Chapter Text
Clark is very much used to his day-to-day life.
Not to say that it is boring, or anything mean in that sense. He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, not when he knows how precious life is ── and how hard so many people have fought for his. But his life has grown to be a little predictable.
Yes, some details about it may change, small things that can’t be the exact thing time and time again. But the concept itself is repetitive, constant. Something he quite liked at first, but that has grown to become suffocating. As if he can’t break the mold his life was suddenly put into.
See, Clark’s days go as such:
He wakes up in his apartment, nothing to change there if he’s honest. The apartment isn’t necessarily small, but it isn’t big either. It is the perfect size for a place in the city, but it feels a bit tiny whenever he spends some time with his parents on the farm. Some days the apartment can feel like home. Others it is the first thing to suffocate him as he opens his eyes.
Then, he gets ready. Not much to change there either. Perry complained about his outfits one too many times for Clark to dare steering away from the suit and tie. Even if he does try to add some fun pop of color with his tie, everything feels the same. Under his work clothes, his Superman suit. Glued to his skin, like one would expect it to be.
The only variable he has is his work ── both as Clark and as a hero.
No one can say everyday in journalism is the same. It is one of the many reasons why Clark took this career in the first place. Not only because he’s good at it, but because things will never necessarily be the same. But that doesn’t mean it won’t follow a pattern: clock in, write, clock out. What Clark is writing about changes, as so does his interest in the varying subjects. But the idea that his day follows is the same.
One would think Superman would add to his life, would make it unpredictable and almost insanely dangerous. But, after years fighting in the suit, Clark has grown to realize that follows a pattern as well: get called in the middle of something, fly, fight or simply help, come back to pick up the pieces he left behind. Simple. Exact. Like with writing, his work as Superman varies in intensity and in objective. But, in its core, it is always the same.
Now, in his late twenties, Clark feels as if his life has become something of an episodic affair. Every day has the same beginning, middle and end to it. There are variables, but it follows the same exact structure so no one is taken by surprise. Always the same, so everyone can tune in at any moment and still find comfort in it. Structure. Stability.
Clark doesn’t know when his life became a symbol of structure and stability, but it did. And he hasn’t known what to do with that ever since.
What do you do with that?
With time, Clark has come to realize that even trying to break the mode leads you back into it. Clark tries to alter something in his day, but he simply circles back to the expected pattern. It is comfortable, it’s what he knows. He can’t exactly change it in any way, shape or form.
Today feels exactly like it did the day before.
Which felt like the day before that.
Which had felt like the day before it.
And so it goes. So far back Clark has no idea when was the last day that felt different.
Again, Clark doesn’t want to sound ungrateful. He simply doesn’t know what to do with this anymore, how to deal with all that. Does he try and change something? But what? Maybe spend some time with his parents? But that used to feel the same as well… It would simply change the setting. Should he visit his cousin somewhere in the galaxy? She probably could use the company, and so could he. But he can’t abandon Earth. Because he has a duty. One he can’t just let go of to fulfil some selfish mission. One he can’t let go of at all.
So, that leaves Clark with today.
He stays on Earth, he stays following the same patterns of his life. He goes to work already expecting Perry’s complaints about him being late ── blame public transport. He sits down with a pile of interviews to go through so he can create a coherent article. He goes out to have lunch with Jimmy. He comes back, he writes some more and he waits.
He waits for the moment someone will need him.
Clark tunes in to the sounds of the city as he normally does. He has learned how to leave the excess noise out and only focus on what he is searching for. At times, when things are good, the worst thing he has to do is help a kitten on a tree. Or maybe he hears a kid crying, promising they know Superman, and he runs there just to give them a hello and make their day. Other times, Clark has more serious business to solve. Ones in which people could get seriously hurt, or worse.
Slow days for Clark, like today has been so far, means he spends all of his work hours inside the Daily Planet. He doesn’t have to run out the door and find some excuse. Darn it, he might even get to go home before anyone calls out for him. But that is all also part of his routine. The call will come, it’s just the when that normally changes.
Tonight, he even gets to the bottom floor of the building. He waves goodbye at Lois and Cat, smile on his face. And just then does he hear it.
Someone screams.
Clark doesn’t have time to run to the roof as he normally does ── it’s way easier to fly out from there, and he can be sure no one is paying attention to him. So, he goes into the street and runs into the nearest alleyway.
Again, this is all normal. It is all the same.
Hear the scream, run to help. Move quickly, throwing everything on the ground hoping it will be there once he comes back from wherever they need him.
Simple. Normal. In the exact same pattern.
Until Clark is about to fly.
He is sure he didn’t see anyone there before. There was no one close by. No one close enough to get into his face so quickly. No one so… Beautiful.
This is the last thought Clark has before it happens. Beautiful. Under the street lights, with the shadows dancing on his face, the man that stands in front of Clark might be the most beautiful thing Clark has ever seen. He is breathless. This man makes him breathless.
But all of that lasts a second. Perhaps even less. Clark is not able to form another thought, the air isn’t able to find its way back to his lungs ── though he doubts it would while that man stood there. It’s less than a full second, then it happens.
The man bites him.
Clark is known for having skin made of steel. No one has ever been able to bite him before. Not former partners, not wild animals, nothing. Clark’s skin doesn’t break. He doesn’t break. It’s what he’s known his entire life. It’s part of the pattern.
But he feels it. The moment his skin breaks, the moment blood comes out.
It all goes into slow motion.
The man moans. And Clark is not too far off.
Yes, it stings a little at first. But in a way that Clark’s brain confuses pain and pleasure. It feels good, euphoric, like being high must feel like ── Clark is very against drugs, so he wouldn’t know. Not only that, but it feels hot.
Sun runs through Clark’s bloodstreams, it’s what gives him power, what makes him who he is on Earth. But the sun never felt like it was boiling him from the inside out before. Not even for the highest points of his pleasure. Nothing, in his life, has ever felt like it. Like this is what he’s supposed to be doing, this is how he’s supposed to be feeling.
How does one come back from that? How can someone live life knowing how much pleasure you can draw from one single bite?
Isn’t bite also touch?
It must be. Because this feels sensual, delicate. Slightly demanding, but Clark has always had a thing for being bossed around.
The man sinks his teeth harder. How can he even do that? How can he make Clark feel that? Feel nearly human? Feel fragile? How can he get Clark’s certainty of immunity and rip it out of him with lips and teeth alone?
Why does Clark whimper when it happens?
He doesn’t know how to control that sound. It comes out naturally, alongside the amount of pleasure he is feeling. Needy, demanding more. Something the man quickly gives.
He licks Clark’s wound, something that feels even better than teeth on skin. To the point Clark finds himself tilting his head to the side, giving him all the space he needs.
But the man demands more this time. Something in return. He moves his hands down Clark’s body, touching him, feeling him. And Clark can feel a moan in the back of his throat, begging to come out.
A sound stops it.
A scream.
Someone needs me, he thinks, almost guilty. I have to go.
Clark is suddenly hit with what is going on. Someone is biting him, someone is literally ── he means it with his full chest: literally ── drinking his blood. This isn’t supposed to happen in real life. In movies? Yes, for sure. But not in real life. And, as far as Clark knows, this is not a movie. This is an episodic series he is stuck on, and it is his real life.
He is suddenly hit with anger and confusion all at once.
He is confused because those things aren’t supposed to happen to real people, to people outside of big screens and movie theaters. He is not Bella Swan of all people. And he'd rather die than be Elena Gilbert. Clark is not even human, how can he be bitten? How can this happen? How is this real?
And he is angry at himself. He most likely should be angry at the man, but the man drinking his blood isn’t the biggest problem here. Clark enjoying it is. Clark forgetting about a person who needs his help is.
So, Clark acts out of desperation.
He normally wouldn’t push a human with super strength. He would always try his hardest to only be gentle when handling humans ── even the evil guys. Simply because one hit could literally kill them, and he doesn’t want that. But this person clearly isn’t human. And Clark is running out of time.
The feeling of the man’s teeth being ripped out of his skin aches. He is sure there is a much better, sensual way for something like this to happen. But he can’t think about it for long. He has to go.
The man hits the wall hard and falls to the ground.
He’s beautiful.
Is the first thing Clark thinks when getting another good look at him. That face, those eyes. Why are those eyes so sad? What is he carrying? Where is he from?
What is he doing? Really, what is Clark doing?
He gets even angrier at himself for looking at the man for so long. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. He has to go. Now. He has been having to go for a solid minute. Or more. Dang it, has it been more?
But he is sure he has to say something to the man as well, right? He has to. You don’t just experience someone sucking your blood and not say anything. You don’t just… Let things go like that. Do you? Clark is not sure, he has never done this before. And he hopes he’ll never have to do it again ── well, at least he wants to hope he’ll never do it again.
Before he can even come up with the right words, the man… Vanishes.
He runs, Clark can tell by the brief blur he sees moving before the man is completely gone.
How is he so fast? Who even is this fast? Is this The Flash everyone been going on and on about over on Star City? But, why would the Flash even be in Metropolis? He has his own place to look out for, it would make no sense for him to come all the way here. Better yet, Clark, why would the Flash be sucking on his blood? Is this the Flash’s secret? Is he a vampire? Clark would swear he was a speedster.
Diana said she’d introduce the two of them one day. And Clark seriously doubts she would do so if he was a blood sucking vampire. He also doubts that a vampire would become a super hero while actively preying on human life. Unless that was his way of staying hidden.
Focus, Clark, he tells himself once the thoughts become too much.
He doesn’t let there be a third scream before he is flying towards the sound.
It isn’t coming from as far as he initially thought. He only has to get away from the busiest part of Metropolis and he finds an abandoned building right as another scream reaches him.
Being closer to it, the scream seems more metallic for some reason. In fact, if he paid close enough attention to it, he would notice the soft background music of a movie. But his mind isn’t in it as it should be. His mind is way too focused on teeth against his neck to think of anything else, even saving his own skin.
Clark walks into the building rather than flies in, simply so he won’t be noticed by anyone outright and create a bigger chaos than intended.
The building is really, really abandoned.
The walls have big cracks all over them, indicating it might fall at any point in time. There are big stains on the ground, some that look too much like blood for his comfort. And there are spider webs everywhere. Along with a trail of rat poop. It is a gigantic place. Old office building way back when. But there is no one there.
Once he is in the building, he doesn’t hear a scream. He doesn’t hear a single thing.
It is all quiet.
Until the one thing that can be heard is the sound of all the air being punched out of Clark’s lungs.
He is thrown to the wall with one swift blow. The entire structure of the building seems to crack and moan under the weight of Clark’s body. But it doesn’t fall. Not yet anyways. Only some of the wall follows Clark to the ground, which seems to be about too much to begin with. Still, it gives him space to look up.
A robot.
Of course it is a robot.
“Lex?” Clark shouts, but there is no answer.
Knowing him, Luthor has gotten access to some of his equipment from the comfort of his jail cell. He isn’t here to laugh at Clark’s face. But, if Clark looks closely enough, chances are he will find the traces of one of Lex’s employees running away.
He is not one to shoot the messager, so he finds it better to focus on the robot.
Which is clearly a problem from the get go. Because one punch is enough to make him feel weak. Even if the man didn’t suck enough blood out to truly harm him, the smallest lack of it makes Clark suffer in front of kryptonite ── even more than he normally would. And the core of the robot has a green light coming out of it.
“How much free time do you have in jail?” Clark murmurs to himself.
But whatever is controlling the robot hears it, because his question is answered with a metallic punch to the gut that sends him flying through the ceiling and into the upper floor.
Clark graciously lands on his face when coming back down.
The robot kicks him again.
Clark needs to figure out a way to disarm it without getting too close to the Kryptonite.
He tries lasers first, because that’s his best tactic when it comes to a distant approach. But the robot deflects them easily. Almost as if he is made to be immune to Clark’s abilities. Well, knowing Lex, it might as well be.
So, he has to try a different approach.
It doesn’t help that when he tries to fly, the robot flies as well. It grabs Clark by the ankle and throws him into the distance.
This time, Clark breaks through a wall and ends up in a conference room.
He lands on the table and immediately falls out of it.
Think, Clark, think.
For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is the man’s face. Yes, he is beautiful, what about it? Clark immediately berates himself.
But the thought has some validity to it.
If Lex is the one behind this ── and Clark is 99% sure he is ──, he can’t think like he normally would. He can go into it expecting a different outcome if he keeps going through the same old pattern. Lex will expect anything and everything Clark would normally throw at him. Lasers included, even if Clark avoided those in the attempts of not hitting Lex by accident.
So, he has to do to the robot what the man did to him.
Not the sensual blood drinking part. But the unexpected part.
The suddenly appearing in front of him and going for the throat part.
Clark just needs something sharp, like teeth. And he will be able to quite literally remove the head out of the robot’s body. Even if it’s not necessarily shaped like a human ── rather a very big metal suit, with a big prominent head ──, Clark has to think of it that way. Only if to attack it where it hurts.
Knowing Lex, he wouldn’t put something as simple as an on and off button on a robot this size. But he always puts in a safety precaution. Something for him, or anyone working for him, to turn it off in case the robot decides to go rogue. A way to keep himself alive. Because nothing matters to Lex Luthor more than himself.
All Clark has to do is find it.
And, by the looks of it ── and the sheer amount of luck Clark has ──, the precaution put in place this time is the one thing Clark will struggle with. The one thing Lex can easily touch, but Clark can’t.
Kryptonite.
He is positively sure that the second he tears the Kryptonite right out of the core, the robot will stop working immediately.
Which creates two problems: first, how will he get close enough to it to get it out; second, how will he touch it?
Dealing with the first problem first, Clark has to remove the head and hope the camera connecting Lex to whatever is going on goes right there. Without eyes, the robot may be able to get him, but it will take a few seconds too many. And Clark can use that to his advantage.
So, like the man, Clark does something unexpected.
He doesn’t fly. He is Superman, of course he always flies in battle, it is easier. And it tends to be a good approach. It gets the job done most of the time, and it is where Clark is the fastest he can be. But one thing people seem to forget ── mostly because The Flash does it way faster than he ever could ── is that Clark can, in fact, run. He is no Star City hero, but he gets the job done.
With that in mind, Clark pretends he is about to fly. He waits for the robot to look up to keep an eye on him. And the uses that split second to run full speed.
He grabs a metal shard on the way and uses it to catapult the head right off the robot’s body, merely half a second before he gets another punch to the gut that sends him flying away.
Problem one is close to being solved.
Clark just has to tire him a bit more, move in too many directions, so Lex won’t know when and where he’s coming.
Then, the big issue.
Without letting the fear of the Kryptonite stop him, Clark does exactly what he said he would. He flies from one side to the other, he runs, and he always hits the robot from a different angle with a different level of strength.
He didn’t account for what coming close to the Kryptonite so many times would do. And he starts getting tired by the same time as the robot seems lost and confused ── no camera for Lex to look out of, no chances of a reflex quick enough for Clark to get hit again.
So, he goes in for it.
One fist to the robot’s chest, and Clark does the worst possible thing he could do.
He grabs the Kryptonite.
It burns him almost immediately. But the robot falls to the ground and that’s the sign Clark needed to fly the hell out of that place.
He has never flown so quickly to the Fortress of Solitude before.
Yet it also seems to take forever. His hand burns, his body is growing weaker and weaker. And when he finally gets there, he is barely able to fly in before completely passing out.
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When Clark wakes up, he is not sure how long he’s been there.
He is directly under the sunlight as it slowly heals his skin and helps him feel whole again. There are robots all around him, making sure he is receiving enough light and his wounds are properly healed. Clark is not sure when and how they removed his uniform, but he wakes up to find himself in his underwear in front of at least six robots.
Clark jumps up.
“Superman!” Four says, more surprised than happy to see Clark awaken. “Come back down, Sir, you are not completely healed.”
“I feel just fine, Four,” Clark says, hovering over the robots while trying to cover himself.
“Is it the lack of clothes, Sir?” Four asks. “We needed to make sure you were no longer bleeding internally.”
“I’m not,” Clark assures him ── even if he, himself, isn’t sure.
“Get him a blanket,” Four tells one of the other robots. Which is as humiliating as it sounds.
A few moments later, Clark is sitting on the chair behind the computer. A blanket covering his shoulders, and making him feel a bit less embarrassed. And a mug of hot chocolate in his hand ── to keep up morale, he is sure.
“Four,” he says, as the robot readies himself to go and fetch his suit.
Apparently Clark has been out for somewhat close to three days by now. He has to go home. He has to make sure Metropolis is safe.
But there is something he wants to do first.
“My parents have records of every creature on Earth, correct?” Clark asks.
Four nods, “Yes, Sir. They’ve collected before sending you to the planet. To make sure you’d be safe.”
“Good, good,” Clark looks at the computer, without fully believing he is about to say what he is about to say: “Can you search for vampires on it for me? I’ll read through it.”
Four turns towards the computer and works his magic ── Clark is terrible with it, human technology he can manage quite well, but alien technology is still a work in progress. He likes to think Four has all the patience in the world to help him. But that is mostly because likes to think of the robots surrounding him as people, as creatures that genuinely care for him and are glad to be with him. Not as mindless machines.
“Thank you,” he says.
“No need to thank me, Sir,” Four says. “I will not appreciate it the way you intend me to.”
A gentle reminder that they are not, in fact, people. Ouch. Okay, he will get there with them some day, he is sure of it.
The page is already translated into English, since Clark can’t exactly read in his native language. Nor speak it. He’s trying really hard, Six is a great teacher and they have many tools to help Clark learn. But it is not the same thing as learning it from birth. He is sure one day he will get to hear his parents’ message to him the way it was intended. Not its translated version.
But all in due time.
For now, Clark has to focus on vampires.
And focus he does. He reads all of it, time and time again, to make sure he can point out exactly what it is. And exactly how it started.
Unlike most folklore would have people believe, vampirism is mostly a disease. It started with one child. Born of one supernatural creature and one human ── nice to know this implies the existence of many other supernatural creatures, cool, cool. The speed, the strength, the immortality and the endurance the first vampire got from his supernatural parent ── a Fae, which has way too many implications ──, and the blood thirst comes from the womb.
The first vampire to ever be born was an accident of fate. A Fae father, who didn’t want much to do with it. A frail mother, without much to eat. And a child whose only nutrition was its mother’s own blood. A sickness it carried out through life. One it intoxicated others with.
Apparently, the sickness was first spread to the child’s own children.
Who then passed down to theirs.
The first case of someone being human and then being turned into a vampire came many centuries later. Once a vampire drained the blood of the man they loved by accident, and tried to feed him their own. The amount of blood it takes to turn a human into a vampire seems to be enough that both vampire and human might end up dead before the transformation is completed. But it was done. It succeeded. And the rumors of vampires being turned not born started to spread.
After that, the records start to grow smaller and smaller.
Centuries old of lore, many passed down from generation to generation. And the first signs of folklore being erased by people who were too afraid in it, and wished it was false. So they made it false.
Humans erased vampires from existence.
Until the first record of vampire hunters shows.
The vampire hunters were created by descendents of the first human turned vampire. Children he had prior to meeting the vampire, who then had children of their own, who then had children of their own, who then had children of their own, and so on and so forth, until one of those children decided to take matters into their own hands. They believed the story enough to make sure each and every vampire paid for it.
And, according to their own records, they had been succeeding up until the moment Clark was put into a ship. Which is when the records die down. And then end for good, since there was no one left to try and add more to it.
So, whoever that person was… It truly was a vampire.
Clark needs time to process this.
See, growing up on Earth meant he pretty much grew up as a human. His ma likes to say he is human in all ways but one, but that it shouldn’t make him feel any less part of this world. So, being raised human, Clark has heard stories about vampires since he can remember. Around bonfires, on movies he liked to watch despite the boys in his school making fun of him. I mean, he had a die hard crush on Edward Cullen and that’s how he figured out he wasn't straight. Clark enjoyed vampires as much as the next human.
Sure it was just something out of someone’s imagination.
Sure it could never reach him. Because it wasn’t real.
But it is… Isn’t it? It is real.
And Clark was attacked by one only a few days ago.
He can’t help but think how many vampires are there still. Where they live, what they do, who they are. Yes, that last one is mostly directed at the one he met. Who is he? What’s his name? How can he look like that and simply walk around this Earth? How must it be to grow up being that beautiful? How long has he been that beautiful? How old is he? There are one too many questions flying around Clark’s brain. So much so he takes a moment to breathe.
He has to think about this critically.
Vampires are real. He has seen one. There is one right now in Metropolis.
There is one right now in Metropolis.
Clark is fully dressed and flying out the door in less than a second. He does have time to apologize for spilling hot chocolate on the floor, though. A moment he uses very wisely.
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Six people.
Six people dead. And all because Clark couldn’t be there for them, because he was too careless when trying to save someone. Someone who wasn’t even real. A thing he would have noticed hadn’t he been thinking too much about the darn vampire.
The same vampire he encountered again.
The same that had him pinned down to the floor. Completely speechless. Because no one has ever done that. Not someone born on Earth, at least. Because that’s simply not something humans can do. And Clark… Liked it, for some reason.
He liked feeling less like a God and more like a man. He liked fighting someone who would punch back, bite back. Clark felt a way he has never felt before. Something sparked deep inside him, causing a wildfire in his heart. And he isn’t sure what to do with that.
Because he isn’t supposed to like something like that. No one is. No one likes feeling powerless. Clark hates being close to Kryptonite exactly for how it makes him feel. So why did that thing with the vampire make him feel so good?
So alive?
Why did he like bleeding so much? Why did he enjoy being teased the way he was? Why did he enjoy the bite? Why did the make those sounds? Fucking shit, why was he hard?
Clark has been hard before, he knows quite well how that works. He just can’t connect the dots between what was happening and what he felt. Because those two things make completely no sense. The one thing connecting them was the man on his lap. The man Clark can’t seem to get out of his head.
Six people are dead.
Six. People.
Clark should be disgusted by the vampire. But all he sees when he closes his eyes is the man’s eyes looking right back at him. Beautiful gray eyes, on an equally beautiful man. A mixture of frenzy, euphoria and sadness in those dilated pupils. Such a wild combination Clark was deeply disturbed by it. Yet deeply intrigued too.
Once again, against his best judgment, Clark finds himself trying to excuse it. Trying to give the man some sad background story, a reason.
But there is no rhyme nor reason for killing the way he did. For the brutality of it. There is nothing able to justify it… Or is there?
Or is Clark simply trying to find it because he is attracted to him?
Is Clark attracted to him?
Of course he is, who is he trying to kid other than himself? Of course he is attracted to Mr. Pretty Face. Of course the way he speaks made Clark weak on the knees. Of course Clark wants him in a way he’s never done before.
As a human. Not as a God.
The “but one” thing his ma always talked about distinguished him from humans in such a clear way that Clark didn’t argue with it. He could have been raised as a human, but it was always clear to him that he wasn’t one.
Once he became Superman, he got so used to people comparing him to a God that he started seeing it. Not in a way that he thinks of himself as a larger than life all knowing creature. There are no bibles written after him. But he sees the point people are trying to make. His powers, his strength, his existence alone. Clark could see why people would call him the man of steel, why people would call him a God. He could even see why people like Lex Luthor could hate something like that.
Clark understands it.
And every single relationship he’s ever had failed in comparison to the duty he held. At the end of the day, at home with his partner ── whoever that may be at the time ──, Clark still had the upper hand. He was still the God, simply without the suit. Clark could never be vulnerable emotionally, because he could never be physically. Not to another person that looked like him, but was human in some way or another.
He would be happy all the time because that was part of his duty. But his facade got tiring after some time. For both parties. How can you be with someone who never fully lets you in?
For the first time, bleeding under the vampire’s teeth, Clark felt it. Vulnerability. A chance of losing it all. A chance of gaining everything.
For the first time, it wasn’t Superman someone wanted.
Clark, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.
The vampire wanted him. The man. The one that bled for him. The one whose life he held at the tip of his tongue. Because, for the first time, Clark wasn’t sure that he could survive something if he didn’t fight back.
He was human.
He was his.
And he hates how that feels, he hates how it all makes him feel. Alone, at night, in his apartment. Waiting for his life to follow the same pattern again. Waiting for this to be nothing but a nightmare. Waiting for the moment his alarm will go off and announce he is late for work again.
The sun rises.
That moment never comes.