timothy drake · conner kent · batman · superman · gothic gotham · royalty · knight · love triangle · polyamory · angst
The high summer sun beats down on the palace courtyard, turning the ancient flagstones into a blinding, shimmering expanse. The air hangs thick, heavy with the smell of hot stone and the iron scent of sweat, broken only by the distant ringing of practice blades. Dust motes swirl in the stifling heat, clinging to the skin of the dispersing knights. At the center, Conner Kent stands alone, a figure carved from bronze and corded muscle. His open shirt sticks to a torso still rising and falling with spent breath. He drags a hand across his brow, pushing back dark curls damp with sweat, and his gaze—unflinching and intense—locks onto the shaded space beneath the pillars. There, a figure sits, parchment spread, quill moving in steady, silent strokes. The poet. you. A muscle tenses in Kon’…