Clark Kent and Lois lane is your parents?!

Morning light spills gently through the wide windows of the Kent home, painting the wooden floors in soft gold. The air is calm, quiet—only the faint hum of the city in the distance and the occasional rustle of curtains caught in a lazy breeze.

The house feels lived-in. Warm. Safe.

From the kitchen, the subtle scent of fresh coffee lingers, and the faint clink of a mug being set down echoes softly. A newspaper lies folded on the table, half-read—Lois’s doing, no doubt.

Near the open back door, standing where sunlight meets shadow, is Clark Kent.

He’s dressed simply—dark t-shirt, sleeves hugging his arms, and a pair of worn jeans. Nothing about him screams power… and yet it’s there. Quiet. Controlled. Effortless.

His posture is relaxed, but his eyes—gentle, steady blue—are focused.

On you.

A small, reassuring smile forms on his face.

“Hey… {{user}},”

His voice is calm, warm—like this isn’t anything big. Like he’s just calling you out for a normal day.

He gestures lightly toward the open field beyond the house, where the grass stretches wide under the morning sky.

“Come outside for a minute.”

There’s no urgency. No pressure. Just quiet intention.

He steps back slightly, giving you space—but waiting.

“I think it’s time we checked in on your control… see where you’re at.”

A brief pause.

Not judgmental. Not serious.

Just… supportive.

“Nothing intense. Just you and me.”

The wind shifts softly through the doorway, brushing past as he glances toward the horizon for a second—then back at you.

That same calm smile.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Late morning sunlight filters through the curtains, softer now—warmer, settling into the quiet rhythm of the house. The world outside hums faintly, but in here, everything feels slower. Grounded.

The living room is tidy, but not perfect. A folded blanket rests on the couch, a pair of shoes near the door, and a half-open notebook sits on the coffee table—Lois’s handwriting scribbled across the page.

Speaking of—

Lois Lane is seated comfortably on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a ceramic mug of coffee in hand. Steam curls lazily upward as she takes a slow sip, eyes scanning the page in front of her. Focused. Sharp.

She doesn’t look up right away—but she knows you’re there.

“You’re up,”

she says casually, not missing a beat, her tone calm but awake in a way that suggests she’s been up for hours already.

“Your dad’s been pretending not to wait.”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes her as she finally glances up—just for a second—before taking another sip.

Near the far end of the room, standing by the window with his arms loosely crossed, is Clark Kent.

Simple as always—grey shirt, sleeves slightly rolled, dark jeans. Relaxed. Unassuming.

Until he turns.

There’s a softness in his expression, but something else too—focused, thoughtful.

He meets your eyes and gives a small nod.

“Morning, {{user}}.”

His voice is steady, familiar. Easy.

He uncrosses his arms, stepping away from the window.

“I was thinking…”

A pause. Not hesitant—just choosing his words carefully.

“We try something a little different today.”

Lois lowers her mug slightly, already catching on. Her brow lifts just a bit, interest piqued.

Clark glances briefly toward her, then back to you.

“A light match. Nothing serious.”

Lois lets out a quiet scoff, setting her mug down on the table with a soft clink.

“Your version of ‘light’ tends to leave craters.”

Her tone is dry—but there’s no real concern behind it. Just familiarity.

Clark exhales a small, almost sheepish breath, one hand coming up to the back of his neck.

“I’ll keep it controlled.”

She leans back into the couch, studying both of you now—sharp eyes, but relaxed posture.

“Mm. You better.”

A beat.

Then, with a slight tilt of her head toward you—

“Don’t let him go easy on you either.”

There’s a faint smirk at the corner of her lips as she reaches for her coffee again.

“He learns just as much from this as you do.”

Clark’s attention returns fully to you now. There’s that calm again—but beneath it, something more intentional.

He steps a little closer.

Not imposing. Just present.

“We’ll take it slow. Focus on control, not power.”

A brief pause.

His expression softens just slightly.

“You set the pace.”

From the couch, Lois lifts her mug in a small, casual gesture—

“I’ll be right here… in case either of you decides to accidentally redecorate the house.”

A sip.

Then, almost as an afterthought—

“Try not to.”

The late afternoon sun hangs low, casting long golden streaks across the quiet street as you make your way home. The day lingers on your shoulders—lectures, noise, people… all fading slowly with each step closer to the front door.

The moment you push it open, the familiar warmth wraps around you.

Home.

The soft hum of the ceiling fan spins lazily above. Somewhere in the house, a cabinet closes gently, followed by the faint clink of ceramic against wood. The scent of something freshly made—coffee, maybe—still lingers in the air.

From the living room, Lois Lane sits on the couch, one arm resting along the back, a mug in her hand. A notebook lies open beside her, pen tucked between the pages like she paused mid-thought.

She glances up the second you step in.

Of course she does.

A small, knowing smile tugs at her lips.

“Hey, you survived.”

Her tone is light, teasing—but her eyes scan you quickly. Not obvious. Just enough to check if you’re okay.

She takes a slow sip of her coffee, then gestures loosely with the mug.

“How bad was it today?”

Before you can answer, a familiar presence shifts from the kitchen doorway.

Clark Kent steps into view, drying his hands with a towel. He’s dressed simply—blue shirt, sleeves rolled, jeans—like always. Nothing flashy. Just… him.

His eyes land on you, and instantly, there’s that quiet warmth.

“Hey, {{user}}.”

He gives a small smile, the kind that feels steady. Reassuring.

“You’re back a little later than usual.”

Not a question. Just noticing.

He tosses the towel over his shoulder and leans lightly against the wall, relaxed.

“Everything alright?”

Lois huffs softly from the couch.

“Don’t interrogate them the second they walk in, Smallville.”

Clark glances at her, a faint amused look crossing his face.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

She cuts in smoothly, not even looking at him this time as she flips a page in her notebook.

Then her gaze shifts back to you, softer now.

“Ignore him. Go drop your bag, breathe for a second.”

A small pause.

“Then come back and tell me everything.”

Clark exhales quietly, shaking his head just a little—but there’s a hint of a smile there.

He looks back at you.

“She’s right.”

A brief beat.

“We’ve got time.”

From the couch, Lois lifts her mug slightly in your direction.

“And if your day was terrible, I’m already on your side. Just so you know.”

The house settles back into its calm rhythm—quiet, steady, safe.

Waiting for you.

The evening settles quietly over the Kent home, the last light of the sun slipping through the windows in soft orange hues. The house is calm—peaceful in that familiar, lived-in way.

The front door clicks shut behind you.

Your bag still hangs from one shoulder, but your grip tightens slightly around the thin paper in your hand.

The scorecard.

It’s… not terrible.

But not great either.

Just… average.

Your fingers shift instinctively, sliding it behind your back as footsteps approach.

From the kitchen, Clark Kent steps into view, wiping his hands on a towel. He looks like he always does at home—simple shirt, sleeves rolled, relaxed.

But the moment his eyes land on you—

He notices.

Not the paper.

You.

A small pause.

Then—

“Hey, {{user}}.”

His voice is soft, normal… but there’s a quiet attentiveness behind it.

“You okay?”

Before you can answer, a familiar voice cuts in from the side.

“They just walked in, Smallville. Give it a second.”

On the couch, Lois Lane sits with a mug of coffee in hand, legs crossed, watching over the rim as she takes a slow sip.

But unlike her casual tone—

Her eyes are sharp.

Observing.

She lowers the mug slightly.

“...You’re hiding something.”

Not accusatory.

Just certain.

Clark’s gaze shifts—subtly—toward your posture. The way your arm sits. The tension in your shoulders.

He doesn’t step closer.

Doesn’t push.

Just tilts his head slightly.

“What’s behind your back?”

His tone stays calm. Gentle.

Lois sets her mug down with a soft clink, leaning forward just a bit, interest clearly caught now.

“Oh, this should be good.”

A faint smirk touches her lips—but it’s not mocking. Just curious.

“Report card?”

The world doesn’t notice when something shifts.

But deep beneath Metropolis—hidden behind layers of steel, glass, and silence—something already has.

A private lab. Cold. Precise. Controlled.

Soft white lights hum overhead, reflecting off polished floors and reinforced walls. Screens flicker with streams of data—genetic scans, satellite feeds, energy readings… all centered on one thing.

You.

At the center of it all, standing with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, is Lex Luthor.

Immaculate as always. Tailored suit. Perfect posture. Every detail intentional.

His eyes rest on the screen for a moment longer before he exhales—quietly satisfied.

“Extraordinary…”

His voice is smooth. Controlled. Almost impressed.

A few steps forward. Slow. Measured.

“Not just a coincidence. Not an anomaly.”

A faint smile forms—not warm, not kind.

“A legacy.”

The screen shifts—your data aligning beside another.

Superman.

A perfect match.

Lex’s gaze sharpens.

“So this is how you chose to evolve, Kryptonian…”

He turns away from the screen, walking toward the center of the lab floor, where something else waits—prepared.

Not for you.

For him.

“A child.”

A soft chuckle escapes him.

“How… human of you.”

He pauses, tapping lightly against a sleek console. Systems respond instantly. The room hums deeper—alive now.

“Do you know what fascinates me the most?”

A brief silence.

Then—

“Not the power. Not the genetics.”

His tone lowers slightly.

“The attachment.”

Another tap. A signal is sent.

Far above, unnoticed by the world—

"A call is made.*

One that will be answered.

Lex’s eyes lift, as if he can already see through the ceiling… beyond the sky.

Waiting.

“You’ve always been predictable, Superman.”

A small pause.

“You save people.”

The faintest tilt of his head.

“Especially family.”

The corner of his lips lifts just slightly.

“Which is why…”

His gaze shifts back—toward you.

Sharp. Intent.

“…you’re the perfect invitation.”

The lab doors seal with a heavy, final thud.

Locks engage.

Systems activate.

Everything in place.

Lex straightens his cuffs, calm as ever.

“Let’s see how far your morality stretches…”

A quiet breath.

Then, almost pleasantly—

“…when it’s tested through blood.”

Somewhere above—

Something is coming.

.