k-a-n65

[k-a-n65]

Opened Wounds (Pt.3)

Clark Kent (2025) x Reader

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Summary: A sleepless night stirs memories of a fateful encounter, a battle fought with both fists and emotions. Loyalties blur as conflicting truths are offered—each carrying its own kind of danger. Old bonds refuse to fade, even when turned into weapons, and choices made in silence may prove more dangerous than any fight. (2.3K)

Warnings/Tags: Angst, Memory loss, Lex Luthor is a master manipulator, Clark is sick to his stomach, Lois asks the important questions, reader is being manipulated, reader has realizations, Clark can't help himself

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The ceiling fan spun lazily above him, the blades whispering in the stillness. Clark lay flat on his back, staring into the dark. Sleep never came anymore. Not here. Not without you.

He shifted, arm brushing against the cold side of the bed. Your side. His chest ached at the silence it left behind.

And like a cruel trick, his mind dragged him back to that day.

The day you shouldn’t have been there.

The day you had been.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He remembered the blast first—the way it had hurled him into the asphalt, the world tilting in fire and dust. His ears had rung, body refusing to move. Kryptonite in the mech’s core had left his veins burning.

And then—your voice.

“Superman—hey, don’t move—”

You’d dropped to your knees beside him, palms hovering like you were afraid to touch, but you did anyway. Your hand pressed to his shoulder, grounding him.

“Come on, you can’t stay down. People are watching.”

He’d opened his eyes—and found yours.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield faded. Smoke, sirens, chaos—it all blurred. All he saw was you.

He almost said your name aloud. Almost reached for you the way he had a hundred times when no one else was looking.

But then the crowd pressed closer. Reporters shouted. Phones flashed.

So instead, he rasped, “I’m fine. You need to get back—it’s not safe here.”

You’d nodded, though your eyes lingered on his like you could see through the cape. You turned to leave, but his hand—weak, trembling—caught your wrist for just a second.

He’d let go quickly, forcing his face back into the mask.

But the look you gave him—that mix of worry and recognition—still burned in his memory.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Clark squeezed his eyes shut against the memory, throat tight. He should have pushed you away sooner. Should have been colder, less human. Should have made sure Lex never saw the crack in the armor.

Instead, he’d given himself away.

And you’d paid the price.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the empty dark, voice breaking.

The ceiling fan spun on. The bed stayed cold.

And the guilt weighed heavier than the world ever could.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The room pulsed with the echo of your last strike. Sweat dampened your brow, your chest heaved with every breath, but the weighted target still stood, only slightly scorched.

You clenched your fists, teeth gritted. Again.

The hum built in your body as you pushed, reaching for the power the way Lex had taught you. But this time, the energy sputtered, flickering like a faulty light.

The target wobbled, barely dented.

From the observation deck above, Lex’s voice slid through the intercom. Calm. Controlled. Always calm.

“Sloppy,” he said. “Again.”

You braced, but when you tried—the force backfired. Pain lanced through your ribs, knocking the air from your lungs. You dropped to one knee, gasping.

“I don’t—” your voice broke. “I don’t understand. It worked yesterday. Why—why isn’t it working?”

For a long moment, silence. Then the soft click of polished shoes on metal stairs.

Lex descended, slow and deliberate, brandy glass absent this time. He reached you just as you forced yourself shakily to your feet.

“Why?” he repeated, voice lower now, more dangerous. “Because you’re hesitating.”

You blinked, heart pounding. “I’m not—I just…”

“You are,” he snapped, stepping closer. His calm veneer slipped, eyes flashing cold. “Every time you think of him, every time you let his words crawl into your head, you give him power. You let him weaken you.”

You flinched back at the sharpness in his tone. Lex rarely raised his voice.

“I just wanted to know—”

“Know what?” His jaw clenched, the mask slipping further. “If he was telling the truth? If maybe—just maybe—you had a life before me?”

Your throat tightened. His words cut closer than you wanted to admit.

Lex leaned in, lowering his voice to a hiss. “There is no before. There is only what he did to you—and how I saved you.”

The lights above flickered as your emotions spiraled, your form beginning to shimmer in and out of sight.

Lex’s eyes narrowed. For a second, something ugly flashed across his face—not patience, not charm. Something harder. Possessive.

“You want answers?” he said softly, dangerously. “The only answer you need is that he abandoned you. And without me, you’d still be rotting in the void. Dead. Forgotten.”

Your hands shook. “But why does it hurt when I think of him?” you whispered.

For just a heartbeat, his composure cracked. His mouth tightened, his nostrils flared—impatience, fear.

Then, just as quickly, he smoothed it away. A soft smile replaced the storm.

“Because trauma leaves scars,” he said gently, cupping your chin like a father—or a warden. “And he is the scar. I am the cure.”

You stared into his eyes, searching for the calm anchor he always gave you. It was there, but thinner now. Fragile.

And for the first time, you weren’t entirely sure if you believed him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The newsroom was unusually quiet. Only the hum of old fluorescent lights and the distant honking of traffic outside filled the silence.

Clark sat across from Lois at a desk littered with empty coffee cups and stacks of reports. His glasses hung loosely in his hand, his other hand rubbing the tension at the back of his neck.

“She’s alive,” he said finally, voice low. Heavy. “Lois, I—I saw her. It’s really her.”

Lois leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind her glasses. “And you’re sure it wasn’t just… what you wanted to see?”

Clark shook his head firmly. “No. I felt her. I know it was her.”

Lois studied him, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Okay. Then we have a bigger problem than we thought.”

Clark frowned. “Lois—”

“She’s dangerous, Clark. People are scared. The news feeds are calling her a phantom, a weapon. Superman can’t ignore that.”

His stomach turned at her words. “She’s not a weapon.”

“Maybe not to you,” Lois said gently but firmly. “But to everyone else? That’s all they see. A walking disaster. And if Luthor’s behind this—”

“He is,” Clark cut in, his voice low with certainty. “I know it.”

“Then he’s already won,” Lois countered. She leaned forward, eyes locked on his. “Because he’s made you hesitate. Clark, answer me honestly. If it comes down to it—if it’s her or the lives of thousands—”

“Lois, don’t.” His voice broke, sharper than he intended.

“You have to think about it,” she pressed, her voice softer now, almost pleading. “You always said Superman is supposed to be a symbol of hope. If you freeze in the middle of a fight because it’s her—if people die because of that hesitation—what does that say to the world? What does that say about Superman?”

Clark’s jaw tightened, his chest aching. The image of you—eyes full of confusion, hands trembling with power you didn’t fully control—burned in his mind.

“I can’t…” he whispered, shaking his head. “I can’t talk about her like that.”

Lois reached for his hand across the desk, but he pulled back before she could touch him. His chair scraped loudly as he stood.

“I have to go.”

“Clark—”

But he was already walking away, cape hidden beneath the suit, shoulders heavy as the weight of the question crushed down on him.

Could he kill you if it came down to it?

He didn’t want the answer.

Because deep down, he already knew it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The reinforced steel doors didn’t stand a chance. One second they stood like impenetrable sentinels; the next, they were nothing but twisted wreckage, smoke curling off molten edges where heat vision had sliced through.

Luthor didn’t flinch. He stood in the center of the lab, hands folded neatly behind his back, the bright overhead lights catching the gleam of his cufflinks.

“Superman,” he greeted smoothly, as though the Man of Steel hadn’t just demolished a door worth more than most Metropolis apartments. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You’re usually so… civilized.”

Clark’s boots hit the polished floor with heavy purpose, his cape swaying like a red warning flag. “Where is she?” His voice was low, dangerous, every syllable weighed down with restrained fury.

Luthor smiled faintly, tilting his head. “I assume you mean the little ghost? The one you’ve been chasing all over the city like a lovesick fool?”

Clark’s fists clenched. “I’m not asking again, Lex.”

“Oh, you’ll ask again,” Luthor replied, strolling casually toward a glowing console, as if Superman’s glare didn’t feel like a death sentence. “You see, you don’t really want me to answer. Because deep down, you’re afraid of the truth. Afraid she’s not the person you remember… or worse, that she is.”

Clark’s patience snapped. He closed the distance in a blur, seizing Luthor by the front of his suit and slamming him against the reinforced wall hard enough to rattle the light fixtures.

“I won’t warn you again,” Clark growled, his face inches from Luthor’s. “If you’ve hurt her—”

“Hurt her?” Luthor’s smirk widened. “Superman, I’ve given her purpose. I’ve shown her what she’s capable of. You kept her small, weak, chained to your version of morality. Me? I—”

Before he could finish, Clark’s grip tightened. The lab’s alarms wailed as sensors detected the spike in heat radiating off Superman’s body.

“This is your last chance,” Clark warned. “Where. Is. She?”

Luthor’s eyes glittered with something between amusement and calculation. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

A blur slammed into Clark from the side with enough force to send him skidding across the floor, crashing through a lab bench in a shower of glass and sparks.

When the debris settled, Superman lifted his head—his gaze locking with yours.

And everything stopped.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You didn’t give him a second to recover.

The moment he looked up, you were already on him—fist colliding with his jaw hard enough to send him stumbling backward. His cape snapped through the air as he steadied himself, eyes narrowing in a way that made your chest tighten for reasons you didn’t want to think about.

“Still holding back?” you taunted, circling him.

“You don’t want me to stop holding back,” he warned, but you could hear the strain in his voice.

Your only answer was a quick feint, then a burst of telekinetic force that sent him crashing into a row of steel support beams. The metal bent around him, but he was already moving, blurring toward you with a speed that made the world shrink to nothing but him.

You traded blows—his heavy, controlled, and deliberately restrained; yours fast, unpredictable, and merciless. Each impact sent shockwaves through the floor, each clash ringing like thunder through the lab.

Still… he never hit you as hard as you knew he could.

You caught him in the ribs once—heard his breath catch—but the next moment he had your wrist, twisting you down into the floor. You flipped out of it, barely, only for him to slam you into a reinforced column.

“Stop!” he barked, and for a second, you almost did. Almost.

But the fight burned too hot in your blood.

You launched at him again, but this time he was ready. He caught your forearm mid-swing, used your own momentum to twist you down, and in a blur, you were on your back with his weight pinning you, his hands braced on either side of your head.

You froze—not because you couldn’t move, but because of the look in his eyes. That raw, aching mix of recognition and disbelief.

He didn’t strike. Didn’t even tighten his hold. Instead, his gaze swept over your face like he was memorizing every detail, as if he thought you might vanish if he blinked.

“You’re real,” he breathed, so softly it was almost to himself.

Before you could respond, you felt something slip into your palm—a folded piece of paper, pressed there with careful precision.

And then he was gone.

One gust of wind, the faint crack of air pressure, and the space above you was empty.

You sat up slowly, staring at the paper in your hand, your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The doors slid shut behind you, sealing off the corridor where the fight had left scorch marks and warped metal. You were still breathing hard, sweat cooling on your skin, when Luthor emerged from the shadows of the observation deck above.

“Well,” he drawled, slow clapping as he descended the stairs, “that was… adequate.”

Adequate.

You’d just gone toe-to-toe with Superman, and he was acting like you’d barely passed a pop quiz.

“Your form was sloppy in the final minute,” he continued, stepping into your space with a clinical smile. “You let him get too close. I told you—close range is his game. If he hadn’t been holding back—” He stopped, letting the implication hang heavy.

“I know,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’m sure you think you do,” he said, voice dipping into something syrupy, a teacher correcting a bright but hopeless student. “But you can’t afford sentiment in the field. He is not your friend. He is not your savior. He is the reason you were left in the void.”

You nodded, but his words slid over you differently this time—like water over stone that was beginning to crack.

Luthor’s gaze lingered, as if searching for something in your expression. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him, because his smirk sharpened. “Rest. Tomorrow, we dissect every mistake you made. If you survive him again, maybe I’ll start calling you… impressive.”

With that, he left, the echo of his footsteps disappearing into the hum of the facility.

Alone now, you finally unclenched your fist.

The paper Superman had given you was warm from your grip, crumpled from the fight. You smoothed it out on your thigh, revealing a single line in clean, blocky handwriting:

344 Clinton Street — Midnight.

You stared at it for a long time.

Every lesson Luthor had drilled into you screamed to hand it over. To tell him immediately. To let him decide what to do with the information.

But… you didn’t.

Instead, you folded the paper again, slipped it deep into your boot, and told yourself it was only because you weren’t sure what it meant yet.

Not because a part of you didn’t trust him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Taglist: @lahniii , @bowie-frommars , @kissmxcheek , @itzmeme, @cherryandsugar, @prongsletmoony, @orcasoul , @lumpyspaceprincess05, @evermoresivy, @zeida

Authors note: Hello! There should be one last part after this before this is completed, lmk if you want to be added or taken off the taglist.

[k-a-n65]

Fractured Truths (Pt.2)

Clark Kent (2025) x Reader

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Summary: After a haunting encounter, unsettling memories stir within you—memories that challenge everything you’ve been told. As you confront the truths and doubts entwined in your past, the lines between friend and foe blur, leaving you questioning who to trust and what to believe. (2.7k)

Warnings/Tags: Angst, Memory loss, Lex Luthor is a master manipulator, Clark Kent is love sick, reader is caught in something bigger then herself, superpowers, emotional manipulation.

Authors Note: Hey y'all this is part 2. I may do a mini series but for sure one more chapter. I tagged each person who asked to be tagged on my last post but if you want to be added for the next one just lmk.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The first thing you heard was the beep.

Slow, steady. A sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Your eyes fluttered open against harsh fluorescent light. The ceiling was metal. Cold. Unfamiliar.

You didn’t know where you were.

You didn’t know who you were.

Your chest rose in a ragged breath, and with it came a vibration that rattled the pod around you. The air itself seemed to hum, low and dangerous, like something inside you was trying to claw its way out.

“Subject’s conscious,” a voice said above you.

You tried to sit up, but straps dug into your arms and legs. Panic surged—and the air rippled around you.

For a second, your vision fractured. You looked down at your hands—only they weren’t there.

Your breath caught.

“Vitals spiking,” the second attendant said, fingers flying across a data pad. “We’ve got instability—phase displacement at thirty percent and climbing.”

You gasped, trembling as you tried to see yourself again. One second your hands were there, pale and shaking. The next—they flickered out, gone, like you’d blinked them away. The room shuddered with each disappearance.

“What’s happening to me?” you whispered. Your own voice sounded foreign, raw.

No one answered.

The attendants moved faster. Syringes prepped. Machines recalibrated. You thrashed against the restraints, and the pod itself began to shake. Metal groaned. Lights flickered.

You didn’t know your name. You didn’t know why you were here. But you knew one thing: you weren’t safe.

“Sedation protocol now,” one snapped.

“No—wait, I—please!”

Your words cut off as the needle bit your arm. Cool fire raced through your veins. The world dulled, edges softening. The vibrations slowed.

But not before you saw it—just for a second. A flash in your mind. A pair of eyes, wide and full of tears. Green fields behind them. A hand reaching for you.

And then—darkness.

One attendant checked your vitals as they leveled. The other lifted a secure comm link.

“Subject 17 regained consciousness,” they said quietly. “Abilities manifesting ahead of schedule. Memory remains unrecovered. Recommend immediate escalation.”

Static hissed on the line. Then a calm, cold voice replied:

“Keep her under. I’m on my way.”

The call ended.

And the room went still again—except for the faint, restless flicker as your body wavered in and out of sight beneath the sedation.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Metropolis looked the same. It always did after a battle. Buildings rebuilt, streets scrubbed, lives stitched back together as if nothing had happened.

But Clark knew better.

He walked the crowded sidewalks in his glasses, a coffee in one hand, a newspaper tucked under his arm. Just Clark Kent. Just another face in the crowd.

At least—that’s what he told himself.

Until he saw you.

Across the street, hair catching in the wind, laughing at something a friend said. He froze. His chest seized, the paper slipping slightly in his hand.

But when the crowd shifted—you were gone.

He swallowed hard, forced himself forward. Just his mind. Just grief.

He reached the Daily Planet lobby. The elevator doors slid open, and for a breathless second—there you were inside. Turning to face him, eyes warm, the ghost of your smile blooming like sunrise.

“Y/N—” he whispered before he could stop himself.

Then the image flickered. Just a stranger, startled by the man speaking her name.

Clark muttered an apology, ducking his head as the elevator climbed. His pulse thundered.

By the time he reached the bullpen, he’d managed to school his face into neutrality. Lois was already at her desk, typing furiously. Perry barked about deadlines. Phones rang. The world moved on.

But he couldn’t.

Because when he sat at his desk, he saw you leaning against it. Not smiling this time—just watching him. Quiet. Eyes searching.

He blinked. And the chair across from him was empty.

Clark pressed a hand hard to his temple, glasses slipping slightly. He forced himself to focus on the blank page before him, the cursor blinking like a taunt. But every time he tried to string words together, your voice echoed in his head.

Clark. Don’t tell him anything.

The bullpen noise dulled, faded, until all he could hear was you. The memory of your hand brushing his cheek. The phantom warmth of your laughter.

He shoved back from his desk suddenly, chair wheels screeching against the floor. Lois glanced up, brow furrowing.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he lied. His throat felt raw. “Just—need some air.”

He walked out, through the lobby, onto the street. The sunlight felt too harsh. Every face in the crowd could’ve been yours if he looked quickly enough.

And he did. Again and again. Hoping. Torturing himself.

Because every time he blinked, you were there.

And every time his eyes opened, you were gone.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The training room smelled of ozone and steel. Your breaths came in sharp bursts as you stood in the center, fists clenched, the ground faintly trembling beneath your feet from the power you still didn’t fully understand.

“Again,” Lex’s voice commanded from the observation platform above. Smooth. Patient. Always patient—with you.

You obeyed without hesitation, thrusting your hand toward the weighted target. The room vibrated, the air bending. The target flickered out of view, then slammed back into the far wall with a resounding crash.

Your chest heaved, a mixture of pride and exhaustion warming your limbs.

“Good,” Lex said, stepping down the stairs with slow, measured steps. He always moved like a man who never feared being attacked. You’d never question why.

He came close enough that you could see the faint smile curving his lips. “Y/N,” he said—your name, the only one you knew now, the one he gave you. “Do you feel it? The control? The progress you’ve made?”

“Yes,” you whispered, a small flicker of relief lighting in your chest when he nodded approvingly. You lived for those nods. For the rare, soft praise.

“Do you remember the day I found you?” he asked, voice low, conspiratorial.

You tried, brow furrowing. You remembered nothing before waking in that sterile pod. Only fragments of fear. The sound of your own screams. Shadows of pain. And then—Lex’s voice. Gentle. Reassuring.

“I saved you,” he reminded, stepping closer. His hand brushed your shoulder, grounding you. “From the void. From being lost forever. I gave you a life when no one else wanted you.”

You nodded. He was right. He was always right.

“Then you must trust me when I tell you the truth,” Lex continued. He gestured to the giant screen on the far wall. With a flicker, the image appeared: Superman. Hovering above Metropolis. The people below reaching for him like he was some god.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know why.

“This,” Lex said softly, almost like he was letting you in on a secret, “is the man responsible for your suffering. The reason you were cast aside. The reason you were broken.”

You stared at the screen. At the cape. At the symbol. Something flickered deep in your chest—recognition? Ache? It hurt to look too long.

“He’ll tell you lies,” Lex continued, his voice threading into your mind like silk. “He’ll try to turn you against me. But you can’t let him. You know better. You know who’s been here, who’s cared for you, who’s given you purpose.”

You swallowed hard, eyes still fixed on the man in red and blue. “He… he looks—”

“Dangerous,” Lex finished for you, firm. “Because he is. He wants to control this world, to use his power unchecked. But we—we can stop him. Together.”

You turned to him slowly, searching his face. The man who saved you. The man who told you who you were.

And in that moment, you believed him.

“What do you want me to do?” you asked softly.

Lex smiled, satisfied. “Exactly what you’ve been training for.”

Behind him, the screen froze on Superman’s face.

You stared into those eyes, something in your chest tightening, almost breaking.

But you said nothing.

Because who were you to disagree?

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The bedroom was quiet.

Too quiet.

The sheets were untouched on one side—your side. The dent in the pillow had long since faded, but Clark still saw it. Felt it. Like a scar in the air.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. Dressed down in a T-shirt and sweatpants, no cape, no glasses. Just a man. Just a man haunted by silence.

The moonlight spilled in through the window, silvering the room in a way that should’ve felt peaceful. It didn’t. It felt like a graveyard.

He hadn’t slept in the bed since the day they pulled him out of that dimension. Since the moment Lois told him there was no body—just echoes in the void and a drop too far to survive.

He’d tried. God, he’d tried. Laid down once. Let his hand drift over to your side.

But the cold hit him harder than kryptonite ever could.

Now the bed just sat there. Made. Undisturbed. A monument to failure.

I promised I’d protect you.

He could still hear your voice, could still see the way you looked at him that day in the cell—don’t answer him, Clark. No matter what.

He had. And you were gone.

The apartment was still and dark when the sound broke through—

"—breaking news out of Metropolis—"

Clark blinked and turned toward the TV, still glowing dimly from the muted news stream he never really turned off anymore. He grabbed the remote and unmuted it, leaning forward.

The screen showed chaos: overturned cars, shattered windows, smoke rising into the sky. Civilians ran. Police struggled to create a perimeter.

And at the center of it all—

A figure cloaked in distortion. Their body flickering in and out of view, wrapped in raw telekinetic energy. Faces blurred by phase-shifting. Voice scrambled on every mic.

But the power—he could feel it through the screen.

The vibration in the pavement. The psychic tension in the air.

The anchor in his chest lurched.

His breath caught in his throat.

The camera zoomed too far, the distortion broke for half a second—

And his heart stopped.

A flicker of your face. Your eyes. Empty. Unknowing.

The villain vanished in the next blink, phasing out mid-stride, reappearing across the block. A wave of force sent debris flying.

The reporter ducked, and the feed cut out.

Clark didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His eyes stayed locked on the frozen screen.

His chest burned.

“…Y/N?” he whispered, voice raw.

He stood slowly. His cape was folded across the chair in the corner, still untouched from yesterday. The bed behind him remained cold and empty.

But the ache inside him—suddenly, it was different.

Less grief.

More fire.

Because if there was even a chance that it was you—

Then you weren’t lost.You were waiting to be found.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The sky was thick with smoke when Clark descended, cape whipping behind him. He landed in the middle of the wreckage, eyes scanning the chaos. Cars smoldered. Glass crunched under his boots. Civilians cowered behind toppled barricades.

And then—he felt it. The vibration in the air. That pull.

He turned just as a figure flickered into view—half-there, half-not, like reality itself wasn’t sure how to hold her.

“Stop!” he called, voice booming across the street. “You’re hurting people. You don’t have to do this.”

Her head snapped toward him. For a fleeting second, the distortion broke, and Clark’s breath caught.

You.

It was you.

Your eyes locked on his, but instead of recognition, there was only raw hurt—rage carved into the face he’d dreamed of every night since losing you.

“Don’t come closer!” your voice cracked with static, like two channels playing at once.

“Y/N…Baby…” His throat tightened. “It’s me. Clark. You know me.”

You flinched like the name was a blade.

“Don’t call me that! That’s not who I am!” The ground beneath you shuddered, cracks splitting the asphalt as your powers flared. “Lex told me everything—you’re the reason I was left to die. You’re the reason I had to become this.”

Clark staggered back a step, not from the blast of force that rippled from your body, but from the words.

“That’s not true,” he said, softer now, stepping forward despite the pressure rattling the air. “Lex lied to you. He’s using you. Please—just listen to me.”

But you didn’t. You lunged.

The world blurred as you phased, appearing behind him, striking with a telekinetic shove that sent him crashing through a crumbled storefront. He rose, coughing dust, heart splintering.

“I don’t want to fight you,” he pleaded.

“Then stop standing in my way!” you roared, unleashing another wave.

Clark had no choice—he braced and countered with controlled bursts of force to redirect your energy away from fleeing civilians. Each clash tore through the street, sparks of light and shadow colliding in brutal harmony.

Finally, he caught your wrist mid-phase, his other hand gently cupping the back of your head.

“Please,” he whispered, desperate, “look at me. It’s me. I love you.”

For a split second—just one—you froze. Your eyes softened, confusion flickering beneath the storm.

Then the distortion surged again, and you slipped from his grip, vanishing in a shimmer of fractured light.

Clark spun, searching the smoke.

“Y/N!” His shout cracked the air.

But you were gone.

Only silence remained, save for the groan of broken steel and the distant cries of the wounded.

Clark dropped to his knees in the debris, chest heaving, his hand still trembling where he’d held you.

She was alive. She was here. And she believed he was her enemy.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you stumbled down the long corridor, boots scuffing against polished steel. Your hands wouldn’t stop trembling, your chest still ached from the echo of his grip. His voice.

Please. Look at me. I love you.

You shook your head, swallowing hard, but the words wouldn’t leave. They clung like shadows you couldn’t phase away.

By the time you reached the control chamber, Lex was waiting. He stood by the central console, immaculate in a tailored suit, a glass of brandy in one hand. Calm. Always calm.

“Ah,” he said smoothly, not looking up right away. “The prodigal returns. You had him, and yet—you didn’t finish it.”

“I—” You faltered, fingers curling against your palms. “Something happened.”

Now he looked at you. Patient, curious. “Go on.”

Your breath hitched. “When I saw him… it was like… like I knew him. Not from what you told me. From… before.”

Lex’s smile didn’t falter, but a flicker passed through his eyes. Quick. Sharp.

“Before?” he repeated, setting down the glass. He walked toward you with measured steps, the way one approaches a cornered animal. “You’ve been through trauma, Y/N. Flashes of false memory are common. That alien wants you to believe you knew him, so you’ll hesitate. And you did.”

“But…” You forced the word out. “He said my name. Like it meant something. And when he looked at me, it—”

“It’s a trick,” Lex cut in, firmer now, though his tone remained velvet-smooth. “He’s had years to perfect that act. The smile, the voice, the pity. All of it designed to disarm.”

You searched his face, desperate for certainty, for the anchor he always gave you. But doubt gnawed at your chest.

“If he’s lying…” you whispered, “then why does it hurt to hear him?”

For the first time since you’d known him, Lex’s expression slipped. Just a flicker—impatience, maybe fear—but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Because he left you,” he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice as though telling you a sacred truth. “Because somewhere deep down, you remember what he did. He let you fall. He chose himself. And I—” he gestured to the room around you, to the very air you breathed—“I saved you. I gave you life when he condemned you to death.”

Your breath stuttered.

His hand touched your shoulder, grounding, heavy. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated. Just a beat. Then nodded.

“Yes.”

He smiled again, calm restored, and gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Good. Hold on to that. The rest is noise. You know who your enemy is.”

But later, lying in the sterile quiet of your quarters, you replayed the moment again—his hand on yours, the look in his eyes when he whispered I love you.

And for the first time, you weren’t entirely sure who the enemy really was.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Taglist: @lahniii , @bowie-frommars , @kissmxcheek , @itzmeme

[k-a-n65]

Force Fields and Fault Lines

Clark Kent (2025) x Reader

Summary: In a city where secrets weigh heavier than steel, she’s buried her past to protect her future. When a devastating attack shatters the fragile peace, the line between civilian and hero blurs once more. Amidst chaos and hidden truths, two lives collide—each carrying wounds deeper than the eye can see. As shadows close in, the choices they make could heal or break them forever. (3.3k)

Warnings/Tags: Emotional Trauma, Secrets, Reader is emotionally traumatized, Reader has powers, Clark is terrible with secrets, Idiots in love, reader can reanimate the dead, sibling death.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You used to be someone.

Not just someone—someone.

A name whispered in the shadows, carried on hurried lips by those who prayed for you and cursed you all the same. You were the girl who could move objects with a flick of her hand, vanish into nothing more than a ripple in the air, raise walls of energy so strong even bullets crumbled against them.

And on rare, desperate nights, when grief weighed heavier than justice, you could do something no one else dared whisper about. You could call the dead back. Not fully—not for long. But enough for one last touch, one last word, one last goodbye.

That was the gift that made them fear you most. Savior. Monster. Miracle. Abomination. The titles blurred together when they spoke of you. Some lit candles in your name; others swore you were cursed. But all of them knew your codename, and all of them knew you were watching.

Until the night you weren’t.

A rogue criminal, someone you’d brushed off as small-time, found your sister before you did. You hadn’t even been across the city—just down the block. Just one corner, one decision, one heartbeat too late.

By the time you reached her, the air still smelled of blood and gunpowder. She was still warm. And for all your power—for all the force you could bend with your mind—you couldn’t put her back together. Couldn’t keep her here.

You tried. God, you tried. With shaking hands, with a sob in your throat, you begged her back. For a moment her eyes fluttered, her lips moved—“don’t”—and then the light fled again, her body collapsing in your arms like an empty shell.

That was the moment you stopped. That was the night your codename died. So did the girl who wore it.

You folded yourself into a quiet civilian life, packing away your powers like relics too dangerous to touch. You took a job as a researcher at the Daily Planet, the kind of work that kept you buried in files and statistics, never on the front page. A ghost among the living. Blending into crowds instead of saving them. Invisible.

And it almost worked.

Except Clark Kent had a way of looking at you like you weren’t invisible at all. Like he could see the shadows you thought you’d buried. Like he knew the parts of you no one else dared to remember.

And that—more than the ghosts, more than the past—terrified you most of all.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You were half-buried in a mountain of papers when Clark leaned over the cubicle wall, smiling like he had all the time in the world. His tie was crooked—again. Somehow, it always was, as though he didn’t care enough to fix it or maybe just didn’t notice.

“Late night?” he asked, his voice warm and teasing, like the two of you weren’t sitting in the fluorescent-lit graveyard of the Daily Planet bullpen at eleven o’clock at night.

You smirked faintly, forcing your gaze back to the scrawled notes in front of you so you wouldn’t stare too long at the blue of his eyes. They had a way of making you forget where you were. “What gave it away, Kent? The bloodshot eyes, or the fact that I’ve spelled Metropolis wrong three times in this draft?”

“Maybe both,” he said with a low chuckle, the kind that curled warmth through your chest even though you tried to smother it.

He set a white box down on your desk. Donuts. Glazed—your favorite. The scent of sugar and fried dough hit you instantly, sharper than the ink and paper around you.

You blinked. “You… brought donuts?”

He shrugged, as if it wasn’t the most thoughtful thing anyone had done for you in weeks. “Figured you could use one. Long nights are easier with sugar.”

Your chest tightened, the words catching in your throat. “Thanks. You’re too nice, you know that?”

“Guess it’s a flaw,” he said lightly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with that familiar absent gesture. But there was something in his eyes—something softer, lingering—that made your pulse stumble.

Before you could say anything else, he gave you that boyish smile and headed back toward his desk, tie askew, shoulders somehow both broad and unassuming.

You watched him go, hating the way your pulse betrayed you. He was Clark Kent—gentle, brilliant, apparently hopeless with ties. And you were… well, you were someone who had sworn not to get close to anyone again. Not after everything.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That donuts didn’t mean anything. That kindness was just who he was.

Besides, everyone knew he and Lois Lane had something. They were the golden pair of the Planet. She was sharp and fearless, and he was the kind of man people gravitated to without question. They fit. You wouldn’t even try.

At least, that’s what you told yourself. Over and over, like a prayer you didn’t believe.

And still, as you picked up the donut, warm glaze clinging to your fingertips, you realized you were smiling.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The first time he vanished, you didn’t think much of it. Clark stood up in the middle of a budget meeting, mumbling something about needing to check a source, and slipped out so quietly no one else even looked up. You barely had time to wonder before the building shuddered faintly, the windows rattling. News alerts lit up phones around the table: an explosion downtown. Minutes later, Superman was there on every screen, pulling survivors from the wreckage like an angel carved out of sunlight.

Coincidence, you told yourself. Just terrible timing.

The second time, you noticed more. Clark dropped his pen during an editorial meeting, muttered a curse under his breath, and scrambled for an excuse about needing the archives. He left in such a hurry he nearly tripped over his own chair. Not ten minutes later, footage rolled in of Superman intercepting a runaway train before it could slam into the Metropolis central station.

Your heart had done something strange then, a stutter you didn’t want to name.

The third time, you stopped believing in coincidence.

Clark disappeared from the bullpen with no excuse at all—just a flicker of hesitation when Perry barked his name. He was gone in an instant. And when you looked up at the TV, there he was—or rather, Superman was—catching a collapsing crane with his bare hands.

From that moment on, you couldn’t stop noticing.

You told yourself not to obsess. You told yourself you were imagining things. But your brain kept filing away little details like puzzle pieces you didn’t want to fit together.

His desk was always mysteriously tidy when everyone else’s looked like a paper hurricane had blown through. Even on nights when the whole newsroom worked until dawn, Clark never looked tired—no shadows under his eyes, no slump to his shoulders.

His glasses… they were wrong. You didn’t know how else to put it. They didn’t sit like real prescription lenses. They sat like a mask.

And then there were his eyes.

Too sharp. Too steady. Like he saw everything, all the time. You’d catch him watching, not staring exactly, but observing, and it made you feel like he knew things you hadn’t said out loud.

Once, you caught him standing in front of the office TV during a breaking news broadcast. It was a live feed—smoke, panic, the sharp edge of sirens echoing through tinny speakers. His expression was taut, focused, in a way you’d never seen before. Then, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

By the time you looked back, Superman was already on the screen.

Your stomach dropped so hard you had to grip the edge of your desk.

No. It couldn’t be.

Clark Kent wasn’t… him. He was too soft-spoken, too careful, too human. He laughed at office jokes and spilled coffee on his tie. He apologized when he bumped into people in the hall. He bought you donuts. He couldn’t be—

Except every puzzle piece fit.

And once you saw the picture, you couldn’t unsee it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You needed proof. Something undeniable.

The suspicions had been eating at you for weeks, threading through every stolen glance and every sudden disappearance. You told yourself you were being ridiculous, that you were building a fantasy out of nothing. But deep down, you already knew.

You just needed him to show you.

Late one evening, when the bullpen had thinned out and only the hum of old fluorescent lights kept you company, you carried an overstuffed banker’s box of files past Clark’s desk. He was bent over his laptop, tie loosened, glasses slipping down his nose. His brow furrowed in concentration, the glow of the screen reflecting in his eyes.

“Burning the midnight oil too, Kent?” you teased, shifting the box in your arms so it looked heavier than it was.

He looked up immediately. Even tired, his smile was warm. “You know me. Can’t leave a story unfinished.”

Something in your chest tugged. Damn him. Even if he was Superman, he still managed to look like the kind of man who’d bring donuts just because you looked tired.

You forced a laugh, masking the tremor in your voice. “Figures.”

Then, with deliberate carelessness, you let the box slip from your grip.

It tipped, a hundred pounds of paper and binders hurtling toward the floor in a messy avalanche.

But it never hit.

Clark moved in a blur, faster than your eyes could track. One second he was sitting at his desk; the next, he was crouched beside you, steadying the box with one arm like it weighed no more than a bag of feathers.

“Careful,” he said, voice calm as ever—but his chest rose just a little too quickly, betraying him.

You froze, your pulse thundering in your ears. “You were across the room a second ago.”

For the briefest instant, you saw it in his face—panic, raw and unguarded—before he shoved his glasses up his nose and forced a smile. “Guess I… walk fast?”

The laugh that followed was thin, brittle, and it made the hairs on your arms rise.

You stared at him, heart hammering. The box still hovered easily in his hand, as though weight meant nothing to him.

And in that moment, every puzzle piece clicked into place.

Clark Kent was Superman.

And if you were right, if you’d really just caught him out, then you’d tipped your hand in the worst possible way.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You swore you wouldn’t act on it. That knowing the truth didn’t mean stepping back into the life you’d buried. You’d made promises to yourself, carved them into stone the night your sister died: never again. Never again would you risk pulling someone you loved into the fire.

And then came the night the city shook.

The blast rattled windows for blocks, the shockwave vibrating through your ribs. Sirens screamed in the distance, the air thick with the acrid sting of smoke and panic. People scattered in all directions, a tidal wave of terror crashing through the streets.

You told yourself to stay put. To turn back. You weren’t that person anymore. You were just a researcher, a ghost at a desk, invisible and safe.

But then you turned the corner.

And saw him.

Superman, knees buckling under a vicious blow that sent him crashing to one side, blood streaking vivid against his temple. For the first time since you’d known the truth, he looked mortal. Breakable.

Something inside you shattered like glass.

Invisible in an instant, you sprinted forward, heart hammering in your chest.

A shimmering force field bloomed beneath your trembling hands, intercepting the next strike with a sharp crack of energy that sent sparks flying. You barely had time to brace before the weapon slammed into your shield, the shockwave rattling your bones.

With a fierce twist of your mind, you wrenched the weapon free, twisting it until it crumpled and smashed against the brick wall, the metal screeching in protest.

“Y/N?”

His voice tore through the chaos — ragged, disbelieving. Somehow, even through the smoke and chaos, he knew.

You dropped to your knees beside him, heart hammering, and pushed your fear aside. Your hands shook, but you forced them steady as you gathered the fallen—bodies, discarded and broken from the attack—around you.

The dead stirred at your will, skin pale and eyes glassy, but their movements were swift and precise. Reanimated corpses rose, limbs creaking, and moved like shadows to intercept the attackers rushing toward you. Teeth bared, they fought without hesitation, buying you precious seconds.

Meanwhile, your hands hovered over Superman’s wounds, telekinetic threads weaving through torn flesh and shattered bone like invisible stitching. You pulled together ruptured arteries and realigned crushed ribs, sweat beading at your brow as you poured every ounce of focus into holding him together.

He whimpered softly, pain etched deep in his eyes, but he didn’t pull away.

“Don’t talk,” you breathed, voice cracking but fierce. “You’ll be fine.”

The attackers pressed harder, but your corpses met them with snarls and relentless blows, their cold fingers grappling and dragging enemies into the shadows.

Your shield flared again, brighter, crackling as it pushed back debris and shrapnel like weightless feathers. Every movement drained you further, but you couldn’t stop. Not while he needed you.

Sirens blared closer, boots pounding the pavement, reinforcements arriving. You felt the strength draining fast.

Finally, your shield flickered and vanished, the undead retreating silently as you slipped into invisibility once more, breath ragged, chest heaving.

And then you ran.

You’d blown your cover.

After years of silence.

After swearing you’d buried that part of yourself forever.

For him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You perfected avoidance after that.

Day 3: You ducked into the stairwell as Clark’s voice echoed down the hall, heart pounding so hard you thought he might hear it. You stayed there until the sound of his footsteps faded, clutching the cold railing like a lifeline.

Day 6: You left the break room seconds before he walked in, your untouched coffee still steaming on the counter. Later, you found it gone, the mug washed and put back on the shelf. You didn’t have to ask who had done it.

Day 10: You told Perry you preferred late shifts, claiming you could focus better when the bullpen was empty. He didn’t argue—he needed the coverage—but you caught Clark watching you as you made the request, his expression shuttered, unreadable.

It went on for weeks.

Every near-encounter turned into a desperate escape. You’d time your exits down to the minute. You started avoiding the elevator, knowing he often used it. Even the sound of his laugh from across the bullpen made your throat ache with a mix of longing and guilt.

Lois noticed first.

“You two have a fight I don’t know about?” she asked one morning, eyes sharp as she sipped her coffee.

“Of course not,” you lied, staring so hard at your notes that the words blurred.

She didn’t buy it. Her gaze cut like glass. “You’re avoiding him.”

You mumbled something about deadlines, but she didn’t push further. She didn’t have to—you could feel the weight of her suspicion every time she looked at you.

Then Jimmy.

“Clark looks like a kicked puppy every time you leave the room,” he whispered one afternoon, leaning across your desk with a worried frown. “Whatever’s going on—fix it. Please. For all our sakes.”

Clark never called you out, not in public. But you felt it.

The weight of his gaze across the bullpen. The little starts when you brushed past each other by accident, electricity buzzing under your skin like a live wire. The way his smile faltered whenever you turned away too quickly.

And every night, you lay awake, replaying that battle in your head. The way his blood had stained his temple. The way his voice had cracked when he said your name. The way you’d thrown away years of silence for him without thinking twice.

It hurt to stay away. But it hurt more to think what might happen if you didn’t.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You thought you were safe in the archives.

No one came down here unless they had to—the air smelled of dust and old ink, and the flickering overhead lights buzzed like tired bees. You’d chosen it because it was quiet, because it gave you space to breathe.

But the moment you heard his voice, your stomach dropped.

“Y/N.”

The file in your hands slipped and hit the floor with a soft thud. You turned, pulse racing, and there he was—Clark, standing in the doorway, tie loose, hair slightly mussed, his eyes steady and unreadable.

“Clark,” you breathed, throat tight.

He stepped forward, voice low but unshakable. “We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” You hated how brittle you sounded.

“There’s everything to talk about.” His gaze pinned you where you stood. “You saved me.”

Your throat tightened, shame and fear tangling in your chest. “You weren’t supposed to notice.”

“How could I not?” His voice cracked, raw and aching. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I can take care of myself,” you snapped, though your hands were trembling. “I used to. And look where it got me.”

His expression softened instantly. “Your sister.”

You blinked hard, chest aching so sharply you thought it might split.

“She wouldn’t want you to bury yourself,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to carry that alone.”

The tears you’d been holding back burned hot at the corners of your eyes. “This is why I didn’t want to know. Because you—because I—”

His step forward was careful, hesitant. “Because you what?”

Your voice broke. “Because I can’t lose you, too.”

For a breathless moment, the room was still. The buzzing lights, the dust, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.

Then his hand lifted, cupping your cheek with infinite gentleness, his thumb brushing away the tear that finally escaped.

“You won’t,” he murmured.

And then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not cautious. Hungry.

It was collision more than contact—every unspoken word, every bottled emotion combusting between you. His lips claimed yours with the heat of someone who’d waited far too long, his hands tangling in your hair, sliding down to your jaw, your waist, pulling you against him like it hurt to be apart.

And something inside you snapped.

The lights above flickered wildly, buzzing like they might explode. Loose papers burst from the archive shelves as if startled into flight, spiraling around you both in a chaotic storm. The air crackled, your shields shimmering across your skin in invisible waves, pushing him back only to pull him closer again.

Clark didn’t stop.

He kissed you through it all like the world wasn’t unraveling around you—like your chaos wasn’t something to fear, but something to embrace.

A broken moan escaped your lips as you clutched at his shirt, desperate and unsteady. The floor beneath your feet trembled faintly, vibrations humming through the concrete as your power surged, barely under control.

His grip tightened, anchoring you, steady as bedrock.

When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, your chest heaving, the storm of papers still swirling like snow in the air, he gave you a breathless, wrecked smile.

“This is insane,” you whispered, as another light above popped and went out.

“Then let’s be insane,” he murmured, stealing another kiss, deeper, hungrier, his smile ghosting against your mouth between breaths.

You laughed shakily, voice breaking. “So… Lois?”

His mouth curved against yours, teasing even through the desperation. “Not even close.”

Another ripple of invisible energy rolled through the room as you kissed him again, rough and unrestrained, drowning in the heat of it.

And for the first time since your sister’s death, you didn’t feel like a ghost. You felt alive.

And you weren’t planning to disappear again.

[k-a-n65]

Shattered Vows

Clark Kent (2025) x Reader

Next Part

Summary: When Lex Luthor traps Superman in a kryptonite-laced prison, he exploits a hidden connection—an ordinary woman who once helped him to his feet. She becomes the perfect bait. But when she falls, everything Clark Kent thought he could endure shatters. (3.3k)

Warnings: Death, Angst, Major Character Death, Lex Luthor is an Ass, Depressed Clark, CoWorkers to Lovers, ending can be interpreted in any way you want, Clark Kent really cannot catch a break

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The glass glistened with that green-tinted glow that made Clark Kent—no, Superman—convulse on the cell floor. The glow wasn’t just from the walls. It was from him—from Metamorpho, his twisted, unwilling jailer.

Lex Luthor stood just beyond the reinforced barrier, smirking like a child pulling wings off a butterfly. And in front of him—on a precariously floating, narrow platform suspended over nothingness—stood you.

You were bruised, shaking, and barefoot. A single spotlight cast you in a surreal glow, your arms bound behind your back, your hair a mess of tangles and dust. But your eyes—your eyes found Clark’s even through the thick, humming glass, even past the blur of his pain.

Lex raised the revolver.

“Round two,” he purred.

Clark’s body jerked on the floor again. Kryptonite radiation pulsed from Metamorpho’s extended hand, twisted into a grotesque sculpture of shimmering, sickening green crystal. Clark couldn’t even kneel. He could barely breathe.

“No! Stop!” he wheezed, blood on his teeth.

You didn’t even flinch as the barrel was pressed to your temple.

“To everyone else she’s no one,” Lex said, cocking the hammer casually. “But I saw her help you up after that explosion in Metropolis last fall. Ran to you when the dust hadn’t even settled. There’s something there. Maybe just a bleeding heart civilian. But something. So let’s test it.”

You didn’t blink. You didn’t beg.

Instead, you spoke. Calmly. Quietly. And with the kind of conviction that cracked through Clark’s bones deeper than the Kryptonite ever could.

“Don’t tell him anything.”

He could barely lift his head. But he still managed to rasp, “Please don’t hurt her—”

“Don’t you dare,” you interrupted, glaring at him, not at Lex. “If you say anything, you know what he’ll do. It won’t stop.”

Luthor’s smile curled wider. “Feisty. I like that. Adds stakes.”

Click.

Empty chamber.

Clark choked on the rush of relief—but it was brief. Too brief.

Lex spun the chamber again. Raised the gun. Leaned in. “Say it. Just one answer. Who raised you? Who protected you?”

“No,” you whispered.

“Don’t.”

Then—

BANG.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It had started with coffee.

Clark always got in early—before Lois, before Perry, before the rush of phones ringing and heels clattering across the Daily Planet’s marble floors. He said it helped him think. That it gave him a chance to read the morning papers in peace before the city screamed to life.

But you were always already there.

Not because you loved early mornings. God, no. You were not that kind of person. But you were new. A fresh hire. Low on the totem pole. Which meant coffee runs, mail sorting, double-checking appointment schedules, and doing your best not to get swallowed by the whirlwind of real journalists and real stories.

Your third day, you spilled half a tray of lattes all over Clark Kent’s chest.

You gasped. Nearly dropped the rest. His dress shirt bloomed with deep brown splashes, and you stammered every apology you could find in your panic-stricken brain.

But Clark… he just looked down, blinked, and then smiled like you’d handed him a flower.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice gentle and low. “I never liked this shirt anyway.”

You didn’t know it then, but you fell a little bit in love with him that moment.

After that, things changed.

He started showing up earlier. Not just early—your kind of early. Right as the lights buzzed on and the Planet’s silence still held. Sometimes he’d beat you to the coffee machine and hand you a cup without asking how you took it—because he already knew.

He carried trays with you when the order was too big for your arms. Walked you to the elevator. Helped you with the mail even though it wasn’t his job.

He never asked for anything in return.

He’d just smile—that soft, lopsided smile—and ask how your day was. Or if you’d read the story Lois wrote about the mayor. Or if you were adjusting okay.

You found yourself talking more. Laughing. Leaning toward him like your heart was trying to sneak out before your mouth caught up.

You liked him before you knew what he was. Before you noticed the way he always disappeared during big disasters. Before you saw the flash of red and blue in the corner of your eye when the newsroom screens filled with chaos and capes.

You liked Clark.

You loved him before he ever told you the truth.

The night he did—nervous, sweaty, glasses off and vulnerability hanging around him like a second cape—you didn’t run. You didn’t scream. You didn’t flinch when he said the name “Superman” like it was a curse, like it might scare you away.

Instead, you reached for his hand.

“I know.”

And you did. Somewhere deep down, you always had.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The bullet tore through your skull with a sickening pop that echoed in the pocket dimension like a firecracker in a cathedral.

Your body snapped backwards from the force and teetered—then toppled off the edge of the platform.

Clark screamed.

It wasn’t human. It was something raw and wounded and broken. A primal noise that came from a throat scorched by Kryptonite and a heart that had just been shattered like crystal under a boot.

“NO!”

He dragged himself toward the glass, fingers leaving bloody streaks across the floor. Metamorpho flinched but held position, face twisted in sorrow even as his arm remained extended. He wasn’t doing this by choice. Lex had made sure of that.

“Didn’t even make it to round five,” Lex sighed. “Shame. I was hoping to see how far you’d bend. Oh well.”

Clark’s fists slammed uselessly against the floor. He couldn’t fly. He couldn’t lift. He couldn’t even see where you’d fallen. The abyss had no bottom. Only darkness.

Only absence.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The screen door creaked behind you as Clark stepped out onto the porch, his hand warm against the small of your back. Sunlight stretched long over the fields, painting the world in amber. The air smelled like corn husks and something sweet—pie, maybe—wafting from the open windows.

You tried not to fidget.

Clark must’ve felt it, because his thumb brushed a slow, steady circle into your spine. “You okay?”

You smiled, a little stiff. “Just trying not to make a fool of myself in front of the people who raised Superman.”

He laughed softly, the kind that made your heart skip. “They’re just Ma and Pa. Trust me, you’ve already won them over.”

“You said that, but all I’ve done so far is nervously compliment your mom’s doorknob.”

Clark grinned, eyes sparkling. “It is a very polite doorknob.”

Before you could respond, the door swung open again.

“Clark Joseph Kent, are you planning to keep her out here all day like a porch cat, or are you going to let her come in and eat?”

Martha Kent stood with a flour-dusted apron and hands on her hips, but her eyes were kind. Warm. The same kind of kind that made you forget your nerves for a second.

“I—I’m sorry, ma’am,” you said quickly, stepping forward.

“Oh, don’t you dare call me ma’am. I’m Martha. And you must be the one who finally taught my boy how to smile without tripping over his own feet.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

Jonathan Kent appeared beside her, taller than you expected, quiet eyes that studied without judging. He offered you a hand, firm and sure.

“Heard a lot about you,” he said simply. “Welcome to the farm.”

Inside, the kitchen was cozy, worn in the way that only a lived-in home could be. There were faded curtains and photos on the fridge. A crack in the tile near the sink that looked like it had a story behind it. And in the middle of the table, a lattice-top apple pie still steaming.

As you sat, Martha was already serving generous slices, scolding Clark for trying to steal a bite early, and asking you about the Planet, your hometown, your favorite kind of pie—all in one breath.

And you answered. You laughed. The nerves faded, slow but sure, under the glow of this place.

Clark watched you from across the table, chin in his hand, eyes soft. Barely listening to the words anymore.

He saw you wiping pie crust off your lips and laughing at one of Pa’s dry remarks. Saw you cradling the mug of cider like it was the most comforting thing you’d ever held. Saw the sunlight hit your hair and catch in your smile.

He didn’t know the exact moment it happened.

Only that it did.

Right there, somewhere between your second helping of pie and the way you reached over to nudge his hand without even thinking.

He knew.

He wanted to marry you.

Not someday. Not maybe. Not when the world was finally safe or when his double life quieted down.

Now.

He wanted to wake up beside you on mornings like this. To bring you here every fall. To have you part of these quiet afternoons that made him feel whole.

His mother noticed the way he was looking at you. She always did.

And when you went to help her in the kitchen, she gave him a smirk over your shoulder.

“Well,” she said under her breath, “I hope you bought that ring.”

Clark’s ears turned red.

But his smile didn’t fade.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Something cracked.

Not the glass.

Him.

Clark’s body stopped convulsing. The violent tremors ceased, replaced by an eerie stillness. His breathing—shallow and ragged moments before—slowed to deliberate, pained gasps. His face was pale, slick with sweat and blood, but his eyes… His eyes were fixed on Metamorpho.

Not with anger. Not with blame. But with something ancient and terrible and holy: resolve.

“Get rid of it,” he rasped. His voice was low, raw, graveled by pain. “Please.”

The metahuman was shaking, his crystalline arm still glowing green, a tortured conduit for the Kryptonite poisoning Clark from the inside out. Tears clung to the corners of Metamorpho’s eyes. 

“You don’t know what he’s capable of—”

“I do.” Clark’s voice broke. His fist clenched weakly against the floor. “I just watched him put a bullet through the woman I love. I do.”

The cell crackled with tension. Green light shimmered around them like smoke.

Clark’s body was failing. The Kryptonite was leeching everything from him—his strength, his breath, his soul.

But he still looked Metamorpho in the eye and said, “You have to trust me. Get rid of it.”

Metamorpho’s lip quivered. He looked past the cell, to where his baby boy squirmed inside the transparent pod—eyes closed, unaware of the danger.

Then—he made his choice.

With a roar of pain and effort, he shifted. His arm changed, the green crystal retracting, melting, reshaping into neutral matter. The radiation vanished.

Clark collapsed fully, coughing, unable to move. Still too weak. Still poisoned.

“No, no, no!” Metamorpho gasped, panic rising. “You said—you said you’d be able to—!”

“Yellow sun,” Clark whispered, eyes fluttering, “make a sun.”

“What?”

“A sun. I just need… sunlight.”

Metamorpho’s eyes widened. Then he closed them—and changed.

The chemicals in his blood twisted. The minerals under his skin liquefied and recombined. His arm reformed—not into Kryptonite this time, but into a burning orb of concentrated solar radiation. It hovered above his palm like a miniature sun—bright, golden, warm.

Clark inhaled like it was oxygen.

The effect was slow, but unstoppable. His skin regained color. His breathing steadied. His pulse surged. Light kissed his face and lit the furnace behind his ribs. His body, wrecked and broken, began to knit itself back together at the molecular level.

Then he stood. And the glass shattered.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It was supposed to be perfect.

Clark had timed the sunset down to the second. The city skyline glittered beneath a soft purple haze, the wind just enough to tousle your hair in that movie-moment kind of way. He had chosen the rooftop carefully—not too high, not too flashy. Just… quiet. Private. Yours.

The ring box was in his coat pocket. He kept tapping it like he thought it might disappear. His speech? Rehearsed a hundred times, under his breath, in front of the mirror, even once while flying halfway across the hemisphere to clear his head.

But things didn’t go as planned.

First, the elevator broke.

Then, the light drizzle that the forecast promised wouldn’t happen… happened. And not a cute drizzle either. It was an angry, sideways rain that came in fast and cold.

Then—you tripped on a loose tile and face-planted into his chest, laughing so hard you snorted.

And by the time you both scrambled under the overhang, soaked and breathless, Clark realized… there was no recovering the “perfect moment.”

You were wiping water from your face with your sleeve, your nose red, your makeup smudged, your hair clinging to your cheek like ivy.

And he had never seen you more beautiful.

“Okay,” you huffed, laughing, “you dragged me up here, wouldn’t tell me why, and now it’s raining horizontally. Was this some kind of weather report field trip?”

Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Then sighed, pulling the box out with hands still trembling.

You froze. Your breath hitched.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he admitted, voice low, barely audible over the rain. “I had this whole thing planned. I was going to say the right words. Give you this long speech about how the moment I met you, my whole world shifted. How every time you say my name, it’s like I remember who I am. And how—I’m not Superman without you.”

Your eyes welled up.

“I was going to tell you how scared I was to let you in. How scared I still am sometimes,” he said, stepping closer, raindrops trailing down his neck. “But how I’d do it a thousand times over if it meant I got to come home to you.”

He dropped to one knee in a puddle, laughing at himself and shaking his head. “God, this is not how I pictured this.”

You dropped to your knees in front of him before he could even finish opening the box, cupping his soaked face in your hands.

“I don’t care if it’s raining,” you whispered, tears and raindrops indistinguishable now. “I don’t care if you say a single word. I’ve known I was going to say yes since you offered to carry my tray of coffee three years ago.”

Clark’s breath caught. He blinked, stunned.

“You… yes?”

You kissed him, hard and messy and full of laughter.

“Yes.”

He laughed into your mouth, the kind of laugh that sounded like joy breaking open. He didn’t even remember slipping the ring onto your finger—only that it fit, and your hand was in his, and nothing else mattered.

Rain poured down on both of you, but the world had never felt warmer.

Not perfect.

Just real.

And somehow, even better.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The first thing Clark registered was the ticking of the old wall clock.

Then the creak of the floorboards outside his room. The soft rustle of leaves brushing against the farmhouse window.

And then—pain. Not sharp, not hot—just heavy. Everywhere. Like his bones were lead and his skin still hummed with leftover radiation. Kryptonite always left a stain, even after it was gone.

He opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the familiar ceiling—the one he used to fall asleep under as a boy after too much pie or too much homework.

The bedroom hadn’t changed. Same faded wallpaper. Same shelf of high school trophies he’d never cared about. Same hand-stitched quilt his mom had made years ago.

But he had changed. And everything else had, too.

You were gone.

That truth hit like a tidal wave.

Clark sat up fast—too fast. The world tilted. His vision blurred. His hands gripped the quilt like it could anchor him to the present. But the image of you falling—the sound of the gunshot—the silence that followed—it all came rushing back.

“No—” he whispered, his breath catching. “No, no, no, no—”

He folded forward, elbows on his knees, chest heaving.

He’d failed.

He’d promised you—he’d promised everyone—that no one would ever die because of him again.

But you were gone. Because of him. Because of what he was. Because someone used his heart against him—and he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t save you.

Tears burned hot behind his eyes, and he let them fall, too tired to hold them back.

The door creaked open softly.

“Clark?”

Martha’s voice.

Soft. Tired. Like she’d been crying too.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

She came to him quietly, like she always had. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just put her hand on his back and rubbed slow circles.

Like he was five again, after a nightmare.

Like he hadn’t just come back from the edge of hell.

“You’re safe now,” she whispered.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” he rasped, the words breaking as they came out. “I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t move. She—Mom, she died because of me.”

Martha didn’t correct him. Didn’t offer empty hope or try to rationalize what couldn’t be fixed.

She just reached up and cupped his face with one gentle hand, guiding his gaze to hers.

Her eyes were glassy but steady. Strong.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured. “The world asks so much of you. Too much. And you give all of it, every time. But you’re still human where it counts. You loved her. And you lost her. And that’s not your fault.”

“I should’ve stopped it,” he whispered. “I should’ve—”

“You did everything you could.”

He shook his head, but she pressed her forehead gently to his.

“You loved her enough to break yourself trying. And I know she knew that.”

Clark’s shoulders trembled. His breath hitched again. She wrapped her arms around him, and he collapsed into them like a boy—not a god, not a symbol, not a savior.

Just a son.

Just a man grieving the woman he wanted to spend his life with.

Martha held him as the sun rose, her heartbeat slow and steady against his ear.

The world would demand more of him tomorrow.

But for now—just for now—he was allowed to break..

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The hum of machines was the only sound in the chamber.

Not voices. Not alarms. Just the steady beep of vitals. The hiss of ventilators. The occasional flicker of overhead lights straining against the weight of secrecy.

The room was cold. Sterile. Buried beneath meters of reinforced steel and redacted blueprints.

Two figures moved around the pod in silence. Clad in gray uniforms, their faces masked and unmarked, they worked with precision—syringes, data pads, gene scanners. Their movements were practiced. Familiar. Loyal.

Inside the containment pod lay a figure.

Unconscious. Drifting.

Wrapped in soft restraints, medical leads tracing every heartbeat, every neural flicker. Breathing shallow, but steady. Skin pale. Lips faintly blue. Clothes replaced with hospital-grade fabric.

Hair still damp.

Still dusted with ash.

Still stained with blood.

“Recovery is ahead of projections,” one technician noted flatly, voice synthesized and low. “Spinal damage appears to be resolving under cellular regeneration. No neurological collapse detected.”

“She should be dead,” the other murmured, staring at the bruises blooming like ink beneath the skin. “The fall should’ve been fatal.”

“But it wasn’t.”

A moment passed. One of them entered a new sequence into the console. On the monitor above the pod, vitals shifted. Slightly. But unmistakably.

A spike.

“Did you see that?”

Another beep. Louder this time.

Then a shiver.

The body in the pod jerked—just once. Barely noticeable.

A finger twitched. A knee shifted.

“She’s waking up,” one said.

“No,” the other replied. “Not yet. She’s still… somewhere else.”

The lights above dimmed as the equipment recalibrated to the surge.

The screen flashed:

SUBJECT 17 — STATUS: UNSTABLE

ORIGIN: VOID RECOVERY POINT 03A

GENETIC MATCH — UNKNOWN MUTATION PATTERN

PROJECT: REVENANT CONTINGENCY

“Luthor may be gone,” the first technician said, closing the pod’s seal. “But the work continues.”

They stepped back. The figure inside stirred again—this time more violently. A heartbeat jumped. Eyes almost opened.

But didn’t.

The lights flickered once.

And the room went still.

[k-a-n65]

Love, Krypto

Clark Kent (2025) x Reader

Summary: When an overworked new hire at the Daily Planet agrees to watch a small white dog in a Superman cape, she doesn’t expect laser eyes, levitation—or the unraveling of Clark Kent’s biggest secret. As Krypto, the superpowered pup, brings chaos and unexpected comfort into her life, she discovers that the quiet, kind reporter she’s been crushing on might just be the most powerful man in the world (1K)

Warnings/Tags: Idiots in love, CoWorkers to Lovers, miscommunication, Krypto is the cutest dog in the world, Clark Kent is a dork, Reader tries too hard,

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You were desperate, not stupid. There was a difference.

You stood at your desk—if it could even be called that—armed with a rapidly cooling coffee tray, three highlighters (you didn’t know why), and the kind of blind hope that only came from being at the bottom of the food chain and still thinking you could claw your way up.

The Daily Planet newsroom buzzed around you: people on phones, printers screaming, Perry White yelling something about deadlines, and Lois Lane breezing past like she didn’t sweat brilliance. You’d pitched two stories today—both had been laughed at.

“Sorry, sweetie, coffee girls don’t get bylines,” someone had said.

You smiled like you weren’t dying inside.

You weren’t just here for the coffee. You had a degree. You had ideas. But no one wanted to hear them, and each time you tried, your tongue twisted, or you tripped over a trashcan, or your throat went dry in front of someone important. And the only person who hadn’t brushed you off entirely?

Clark Kent.

Tall, polite, and unfairly adorable. A man who said “pardon me” and meant it. You’d caught him glancing your way a few times when he thought you weren’t looking. He smiled like he was a little sorry for you, but not in a mean way.

You could handle that. You liked that, even.

You just knew you didn’t stand a chance.

So when someone knocked at your apartment door at 1:37 AM, the last person you expected was Clark freaking Kent standing there looking—slightly panicked, ruffled hair, glasses askew—and holding a small white dog.

In a cape.

“I—hi,” he said. “I know it’s late. Really late. I wouldn’t normally—this is weird, isn’t it? Sorry. You’re probably sleeping, or—”

You blinked at him. “Clark?”

He held up the dog. “Can I leave him with you?”

Your brain stalled.

“...Excuse me?”

“I just—something came up. He needs somewhere safe. He really liked you when he met you last week in the lobby. Remember?”

The dog wagged his tail and barked once. He had licked your fingers when you dropped your keys that day. You didn’t think much of it.

You looked between the dog and the man who may or may not be having a breakdown at your door.

“He’s house-trained?” you asked slowly.

“Yes. Smart too. You won’t even notice he’s here.”

You frowned. “And...the cape?”

Clark glanced down at the tiny red cloth fluttering off the dog’s back like it was nothing. “It’s his favorite. He won’t sleep without it.”

You exhaled. “Okay. Fine. But I want an explanation later.”

He lit up. “Thank you.”

You barely had time to blink before he handed over the dog, gave you a grateful look, and took off down the hall like he was running from something.

You looked at the dog. He blinked back.

“...Well,” you muttered. “Guess we’re doing this.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

At 4:02 a.m., the dog flew into your kitchen and melted your toaster with its heat vision.

You screamed so loud you scared it into knocking over your bookshelf.

After thirty minutes of frantic googling (“can dogs have heat vision” “superman dog breed???”), pacing, and one minor existential crisis, you stared down the fluffy creature sitting politely at your feet and whispered:

“…you’re Superman’s dog.”

The dog—somehow understanding—barked once in confirmation and wagged his tail.

“Which means…” You slowly stood. “Clark stole Superman’s dog?!”

You grabbed the dog and your coat, shoved your feet into two mismatched sneakers, and didn’t even lock your door.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Clark swiftly opened his front door in the same shirt he’d worn earlier, only now half-buttoned and untucked, revealing a t-shirt underneath. His face was panicked and his hair was wet. Like he’d just taken a very fast shower. Or been flying through the rain.

“Hey—” he started.

“You stole Superman’s dog!” you burst out, shoving the creature into his arms. “You committed super-theft, Clark! Of all people, you were the last person I expected to—!”

“Wait, wait—” he cut in, adjusting the dog. “It’s not what you think.”

“Oh really? Because I think you kidnapped Superman’s dog and then asked your co-worker to harbor a fugitive!”

Clark sighed. “You’re not gonna believe me.”

“Try me!”

There was a beat of silence. Then, softly, almost reluctantly, Clark said:

“I am Superman.”

Silence.

The dog sneezed.

“…I’m calling the cops.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Ten minutes, a small levitation demonstration, and one cracked lightbulb later, you were sitting on Clark’s couch, stunned, with a mug of tea you didn’t remember accepting.

“So you’re telling me… all this time… Superman has been you?”

Clark nodded slowly, watching you with the caution of someone afraid you might leap through his window.

“You—you’re Clark! And you wear glasses!”

He winced. “I mean… yeah?”

You stared at him, then pointed accusingly at the dog curled up in his lap. “And that—”

“That’s Krypto.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead. “Oh my god.”

“Yep.”

“The guy who does coffee runs with me and compliments my spreadsheets is Superman?”

“Also yes.”

You stared at him. “I let Superman’s dog pee on my throw pillows.”

He winced. “I’ll pay for those.”

You laughed again, breathless this time. “This is insane. You’re—Clark. You’re, like… a total dork.”

“Hey!”

“I mean, the glasses do help, but still—I figured you were secretly, like, in a band or something. Not… the savior of the city.”

He looked at you like he was waiting for you to explode. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you said honestly. “I just found out my coworker is a literal alien superhero and his dog flies.”

“I can erase your memory,” he offered gently.

You narrowed your eyes. “If you even try, I will tase you.”

He chuckled. “Fair.”

You hesitated. “So what happens now?”

He looked at you—really looked.

“Well,” he said softly, “I was hoping you’d let me buy you dinner.”

You blinked. “Is this a pity date because your dog tore up my apartment ?”

“It’s a real date because I’ve wanted to ask you out for weeks.”

You smiled, heart thudding.

Krypto barked once like a tiny wingman.

You reached over and scratched behind his ear.

“Okay,” you said. “Dinner. But I’m still mad about the pillows.”

Clark laughed, and it was warm and real.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised.

You arched a brow. “You better. Throw pillows don’t come cheap.”

Clark’s smile widened, and he looked almost boyish, like he’d just been handed the world. Krypto shifted in his lap, tail thumping against Clark’s thigh, and Clark absently scratched behind the pup’s ear while still watching you.

The silence stretched—not awkward, but weighted, like the air before a thunderstorm.

“You really mean it?” you asked quietly. “Dinner. Us.”

“More than I’ve meant anything in a long time,” he said. His voice was steady, but his eyes gave him away—earnest, hopeful, vulnerable in a way Superman never was.

Something inside you softened. You hadn’t realized until this moment how much Clark Kent—the man, not the cape—meant to you. And now, with the truth laid bare, he looked less like an untouchable hero and more like someone who desperately wanted to be seen.

You swallowed. “Then… you’re buying dessert too.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

Krypto barked again, as if stamping the agreement. You both laughed, the tension breaking, and when Clark finally reached across the couch, tentative, to brush his fingers against yours, you let him.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was steadier than that. Like the first deep breath after holding it too long.

And you knew, as his thumb traced lightly across your knuckles, that when he said he’d make it up to you, he didn’t mean just the pillows. He meant everything.

You squeezed his hand. “Don’t be late.”

“I never am,” he murmured with a smile that could melt steel—except you suspected it was only for you.

Krypto yawned, curled up tighter, and the three of you sat there in the quiet glow of a single lamp, as if the world outside could wait just a little longer.

[k-a-n65]

Love Again

Clark Kent (2025) x Reader

Summary: Haunted by a traumatic past and powers that bend reality, she was once Lex Luthor’s most dangerous weapon—until Clark Kent saw something human in her. Torn between redemption and self-destruction, she must face the truth about what she was made for… and who she might become. When betrayal shatters what little trust remains, their paths collide in a storm of secrets, scars, and impossible choices. In a city that worships heroes, can the girl built for chaos ever be more than a shadow of her past—or is love just another illusion she was never meant to touch? (1.6k)

Warnings/Tags: Enemies to lovers, Miscommunication, Angst, Clark has a Savior Complex, Emotional Trauma, Implied past Abuse, Trust issues, Betrayal, Mental Health Issues, Lex Luthor's a Bitch

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Metropolis never slept, not really. The light pollution stained the sky a sickly orange, like the city couldn’t bear to sit in darkness for too long. But you had long since made peace with the dark. It had always been your cradle—and your cage.

You stood at the edge of LexCorp Tower, wind whispering cruelly around you as your fingers twitched with residual energy. Your head pounded with echoes of old training sessions, of a voice you used to worship telling you who to be, how to behave, how to hurt.

Lex had taught you how to lie.

Clark Kent had taught you how to feel.

And both had broken you in different ways.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You weren’t supposed to feel anything for him. That was the deal. Infiltrate the Daily Planet, get close to Kent, find out what he knew about Luthor’s secret projects—projects you had once been part of. Projects that made you.

You were the last of a failed experiment—designed to manipulate matter, minds, and magic. You were fire and fury and broken girlhood all wrapped in trembling skin. Lex named you “Siren” for the way your voice could fracture steel or seduce obedience.

“Kent likes sincerity,” he had said, adjusting his cufflinks with that same vacant smirk. “Give him something to believe in. Then break it.”

And you had. At first.

You learned the rhythm of his footsteps before you knew the color of his eyes. You learned the sound of his laugh before you realized it made your ribs ache. You didn’t mean to fall for him—but Clark had this gravitational pull. He made you feel seen, even in moments where you wanted to stay invisible.

He listened when you spoke, really listened. And he smiled at you like you weren’t dangerous.

That was the first time you wondered if you could be anything other than Lex’s shadow.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The Daily Planet newsroom had long since emptied out. The hum of computer monitors had dulled, replaced by the soft sound of rain tapping against the windows. The city lights outside cast a golden glow across the bullpen, leaving the two of you in a cozy cocoon of lamplight and secrets.

Clark sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie askew, eyes scanning an article draft with furrowed brows. You leaned over his shoulder, one hand braced on the back of his chair, the other holding a now-cold cup of coffee.

"Your third paragraph’s got a split infinitive,” you said, teasing gently.

He gave a low, tired chuckle. “It’s almost midnight. Grammar rules are flexible after eleven.”

“Tell that to Perry. He eats dangling modifiers for breakfast.”

Clark turned, and you were close—closer than you'd meant to be. His gaze flickered to your eyes, then your lips, then back again.

Your breath caught.

“Thanks for staying late,” he said softly. “I know you’ve had a dozen reasons to head out.”

You shrugged. “Couldn’t leave you here drowning in deadlines and caffeine.”

He tilted his head. “You’re not who I expected, you know.”

You froze.

“I thought you were just… sharp edges and fast talk,” he continued. “But then you bring in donuts on Wednesdays and remember my coffee order and keep an umbrella in your desk because I’m always forgetting mine.”

Your throat tightened.

He didn’t know the umbrella was Lex’s idea. Keep him reliant, in small ways. Make yourself essential.

But the donuts? The coffee? That was all you.

You looked away. “Don’t make me out to be soft, Kent. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“I don’t think you’re soft,” he said. “I think you’re brave. And lonely.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

There was nothing but kindness in his face, nothing but light in the gaze that never flinched.

You hated how badly you wanted to step closer. You hated how real he felt.

“Good night, Clark,” you murmured, already walking away.

He didn’t stop you.

But his voice followed softly behind you:

“Good night, Y/N.”

He never called you Siren.

And that made it worse.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You weren’t sure when the job became something more. When lingering in his apartment late after a stakeout felt more like home than any place you’d ever known. You weren’t sure why your knees buckled the first time he said you were good.

But you were sure when it all fell apart...

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had both been trailing a lead, some whispered black market dealings tied to illegal tech. You ended up on the rooftop under thunderclouds, soaked to the bone, your jacket clinging to you like a second skin.

“Tell me the truth,” he had said, hands clenched, eyes wide, full of that desperate hope he always clung to like it wouldn’t cut him. “What are you running from?”

You opened your mouth, meaning to say something measured. Controlled. But what came out was raw and desperate.

“I used to believe Lex could make me good,” you whispered. “Because he promised to make me useful.”

The words spilled out like blood: how Lex found you, how he taught you to manipulate minds and matter, how he whispered your name like you were a miracle and a curse all at once. How you had lied to Clark since the day you met.

“I never meant to—” you’d choked, voice cracking. “But you were… kind. And I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Clark’s face had gone still. The silence between you was sharper than any blade.

“You worked for him,” he’d said softly, disbelief curdling into hurt. “All this time.”

You cried.

He didn’t.

Clark had the kind of silence that made you feel like you were crumbling in slow motion.

He didn’t yell. He just left.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You didn’t expect him to come back.

You were no longer a headline at the Planet. No longer anyone’s agent or spy. Just a ghost with haunted eyes and trembling hands, lurking at the edge of a city you once threatened to burn down.

The wind howled around you as you stared at the streetlights below. You imagined stepping off the ledge—not to fall, just to float, to disappear before he saw you like this.

“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” came the voice you still heard in your dreams.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

“You left me alone,” you said. “Months ago.”

A pause. The wind stopped howling for just a moment.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Clark replied, closer now.

You turned, slowly. The moment your eyes met his, everything you’d been holding back hit you like a tsunami. The ache, the guilt, the quiet desperation.

“Funny,” you said bitterly. “I used to think you wanted me.”

His brows furrowed. “I did. I do.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “You wanted a redemption arc. A project. You saw someone broken and thought if you loved them hard enough, they’d become someone you could proudly stand beside.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, it’s not!” you cried, power flaring red behind your eyes. “It’s not fair that I loved you and hated myself at the same time. That every day I spent with you felt like I was waiting to be exposed, waiting for you to finally see me for what I really was: a weapon. A lie.”

“I never saw you that way.”

“Didn’t you?” Your voice broke. “You left the second I told you the truth.”

Clark’s expression twisted in pain. “Because I didn’t know how to process it. I wasn’t expecting—”

“You weren’t expecting me.”

He looked away. And that hurt more than any insult could.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

There had been a time you would’ve begged for his forgiveness. Laid yourself bare, offered up your soul and every fragmented piece of your mind if it meant he’d look at you like he used to.

But now?

Now, you weren’t so sure.

“I spent my whole life making men into gods,” you said, stepping closer, voice dangerously low. “Lex. You. Even myself. But what did it cost? My mind? My body? My love?”

He didn’t flinch as you reached for him, your hand trembling with something volatile, something terrified.

“I gave you everything I knew how to give,” you said. “If I’d had innocence left, I’d have handed you that too.”

“You still think you’re unworthy of love?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Not unworthy,” you said. “Just incapable.”

He stepped closer. “I don’t believe that.”

“I do.” The power flared behind your eyes. “And I need you to stop trying to save me. I’m not your charity case. I’m not a soul to redeem. I’m not someone who belongs to anyone.”

He touched your hand.

It burned.

“You don’t belong to me,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop caring.”

You looked down, shaking. “Don’t. Please. Don’t pretend we can go back.”

He swallowed. “I’m not pretending. I’m hoping.”

You turned your back again, biting hard on the sob rising in your throat.

Hope had always been his weapon.

But you were done bleeding for it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Later that night, Clark found the shattered glass of your rooftop perch.

You were gone.

But your voice lingered in his mind.

“Am I ever going to love again?”

He didn’t have an answer.

But he still whispered to the wind.

“I hope so.”

Even if that love no longer belonged to him.