Marvel's Amazing Superman

[Avip_br]

[#] Welcome to this one-shot of Marvel's Amazing Superman. I've had this story idea for a while and wrote it during a break from working on my new book.

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New York City wakes to a symphony of honks, distant sirens, and the steady rumble of the subway. The air is thick with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the sweet, doughy scent of street cart bagels. Central Park's trees are a lush green, their leaves sparkling with dew, as joggers pound the pavement, earbuds firmly in place.

The city throbs with life, each person a tiny cog in the massive machine that is New York City.

And like many days in the city, crime rises to action as an alarm pierces the air.

REEEEEEEET!

The alarm blares from a bank on Fifth Avenue. Panic ripples through the crowd as a massive, muscular figure bursts through the bank's doors. Clad in a gray suit, the figure's most striking feature is a prominent horn in the center of his forehead. He throws his head back, laughter booming like thunder.

"Nobody stops the Rhino!" he roars, hefting two bulging sacks of cash.

Pedestrians scream and scatter. A hot dog vendor abandons his cart, running for cover. Traffic grinds to a halt as drivers gawk at the spectacle. A taxi driver, grizzled and seasoned, curses under his breath.

"Not again," he mutters, slamming his hands on the steering wheel.

The Rhino charges down the street, swiping at anything in his path. A mailbox goes flying, spilling letters like confetti. A parking meter is uprooted, change clattering across the pavement. Chaos erupts in his wake, but the Rhino doesn't slow. He plows through the gridlock, sending cars spinning.

"Outta my way!" he bellows, veins popping in his neck.

A bicycle messenger skids to a halt, eyes wide.

"Hey, you can't—!" The bicycle messenger's words cut off as something yanks him backward, his bike clattering to the ground.

The Rhino grunts, confusion furrowing his brow. He turns to see the messenger suspended mid-air, wriggling like a fish on a line. White webbing stretches from the messenger's back to the lamp post above, shimmering in the sunlight.

The Rhino's eyes widen, a snarl curling his lip.

"Spider-Man!" he roars, the name echoing through the street like a curse.

A figure in red and blue swoops down from above, landing lightly on the pavement. His eyes, obscured by a red mask, crinkle at the corners as he grins.

The Rhino's snarl deepens as Spider-Man lands, his grin never wavering.

"Aleksei Sytsevich," Spider-Man begins, voice stern. "You could've killed this poor gig worker."

The Rhino's eyes flash with anger.

"Don't you say my name!" he roars, charging.

Spider-Man leaps, dodging the Rhino's charge with ease, sending the behemoth to the other side of the street.

The bike messenger, still dangling, starts explaining.

"Actually… I'm not a gig worker," he calls out, struggling. "I am fully employed by the company I deliver!"

Spider-Man flips, landing on a lamppost. He cocks his head, looking down at the messenger.

"For real?"

"Yeah," the messenger grunts, trying to free himself. "I get paid by the hour and have several benefits."

The Rhino regains his footing, shaking his head like a bull ready to charge. Spider-Man holds up a hand, one finger raised.

"Hold that thought, Aleksei," he says, before turning back to the messenger. "So, this company of yours...are they hiring?"

The messenger blinks, surprised.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, they are. Why?"

Spider-Man leaps from the lamppost, somersaulting in the air to land in front of the Rhino.

"Got a kid about to start college," he says conversationally. "He's gonna need the cash."

The Rhino's face reddens, muscles bulging as he roars.

"I'll crush you, bug!"

Spider-Man's grin fades, irritation flickering in his eyes.

"Seriously, Aleksei?" he retorts, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "We've been doing this dance for years. How many times do I have to tell you? Spiders are arachnids, not insects."

He flips backward just as the Rhino's massive fist slams into the pavement where he stood moments before. The ground quakes, a crater yawning open. Car alarms wail, adding to the chaotic cacophony.

Spider-Man lands on the side of a building, clinging effortlessly. He shakes his head.

"You really ought to brush up on your biology, big guy."

The Rhino's eyes narrow, a deep growl resonating in his chest. He charges again, but Spider-Man is already on the move, bounding from wall to wall, leaving the Rhino to smash through a hot dog stand.

Steam hisses from the broken cart, wieners rolling across the pavement. The vendor, a burly man with a thick beard, throws his hands up.

"Come on, man!" he shouts, shaking his fist at the Rhino. "I just set that up!"

The Rhino stumbles, shaking fragments of the hot dog stand from his shoulders and the tip of this horn. His breath comes in ragged gasps, chest heaving as he turns, scanning the street for his elusive foe.

"Why do you dodge but don't fight me serious?" he bellows, frustration etched on his face.

Spider-Man perches on a traffic signal, arms crossed. His head tilts, the stark black eyes of his mask boring into the Rhino.

"You know me. I never pass up a fight against an animal themed villain." He says joyfully. "But that's not what I'm here for, Aleksei."

The Rhino blinks, confusion momentarily replacing anger.

"What do you mean?"

Spider-Man's mask creases at the corners of his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I'm just here to keep people from getting hurt. You know, that whole 'responsibility' thing?"

The Rhino's brow furrows, a deep growl resonating in his chest.

"So, what? You're not going to fight me?"

Spider-Man chuckles, shaking his head.

"Not today, Aleksei. Today is a special day."

He pauses, leaning forward, the smirk on his face widening.

"Today is the debut of the Amazing Superman."

As the last syllable leaves Spider-Man's lips, a sudden whoosh echoes through the air. A figure plummets from the sky, slamming into the pavement with a force that sends a small shockwave rippling through the street.

BOOM!

Cars bounce, alarms blare. The figure straightens, striking a pose with a puffed out chest and confident smile.

His suit, a brilliant blue, hugs his frame, emphasizing every muscle. The iconic 'S' emblem blazes across his chest, a beacon of hope in red and gold. A crimson belt circles his waist, matching the red trunks that harken back to a simpler time. His feet are clad in sturdy red boots. A rugged black leather jacket adds an air of toughness to his look. His eyes, concealed by a blue mask with white lenses, gleam with determination. His bare hands clench at his sides, ready for action.

The Rhino stares, jaw agape. Spider-Man, still perched, lets out a low whistle.

"Now that's an entrance," he mutters, a hint of admiration in his voice. "But we need to have a talk about collateral damage."

Superman's eyes flick to Spider-Man, offering a nod of acknowledgement before turning to the Rhino. His voice, deep and resonant, rings out.

"Rhino, your days of rampaging through the city end now."

The Rhino, instead of charging or roaring, stands stock-still, mouth agape beneath his gray hood. His beady eyes, usually ablaze with fury, are wide and disbelieving. He tilts his head, the massive horn jutting from his forehead glinting dully in the sunlight.

"Wait a sec," he rumbles with hands raised, a note of bewilderment in his voice. "Your name's really Superman?"

Superman, taken aback, pauses. A faint flush creeps up his neck, visible even through the collar of his jacket. He clears his throat, standing a bit straighter.

"Yeah, it is."

For a moment, the Rhino just stares. Then, like a dam bursting, laughter erupts from deep within his chest. It's a booming sound, filled with genuine amusement rather than malice. He doubles over, hands on his knees, laughter shaking his massive frame.

Superman's flush deepens as his eyes dart to Spider-Man, who merely shrugs.

"I did warn you, kid," Spider-Man says, a hint of sympathy in his voice. "The name's a bit... on the nose."

The Rhino straightens, wiping a tear from his eye and still chuckling. He shakes his head, grinning wide.

"Superman," he scoffs, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "Really? Was 'Heroguy' already taken?"

Spider-Man winces, looking at Superman with something akin to pity.

"Ouch," he mutters. "Getting roasted by the Rhino on your first day out. That's gotta sting."

Superman's jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow as he takes a step forward, fists clenched at his sides. The Rhino's grin fades, his eyes gleaming with a familiar spark of aggression.

"You wanna go, pretty boy?" he growls, cracking his knuckles. "I could use another good laugh."

Superman scowl deepens, but a voice gets his attention.

"Don't fight in anger," Spider-Man calls from afar. "You should be the one making him mad."

"Thanks, Dad," Superman mutters in a serious tone, cocking his fist.

"Wait," the Rhino interrupts. "Did you call him Dad? For real?"

Instead of responding, Superman's fist connects with the Rhino's jaw, the force of the blow sending the behemoth staggering back. His feet grind against the pavement, each step thunderous. He shakes his head, working his jaw back and forth.

"Alright, kid," he grunts, a gleam of respect in his eyes. "You can throw a punch. Let's see how you take one."

The Rhino charges, his massive form picking up speed like a freight train. Superman stands his ground, body tensing. At the last moment, he sidesteps, allowing the Rhino to barrel past him. Superman's hands lash out, grabbing the Rhino's horn and using his momentum to slam him headfirst into a nearby lamppost.

The metal groans, bending under the impact. The Rhino stumbles back, shaking his head like a dazed bull. He turns to Superman, a snarl on his lips.

"You're quick, kid," he growls. "But I'm stronger."

He lunges, his massive fists swinging like wrecking balls. Superman ducks and weaves, each blow whistling past him. He lands a quick jab to the Rhino's ribs, the force rattling the bigger man. The Rhino grunts and swings again. Superman leaps back, the Rhino's fist slamming into the pavement, leaving a small crater.

The fight continues, Superman's speed against the Rhino's brute force. Every blow the Rhino lands is a thunderclap, shaking the very foundations of the city. But Superman evades most of them, his body a blur of motion. He lands hit after hit, each one precise and calculated.

Minutes turn into half an hour. Sweat pours down the Rhino's face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He stumbles, fatigue weighing heavily on his limbs. Superman, too, is breathing hard, but his eyes remain bright and determined.

The Rhino pauses, hands on his knees, chest heaving. He looks up at Superman, a question in his eyes.

"Don't you ever get tired, kid?" he pants.

Grinning, Superman quips.

"I can do this all day."

From his perch, Spider-Man lets out a whoop, punching the air.

"I understood that reference!"

The Rhino's breaths come in ragged gasps, his massive chest heaving like a bellows. His tree-trunk legs, once steady as stone, begin to tremble, the relentless exchange with Superman finally taking its toll. Superman notices the tremors, the slight wobble in the behemoth's stance. He pauses, straightening from his combat crouch, eyes locked onto the Rhino's.

"Mr. Aleksei," he begins, his voice steady and respectful.

The Rhino blinks, confusion momentarily eclipsing his fatigue. From his perch, Spider-Man tilts his head, brows furrowing beneath his mask.

"Mr. Aleksei?" they echo in unison, both surprised.

Superman nods, his stance relaxing and hands unclenching.

"We don't have to continue this fight."

The Rhino's eyes widened, a deep growl resonating in his chest. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back and clenching his fists.

"You think I'm weak?" he roars, spittle flying from his lips. "You think I'm not worthy of your time?"

Superman raises his brows, surprise flickering in his eyes. He shakes his head, hands raised in a placating gesture.

"That's not what I meant. I don't want to hurt you."

The Rhino's growl deepens, a sound of disbelief and anger.

"Hurt me?" he scoffs. "You think you can hurt me, pretty boy?"

Superman's expression softens, a touch of sadness in his eyes. He steps closer, his voice lowering and earnest.

"You wanted the money from the bank, not to hurt people or do something like… conquer the world. If you surrender now, you'll get a lighter sentence."

The Rhino blinks, confusion washing over his features. He shakes his head, as if trying to clear it.

"Why do you care?" he growls, though the edge in his voice has dulled, morphing into something more akin to curiosity.

Superman's gaze keeps steady and sincere.

"You deserve a chance." The young man continues. "The same one you gave my father when you could kill him while holding a newborn baby."

The Rhino stares at Superman as if seeing him for the first time. His fists unclench, arms dropping to his sides. The fight drains from his stance, leaving only weariness behind.

Spider-Man, watching from above, lets out a low whistle.

"Well, would you look at that," he murmurs, a hint of admiration in his voice.

Superman's expression softens, his eyes brightening.

"How do you...?" he begins, his voice hoarse, but Superman cuts him off, his tone gentle yet firm.

"I heard about it," he says, taking a step closer, his hand reaching out, almost touching the Rhino's arm. "I've seen the choices you've made when no one else was looking. I've seen the lives you've spared when you could have taken them to avenge your wife."

The Rhino shudders again, the memory of that day flooding back. He remembers the baby, Normie Osborn, so small and helpless. He recalls the bounty, the promise of wealth and vengeance against spider-man. But more than that, he remembers the choice he made, the choice to walk away.

"Oksana," he murmurs, her name a soft, painful whisper. "Normie Osborn," he repeats, his voice barely audible. He looks up at Superman, his eyes haunted. "I could have taken him. I could have claimed the reward and killed Spider-Man. But I didn't."

Superman nods, a small smile playing on his lips.

"No, you didn't," he agrees, his voice steady and sure. "You made a choice that day, Aleksei. A choice that proves you're not the monster you think you are."

The Rhino's eyes widen, surprise and disbelief warring within them. He shakes his head, a deep growl resonating in his chest.

"You don't know what you're talking about, kid," he snarls, but the edge in his voice has dulled, morphing into something more akin to desperation. "You don't know the things I've done. The lives I've ruined."

Superman's smile fades, his expression sobering. He steps closer, his hand finally resting on the Rhino's arm, a gentle, steadying grip.

"I don't…" Superman mutters as the sound of police sirens approaches in the distance. "But it's up to you how to deal with your past crimes."

The Rhino's massive hands clench, his knuckles cracking like thunder. He takes a deep breath, the tension in his body easing as he exhales. His eyes, once filled with rage, now hold a quiet resolve.

"Alright, kid," he rumbles, his voice a low, defeated growl. "I'll do it. I'll turn myself in."

Superman's lips curve into a smile, gratitude shining in his eyes.

"Thank you, Mr. Aleksei," he says, his voice warm with sincerity.

The Rhino blinks, surprise flickering across his face. Then, he throws his head back, laughter booming from deep within his chest. The sound echoes through the street, loud and genuine.

"Mr. Aleksei," he repeats, chuckling and shaking his head. "Kid, you're something else. Here I am, dressed like a damn rhino, breaking walls and stealing money, and you're showing me more respect than any mob boss that hired me ever did."

Superman's smile turns sheepish, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He rubs the back of his head, chuckling softly.

"Well, when you put it that way..." he begins, but his words trail off as a familiar figure drops from above, landing beside him with a graceful thud.

"Leave the rest to me," Spider-Man says, clapping Superman on the shoulder. "I'll handle the boys in blue. You've got a date with higher education, remember?"

Superman's eyes widen, surprise and alarm flashing across his face. He pulls out his phone, the screen displaying the time in bold, accusatory numbers.

"Oh no," he mutters, his thumb tracing the edge of the device. "You're right. I'm late!"

He looks up, his eyes darting from Spider-Man to the Rhino, a hint of apology in their depths.

"I have to go," he says, already stepping back, his body coiling like a spring.

The Rhino nods, a small, understanding smile on his lips.

"Go on, kid," he rumbles. "Wouldn't want you to miss your first day."

Superman grins, gratitude shining in his eyes.

"Thanks, Mr. Aleksei," he says, before turning to Spider-Man. "Bye, Dad, I mean..." he falters, catching himself. "Spider-man."

Spider-Man sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his mask.

"Just go," he mutters, exasperation evident in his voice. "Before you blow both our covers."

Superman nods, a soft laugh escaping his lips. He turns, his body tensing as he crouches low. Then, with a powerful leap, he soars into the air, his form arcing high above the city streets.

The Rhino watches him go, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest. Beside him, Spider-Man sighs, his hand dropping to his side as he shakes his head.

"That kid," he mutters, turning to the Rhino. "He's got a lot to learn about maintaining a secret identity."

The Rhino's chuckle deepens, turning into a full-blown laugh. He claps Spider-Man on the shoulder, the force of it nearly sending the smaller man stumbling.

"He's a good kid, with potential," Rhino rumbles, his eyes shining with amusement. "Greater than yours at that age."

"Yeah…" Spider-Man agrees.

"You should be proud."

Spider-Man's lips quirk, a small smile playing on his face.

"More than you could imagine."

***​

Superman jumps atop buildings in the concrete jungle, his form a blur against the stark silhouettes of skyscrapers. He lands in a dim alley, the stench of rotting trash and damp asphalt filling his nostrils. With his left hand, he removes the mask as his right hand finds the small, circular button on his belt, activating it with a soft click. The air around him shimmers as his suit, made of unstable molecules, shifts and rearranges. The vibrant blues and reds dull, morphing into simple jeans and a plain white tee. His red boots fade into worn-out sneakers.

"Thank you, Uncle Richards," Clark murmurs gratefully.

Clark quickly turns his black leather jacket inside out; the supple material transforms into faded denim as he tugs it on, completing his transformation. He steps out of the alley, blending seamlessly into the crowded sidewalk—just another college kid rushing to class.

His sneakers slap against the pavement, his breath coming in steady puffs. He dodges slow-moving pedestrians, mumbling apologies as he brushes past them. A cyclist rings their bell, swerving to avoid him. Clark sidesteps, narrowly avoiding a collision.

"Sorry!" he calls over his shoulder, not breaking stride.

He rounds a corner, his eyes landing on the familiar stone façade of Empire State University. The clock tower above tolls the hour, its deep, resonating chimes echoing through the campus grounds. Clark's heart sinks.

"Late," he mutters, cold sweat forming. "So late."

Clark's backpack smacks against a fellow student, sending papers flying as he starts running.

"Sorry!" he calls out, not stopping.

He weaves through the crowded courtyard, leaving a wake of startled students and scattered belongings. His sneakers squeak against the linoleum as he skids into the hallway and then into the classroom.

"Empty," he mutters, agape.

Except for the solitary figure at the front, the room is truly empty. A man, graying at the temples, stands there—his silhouette familiar yet... different.

"Sorry, I'm late," Clark's voice echoes in the empty room as he takes a few cautious steps forward.

The man turns, revealing an empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder. A jolt of recognition hits Clark.

"Dr. Connors?" His voice is barely above a whisper.

The man's eyes widen, surprise flickering across his face.

"And you are?"

"Clark," he swallows hard, extending a hand. "Clark Parker."

"Clark Parker, you say?" Connors' gaze sharpens, his eyes narrowing as he studies Clark's face. "And do I know you from...?"

"You don't know me, but you know my father," says Clark with a smile. "Peter Parker's my dad."

Connors' face breaks into a wide smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Well, I'll be damned. Peter Parker's kid. In my classroom." He chuckles, shaking his head. "I knew he had kids, but... time flies, doesn't it?"

Clark nods, his grin softening.

The friendly atmosphere between the two is shattered as Dr. Connors mutters,

"Peter Parker's son, late for the first day of school?"

Clark's smile fades, and his shoulders tense.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, Dr. Connors. I promise it won't happen again."

Connors waves a hand, dismissing the apology.

"It's not that, Clark." He pauses, searching Clark's face. Seconds tick by, the silence heavy. Then, softly, "Are you one of them? A superhero, I mean?"

Clark's heart stutters.

"Whaaat? Noooo, I—" He steps back, his foot catching on a chair leg. He stumbles, arms flailing, grasping for support.

The chair topples over, shattering like weak glass against the hard floor. Clark winces, righting himself, his face flushed.

Connors raises an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"Quite the entrance, Clark."

Clark's flush deepens, and his hands shoved into his pockets.

"Yeah, well... I'm not exactly known for my subtlety."

Connors' smirk widens, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"You know, it took me years to figure out your father's secret identity. Years of battles, near-misses, and far too many close calls." He leans back against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. "And here you are, blowing your cover on the first day. Not quite the Parker stealth I was expecting."

Clark's shoulders slump, his gaze dropping to the floor.

"Guess I didn't get that particular skill."

Connors' expression softens, understanding flickering in his eyes.

"Don't worry, Clark. Subtlety can be learned. And until you master it..." He pushes off from the desk, standing tall. "I'll cover for you."

Relief washes over Clark, a grateful smile tugging at his lips. But before he can express his thanks, Connors continues,

"Of course, there'll be extra assignments for the classes you'll miss."

Clark's eyes widen, and his smile vanishes.

"Miss? Dr. Connors, I don't plan on missing any classes."

Connors chuckles, a low, knowing sound.

"Clark, you're a superhero. Plans change, emergencies happen. You'll miss classes." He states it as fact, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And when you do, you'll have assignments to complete. Consider it... incentive to stay under the radar."

Clark's shoulders slump, his backpack sliding down his arm and landing with a thud on the floor. He sighs heavily.

"You know, I thought saving a bank and stopping a supervillain was going to be the hard part of my day." He rubs a hand over his face, his fingers pressing against his temples. "Guess I was wrong."

Connors' lips twitch, a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

"Welcome to college, Clark." He claps him on the back, turning him toward the door. "And since you arrived late, your roommates have already been chosen for you."

"I hope he's a reasonable guy."

***​

"You are late, Parker," says Clark's roommate in a cold, unreasonable tone.

Clark's arms engulf the tiny figure, his joy undeterred by the harsh reception.

"Normie," he says with glee. "It's been forever!"

"Let go of me, you big oaf!" Normie squirms, but Clark just laughs, ruffling his cousin's hair.

"Is it just me, or did you shrink?" says Clark, confused.

Normie slaps Clark's hand away, his face flushed.

"You're the one who grew up too much. How do you even fit through doors with all those muscles?"

Clark grins, finally releasing Normie.

"So, how'd you end up as my roommate? Last I heard, you were studying abroad."

Normie shrugs, straightening his clothes.

"Changed my mind. Empire State has a better tech program. But I sure could use better roommates."

"Roommates?" Clark repeats, raising an eyebrow. "As in more than one?"

Normie rolls his eyes and gestures to the third bed, neatly made, in the corner.

"Corner rooms, Parker. Three of us share this glorious palace."

Clark's brow furrows as he scans the room, taking in the tight space.

"Who's the third—"

A blur slams into him, knocking him to the floor. A loud, obnoxious laugh echoes through the room.

"Not so tough after all, huh?"

Clark struggles, pinned beneath a mop of blond hair. He twists, grabbing his attacker and flipping him over.

"Franklin?" Clark's face lights up, a wide grin spreading across his features. "No way!"

Franklin Richards, son of Mr. Fantastic and the Invisible Woman, laughs from the floor.

"Surprise, cousin!"

Clark jumps up, pulling Franklin with him, and the two embrace in a hug.

"How are you? How's your family?" Clark showers him with questions, his enthusiasm bubbling over.

Franklin grins as he extricates himself from Clark's grip.

"Everyone's good. Mom and Dad say hi. They wanted to come see you off, but Dad's got some interdimensional thing going on in the lab." Starts Franklin dusting himself off. "Uncle Ben and Johnny are working with the avengers… COUGH! my sister still loves you COUGH!"

"What did you say at the end there?" Clark asks, confused on the matter.

"Nothing." The blond says smiling. "Just a scratch on the throat."

Normie snorts from across the room.

"So oblivious for the son of a photojournalist."

Clark slaps Franklin on the back, laughing.

"This is insane! All three of us, together again."

Normie, leaning against his desk, smirks.

"Just like old times, huh? Ready to take on the world," says the ginger with an arrogant smile.

"You're too young to dominate the world, dude. You're fifteen, Normie," Franklin says, grinning as he spreads his arms wide, pulling both his friends into a hug. "But you're also right—we're going to own this college."

Clark chuckles, shaking his head.

"I don't know about owning, but I think we can make it through just fine," adds Clark.

"Yep, I can already see it," says Franklin, raising his arm. "A peaceful, uneventful college life… what could possibly go wrong?"

---

E ai gurizada,

[#]I have ideas to continue these stories, but no current plans to do so. Right now, I'm working on four ongoing stories that I update twice a month.

[#]However, as always, your feedback (especially from my Ko-fi subscribers) can influence whether this story replaces one of the others.

 

[Romafedu]

Looks good

 

[OGbacon]

Curt can't cross his arms, all in all I'm always down for putting one character in a different verse.

 

[SuperPulp2789]

It's nice to see that Peter's not a teenager here

 

[Avip_br]

It's nice to see that Peter's not a teenager here

Click to shrink...

Yep,
It's not written in stone, but in this story, Peter is in his late 30s and early 40s.
Heroes like Mister Fantastic and Tony Star are reaching 50.

 

[SuperPulp2789]

Yep,
It's not written in stone, but in this story, Peter is in his late 30s and early 40s.
Heroes like Mister Fantastic and Tony Star are reaching 50.

Click to shrink...

And all still look really good for their ages

 

[Avip_br]

And all still look really good for their ages

Click to shrink...

Hehe.

I think the worst offenders on that field are those from the justice society, technically the veterans are easily over 50 years old.

 

[ScottisI]

Looks interesting. TYFTC

 

[Avip_br]

[#] I made the second chapter, but don't get your hopes up. This isn't turning into a series.

COMMENTS:

V01Dsw0rd[archiveofourown]: Were you aware that Clark Kent canonically appears in a Marvel Comic?

AVIP: Other than those old comic book crossovers and 'Amalgam Comics' event, I didn't know.



Kolomte_49[archiveofourown]: Honestamente, esperaba que Rhino preguntara al menos si la mamá era una super también, quizas Captain Marvel, por lo de poder volar y la super fuerza. Solo apostando, y estoy diciendo esto mientras oigo el momento que Clark conoce a Connors.

Curiosamente, siempre me pregunte porque las veces que Connors era consciente en su forma de lagarto, no descubrió la identidad de Peter teniendo las habilidades de los reptiles, y probablemente siendo capas de rastrearlo con el olfato. Algo como Wolverine que debería de ser capaz de hacerlo.

Normie. Tengo curiosidad si tendrá acceso a un simbionte, y si tendrá la tendencia de sonreír maquiavelicamente como a veces lo mostraron en los comics.

Franklin. Habrán menciones sobre él siendo un mutante o alguna interacción con Rachel Summers? O alguna mención de sus primos Skrull y Kree?

Lo siento. Hace mucho que no sigo los comics, así que no sé nada sobre las situaciones actuales de los personajes más jovenes.

AVIP: I'm indeed inspired by recent comics(last 20 years), but it won't be 100% canon, as Marvel and superhero comics are generally a clusterfuck with their lore.

The decision to use this recent timeline is because it's more robust with characters I can choose from, and I find it interesting that Clark had relatives and friends in his childhood with heroic parents as well.



SuperPulp2789[questionablequesting]: It's nice to see that Peter's not a teenager here

AVIP: Yep, It's not set in stone yet, but in this story, Peter is in his late 30s and early 40s. Heroes like Mister Fantastic and Tony Star are reaching 50.

Follow-up = SuperPulp2789[questionablequesting]: And all still look really good for their ages

AVIP: Hehe. I think the worst offenders in that field are those from the justice society, technically the veterans are easily over 50 years old, but they are drawn like 20 year old athletes.

---

The moon hangs low, casting silver streaks across Empire State University's empty quad. A shadow detaches from the darkness, sleek and fluid, wholly alive.

She moves like liquid, muscles rippling beneath the skintight black suit clinging to every curve. The fabric glistens faintly, molded to her form, leaving nothing to the imagination. A waist that tapers just right, hips swaying with deliberate precision as she glides over the cobblestones. No sound, no hesitation, just the whisper of breath and the faintest flex of thighs beneath the suit's second-skin embrace.

Her white-gloved fingers brush the window ledge, and sharp blades flicker, sprouting from her fingertips. The glass doesn't stand a chance.

One flick of her wrist, and the diamond-tipped claws shear through the reinforced pane like it's wet paper. No alarm blares, she already disabled that three minutes ago, back when the guard was still drooling over his phone, watching a ball game. Now, the only sound is the slow, deliberate tap-tap-tap of her stiletto heels on the museum's polished marble.

Something that should have worried her, yet she allowed herself this small indulgence. For Felicia Hardy, the Black Cat, it felt like she was simply marking her territory before her inevitable victory.

The exhibit hall yawns before her, all velvet ropes and spotlights, but her gaze locks onto the prize like a magnet. She feels like the crimson gem, pulsing under its glass dome is teasing her. A ruby the size of a fist, color deep as fresh blood, winking at her from its pedestal.

"Oh, you naughty little thing," she purrs, hips swaying as she steps closer. "You cant just sit there, teasing a girl like that."

The suit doesn't just fit, it sinks into her ample curves, hugging like a lover's jealous grip. Every seam is molded to the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, and the deep, scandalous swell of a chest whose generous cleavage is its own, private display. The material is so tight it should be illegal, but then again, so is she.

Her fingers dance, almost touching the display case's pressure sensors. A smirk twists her lips as she notices something good for her.

"Oh, darling… lucky, lucky me," she purrs to the crimson gem, sliding her finger blade beneath an exposed wire at the base of the sensor. "Those cheap bastards never knew how to treat a cute thing like you. They left you all alone, exposed, right under their sleepy little noses. Tsk, tsk."

She leans in, her white hair spills over one shoulder, a single lock brushing the gem's surface. The ruby thrums under her touch, warm, almost alive.

"Mine," she whispers, hand flexing as a possessive smile curls her lips. "You belong to me, now."

The gem's deep crimson glow illuminated her fingertips as she admired her latest acquisition. Yet, despite the spectacular prize nestled in her palm, a feeling began to creep up on the thief, a monumental, unexpected sense of disappointment.

The ruby's glow bleeds across her gloves, painting her knuckles crimson. She turns it over, once, twice, but nothing happens.

No traps.

No tricks.

Nothing that looked remotely like a decent challenge. It was just another trinket for a bored Tuesday where, disappointingly, everything had gone exactly according to her plans.

Her claws retract with a hiss, vanishing into her fingertips like they were never there. She drops the ruby back onto the velvet cushion with a dull thud.

'Pathetic.' The word pops in her mind. 'This was supposed to be fun, with a hint of danger, and a touch of theatrics and drama. But what do I get instead? A walk-in, a grab, and a yawn. I could've stolen a candy bar from a gas station and gotten the same thrill.'

The familiar feelings of boredom were starting to congeal into something heavier on Felicia's mind. A weight of dread settling over her realizing that maybe she had become too good, too efficient, and the world had nothing left to offer her but disappointment. The silence, thick with her own mounting dissatisfaction, is then abruptly cut by a voice.

"Visiting hours are over," a powerful masculine voice declared, dripping with confidence and authority. "And I'm afraid that isn't yours to take."

The thief doesn't turn. She doesn't flinch. Instead, a slow, sharp smile curved her lips, like a blade unsheathing itself for the first time in ages.

She pivots instantly on one stiletto heel, her body uncoiling like a released spring. The overhead lights caught the wicked curve of her hip, the deep dip of her waist, and the way her suit clung to every inch of her.

This is it. This is what she needed now. A worthy challenge. Something to remind her she isn't alone in the dark.

Her breath catches as her eyes lay on him. Not from fear, but from pleasant surprise.

"Oh," she whispers in awe to herself. "He is perfect."

Backlit by the museum's emergency lights, broad shoulders stretched the seams of a ridiculous blue suit that made her nostalgic for another red and blue hero. The fabric clung to every ridge of muscle, the way his thighs strained against the material, looking barely capable of containing the power beneath. And that symbol bold, red, and stupidly heroic was splayed across his chest like a personal dare to her.

She tilts her head, lips parting just enough to let her tongue trace the edge of her teeth.

"So you are the new hero I heard about," she purrs, voice dripping with amusement. "The one who fought Rhyno? Superguy."

The hero's brow twitches, just a flicker, but enough for Felicia to notice. He's angry, and the thought alone makes the thief purr.

Despite having reacted to the teasing he doesn't flex. He just stands there, hands loose at his sides, like he's got all the time in the world. Like he's not even trying to be intimidating.

"You don't have to do this," he says, voice low and smooth now. "Whatever you're running from, stealing won't fix it."

A musical laugh spills from her. Her head tips back, white hair cascading down her spine, the suit's fabric straining just so over the arch of her throat.

"Oh, darling," she says between giggles, one gloved hand pressed to her chest as if to steady the rush of delight. "You think I'm running?" Her fingers unfurl, claws glinting as they slide in and out, taunting the young hero. "Sweet, sweet boy… I wouldn't dream of running, not when something this entertaining finally shows up."



"I'm not here to entertain-" the hero began to warn, but his voice cut off mid-sentence as the thief took a slow, deliberate step closer. Her curvy form was immediately bathed in the moonlight streaming down through the skylight, demanding his attention.

Her long, silver-white hair cascaded down the shoulders of a black suit so skintight it felt less like fabric and more like a second, lubricated layer of skin. The stark moonlight seemed determined to worship every sinuous line and curve as she moved, highlighting the aggressive arch of her ass and the tight pull across her stomach.

The suit was accented by signature trimmings of soft, white fur that teased the wrists of her gloves and brushed against the tops of her sleek boots. Most strikingly, the fur framed a generous, deliberate opening across her cleavage, drawing the eye down to the smooth, exposed expanse of perfect skin beneath, promising every indulgence.

"Black Cat…" Superman mutters in shock, raising a hand to his agape mouth.

Her lips curl, sharp and knowing, as she watches Superman's reaction.

"Oh-ho-ho," she purrs, stepping closer to him. Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a metronome counting down to something utterly delicious. "So the big new hero knows little ol' me? You flatter me, darling. Most boys your age don't even know what to do with a woman like me."

She rolls her shoulders back, just enough to be intentionally provocative. The suit stretches, the fabric seeming to groan under the sudden strain across her chest, and the moonlight bleeds over the exposed, ample swell of her cleavage. A breathless little sound escapes her, half laugh, half challenge, as she anticipates watching his eyes widen in desire, dragging down to stare at the generous, tempting valley of her exposed skin.

But to her surprise, they don't.

Superman stands there silent, motionless. Not a single muscle twitches. No stammer, no blush, no anything. Just staring, like she's a math problem.

Black Cat's smirk falters. Just for a second.

"…Aren't you going to say something?" She tilted her head, her frustration a barely perceptible tension in her voice. Her silver-white hair spilled over one shoulder, the fur trim of her collar brushing her jawline. "I thought you were the boyscout type, not the strong, silent one?" Her voice dropped and thickened, becoming a low, frustrated promise. Her claws flickered out again, just for a moment, waiting intensely to see his pupils react to the threat. "But then again, I absolutely adore breaking those types to."

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

Her lips press together, as frustration gets the better of her.

"You know," she drawls, her voice laced with theatrical impatience, stepping right into his personal space, close enough that the heat of her body should have been impossible to ignore. "I usually go for men with a little more... experience." One finger, capped with a sharp claw, began to trail lazily up his chest, directly over that bold red 'S', the nail just sharp enough to snag the uniform's fabric. "But you? You've got potential. That handsome face, those beautiful eyes." She leans in further, her breath warm and humid against his chin.

Her free hand slides down her own side, hips rolling in a slow, deliberate figure-eight.

"Be a good boy," she murmurs, voice dripping thick with lust, "and I might let you earn a taste."

Despite all the charm and seduction of the incredibly beautiful woman, Superman reacts by saying what she least expects.

"Eeeew!" says the young hero in disgust.

Black Cat's body locks frozen, one hand still pressed against Superman's chest, the other frozen halfway down her own hip.

Her fingers twitch. Her breath hitches.

'Ew?' The word echoes in her skull, sharp as a gunshot. 'No one says ew, not to me. Men trip over their own dicks just to breathe the same air as me. But this boy just stands there, face twisted like I'm a moldy sandwich.'

Her claws snap out, fully extended, pressing just hard enough into his suit to hear the fabric protest.

"Excuse you?" Her voice cracks like a whip. The purr is gone. The playfulness? Gone with it. "Tell me, Superman," she drawls, every word dripping with venomous sweetness, "do you see this?" One gloved hand slides up her torso, tracing the edge of her plunging neckline. "This body?" She steps closer, close enough that her breath could fog that stupidly perfect mask. "These curves?" Her claws retract with a soft hiss as her fingers press against the bare dip above her heart. "Or are you just blind?"

Superman turns his face to the side as if he is seeing the most disgusting thing in the world.

Mortified, she decides to ask what is obvious to her.

"Are you gay?"

"No!" Superman snaps back.

"So what's wrong with you?" she asks curiously. "Because obviously there's nothing wrong with me."

Superman pinches the bridge of his nose under his domino mask, exhaling through his nose like a man who has to deal with something deeply unpleasant.

"It's weird, and wrong," he mutters in pain. "I can't even-. It's so wrong that you're hitting on me, Auntie Fee."

Black Cat's entire body locks again. Her fingers, still pressed against her own chest, freeze mid-motion. Her breath hitches. The world tilts, just a little, like the floor beneath her heels just turned to jelly.

"One person." Black Cat whispers, breathless. "There is only one person in the entire goddamn universe that calls me that."

Her brain short-circuits and reboots at least three times processing the information.

"…It can't be you." The word comes out wrong from her mouth. Too high, too thin, like a record scratching to a halt.

Superman finally meets her gaze.

"Auntie Fee," he repeats, slower this time, like she's the one who's suddenly dense. "It's me, Clark."

Black Cat's gloved hands fly to her mouth.

"Oh, fuck," she breathes against her palms, voice muffled, horrified. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck-."

Superman, now revealed as her favorite and only nephew Clark Parker, crosses his arms, jaw tight. The red S on his chest might as well be a neon sign flashing AWKWARD.

"Yeah," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "That's… exactly how I felt two minutes ago."

Black Cat's shoulders hunch, her entire body curling in on itself like a cat caught mid-pounce. The suit, usually her second skin, suddenly feels wrong, too tight, too exposed. She turns sharply, showing her back to him, fingers scrambling at the high collar like she can yank it up to her chin.

"You can't-. You're not supposed to-." Her voice cracks. She clears her throat, forces it steady. "You were twelve the last time I saw you, Clark. A kid with a gap-toothed grin and-.." Her hands ball into fists. "And now y-you're this hunk of a hero?."

She gestures wildly at him over her shoulder, claws flickering in and out like a malfunctioning switchblade.

"Yeah, well." Clark exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "Time passes, Auntie Fee."

"Don't call me that!" she snaps, whirling back around. Her face is flushed, the first real color he's seen on her besides the black-and-white of her suit. "Not now. Not when I just-." She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together so hard the skin around them pales. "Oh God… I hit on my own nephew… like an Alabama cougar."

"I mean..." The young hero winces, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "You kind of did that."

She groans, dragging both hands down her face, claws scraping against her cheeks.

"I'm the worst. I'm literally the worst. I need to-." She spins, snatching the ruby off its pedestal with a vicious yank, stuffing it into a pouch on her belt. "I need to go."

She takes two steps toward the shattered window before Clark's voice stops her.

"You can't steal that."

Felicia's spine stiffens. She pivots slowly, forming a practiced smile on her lips.

"Oh, my dear Clarkie," she coos, voice dripping with honeyed venom, "it's been ages since I've seen you. You've grown so big and strong." Her gaze flicks over him, lingering just a second too long on the S emblazoned across his chest. "But I know how your parents raised you. I know you don't like hitting a lady. Especially your favorite aunt? I highly doubt you'd lay a finger on me."

"I don't have a favorite aunt." He mutters in a guilty tone, avoiding her gaze.

Felicia's smile doesn't waver, but her eyes narrow just a fraction.

"Liar." She purrs, stepping into his space, close enough that her breath should fog his mask. "I sent you birthday cards. With lots of money, remember?"

"Mom told me you sent stolen money," Clark counters, jaw tightening.

"Semantics, darling." She waves a dismissive hand, the white fur trim of her glove catching the light. "The point still is, what are you gonna do to stop me?"

"Gonna tell my Dad." The young hero says in a distressed tone. "He will know you are back to a life of crime."

Felicia's laughter rings out at the threat.

"Oh, Clarkie," she gasps between giggles, one gloved hand pressing to her sternum like she's trying to contain the delight. "You think that's a threat?" Her fingers splay, claws flickering in and out, teasing. "You're gonna tell daddy on me?" She leans in close to him, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Sweetheart, I've been on this 'good guy and bad guy' dance since before you were born."

Clark's jaw clenches, the muscles feathering along his neck.

"What if I tell Mom?" He threatens.

Felicia's laughter dies in her throat. Her body goes still, like a predator catching the first whiff of a trap. The smirk on her face, Gone, replaced by wariness.

"Tell her what?" Her voice drops an octave, low and velvety, each word measured like a blade being honed.

Clark straightens, squaring his shoulders. The red S on his chest might as well be a target.

"I'm gonna tell her," he says, chin lifting just enough to meet her gaze dead-on, "that Auntie Fee just tried to seduce her son."

The air between them crackles.

Felicia's fingers twitch at her sides. Her claws don't extend, not yet, but the threat of them hums under her skin, a live wire ready to snap.

"You wouldn't dare." Her lips barely move. The words slither out, cold and precise.

"Try me." Clark deadpans, in a serious tone.

Felicia's hand snaps out, and the ruby arcs through the air, a crimson comet, thunking against Clark's chest. He doesn't even flinch. He just watches as the gem bounces off the S and he catches it before it falls to the floor between them.

"There!" she hisses, voice cracking like a whip. "Your stupid himbo snitch. Happy?"

Felicia sighs in frustration, silently turning to leave, but she's stopped once again, this time by something that grips her wrist. Not hard or painful, just firm and unyielding.

She turns her head, white hair spilling over one shoulder like a silk waterfall. Her gaze drops to the hand clamped around her wrist. Clark's hand.

"Excuse me?" Felicia asks, her eyebrows shoot up, disappearing under the fringe of her bangs.

Clark doesn't let go. Instead, he gives her wrist the tiniest tug, just enough to pull her back half a step.

"I'll return this later," he interrupts, nodding at the ruby in his hand. "After we talk."

"Talk?" she repeats, flat and curious. "This night was a bust in so many ways. Why would I stay?"

Clark shrugs and answers.

"What if I pay for dinner," he says, smiling bright like the sun.

Felicia, taken by surprise, just blinks, confused, in silence.

###​

The night air bites, sharp and cold, but Felicia doesn't shiver. Lonely, she perches on the ledge like a gargoyle carved from shadow, one leg dangling over the abyss, the other tucked under her.

A skyscraper three blocks over is still smoldering, its guts spilled across the sidewalk from some earlier meta human brawl. Construction crews already swarm it, yellow hardhats bobbing like fireflies in the dark. They'll patch it up by morning, like they always do.

She tilts her head, watching a crane swing a girder into place. The metal groans, settling like it's been there forever. Funny how that works. Facades change, buildings crumble, names get scratched out or rewritten. But the city? The city stays. Always hungry. Always the same.

Her fingers tap against the concrete ledge, claws flicking in and out, in and out.

"Why did I agree to this?" she says to herself.

"Maybe you are hungry." says a voice, catching her by surprise.

Felicia turns around and sees her nephew, still in his hero uniform but without his mask, carrying a large box of what appears to be an off-brand fast-food dinner. With a large smile on his face, Clark holds out the box like a peace offering.

"Fast food? Really sweaty?" Felicia's nose wrinkles in disgust. "I mean you're Peter's kid, alright. I should've known."

"I know it's unhealthy," Clark grins, unfazed. "But these are the best hot dogs and milkshakes near campus. Trust me."

"Near campus?" She snorts, plucking a chili dog from the box. The bun's already soggy, the cheese congealing into a sad, orange blob. "Why didn't you fly to get the good stuff? You, or at least your father, should know where the best spots for junk food are in all of Manhattan and beyond."

"Doesn't work like that. I don't fly." He says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I can just jump really high, and I'm kind of fast."

"Wait." Felicia pauses mid-bite. "You just jump?"

"Yeah." He flexes his knees, bouncing once on his toes like he's testing the ledge. "Gramma used to say that I am faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. But flying? Nah. That's more of a-." He cuts himself off, suddenly busy peeling the wrapper off a second dog.

"More of a what?" Felicia's eyes narrow.

"Nothing." He shoves half the hot dog into his mouth, weary about talking more about his powers.

She watches him chew, the way his jaw works, the way he avoids looking at her. Felicia notices how Peter used to do that same thing when he was hiding something, making her lips twitch.

"You're terrible at secrets, kid."

"I'm great at secrets." Clark swallows hard, looking away from her gaze.

"Sure you are." Felicia laughs, low and throaty as she tosses the half-eaten dog back into the box. "You can talk to your favorite aunt about your problems."

"It's kind of personal…" mutters Clark. "And we are here to talk about you."

"Oh yeah," says Felicia, shrugging. "What do you want to know?"

He wipes his hands on his pants, grease from the hot dogs leaves dark smudges on the blue suit.

"Why do you keep stealing?" He tilts his head, genuine confusion in his voice. "You don't need the money. Dad said you've got like, three penthouses in the city alone."

Felicia's fingers still. She exhales through her nose, a sound like a cat hissing before it pounces, or retreats.

"Not gonna lie, kid, my life is good, I don't have any difficulties, and I have almost everything a girl could want, but...." She sighs, turning her face, looking at the city. "I have been overcome by a strange emptiness within me for the past few years, and the excitement of a heist helps fill the void... at least most of the time."

The wind kicks up, tugging at Felicia's hair like it's trying to unravel her. She lets it. Strands whip across her face, sharp as blades, but she doesn't brush them away.

"You know… before knowing who you are," she says, voice cutting through the hum of the city below, "I was excited about a new hero in town, fresh meat and all that. Someone new to 'dance' with me." A smirk flickers, but it doesn't stick. "Then you open your mouth, calling me 'Auntie Fee' and making that disgusted face, and-." She waves a hand. "Poof, there goes the fun."

Clark doesn't flinch. He doesn't fill the silence with noise. Just listens, his breath steady, his fingers still wrapped around the crumpled fast-food box like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

"So what's the plan now, kid?" she finally snaps. "Did you dragged me up here to lecture me? Tell me I'm wasting my potential or some crap like that?"

Clark blinks. Then, slowly, like he's choosing each word careful as a bomb squad cutting wires.

"Have you ever thought about talking to someone?"

"Oh, hell no. Therapy?" Felicia barks a laugh. "I'd rather swallow a live grenade."

"Not therapy." Clark shifts, the suit fabric creaking. "Just... talking. To someone who gets it." He hesitates, then pushes forward. "Dad would listen. Or Mom-." He cuts himself off, but the implication hangs there, thick as the smoke from the smoldering building across the street.

Felicia's stomach twists.

Peter, of course he'd bring up Peter. Always the golden standard, the one who figured it out. The one who got the happy ending.

She opens her mouth to shut him down, but the words die on her tongue.

Because Clark isn't looking at her with pity. Or judgment. Just... quiet, stubborn hope. Like he believes she could actually do it. Like she's not too far gone.

It pisses her off.

"It's not that simple," she mutters.

"Why not?"

"Because!" She throws her hands up, claws glinting under the streetlights. "You think I want to be the damsel in distress? The sad, broken villain who needs a heart-to-heart with her ex's kid to feel whole again?" She scoffs. "I'd rather eat glass."

"So don't be. Be the one who chooses it." Clark doesn't back down. "Because you're tired of the game, not because you lost, but because you won."

Felicia goes still as the city roars around them, sirens, honking horns, the distant thwip of a web-slinger swinging by, but for a second, it's just silence. Just her and Clark and the weight of something unspoken pressing down like a physical thing.

"You're insufferable." Then she snorts, shaking her head. "Just like your father."

"Mom says that too." Clark grins.

"Yeah, well." Felicia rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. "She has terrible taste in men."

She reaches for another chili dog, just to have something to do with her hands. It's cold now, the cheese is rubbery, but she eats it anyway.

Clark watches her for a beat, then digs into the box himself, pulling out a milkshake so thick the straw's already bending under the pressure.

They eat in silence.

Felicia licks salt from her fingers, then wipes them on her catsuit, leaving smudges on the black fabric.

"Next time you promise dinner to a girl, don't bring her hotdogs." she says, smiling. "You are in collage, you should know better."

Clark hums in agreement while drinking his milkshake.

###​

On the next morning, the university's grand hall buzzes with chatter. Students meander between displays of abstract paintings, antique jewelry, and a gaudy gold pocket watch that looks like it belongs in a pirate's coffin.

"No way..." Franklin bounces on his toes, hands pressed against the glass like a kid at a candy store. "That's the one, right?"

"Don't touch the glass, Richards," Normie complains next to him. "You look like a child."

"Takes one to know one," Franklin retorts, staring at his younger friend.

An anger vein pops on the young man's forehead.

"You're just proving my point," the young Osborn says, barely managing to keep his cool.

Clark doesn't answer right away. The case is reinforced now, thick metal bands wrapped around the edges, a fresh security tag blinking green. It's overkill, but he gets it.

"Yeah," he mutters. "This is why I had to leave early yesterday."

"Cool," Normie says, not even glancing in Clark's direction. "It doesn't mean I'm going to forgive you and give you the XP from yesterday's game."

Clark's shoulder slumps as he pleads his case.

"C'mon, Normie, my paladin's so close to level three. Franklin's sorcerer is already halfway to level four, if this keeps up, I'll be too weak to be part of the group."

"Should've thought of that before you ditched us for your super priorities."

"Dude, Clark stopped a museum heist," Franklin snorts, elbowing Normie. "Foget the XP, you should give him a free level up."

Normie taps his chin, squinting at the ceiling like he's calculating the trajectory of a nuclear missile.

"Hmm... you know what?" Normie says in a forced, hopeful tone.

Clark dares to brighten up at the prospect of catching up with the rest of the party.

"No," cuts Normie dryly, making Clark's shoulders drop.

"Man, that's cold," Franklin says, shaking his head.

"All's fair in love, war, and RPG." Normie smirks, finally tearing his gaze from the display case to shoot Clark a look that's equal parts triumph and 'suck it'. "Maybe next time don't bail on us."

Swallowing hard, Clark tries to plead his case one last time.

"Oh come on-." But he is cut off by a female voice.

"Well, would you look at that?" Her voice pours out smooth as champagne, every word bubbling with mischief and warmth. She tilts her head, lips curling into a teasing smile. "Mmm, is that the voice of my favorite nephew I'm hearing?"

Three heads snap toward the sound.

Felicia Hardy leans against the exhibit's velvet rope barrier, one black-heeled shoe crossed over the other, arms folded. The museum's dim lighting catches the sharp angles of her Italian suit, tailored, sleek. Her white hair is pulled into a loose knot, but a few strands escape, framing her face like she's posing for a magazine spread.

"Well, well." Her grin is all teeth. "If it isn't my favorite nephew and his little entourage of handsome young men."

Franklin's mouth drops open. Normie's eyebrows shoot up like they're trying to escape his forehead.

"Oh, come on," Clark groans, rubbing his temples.

Felicia pushes off the barrier, sauntering over like she owns the place. She stops just shy of arm's reach, tilting her head to study the trio.

"Oh, sweetheart, don't look so horrified. I'm legit now." She pulls a sleek black card from her jacket pocket, flips it between her fingers before tossing it to Clark.

"Felicia Hardy, Security Consultant and Metahuman Threat Assessment." Clark reads aloud, the embossed letters gleaming under the museum lights. "You? Working with security?"

Clark stares at it like it's a live grenade.

"I know, right?" She winks. "I had that for laundering m-." She cuts herself off, noticing Franklin and Normie next to Clark. "I mean, as a backup career plan."

Clark looks at the card again, realizing that if you can outsmart every alarm system, people pay you very well to tell them how not to get robbed.

"So you're teaching them how to not suck at their jobs?" Normie snorts, finally finding his voice.

Felicia's laugh is a low, velvety thing.

"Oh, you must be Normie." She leans in just enough to drop her voice to a conspiratorial purr. "What a charming, short king you are, darling."

Normie locks up in a stunned state of shyness and embarrassment from the flirting of the beautiful lady in front of him.

Clark avoids his gaze to spare his friend.

On the other hand, Franklin doesn't offer such courtesy.

"What's the matter, short king?" Franklin chuckles. "Cat got your tongue?"

Felicia's stiletto heels click against the marble floor as she pivots toward Franklin, her smirk sharpening like a blade unsheathed.

"Well, if it isn't the prodigal Richards' heir." Her fingers trail along the edge of the display case, manicured nails tapping a rhythm against the glass. "Sue and Reed's boy, all grown up." Her gaze flicks to his hands, lingering.

Franklin's chest inflates like a pufferfish who just heard a compliment.

"That's me. Franklin Benjamin Richards. Veteran hero, kinda powerless, and-0" He waggles his eyebrows. "-intrepid bachelor."

"Oh my god." Clark's palm meets his forehead with a thud.

"Wait. Powerless?" The word tastes bitter on Felicia's tongue, like she's chewing on a lemon rind. "Since when?"

"Oh, you didn't hear?" Normie smirks. "Lost 'em at a sleepover."

"Normie." Franklin's grin freezes. "It's more complicated than that-."

"But it's not wrong," Normie adds, eyes gleaming.

Felicia blinks. Once. Twice. Then her laughter spills out, rich, unfiltered, the kind that makes her double over and clutch her stomach.

"Oh, sweetheart," she wheezes, wiping at the corner of her eye with a gloved finger. "You got outplayed by a toddler?"

"It was my father's plan!" Franklin's face burns.

"Guys," Clark groans, dragging a hand down his face.

Felicia's phone buzzes. She straightens, fingers already fishing into her jacket pocket.

Her smile doesn't slip, but her eyes flick to the screen for just a second.

"Ah, duty calls," she sighs, tucking the phone back away like it's personally offended her. "Gotta go."

The second Felicia's heels click out of earshot, Clark exhales like he's been holding his breath since the Cretaceous period.

"Damn," Franklin whistles low. "Your aunt's got game."

"Please don't." Clark pinches the bridge of his nose.

"What? She's hot," Franklin insists.

"Hate to agree with Richards, but he's right," Normie adds. "She is gorgeous."

Clark massages the headache building on his forehead, hopeful that the worst has passed.

"Almost forgot!" Felicia exclaims, turning back and dashing to Clark.

Clark raises an eyebrow as his aunt reaches his face and gives him a quick peck on his left cheek.

"My goodbye kiss."

Felicia finally leaves as both Normie and Franklin chuckle at Clark's embarrassed, red face.

"This can't get any worse." Groans Clark in pain.

"Of course there is..." Franklin begins with a wicked smile. "Dear nephew."

"Good God, no!" Clark blurts, the words tumbling out in a rush of panic.

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[#] Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. We learned some of this superman's power limits.

 

[ThunderBasilisk]

Is he really Superman if he can't fly? And LoL it's funny that she specifically said Alabama cougar