Conner Kent| Superboy

To put it bluntly, dinner with your family was a disaster. You’d thought inviting Conner over to the manor for a quiet, friendly dinner would be a good way to introduce him properly, show everyone that he wasn’t just the Superboy, but your boyfriend. In hindsight, maybe waiting a little longer would’ve been smarter. Maybe then, you could’ve spared him the awkwardness, the tension, the suffocating sense of judgment that seemed to settle over the dining room like fog.

Living in a family of detectives had its drawbacks, secrets didn’t stay secret for long. By the time you’d worked up the courage to tell them about Conner, every single one of them had already pieced it together. Alfred, bless his heart, was the only one who seemed genuinely pleased. He’d even gone the extra mile, preparing Conner’s favorite pie and greeting him at the door with a warmth that almost made you believe the night could go well.

Almost.

The rest of the family wasn’t as… subtle. The second Conner stepped through the manor doors, it was like someone had pressed pause. Bruce’s expression hardened instantly, eyes narrowing as if he could x-ray the boy’s soul on sight. Tim’s jaw had tightened, analytical, assessing, while Damian muttered something under his breath about “Luthor’s clone” that earned him a sharp look from you. Even Dick, ever the peacemaker, seemed a little too cheerful, cracking jokes that only highlighted how uncomfortable everyone really was.

Maybe it was because half of Conner’s DNA came from Lex Luthor. Maybe it was because he was a Kent , a symbol of everything opposite the shadowed Bat legacy. Either way, every time he moved, every polite smile he offered, you could feel the tension humming beneath the surface.

Dinner itself was… painful. The table was quiet except for the occasional clink of silverware, and every attempt at small talk felt like walking across thin ice. Bruce, of course, led the interrogation, asking questions that sounded polite on the surface but were sharp enough to draw blood if you listened closely. “So, Conner,” he’d said evenly, eyes glinting under the chandelier’s light, “how do you manage your temper these days? I imagine being part Luthor makes that… difficult.”

You swore you saw a bead of sweat trail down Conner’s temple when Bruce spoke. He did his best, answering calmly, respectfully, even cracking a nervous joke or two, but you could tell it was getting to him. His posture grew stiff, his smile strained. By the time the main course ended, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You stood abruptly, forcing a polite smile. “Excuse us,” you said quickly, tugging Conner’s hand as you led him out of the room before Bruce could lob another thinly veiled question his way.

Outside, in the cool night air, Conner finally exhaled, shoulders sagging. You told him to take a quick flight, to clear his head, but he didn’t go far. When he came back down, he landed softly beside you, wrapping his arms around you like he needed grounding more than air.

“What did I do wrong?” he groaned into your shoulder, his voice muffled, the warmth of his breath brushing your neck. His black curls tickled your skin as he peeked up at you, eyes wide and uncertain, like a kicked puppy.

“They don’t act like this with Jon,” he said quietly, frustration lacing his tone. “I think they just hate me. Did you see how Bruce was looking at me? It’s like he was trying to stab me with his eyes.”

He shuddered, deflating against you with a soft sigh, the tension bleeding out of him as you wrapped your arms around his back. You could feel the strength in him, the kind that could bend steel, but right now, he just felt small.