annie

10 image limit is so annoying omg let me make my biannual slop content

The air feels a little thick after that night, under chandelier light, with champagne wafting in the air. And it's a strange thickness, a charged, musky and obscenely fond air, one that disconcerts you, leaves you feeling a little barer. Or maybe it's the weight of his arms, the ghost of his warmth lingering on you. You try to convince yourself, when you're alone and disparaging over the thought of his loss, over the realization of just how monochromatic your life was without the most colorful man alive.

Love is born in grief, sometimes, you find. You learnt that lesson the hard way when your parents died, when Bruce took you in and you fell into routine with a few other orphaned children, with baggage so heavy it'd kill anyone with less conviction. You hardly let anyone in, in true Bat fashion.

But then you did, and fate took him from you.

And now he's back and everything is still somehow worse. Because Conner Kent is a lot of things, but committal is not one of them. You almost want to crack his head open, but halfway on the way to hatred, you run into his pretty smile. Your Sun.

"You've got something on your face," Damian Wayne, of all people, says to Conner on a lazy Sunday night, and by lazy, a Sunday night spent trying to figure out the drug dealings that are circulating between Metropolis and Gotham. It's the typical bunch laundering it all, the fat and happy up top, and Conner had made a joke that the suspect kind of looks like Tim, and immediately shut his mouth when the previous Robin asked him 'How old are you?'

Kon raises a brow, and pats his cheek dumbly. "Do I?"

"Yeah, drool. Stop looking at my sister, you hormonal loser."

Oh. Okay.

He blinks, kind of thrown off and a little impressed by the wit of it. And it's true, though he hadn't really processed it, but he's been spaced out on the sight of you in an intense conversation with Tim, Barbara, and Dick, somewhere on the subject of narcotics, going over connections to Black Mask, the Penguin, any other major rogue in Gotham. You know, actually doing something.

It's not his fault though! You're gorgeous, and the flutter of your eyelashes evokes a similar flutter in his heart, and when you furrow your brows at your older brother, he's half tempted to come over there and smooth the wrinkle with his thumb. And yeah, that's certainly not fair of him, but he's been avoiding Tim too, so it's not just you! ...maybe he's been a dick.

"Wow. I wasn't staring at your sister, dude," he defends himself, though he's totally still looking. In truth, he'd withdrawn. Not defensively, proactively. Because he really loves you, and simultaneously understands that when he really wants something, it is almost guaranteed to fall through. He cares more about your preservation than he does about the fate of his weeping, wilting heart. No matter how tortured he feels when you laugh three states over.

The youngest Wayne just glares at him, and it makes him feel way too sheepish for a 14 year old. "Why are you even here?"

"Uh, why do you hate me? I thought you were like, best friends with Jon--"

"I mean why are you here, now," Damian corrects. He wishes he could say that he doesn't really know what he means, and he wishes he didn't feel so clocked when he continues, "Because as I see it, you have deserted her on the occasion that she needed you, gave her false hope, and now shown up again on some foolish mission that I'm aware and you're aware that you are not imperative to, just to ogle her. So, why are you really here?"

And he could admit to this fourteen year old with the mind of an Arabic poet that he's here because even in his attempts to push you away, you live in the corners and crooks of his mind, and when he wakes up in bed, he reaches for a pillow to pretend it's you, reminisces on that night he held you for real for the first time. He could tell him that he shouts like a canary in a coal mine for you, in every effort and gesticulation, in every breath of every day. He could tell him that he's terrified to hurt you with his super-enhanced hands and his adventure for comfort. He could tell him that he loves, but doesn't know if he believes in it.

But that's too philosophical for a Sunday night, and anyway, he's never been good with vulnerability.

So he just says, "Thought you could use a hand."

It's by a very cruel Stephanie Brown's design that you and Kon are stationed together on top of this raggedy, rural building in downtown Gotham three days later. Because she'd found a little loophole in Bruce's resistance, as she always does, and noted how the listening devices had each been damaged in an encounter with the Riddler, and it would just delay the course of events to replace them, so a Super's incredible ear would just be 'business efficient.' She's got her mind set on getting two of the most avoidant people ever together, and she's somehow gotten Dick, Duke, and Cass on her side. Barbara's leaning neutral, Jason and Tim would rather be latched to a crucifix and pelted with rocks than see you and Kon together, and Bruce might just kill himself if he has to witness it.

The possibility seems a little unrealistic, what with your current dynamic. He doesn't think you've said a word all night to him. He's trying to tell himself it's just that you really do love to completely focus when you're out here, but you'd joined in on the group flaming of Jason that Kon was not allowed to be privy to.

So he sits next to you, ducked behind crates, twiddling his thumbs. Hardly really listening to the group conducting the exchange. Besides, they're talking about the new Lorde album, not methamphetamine. He twiddles his thumb. Coughs. Clears his throat. You don't flinch.

Finally, with a sigh, he says, "C'mon, why are you ignoring me?" Even though he knows damn well why.

"I'm not, Superboy," you respond, scathingly, your gaze still fixated on a guard strapping a gun to his waistband, "I'm focused on the mission, because, you know, some of us have the brain capacity more advanced than a toddler."

And it stings but it's familiar. But from a different time. Different life.

He pauses a beat, and studies you. You reflect in his eye like a gorgeous watercolor painting. It's a testament to his growth in maturity that he doesn't snark something back, and instead, softens. Recognizes that it's defensive, hurt. Not vigorous.

"You sound like you did when we were sixteen," he comments, trying to keep the tenderness out of his tone.

"Well, maybe sixteen year old me had the right idea." Yeah, ouch.

"Don't be like that-" he tries, softly, but immediately regrets it when you pull back from your binoculars finally, and behind your mask he can almost see the sharpness of your eyes. Like a tense spring, coiled and ready.

"Don't be like what," You demand, with a still tone that sounds an awful lot like your father's and nothing quite like your harmonious cadence.

"Like..." he sighs, failing to articulate himself as he always does. The words pile up in his throat, but they never make it out, just like they'd sat in his stomach when you'd all but told him you loved him, and he could never tell you that he did too. He never grew out of the cowardice from his teens. "I don't know, distant. Weird." He cringes at his phrasing.

"Weird?" You cock your head incredulously.

"Not- weird, I meant like," he lets out a frustrated breath, "Nevermind, sorry," he resigns, and hates himself for it, because he's such a goddamn coward. He flinches away the moment something becomes real. He liked having Tana around because she made him feel like he was worth something, that someone could care about him, but she just wanted her story. He liked Knockout, very briefly, because she told him his body was an item of possession that many would yearn for, that it would guarantee him attention, but she was thousands of years old, and he was sixteen. No matter how dirty they made him feel, they validated him. But they never loved him, and he never loved them.

Not like he loves you, and you feel it. And that's what hurts so deeply, what makes the saccharine, honey soft liquid in your heart bubble and boil, burn your throat and make you cry. Somehow, he can always draw your walls down, even if he's being asshole.

"No, Superboy," you emphasize his name, making him feel stupid, "No, seriously, I want to know! How can I make your life easier for you?" You bite, and it's a little too watery for your liking, and you're embarrassed of it's waver, "Do you want me to throw rocks at your window and play fucking Bryan Adams for you, just so you can feel a little bit of that stupid, stupid gratification that you get out of girls and then leave them because they're not, or I'm not good enough for you? Do you want me to wait for you like some idiot bimbo doll, because god forbid you show up when I want you!" You sniffle a little bit, and look away, ashamed, because he's giving you those wide, hurt, eyes, and you can see the guilt in them and you want him to stew in it, but you also can't stand to hurt him.

"No, hey, that's like- way off base, you're not some... what would that even make you?" he stresses, quickly grabbing your bicep, forcing you to look at him. He doesn't know what to say for a beat, but he grasps at straws to figure it out

"I'm sorry, I know, I'm really, really goddamn sorry, I'm a dick, I'm an asshole, and I should really reevaluate my communication skills, but I need you to know this is not on you, okay?" he says, shifting his grip on your bicep to your cheeks, framing your face, and though he can't see behind the mask, he's memorized that tragic look in your eyes.

You don't look at him, feel like a child.

"I didn't mean to-" he sighs, "I didn't want to make you feel like that, sweetheart, you gotta believe me on that. I just..." he sighs, "Fuck, I'm so bad with this kind of stuff, I..." He chokes, and takes a deep breath. "Okay, I.. I really, really, care about you. Like, I dream about you, sometimes, if that's not creepy as shit. And- and that's never really... been a thing for me before, I guess? Because you know, you're- you're different. You're incredible. You're like, the coolest chic I've ever met, and you made and make every day better," he spills, nervously, "and I think I fell for you and it scared me shitless. I know it did when we were younger and I'd trip over myself trying to impress you, and- I knew I really loved you when I saw you at the gala, but there was just-" he runs a hand over his face.

"I guess I don't want you to... I don't want to start something nice with you and then mess it up, because, fuck, I don't... I don't think I could handle it." He confesses.

"But shit, I kind of feel like I've already lost you, and it's really scaring me, and I know it's my fault but-"

You cut him off. Not with a kiss, not with a hug or an equally romantic monologue, but a slap, and his heart drops to his ass, and he hardly feels it, but he's so sure that he's screwed it up and you hate him for life, and that hurts ten times more. But then you surge into his arms. "You're so stupid," you whisper, fragilely, feel his strong arms wrap around you, cling on just as tight as you'll let him. And his warmth floods into you, like a balm to the ache that started that day in the watchtower.

"I know, I'm a fuckin' idiot, sweetheart. Like, check for an extra chromosome stupid," he says, kissing the crown of your head gently. "I'm sorry. Never been more sorry."'

You nod, and lean in further into him, like you're trying to fuse, "God, you make everything so much more complicated than it has to be," you say, quietly, softly.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes again, rests his cheek on top of your head, "I'm so sorry."

You smile, roll your eyes, and kiss him. He sees sparks, and you taste the Sun.

Somewhere else in Gotham, Bruce feels a cold chill run down his spine.

holy buttcrack bro i need to get a job if this is how the writing gig is going

also two ppl asked to be tagged so yeah im afraid it has been a while but trust i was grinding to enhance my skill

@dreamzaremyrealityy

p2

Superboy does not chase. He attracts. He's a natural charmer that people, girls, mostly, are drawn to like gravity. Maybe that comes with being a genetic clone of Superman, but he'd like to give himself the credit for polishing himself off with a much better sense of style than Clark. You really won't catch Kon in plaid, or, god forbid, overalls.

He's pretty awesome, he's pretty attractive, he's pretty used to getting what he wants. That's why he just doesn't crush. Flustered is not a word he's very familiar with, his blunt, unashamed mannerisms and his cocky, charmed sense of humor.

And maybe, his aching need for anything validating of his violent insecurity plays a part in his instant pull toward anyone who bats their eyelashes at him, maybe quantity can substitute quality if he can believe enough people want him. That could definitely be an integral piece to the puzzle, but he'd prefer not to dwell on that, thanks but no thanks.

So when he wants, he wants hard, because it's new, and it's a thrill, and oh my god, if you don't want him back he might seriously become a threat to himself.

Unfortunately, he's fallen for someone who plays the game way better than he does.

A Wayne. His best friend's sister. His 'kind of father's' best friend's daughter. Yikes.

The first time he met you, you were both still very young, and he, admittedly, had still been entirely too arrogant and entirely too obviously desperate for attention. Some wouldn't hesitate to call him a dick. Young Justice. You'd dropped by for something simple with Tim, something Bat related that had apparently been private enough that the rest of the team had been banished to the couch, although Bart had his ear pressed to the door like a jittery puppy waiting for its owner. At least everyone else had had the decency to pretend they weren't trying to eavesdrop.

No one except Greta looked guilty though.

Mind you, he can hear the two of you the whole time due to, duh, super-hearing. Of course, you're writing to each other while you're right next to each other. At what point does superstition like that come with an OCD diagnosis.

He makes possibly the top 3 worst first impressions of his life, when you step out. In his defense, he wasn't the most informed at the time, as he got most of his news from Tana Moon, and he barely listened to her. And, well, she may have altered her sources.

Dangling on the arm of the couch, he lets out a surprised whistle, "Sheesh, Robin, who's the smoke show?" he had said, with that boyish, haughty grin, "Didn't know you were such a good lay!" he'd added with a laugh.

The look of disgust on both of your faces still haunts him.

So does the silence. And the immediate laughter Cissie and Cassie burst into.

"She's my sister." Tim bit back, and you hid a laugh behind your hand.

Safe to say, the team didn't let it go for a week. In fact, Bart had gone as far as to throwing it back at him every time he flirted with girls for about a month.

The first time you really met, you already hated him, and he was already annoyed with you. You had an attitude, you brooded, and you didn't have the saving grace of covering his ass like Tim did, because, as you had made explicitly clear to him 'you were not friends.' He'd thought that cute little laugh you'd given him would extend to basic tolerability, but apparently, you found him a lot more enjoyable as a concept. Not the first person to feel that way.

"Do you have to talk all the time?" You'd snapped, and he tried not to notice the way your lips curved into a pleasant, unpleasant scowl.

"Do you have to be grumpy all the time? Smile wouldn't kill ya, princess. Neither would some time in that coo-coo asylum bird boy's always talking about, because sheesh, do you need an attitude reset."

You seriously considered stealing Bruce's kryptonite and putting it in his Lucky Charms. Make sure he dies a colorful death. Literally.

"I swear to god-" you cut yourself off with a frustrated noise, and school your expression professionally, going back into stoic mode. With a heavy breath and a sassy hand on your hip, you seriously debate leaving him and completing the mission all by yourself, and ultimately come to the conclusion that, while you definitely kick ass, this may be out of your pay grade. Also, Tim would probably have an aneurysm.

"Just focus on the mission, and then we never have to talk to each other again, yeah, pretty boy?" you'd griped, and he flashes you that stupidly good-looking smile of his.

"You think I'm pretty?"

"I'm gonna shove kryptonite so far up your ass you see green for the rest of your life."

"Graphic. You spend a lot of time thinking about my ass, sweetheart?"

"Scratch that, I might just kill myself."

He feigns a gasp, "Don't do it. For me," he pleads, and then drops the caricature.

You suck in a sharp breath and shove him a little out of the way, to which he goes along with, overdramatically stumbling to the side as you trudge past him. The micro-expressions of annoyance and frustration on your face are just a little too attractive to him. He can't help it if he draws them out with a smile.

"Hey, don't walk away, it's good to talk about these things!"

"SHUT UP!"

The phrase soon becomes your most repeated of the day.

Conversation during your routine visits to the tower typically follow the same format, childish bickering, words fired like artillery, and unfortunately, a growing exhilarating feeling as the adrenaline pumps through you. Teenage hormones and spandex are both an excellent and disastrous mix.

The more unavoidable he becomes, the more smart-mouthed you become with each other. You seek each other out for entertainment, and what once were genuine scowls have become suppressed smiles.

He shows up in the medical facility when you get hurt, with a grin on his lips and a devotion to distract you. He strides in and acts like he doesn't see the red-rimmed puffiness of your eyes, maybe from a scolding, maybe from disappointment in yourself. He's been in both positions.

"Forgot how to dodge?" he smiles, and you look up, about ready to knock the intruder out. You relax when you realize it's him and hate yourself for doing so.

You huff, "Funny."

He invites himself in upon the implication of your relaxing shoulders, perches himself on the edge of your bed, "Seriously, did you even try?" he teases, mindful not to disturb the IV chord attached to your forearm.

"You're so god damn annoying."

"Am not."

"Are too, jackass."

"Woah, you kiss Batman with that mouth?"

You laugh despite your pride, and feel a little safer when the Sun's in the room with you.

You find you miss his flashiness when he gets a little dimmer, through Kryptonian drama, through his battle with self-worth, with the confusion and the pain of the several different women far too old to love a boy his age going through his head 24/7. A moral and personal dilemma, he was molding himself into a better, but deeply more despondent person.

He grew more reticent. Less dependent. He loathed himself for a bit, somewhat liked himself, and wondered if he were really anything other than a weapon.

He was engineered as Superboy, not Conner, not Kon el. Certainly not a Kent.

It stings. So you pull away. He lets you.

And then he dies.

The aftermath almost kills Tim, and it leaves you a little emptier than before. So much is going on, and everyone's lost a man who absorbs the Sun and turns it into shine, because Conner Kent is nothing in his core if not caring, if not inherently, a loving person.

Apparently he'd kill himself to prove it.

And the most tragic thing about it, was that you knew he had never had what he'd wanted before he'd died. The greatest tragedy of his character would always be that he'd wanted so bad for Superman to know him and simultaneously understood that the other man was utterly uninterested, and that his priority would remain his real, blood, not cloned, son.

You wept for a week, got back up, and stuffed your grief in your pocket.

You didn't fault Tim for going a little crazy, and if the TV in your room seemed to always be droning on with the Superboy cartoon in the background, then so be it.

When he sees you again for the first time since returning to the land of the living, his breath is swept away. He feels a lot older, you feel like a stranger. You're still so beautiful. He's still got that boyish grin.

It's at a gala, strangely. He and Tim have been reconnected for a few months now, and perhaps Bruce had felt obligated to grant him a favor for the dimensional bullshit, and by extension, granted Conner an opportunity to attend. And buy a suit, because apparently he didn't own one.

You're all fancied up, in a gorgeous garnet gown that hugs you like earthen silks, your hair pulled away from your face and revealing the same cheeks he'd watch flush a little when he'd piss you off so bad you'd go red. The same eyes he'd seen a little teary post-mission, and hadn't mentioned to anyone else, but silently offered his shoulder. The same hands you used to flick the back of his head with when he'd get crude.

And it hits him like a bullet then, what he'd denied for so long as a teenager who thought he had all the time in the world. It's intense and it's daunting, just how much he's missed that sweet composure of yours, how much he'd reveled in breaking it. How much he loved making you feel safe, and how he adored the way you looked at him like you saw the skin beneath the suit on days he didn't feel so super.

His grin softens to something more adoring.

"You clean up nice," he comments, as you hide a giddy smile behind the rim of a water-filled champagne flute, playing the character of spoiled rich girl, and pretty well at that.

"First time you've called me pretty without mentioning something about my ass," you tease, untruly. There's a buzzing in your legs, the excitement of an oncoming, forecast storm.

"Well now that you've thrown it out there..."

You giggle. He melts a little. "Don't worry, you're not the first one to notice. You've got competition with about every man over 60 in here. Tough luck."

"Seriously? I've gotta up my game."

"Never really were the best with ladies."

"'scuse you?"

You laugh. And he enthralls you again. You hang onto his words like they'll be his last, and you don't feel that ache of paranoia in your gut for once again, because he's here, and he's got your heart delicately cradled in his hand. You don't even notice the glances your siblings send you, and the actual shambles your father is in at the thought of having a super as a son in law.

And when Dick placates him with, 'hey, at least it's not a Lantern,' he almost disowns him.

By the time the night's ended, the spark is back between you two. There's a heavier weight to the night as it progresses, and there's a heavier weight on your heart the longer you talk. It feels cruel, like the more you linger, the more you have to lose again, but the more you withdraw, the more you miss.

A wave of nostalgia hits you as the night comes to a close. As it's almost time to part. The gala's over, and you're one of the last people inside. Dick's gone home, Cass, Jason, Damian, and Tim drove to Barbara's to bother her, and Bruce is wrapping it up with the event coordinators.

You don't want to let go. And you can't help how glassy your eyes get.

It catches Conner completely off guard to look down at you and see that your lip is trembling, and your eyes are all teary but it is adorable, and his heart aches a little. He smiles gently down at you, unjudging and relentlessly affectionate. It's out of place in a silent room, devotion so loud.

"Hey," he says gently, hands burrowed in his pockets, "What's up?"

A tear slides from your eye, and before you even know what you're doing, you surge into his arms and bury your face into his shoulder, clutching him as if he were the only anchor to the Earth. A soft sob escapes your lips, and your hands fist in his collar. "I don't want you to go and never come back again," you whisper, pathetically, "I missed you a little more than I want to admit."

The confession knocks the wind out of him. He wraps his arms around you anyway because he doesn't need breath to keep you safe. "Hey, c'mon, princess, I'm right here, 'm not going anywhere," he coos, nestling his face into your hair, if only to catch the scent of you. His thumbs stroke between your shoulder blades, as your nails dig into his back, desperate sobs leaving you.

And he holds you until you can walk on your own again. 'I love you' lingers on his tongue, but he scrapes it clean.

okay so this is like the first ever x reader ive posted anywhere so if its ass pls tell me so i can crawl in a hole

if u liked it tho i can finish it and make a pt 2 🥹🥹