartment is huge, a suite, really. Goes to show what having old money on both sides can do for a guy. It fits the three of you rather nicely.

As time goes on, however, and the sun blares high, you find yourself staying over more often than not. Things are organized by your design and are likewise maintained by your preference. Kon thinks it's kind of a pain to not fling everything everywhere, but he gets it. Tim...just don't touch his stuff, and he doesn't care what you do with it. Perfect for you.

Summer break doesn't last forever, though, and for your peace of mind, you pack your bags and head back home. "You have your own place? Seriously? Why is this the first I'm hearing about it?" Kon will scoff, earnestly a little hurt at the notion. "Rob, did you know about this?"

"Of course I did."

"Of course you did." Kon sighs, rubbing his temple. "Let's all keep secrets from Kon-El; it's everyone's favorite game." He shrugs his shimmering irritation off, instead choosing to help you with your bags. Unlike someone glued to his phone on the couch. "Let's see it then."

Compared to Tim's...your flat is small, tiny, really. Teeny tiny. You seem comfortable enough? It's a place in Gotham, at least; those are few and far between. Expensive too; Kon wonders why you bother with it to begin with. Tim makes it work; maybe it's in the fine print of the contract to be a bat, being able to squeeze into small places and all. Kon...worries he'll knock something over by just turning around.

Somehow, the three of you squeeze into your twin-sized bed that's pushed into the far corner. Kons curled around where your head normally lies like a mother bird protecting her babies from falling out of the nest. His massive bicep props him up, leather jacket having long been peeled off and laid aside. You're in the middle, scrolling, while Tim's resting his chin on your knee, curled up at your feet, doing the same.

"It's so hot." The man behind you sighs, casually resting his palm alongside your breastbone. His stub for nails drum against the fabric of your shirt. Seeking, picking, heavy. "You wanna take this off, huh, babe?"

"Oh yeah, real smooth." Tim snorts, not even bothering to glance up.

"Always so prickly." Kon scoffs, being more obvious in how he fondles you. "Come on, don't you wanna fool around in a new place?"

"New to you."

"What, you've been here before then?" Kon purses his lips into a pout.

"Sure," Tim shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Now it's your turn to frown. No way, he's never been invited. Then again, it's Tim. Practically the last person on earth to respect things like boundaries and social norms.

“Ignore him, baby; let me love on you instead.” Kon huffs, gently knuckling your jaw into facing hun. His lips are always chapped, even with the taste of cherry chapstick always coating them. Even clones aren’t perfect. Go figure someone obsessed with power would overlook something so small.

You don’t dwell on that, though, allowing Kon to work you up into the mood. Wordlessly, he places your phone off to the side, dipping further down to let your hands slide into his hair. Not gelled, for once. “Mh…s’gonna be weird havin’ you somewhere else.” He murmurs down the side of your neck.

“Doors always open if you change your mind.” Tim hums, pretending to not watch the two of you locking lips. He’s easily satisfied by just that, but it seems the resident voyeur wants in on the action tonight. He tucks his own device between his thighs before working your pants down just enough to slip your cock out. Quickly getting to work.

Against your lips, Kon scoffs, but enjoys the show regardless. Continuing to palm here and there while you tug this way and that at your leisure. Tim's mouth is hot and lazy around your cock, he's having fun dragging his tongue back and forth against it.

"Consider this a goodbye gift, okay?"

[distantloreoath]

Coukd you write a scene of how the kusuriuris (seperate) met reader? Of that's ok ofc,

Its my first time requesting soo , anyway. Love your fics!

IM GLAD YOU ENJOED THEM!!!

thanks for the req!!

New journey, new faces

He doesn't know what was about you. You were a simple human like the ones he came across all eh time. How did you manage to get in his head??

Gn reader!! The meetings aren't stable so they most likely won't be mentioned in other fics-

Ri

He probably like just appeared in the building you lived in kne day, talking about mononokes and side eyeing everyone on sight.

Though his eyes on you lingered a moment too long. Just a blink of an eye more...

The next few days. You can be sure this man cooked everyone on the building left and right. And not even with his words. Dude does it with his eyes.

But when he comes to you... favoritism plays. Words kinder, eyes lingering a bit too much

He knows how to flirtatious, how to charm someone so he probably did his shenanigans and you two were mostly side by side the whole time before mononoke was gone.

That mononoke couldn't even get close to you lol, ri was always there

Might kiss your hand like a gentleman again if it weren't for the old lady screaming "inappropriate!!" To his ear

Kon

Ngl i think he might kicked down your door when you two first met.

IN HIS DEFENCE he was chasing a mononoke!!! He didn't know he would fell to heaven~

He was serious and glaring around for a second, and the next when his eyes landed on you, he was like a proper gentleman, charming smile, putting up on his best flirts before he waved back at you right before he was back to running after the mononoke

He comes back to apologise later, and manages to get you two talking for HOURS.

He is very respectable though, looking genuinely curious and enthusiastic when you speak. He is smiling genuinely lol

He especially checks up on where you are everytime he senses the mononoke. Sending it away with no fail everytime it's too close for comfort.

You can't prove it but there's a tail wagging behind him whenever you say he could stay to talk

Trust me on this... both of them does little dances to offer you being their mate– you don't understand it but both of them so proud of their little declaration before going on about their day like nothing happened!

Main post

[bat1nsignia]

first impressions (requested!) conner kent x villain!reader

mentions: she/her, conner still getting used to being superboy, caught reader stealing things, batman catwoman dynamic ish?? teeeeenSIONNNN, some teasing, trust me just read it (i read this wrong and i thought it said conner as superman so ive been writing superman!conner in my polls all this time bye 😭 dw i didnt write it like that) 🎧 -- toxic by britney spears

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first missions always brought out jitters to new and upcoming heroes. and even if conner’s dna was half kryptonian, it wasn’t strong enough to hide his nervousness. no, this wasn’t his first mission but yes, he was still relatively new to the field he wants to be seen not as a clone of lex luthor and superman or a project cadmus experiment, but more of him— conner kent, kon el, superboy— which was why he accepted clark’s invitation to do good

and after getting info from the justice league that you were on the loose and stealing a rare object, conner arrived at the crime scene as quick as he could. and the first thing he notices about you is that you’re not running or nervous from his arrival, unlike the few villains he’s faced before. you weren’t scared, not at all. in fact, you were leaning on a pillar in the museum you were stealing from, watching him like this was mildly interesting entertainment with a smirk on your lips. focus, kon. “okay” conner straightened up, trying to remember how superman stands— broad shoulder, calm face, definitely less ‘hands-on-hips-like-an-idiot’ — “im gonna need you to drop the, uh--glowy thing.” he pointed at your stolen item in his hands you glance at the pulsing device in your hand before back at him with an eyebrow slightly raised. “wow” you said, unimpressed by how he apprehended you. “strong opening, do you rehearse these? or..” “no” “shame, it shows” conner exhales through his nose, focusing on why he was here. “look” he tried again, pointing at you like that’ll help. “you’re stealing something and im here to stop you. that’s how it works” it sounded like he was reminding himself instead of reminding you you just tilted your head from his words. “is it?” you spoke. and instead of attacking, you just step closer and circle him around— not afraid, not even cautious, just curious. “you’re new” your eyes slowly go up and down, taking his appearance in. you didn’t recognize him from the other kryptonians you’ve faced before— only two, including superman and supergirl before conner could even say anything, you just hummed and stepped in front of him again, but close this time— too close for someone he was supposed to be arresting. “let me guess” you continued. “just met superman, big exceptions, zero instructions, and now you’re out here playing hero because… what? feels right?” “you profiling me right now?” “am i wrong?” conner opened his mouth but closed it as he muttered a “..no” under his breath. and that made you grin like you’ve just won something. “cute” you purred, and that made conner’s brain short circuit for half a second, his face slightly getting flustered “im not— im not cute” “you landed in a three point pose and told me to drop ‘the glowy thing down.’ you’re adorable.” “i am literally trying to take you down” “mhm”

you take another step forward, so close that if conner breathes in, he could catch the faint scent of something sharp and electric. his eyes—confused and panicked— under his shades were meeting with yours — amused, curious and almost seductive— as he basically was holding his breath “you gonna do it?” you broke the silence as you asked softly. “take me down?” and instead of an answer, conner just stares at you. i mean, he should grab you. that’s what superman would do, right? swift, clean and decisive “you’re making this weird” “you made it weird when you didn’t tackle me immediately” “i was assessing the situation” “you were staring” “i was not—" but conner paused his words when you gave him an all knowing eyebrow raise, making him blink twice. “… okay, maybe a little” he admitted. “but that’s because you’re—“ he stopped himself, now realizing that he was arguing with a villain instead of stopping them. you just leaned in, clearly enjoying this as a smirk formed on your lips. “im what?” you repeated his words, as if waiting for him to say it “you’re not acting like a villain” “and you’re not acting like a hero” a moment of silence for the hard landing that your words brought. then, you smiled again— softer this time, but no less dangerous— as you leaned in and gently pushed his glasses more to the bridge of his nose. and even though you didn’t touch him, conner swore he felt a buzz of electricity in his skin your eyes go from his lips to his shades— where you presume are where his eyes were hiding— before speaking. “guess we’re both figuring things out” and before he could respond, you move fast. not an attack, just a quick step past him— close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest and for your voice to murmur right by his ear. “catch me next time, superboy” and just like that, you were gone. immediately, conner spun as he was scanning any area he saw— rooftops alleys, skylines— nothing. you vanished with no trace left behind, per usual. “…i could’ve caught her” he murmured to himself, a ltttle breathless, a little annoyed, but a lot unsure. no, he couldn’t. and even if he did, you’d escape from his grasp just like you did now. safe to say you gave superboy a first impression he’ll never forget

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masterlist!

(the ending is bogus ik bear with me + no pt 2)

main taglist: @sweetpeasosweet @lcvgty-4929 @fratbrochrisgf @wrldbloom @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @champagnesbiggestproblem @edawgz @hottubnda @onlyfeng @lucky-clover13 @tragicfiend @nyx-of-night @missmontiopath @bloomfaery @booksrcool @jaydennicole @gglouise23 @sicklyhana @klauvy @pocket-fish0 @romancedawn333 @sashadonat @uxavity @batslilwhore @ohsheetcake @boo-123456 @ydivine @the-star-rover @slutfordpr @vradalinerv @arfemiz @freakkay09 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hernersworld @starrydustedwinter @inejskywalker @seeker2028 @ksiazkowaxx-blog @kh4dij7 @vanillakirstein @lillie1320 (tags are open)

conner kent taglist: @doublebassallie @naomithenerdgirl @chromatictowervenom (tags are open)

©bat1nsignia— please do not steal, repost, translate or reuse my work.

[witherby]

LW first crush??? Or first time being crushed on???

👉👈

I love it when the hive mind comes together 🤝

Listen, I took the general concept of what you guys are asking for and made this. It's 4100+ words. Don't look at me 🙈

Littlest Wayne: Piety

Masterlist is Here!

"True piety hath in it nothing weak, nothing sad, nothing constrained. It enlarges the heart; it is simple, free, and attractive." - Francois Fenelon

Growing up in a family of rich people moonlighting as vigilantes, you're more than used to chaos. Secret-keeping, combat training, socializing with the Gotham Elite, and helping your grandfather patch up one of your brothers or parents after patrol are some of the routine shenanigans you have to deal with on a regular basis, and you aren't even a vigilante yourself.

School is supposed to be your little slice of normalcy, where you can decompress as a civilian amongst other civilians. Just go to class, talk to your friends, and maybe participate in an extracurricular if you want! That's it! Nice and simple! You love it when things are nice and simple!

So the fact that a gang of arsonists are currently holding your class hostage during a field trip to Metropolis Conservatory and threatening to burn down everything and everyone inside, is really fucking annoying you!!

"Hi, dad," you mumble into your backup cellphone. The arsonists took everyone's phones when they raided the conservatory, but Bruce made you keep two on hand for this exact scenario. "Don't freak out. There's a —"

"I know." He sounds freaked out. You barely suppress a sigh. "It's on the news. Clark is off-world with Hal or you'd be safe by now. ETA is twenty minutes for me, and 17 for Jason. Are you hurt?"

"No," you whisper, "they haven't done anything yet. I'm in the Butterfly Garden with my —"

You quiet down when one of the men turns and makes eye contact with you. You hunch over and press your hands against your head as though frightened, but you're trying to keep your cellphone concealed.

Bruce calls your name, audibly stressed. You can hear his car picking up speed on the highway. You click your tongue to reassure him you're fine. When the man looks away again, you relax a bit.

"There's at least five of them," you whisper as softly as possible. "Probably more. The lighting isn't bright or dim enough to cast shadows in here."

Overcast days are your biggest pet peeve. The level of darkness required to manipulate shadows is lax, but for some reason, the very rare occasions in which a space is simultaneously too light and too dark make it impossible to use your ability. You can see shadows being cast on the floor. You can feel them, even. But they aren't solid enough to control. It's like trying to stop water from slipping through your fingers; it works for a minute until you inevitably watch it seep through the spaces in between.

"No talking!" One of the men barks. You exhale slowly and keep still.

"You're gonna be fine. Stay calm and do everything they ask of you," Bruce says. "I'm entering the city now, and Jason is thirteen minutes out. We'll be there as soon as possible."

You click your tongue again, then hang up and slip the phone up your jacket sleeve. You hug your waist and draw your knees up, scowling at the dirt underneath you like it's personally responsible for what's going on right now.

A dark hand reaches over to clutch your arm. You glance to your right to spot Chiffon, your best friend, frowning worriedly at you.

"You okay?" She mouths. You nod and place your hand over hers, giving it a quick squeeze.

"Are you?" You mouth back. She nods as well. She doesn't seem frightened so much as irritated. Chiffon told you on the bus ride over that she was wearing all new clothes for the field trip, and now the two of you are sitting on the ground with your other classmates so it's likely dirtying them up.

"Are ya done yet!? How long does it take to swap out a fucking flag..." One of the arsonists complains into a radio on his hip. "I'm gettin' itchy, man. I don't even care about the message anymore; I need to feel the heat. I need to see somethin' burn before some dumbass Meta shows up and ruins the fun. I'm about to just strike my matchbook!"

Oh, shit. That was good news and bad news. Good, because fire casts shadows you can manipulate. Bad, because the arsonists also have guns, and you might not be able to subdue them all before one gets a lucky shot off. You have a soft, squishy body and no kevlar to protect it right now, which your family routinely complains about every time you leave the house. The vindication on their faces after this is gonna suck hard.

"The flag's up!" The radio crackles. You and your classmates tense up. "Light this joint!"

The three arsonists in the butterfly room with you pick up the cans at their feet and start pouring the contents out. The sharp smell of gasoline hits your nose and your classmates start complaining and shouting at them to stop.

"You're not actually doing this, right!?"

"Oh my god...oh my god!"

"Hey! Burn down whatever building you want, but let us out first you psychos!!"

"I was gonna skip school today. I wish I had!"

"I don't wanna die!!"

One of the men takes out a gun and fires a round into the ceiling. Colors whip around you as the butterflies all take off in a flurry. There's some brief shrieking and screaming, which makes you cover your ears, but when he starts aiming at your classmates, everybody gets quiet real fast, nothing but quick breathing and wingbeats disturbing the peace.

"Good," he sneers. "Listen here, you little squealers: it's your very unlucky day today. We staked out this spot until we knew Superman wouldn't be here t'save the day, and that just so happened to coincide with your stupid field trip. We're sendin' a message to that alien freak to stop meddling in human affairs, and you all get the honor of contributing to that message."

"Who's ready to be martyrs!!" The second one shouts, splashing gasoline in yours and your classmates' direction.

You gasp and scramble to your feet when your arm and shoulder gets splashed. You tug Chiffon up and usher her behind you, scowling. Your temper flares, made worse by your current inability to stop any of this from happening, and despite your father's warnings you begin lashing out.

"That doesn't make any sense, dumbass!" You snap.

"The fuck'd you say?" The man growls. Your pulse jackknifes, heart hammering wildly in your chest, but you don't falter. "I asked you a question!!"

"Martyrs are killed for supporting a cause, not objecting to it. None of us want to be part of this! We're just here for a stupid field trip!"

Chiffon grips your wrist painfully tight, hissing at you to be quiet. You know you should listen to her, but if help doesn't come fast enough and you die, you're at least gonna die having fought back. You're gonna die having tried.

"Did I ask what you wanted, kid?" The man says, stepping so close that you feel like the gas fumes coming from his jerrican are getting you high. "Hmm? Did any of us say "oh, raise your hands if you don't wanna be hostages?" No, we didn't."

"Did any of you take a second to think "oh, maybe I don't wanna be child murderers today?" No, you didn't."

The arsonist snorts.

"I dunno. Sounds to me like you wanna be the kindling."

He reaches out and grabs your arm with more force than you anticipate, yanking you away from your group. You yelp in pain, instinctively lifting your fist to strike him in the neck. He chokes and coughs as you brutalize his Adams apple, but doesn't let go of your arm. Instead, he uses the hand holding the gas can to strike you back. It connects with your head, and when you blink, you're suddenly lying on the floor and your temple is throbbing.

Aw fuck, you think, vision blurred. It's so hard to tell up from down right now. You feel your clothes getting splashed with more gasoline. You hear your schoolmates screaming and shouting in terror for the inevitable. You see an indecipherable ocean of colors dancing around you, butterflies trying in vain to escape the fate you're all about to share. You hear someone strike a match.

Oh, please don't make my parents identify the remains. Please don't do that to them.

You close your eyes and try to steady the trembling in your limbs, hoping the pain doesn't last long.

The screaming reaches a crescendo, causing a sharp ringing in your ears. You flinch and press your hands to your head, just barely stifling a sob. There's a loud, crashing sound, and gunfire all around you. The ground reverberates when people start running, bolting in all directions, and you're unable to make yourself look at what's going on.

Heat licks at your side. The fire is spreading and the crackling drives a spike through your heart. You are deathly afraid. You want your parents. You want your brothers. You want your grandpa.

Something hits the ground beside you, right as you feel your sleeve catch fire, and you yelp when a pair of hands start to pat it out before it can spread.

"Hey, hey! It's okay! It's fine, look at me, you're okay!"

Relief makes your stiff limbs slacken, and you crack an eye open to find a stranger staring down at you. It's not your father, it's not Jason, and it's not one of your classmates.

It's...a boy wearing a Superman suit, but with a black, leather jacket thrown on top of it. He's looking at you with the widest, brightest blue eyes you've ever seen. They seem to become impossibly wider when he locks onto your own.

He's very handsome, your brain musters in between all the panic. Shiny black hair that was buzzed underneath and long at the top, clear, tanned skin, and near-effeminate facial features are the most eye-catching bits you pick up on.

He doesn't seem to be phased by the fire crackling around you, but you cannot say the same. When you try to breathe in, the hot smoke fills your lungs and you start coughing painfully, grimacing.

The boy frowns — you realize belatedly he'd been grinning before — and shrugs his jacket off. He drapes it gently on top of your head to block out the flames and smoke, then gets an arm under your back and behind your knees to lift you up.

"Hold on a second!" He says, and then you're suddenly outside and being laid down on the grass. The jacket is removed and your breathing gets much easier now that you're in the open air. He kneels next to you again, checking on your arm. "You okay?"

You give him a jerky nod and a thumbs up. You don't recognize this Meta. Did uncle Clark have a kid and forget to tell anybody? It wouldn't be the first time, like when he got engaged to Lois a couple years back and realized he'd neglected to send out any wedding invitations.

This boy looks your age, though. How would Clark have avoided bringing him up for so many years, even in passing?

"Who are you?" You mumble, voice still slightly hoarse from the smoke inhalation. The conservatory is quickly being consumed by flames, if the steadily brightening orange and red in your periphery is anything to go by. You hear sirens quickly approaching in the distance, and wonder where the arsonists went. You wonder where your classmates are, too. Did everyone make it out?

The boy smiles at you again, wide and proud, and gestures to the symbol on his chest.

"I'm Superman. You and your school buddies are safe now, I promise."

"Oh," you say, and wonder if the hit to your head is affecting you worse than you thought, because you are definitely not looking at Superman.

--

When Conner opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Lex Luthor. He recognizes him immediately, instinctively, despite never having met before now.

"Can you hear me?" Lex asks. Conner nods his head. The motion is new. It feels practiced. The dichotomy is throwing him for a loop as he steps out of the capsule he'd spent weeks growing in. His eyes dart around the space, taking in the other staff members present in the lab. Some of their names and faces click together like scattered puzzle pieces in his mind, while others are strangers he holds no information about.

He knows these people. They've just been introduced this very second. He feels helpless. He feels his immense powers buzzing under his skin.

Lex is talking, and Conner listens. Conner is an experiment. Conner is the result of years of work and programming. Conner is a success in a long line of failures.

He would have had siblings if they'd survived. He wouldn't be alone in these warring sensations and feelings. He would've had someone to relate to.

Conner is a success, but he woke up early. Didn't age enough. Conner is less than an hour old, but he's physically a teenager. He is supposed to be older. He is supposed to be bigger. He needs to be better than Superman. He's a success, but there is more work to be done.

His brain is packed full of theoretical knowledge with no practice. He knows what he can do but not how to do it. How to fly. How to control his super strength. How to shoot lasers from his eyes. How to summon ice breath. How to block out the overwhelming inputs to his brand new senses.

Lex is talking, and Conner listens. He gets coached through handling himself and reigning in his power. It's clinical and professional. He practices in another part of the lab for days. He does not learn how to speak for a week. No one had noticed beforehand.

Superman got years to do this. Superman got to grow into his body, not have it be grown for him and his consciousness injected into it. Superman got to take his time to become great. Conner does not have that time. He's told he doesn't need it.

Conner succeeds, because he is the better Superman as he was made to be. He is praised for his quick adaptiveness and brilliant control. He wishes he knew what a hug felt like.

He's given a suit and has to learn how to put it on. He's got knowledge of what he is and what he can do and who he is supposed to be, but they did not think to implant in him the knowledge of dressing or hygiene or socialization. He's got all the skills of a person with none of the experience. He's an egg shell walking on egg shells.

Lex is talking, and Conner listens. He's told that he is ready for action. Superman is not around to stop a crisis from occurring right now, so he must take charge and show Metropolis that a new hero has emerged. One that is reliable and mighty and belongs to this planet.

Conner is a hero. He is reliable and mighty and belongs to this planet.

"Make me proud, son," Lex Luthor tells him, flashing his teeth in a wide smile as he pats Conner's shoulder.

Conner grins back. He will not disappoint. He was made to do this. He is Superman. A better Superman. He is Metropolis' hero.

He knows the way to the Metropolis Conservatory, despite never having been there before. The layout of the city is implanted in his mind. He knows it like the back of his hand.

Nevermind that he's only known the back of his hand for all of three weeks.

He does not fly as quickly to the Conservatory as he's capable. The sensation of wind against his face is so new it stuns him in the air for a minute. The warmth of the sun against his body is so comforting that he learns how to cry in that same, stunned minute. The speed at which he flies dries any tears he might shed, and the excitement of getting to help save his city prevents an overload.

He sees the defaced American flag as he approaches, turned upside down and half-burnt, and the anti-alien flag hanging proudly right above it. He uses x-ray vision to spot the ten arsonists scattered amongst the Conservatory. He sees the class of students corralled into the butterfly garden, with one brave and impulsive soul daring to take a stand.

He knows he's impervious to flames, which gives him the confidence to swoop in and rescue everyone trapped inside the building. Only the three arsonists holding the students hostage need any medical attention ("Grip strength, Conner, we've been over this. You need to work on your grip strength!") due to how roughly he'd pulled them out of there. The rest, he's able to collect and deposit in a little pile of bodies, taking the rope off of the flag pole to tie them all up together.

Then he goes back for the civilians. The building is quickly evacuated and everybody moved to the large lawn behind the conservatory. He leaves the building to burn — he can hear firetruck sirens going off in the distance, piercing his ears and making his breathing quicken. He could use more practice tuning out the overwhelming sounds of everyday life. He will ask Lex to help him hone the skill.

There is one more civilian to rescue. He can see minor injuries on their body he doesn't want to exacerbate. When he kneels next to them to pat out the fire, he is as gentle as he can physically be. They're trembling and shaking from fear, and he musters up the words to console them.

This will be the very first person he's spoken to outside of the lab. He cannot afford to feel shy, despite the novelty of the emotion.

"Hey, hey! It's okay! It's fine, look at me, you're okay!"

And they do. You do. You open your eyes and ensnare him with your gaze.

Something deep, very deep inside him, clicks together, and the world becomes quiet.

There is nothing else.

There is no one else.

The only thing he can see is you. The only thing he can hear is you. The only thing he can feel is you.

Conner's world shifts so fundamentally to accommodate you, it's like he's never known anything else.

He is not Metropolis' hero. He is your hero. He is your anything. He is your everything. All you need to do is ask it, and he'll make it happen. Conner cannot live the rest of his pitifully short life without you. He simply won't survive.

Your mouth opens to reply to him. He leans forward, beaming, eager to hear the sound of your voice like a dog to his master's key turning in the door.

You start coughing. The rest of his senses kick back online, and he remembers that you are in a burning building that nearly burned you with it. He can hear your lungs straining against the smokey air, and that won't do at all.

"Hold on a second!" He says, removing his jacket to cover your face and mouth from the worst of the fire. When Conner gets his arms around you to take you to safety, his whole body seems to zing where you make contact. You fit against him perfectly. He memorizes your weight and warmth as he flies out of the conservatory.

Out in the daylight, under the bright sky, you are somehow even more stunning. The sight of your eyes shining under the light when he uncovers your face sears itself into his memory. It's a fight against his every instinct to stop cradling you and just sit in the grass (and isn't it something, that he's never felt how soft grass is and doesn't care in comparison to your presence) and admire you.

"You okay?" He asks, instead of "Do you feel this, too? Do I create the same, soft weight in your chest like you have in mine? Do you feel like we belong to one another?"

You nod and give him a thumbs up. It's better than any praise Lex and the other lab assistants have ever given him. He memorizes the shape of your thumbprint at just a glance and wonders if Lex will give him a pen and paper later so he can draw it.

"Who are you?"

You're talking to him. You're talking to him. You asked him a question and you're talking to him. Every word crashes into his ears like waves against the shore, and he almost drowns in it.

There's a brief war in his mind. He wants to hear you say his name. He wants to know what the word sounds like on your lips. He also knows that this is his debut as the next superhero. He needs to leave a good impression. He needs you to like him. He grins and points to the sign of Hope on his chest, because he was made to be —

"I'm Superman. You and your school buddies are safe now, I promise."

He clocks your obvious confusion, but it doesn't hurt his feelings. He is, after all, claiming someone else's title. The Superman you know is not the best one for you. Lex taught him that. Conner just needs to prove that he deserves to take that name, that he is worthy of the same accolades and respect that the alien predecessor is getting.

After all, the alien isn't the one that saved the day today. Conner is.

"Let's get you to a medic, okay?" He says, offering his arms to you, palms up. You glance around, then nod, and he's got you cradled in his chest again.

The knowledge of what uniforms a first responder would wear is already embedded in his mind. It helps him locate the proper people to hand you off to when the cacophony of colorful clothing and swarming bodies threaten to overwhelm him. He can pick out police, who are busy untying and detaining the arsonists. He can pick out firemen, who are hooking up hoses to extinguish the roaring flames. He can pick out journalists, who seem eager to talk to him after what he's just done.

More people to talk to. More socializing to be done. He spares you one last glance, memorizing the exact shade of your eye color with a fond smile, then focuses up to finish the job. He's got to make Lex proud. He's got to let the city know that a new player's stepped onto the board. He hopes you'll watch his interview segment.

In the aftermath, when all is said and done and he returns to LexCorp to report to Luthor, he realizes he doesn't know your name.

Late in the evening, after going over everything he did right and wrong, after more training, after honing his body even further to become the better Superman, he lies in his cot and tunes into the world, instead of tuning it out.

He listens, and listens, and listens.

He catches it. Your voice, not in Metropolis but its sister-city beyond the water. Gotham, if his implanted memory serves.

You're talking to your family, who sound like they're dressed to leave somewhere while you remain behind. He listens to them exit your home, one by one. He listens to you walking around different textured rooms. Hardwood. Carpet. Linoleum. He listens to you climb into bed and open a book, turning the page approximately every minute and thirty-two seconds. He listens to the rhythm of your breathing and matches his own to follow. He listens to your heartbeat, strong and steady in your chest, because he saved your life today.

Conner inhales when you inhale. He exhales when you exhale. He repeats this action until you eventually bookmark your place and settle down to sleep, then matches his breathing to your new, sleeping pace. This continues for hours, that deep, instinctual part of him just barely sated by listening to you from so far away.

He needs to meet you again. Properly, as Conner and...

Conner frowns.

He has to learn your name.

The next morning, he asks Lex if Gotham needs a Superman, too.