[#] 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.
------------Chapter Cover------------
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.