lukas @johnwalkerfanboy - Tumblr Blog

Jul 19, 2025

Kryptonian's

Clark Kent "Superman" x Male Reader

Summary: It turns out Kara and Clark weren't the only Kryptonians sent to Earth before their home planet fell. You'd been living a quiet life among humans, just like Clark, ezcept you keept your Kryptonian heritage a secret. But when you heard Superman needed help, you knew it was time to reveal your true self and offer your aid.

A/N: Spoilers ahead for the Superman movie (2025) regarding the opening of the movie! I was grinning ear to ear the entire movie, so excited to write more fanfiction for the movie. This could also be a over all start for any future Kryptonian reader fics I do, or end up having multiple parts if you guys wanted. Requests are open for Superman/Clark, Mr. Terrific, Guy Garner, and Jimmy Olson.

TW: Spoilers - Angst - Injury - Happy ending - Kryptonian reader

Words: 4.9k

The roar of a thousand voices, a symphony of fear and desperation, still echoed in the deepest chambers of your mind, even after three decades. The crimson sky, the crumbling spires of a dying world – Krypton. You were too young to truly remember, a mere infant cradled in a pod alongside two others, one a baby like you, the other a bit older, maybe a toddler. Clark and Kara, though you wouldn't know their names for years, nor would you ever truly know them.

Your own pod, unlike theirs, didn't land in the embrace of loving, adoptive parents. There was no idyllic farm, no gentle guidance on how to navigate a world that wasn't your own. Instead, your pod became a meteorite, crashing into a silent forest, a jarring entry into a life of solitude. A life defined by concrete and steel rather than cornfields.

The only inheritance you carried from a world that ceased to exist was a small, ornate bracelet, cool against your infant skin. Its smooth surface held a secret, one you discovered purely by accident during a particularly lonely night in the orphanage when your small thumb brushed against an unseen trigger. Two voices, soft and melodious, filled the sterile room. Your mothers.

"Our son," one voice whispered, a tender sigh. "You are meant for something great, our little star."

"No matter where you land, no matter what happens," the other assured, a steady, unwavering presence, "we will always be with you. We love you."

They loved you. They said you were meant for something. But as the years blurred into a relentless cycle of foster homes and cold shoulders, of learning to depend on no one but yourself, those voices became a cruel taunt. Your Kryptonian abilities, latent and terrifying, remained locked away. The whispers of immense power, of flight and invulnerability, were a constant, unwanted hum beneath your skin. You saw what happened to those who were different, those who stood out. You saw the fear, the suspicion, the eventual fall.

So, you buried it all. You buried the power, the heritage, and most painfully, the hope that you were ever meant for anything more than survival. You were human, plain and simple. Just another face in the bustling, uncaring crowd. You learned to blend in, to become invisible, a ghost in your own life.

Thirty years. Three decades since the fiery birth of your human existence, and still, the world spun on, oblivious to your silent vigil. Now, a new sun rose, one with an "S" emblazoned across his chest, a beacon of hope for some, a target for others. Superman, with his dark hair and piercing blue eyes, undeniably Kryptonian. He soared through the skies, catching falling debris, stopping runaway trains, his very existence a stark contrast to yours.

You watched him, often on your phone during your janitorial shifts, the glowing screen illuminating the tired lines on your face. As you meticulously wiped down another grimy surface in an office building long after everyone else had gone home, a small, bittersweet smile would touch your lips. He was everything your mothers had spoken of, everything they had wanted you to be. He was something. He was a hero. And you, with your mop and bucket, were just you. A whisper of a life that could have been, an echo of voices that still, occasionally, told you they loved you, resonated in the empty halls. You were meant to be something. You were simply human.

The day came. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. A ragged, desperate gasp that tore through the usual static of the city, bypassing every carefully constructed wall you had built around your senses. It was the unmistakable wheezing of a collapsed lung, a sound that resonated deep within your very bones, a primal echo of a shared biology. Blood. You could almost taste the metallic tang, see the crimson pooling in the pristine snow, a stark contrast to the white. He was broken. Beaten. For the first time.

Why were you hearing him? Why couldn't you tune it out, like you had every other overwhelming sensation, every other desperate plea, every other whisper of a world that wasn't yours, for three decades? Your eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into the worn fabric of your bedsheets, knuckles white. "Shut up," you whispered, the words a raw, guttural plea torn from your throat. "Just shut up." Your teeth clenched, jaw tight, a muscle jumping in your temple.

And then, it stopped. The wheezing, the blood, the pain – all gone. Replaced by the familiar, ethereal melody of your mothers' voices, clear as a bell in the sudden, jarring silence. "Our son," one said, a gentle caress. "You are meant for something great." The other followed, unwavering, "You mean something."

A silent scream tore through you, a visceral, internal agony that shook your entire body. You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cheap mattress groaning in protest. Your eyes, wide and unfocused, darted from the bracelet on your wrist, its cool metal a familiar weight, to a dusty, unassuming box tucked away in the corner of your room. You weren't sure why you had it, why you'd kept it all these years. Its contents had come with you in the pod, a final, desperate gift from a dying world, from two women who loved you more than life itself.

You were moving before you could stop yourself, a puppet pulled by unseen strings. The ragged, pained breathing filled your ears again, a phantom sensation, but no less real. Your fingers, trembling slightly, brushed against the lid of the box, pulling it off with a soft click. Inside, nestled amongst folds of tissue paper, was a fabric. Snowy white, pristine, untouched. A suit. Meant to keep you safe, had you ever chosen to become something with your Kryptonian powers.

You stood before the full-length mirror on the back of your bedroom door, the harsh overhead light illuminating your reflection. Bags, dark and heavy, sagged beneath your eyes, a testament to years of restless nights. Stubble shadowed your jaw, a rough, unkempt testament to your disinterest in appearances. Your hair, a dark, unruly mess, curled around your ears and the nape of your neck. You looked nothing like him. You looked like a man who had given up on being anything.

You undressed slowly, each movement deliberate, almost ritualistic. The t-shirt, sweatpants – they fell to the floor in a heap, revealing your slim, unassuming frame. Your gaze, however, remained fixed on the bed, where the snowy white suit lay. It seemed to hum with a silent energy, a stark contrast to the muted tones of your life. It was pristine, alien, a piece of a world you'd actively denied for so long.

With a deep, shaky breath, you picked it up. The fabric was cool against your skin, surprisingly supple. You slid your legs into the form-fitting material, then your arms, the suit molding to you with an unsettling familiarity. It fit. Not just well, but perfectly, as if custom-made for your exact dimensions, despite never having been worn. It was a second skin, a whisper of what could have been. You turned, catching your reflection in the mirror again, the white a startling brilliance against your tired features. It felt... off. Like it was missing something. A final touch, a grounding element, something to bridge the gap between the fantastical and the painfully real.

You rummaged through your meager closet, fingers brushing past worn denim and faded cotton. Then your hand closed around it. An old leather jacket, a relic from a brief, misguided attempt at teenage rebellion. It was scuffed, softened by years of neglect, but the lining – a deep, almost bruised red – was still vibrant. You pulled it on over the suit. It fit snugly across your shoulders, the leather creaking faintly, a familiar comfort. It felt right, like it belonged there, a defiance against the purity of the suit, a statement that even in this, you were still, undeniably, you.

The ragged breathing, once a distant echo, was now a relentless drumbeat against your skull, an insistent pulse that drowned out all other thoughts. It was louder than your mothers' comforting voices, more urgent than the quiet protests of your own ingrained fear. There was no ignoring it now. No shutting it out. What had to be done, had to be done.

You moved to your bedroom window, the cheap latch creaking as you pushed it open. A gust of cool night air, carrying the distant hum of city life, swirled into the room. You stared down, the ground so far below, a dizzying array of tiny lights and shadowed streets. Your stomach churned, a familiar cocktail of fear and self-preservation. This was insane. This was everything you had avoided, everything you had buried.

Then, you closed your eyes. And leaped.

Your body acted on pure, raw instinct, an instinct you had suppressed for decades. The rush of air was deafening, the sudden drop a terrifying lurch in your gut. But then, it wasn't a drop. It was a glide. A surge. You were flying. Through the dark, endless canvas of the night sky, guided by that pained, desperate breathing, a beacon in the storm.

As you got closer, the desperate wheezing faded, replaced by the biting sting of the Arctic wind and the soft, rhythmic crunch of swirling snow. Then, a new sound, high-pitched and piercing, echoed through the vast, desolate landscape – a whistle, sharp and insistent. And then you saw him.

He lay sprawled in the snow, a dark, broken silhouette against the stark white. His iconic red and blue suit was torn, crimson blossoming across the chest, a stark, terrifying contrast to the pristine snow. And then you saw the dog. A large, white blur, a blur of fur and movement, pouncing, not in aggression, but in a desperate, protective frenzy. And then you saw the small, familiar red cape draped around its neck, identical to the one Superman wore. Krypto.

You landed a few feet from his head, the snow crunching loudly beneath your boots, the sound impossibly loud in the vast quiet. The dog, mid-pounce, froze. Its head snapped up, intelligent eyes, a startling human look in them, locking onto you. He stopped focusing on Superman, every ounce of its attention now fixed on your sudden, unexpected presence. A low growl rumbled in his chest, a warning.

You moved, slowly, deliberately, to stand between the fallen hero and his loyal companion. Your eyes never left Superman, even as his own, clouded with pain and confusion, followed your every movement. He lay there, a god brought low, vulnerable in a way you had never imagined. You extended a hand, palm open, towards the growling dog. "Heel," you commanded, your voice a low, steady murmur, surprisingly calm despite the storm raging within you.

And he did. The growl died in his throat, replaced by a soft whine. He sat, tongue lolling slightly, those intelligent eyes still fixed on you, a silent question in their depths. You bent down, your gaze still on Superman, who gasped, a ragged, painful sound. His lips parted, trying to form words, "W-who...?" he rasped, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and profound bewilderment. He tried to push himself up, to move away from you, a primal instinct to escape, even in his broken state.

You ignored his attempt to scramble away, the raw vulnerability in his eyes a stark contrast to the invincible image the world held. "Don't," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, "don't move. You'll only make it worse."

His struggles ceased, a shuddering breath escaping him as he lay back against the snow, his eyes still locked on yours, searching for answers you weren't ready to give. You knelt fully, the cold seeping through the new suit, a grounding sensation. The super-hearing that had led you here now picked up the frantic thrum of his heart, a desperate flutter against his ribs, and the subtle, horrifying sound of air escaping where it shouldn't.

"Your lung is collapsed," you stated, the words flat, clinical, though your stomach clenched with an unfamiliar dread. You reached out, your hand hovering just above his chest, feeling the chaotic dance of his internal injuries. He flinched, but didn't pull away. "And your ribs... multiple fractures. Probably internal bleeding."

Krypto, who had been watching silently, let out a soft whine, nudging your shoulder with his nose. You spared him a glance, a flicker of something akin to a smile touching your lips. "It's alright, boy," you murmured, "I'm not going to hurt him."

Superman's gaze sharpened, a flicker of suspicion battling the haze of pain. "Who... who are you?" he managed again, his voice weaker this time, barely a whisper. "How... how do you know...?"

You finally met his eyes fully, the blue of your own meeting the stormy blue of his. You saw the reflection of a shared lineage, a parallel universe of what could have been. For a moment, the weight of decades of denial pressed down on you. The voices of your mothers, so strong when you first put on the suit, were now a distant hum beneath the urgent crisis before you. This wasn't about them, not anymore. It was about him.

"Doesn't matter," you said, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. "What matters is getting you out of here." You moved your hand to his side, probing gently, feeling the broken edges of bone. He cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound.

"We need to get you somewhere warm, fast," you continued, ignoring his pain, focusing on the immediate problem. "Your core temperature is dropping, and that'll complicate things." You looked around the desolate landscape. No shelter for miles. No way to call for help that wouldn't bring the wrong kind of attention.

"My fortress..." he mumbled, his eyes half-closed, "it's... nearby..."

You almost laughed. Of course, he had a fortress. A place of sanctuary, of power. A place you never had. "Where?" you demanded, cutting him off. "Give me a direction."

He pointed a trembling hand, a weak, almost imperceptible gesture towards the icy horizon. "North... northeast..."

You nodded, making a mental note. This was it. The moment of truth. The moment you either continued to be the human you'd always pretended to be, or embraced the legacy you'd always denied. You looked at the red-lined leather jacket, then back at his bleeding form. The suit felt less like a costume and more like a promise.

"Alright, big guy," you muttered, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. "This is going to hurt." You reached out, carefully sliding one arm beneath his shoulders, the other under his knees. His body was heavy, but you felt the familiar surge of strength, the suppressed power awakening with a vengeance.

You lifted him, cradling him against your chest. He gasped, a mixture of pain and surprise, his face pale against the backdrop of your white suit. Krypto, ever vigilant, rose to his feet, nudging your leg before falling in step beside you.

"Hang on," you instructed, your voice firm, resolute. You focused, not on the fear, not on the years of avoidance, but on the desperate flutter of his heart. And then, with Krypto running faithfully beside you through the snow, you leaped, carrying him into the freezing, unforgiving sky.

You landed with a barely perceptible crunch of snow, just as the Fortress of Solitude began its majestic emergence. Below your boots, the vast expanse of ice groaned and shifted, massive crystalline structures pushing upwards, catching the faint, ethereal glow of the Arctic sky. Krypto, freed from his protective vigil, was a joyous white streak, barking excitedly, bouncing up and down as the enormous, faceted door of the Fortress glowed with an inner light, then slid silently open before you.

You stepped inside, the sudden warmth a welcome shock after the biting cold. The vast, cavernous space hummed with an otherworldly energy, bathed in soft, pulsing light. Instantly, you were surrounded by robots, tall and sleek, their metallic forms varying in design but all bearing numerical designations on their chests. They moved with silent efficiency, their optical sensors sweeping over you and the fallen Kryptonian in your arms.

One robot, larger and seemingly more advanced than the others, with the number Four emblazoned on its chest, glided forward. Its voice, synthesized yet calm, resonated through the cavern. "Intruder designation unknown. However, primary directive: Subject is critical. Once Subject is stabilized, identity interrogation will commence. Bring Subject to the medical regeneration chair."

You didn't hesitate, your eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the robotic forms that parted to clear a path. Your focus was entirely on the pale, pain-racked face of the man in your arms. You reached the designated chair, a sleek, ergonomic marvel crafted from what looked like polished crystal and plush, iridescent fabric. Carefully, you began to lower Superman onto its surface.

But before you could fully settle him, three other robots moved with astonishing speed, their metallic arms extending to gently, but firmly, push you back. They took over, their movements precise and practiced, positioning Superman's limp form against the plush surface. Bio-scanners extended from the chair, bathing him in a soft, diagnostic glow.

Four, still standing before you, turned its optical sensors towards Superman. "Subject Kal-El," it intoned, its voice devoid of emotion, "would you like to access the message from your parents? Analysis indicates high efficacy in promoting calm during trauma."

Superman, his eyes barely slits, stirred on the chair. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through him. A small, desperate "Yes," fell from his lips, barely audible above the low hum of the Fortress.

Your gaze, which had been fixed on the prone form of Superman, now drifted to the ethereal projection of his parents that shimmered into existence from the chair. Their faces, noble and serene, flickered with an ancient light. The female, Lara, began to speak, her voice a soothing murmur, a melody you’d only ever heard in your dreams.

"Kal-El, our son," she began, her words flowing in a dialect that was both foreign and intimately familiar.

And then, without conscious thought, you started to repeat her words. Not just in your mind, but out loud. A strange, involuntary echo. "Kal-El, our son," you murmured, the Kryptonian syllables feeling heavy and alien on your tongue, yet perfectly formed.

"The universe is a vast place," Jor-El, his father, continued, his voice deeper, resonating with a paternal gravitas. "You are its hope."

"The universe is a vast place," you repeated, your voice a strange blend of Kryptonian and the English language you’d spoken your entire life. "You are its hope." It was as if a part of your brain, long dormant, had awakened, accessing a linguistic memory you hadn’t known you possessed.

Robot Four, its sensors no doubt registering the anomaly, turned its head, its optical gaze fixed on you. Then, it looked back at Superman. Superman, still wracked with pain, his eyes half-lidded, also turned his gaze towards you. His eyes, though clouded, held a newfound intensity, a flash of recognition. It was as if your echoing words were all the confirmation he needed of who, or what, you truly were. The secret you had guarded for decades was laid bare in that single, profound glance.

You hadn’t even noticed the subtle shift in the Fortress's lighting, hadn't registered the sunlight filtering through the crystalline structure of the ceiling. You hadn't noticed the way it was being magnified, focused into a potent beam directly onto Superman's broken body. Not until you heard him scream. It wasn't a scream of pain, not entirely. It was a guttural, primal roar, a surge of overwhelming energy. Beneath the focused sun's rays, you could hear it, sense it – his body healing, flesh knitting, bones mending with impossible speed. The cacophony of his broken form was being rapidly silenced by the incredible power of your shared sun.

And yet, you kept repeating the message. Your mothers' words, intertwined with his parents', a strange, multi-layered echo in the vast hall. "You will be a beacon... they will follow you... you are not alone." The words poured from you, a torrent of ancient comfort and impossible prophecy, as Superman gasped, healed, and rose from the chair.

He stood. Not slowly, not with effort, but with the sudden, effortless grace of a man who had just been resurrected. The torn fabric of his suit still clung to him, but beneath it, the impossible had happened. The wounds were gone. The blood, the shattered bones, the collapsed lung – all erased as if they had never been. His eyes, no longer clouded with pain, blazed with a fierce, almost overwhelming clarity. He looked at his hands, flexing them, a silent testament to the miracle of his recovery.

Your voice finally faltered, the last echoes of Jor-El and Lara dying in the vast hall. You stood there, the white suit a stark statement, the red-lined leather jacket a defiant splash of your own identity. You felt a strange blend of exhaustion and exhilaration, the alien energy of the Fortress, the raw power of the sun, and the sheer audacity of what you had just done, coursing through you.

Superman's gaze, intense and unwavering, fixed on you. His parents' message, your unbidden echo, the very act of your saving him – it all converged in his expression. "You… you spoke Kryptonian," he said, his voice deep, strong, entirely healed. It wasn't a question, but a statement of undeniable fact.

You said nothing, your breath catching in your throat. There was no denying it now. No hiding. No retreating back to the quiet, invisible life you had meticulously built.

He took a step towards you, then another, the metallic click of his boots on the crystalline floor the only sound in the cavernous space. Krypto, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, remained by the now-glowing regeneration chair, watching both of you with an intelligent, focused gaze.

"Who are you?" Superman asked again, but this time, the question was different. It wasn't laced with confusion or pain, but with a profound, almost desperate curiosity. His eyes, the same piercing blue as before, searched yours for answers. "How… how did you find me? Why did you help me?"

He was close now, close enough for you to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the raw intensity in his gaze. He was a god, yes, but at this moment, stripped bare of his invincibility, he was also just a man, seeking understanding. And you, the man who had always chosen to be nothing, were suddenly the only one who held the key to his questions. The weight of his expectation, the sheer enormity of his presence, was crushing.

You looked at the floor, then back at him. The lies, the denials, the carefully constructed walls of your human existence, were crumbling around you. Your mothers' voices, though silent now, resonated in your mind, a forgotten promise finally, terrifyingly, fulfilled. You were meant for something. You meant something. And now, standing before the very embodiment of what you had rejected, you had no choice but to face it.

You swallowed hard, the silence stretching between you two, broken only by the hum of the Fortress. The truth felt like a physical weight, pressing down on your chest. You had spent a lifetime running from this, from who you were, from what you could do. But looking at him, at the man who was everything you weren't, everything you should have been, the words just… came.

"I'm from Krypton," you finally said, your voice raspy, a stranger's voice. The admission was both terrifying and liberating. "Just like you. And… Kara." You saw a flicker of surprise, then understanding, in his eyes at the mention of his cousin. "We… we were on the same ship. Or, pods near each other, anyway."

He didn't speak, just waited, his intense gaze never leaving yours, urging you to continue.

"I didn't land where you did," you explained, the words tumbling out now, a floodgate breaking. "No farm. No loving parents to teach me about this world, to guide me. Just… an orphanage. A lot of different ones, actually. I learned to survive. To be invisible. To be human." You gestured vaguely to your face, the stubble, the tired lines. "That's all I ever wanted to be. Just… human."

You looked down at the white suit, then up at him, a wry, humorless smile touching your lips. "I kept it all buried. The strength, the speed, the flying… all of it. I saw what happened to people who were different. Who stood out. I just wanted to be safe. To be normal." Your gaze hardened. "I watched you, you know. On my phone. While I cleaned offices. You were everything my birth mothers told me I was supposed to be. A hero. Something."

His expression softened, a deep empathy replacing the initial surprise. "Why now?" he asked, his voice gentle. "After all this time, why save me?"

You clenched your fists, the answer forming a lump in your throat. "Because I heard you," you admitted, the raw truth of it stripping away all pretense. "I heard you dying. And I… I couldn't ignore it. It was like… it was like I could feel it. And for the first time, I couldn't turn it off. I tried, god, I tried. But it just kept screaming in my head." You looked around the vast, alien hall of the Fortress. "And… my parents. Their message. It just… pushed me."

He took another step, closing the remaining distance between you. He reached out, slowly, as if not to startle you. His hand landed on your shoulder, a comforting, surprisingly warm weight. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere, filled with an emotion that transcended the simple words. "Thank you for not ignoring it. For not ignoring me."

You met his gaze, the weight of the moment settling heavily between you. Two sons of a dead world, standing in a monument to a forgotten past, forging an unexpected present. The hero and the human. Except now, maybe, the lines weren't so clear anymore.

His hand remained on your shoulder, a silent anchor in the swirling chaos of your thoughts. The sheer raw power emanating from him, even now, was palpable, a low hum against your skin. It was overwhelming, everything you had actively suppressed, everything you had run from. You saw a flash of understanding in his eyes, a shared burden.

"You're not alone," he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, echoing the very words your parents, and his, had once spoken. "Not anymore."

The simple statement hung in the air, heavier than any physical weight. Thirty years of isolation, of carefully constructed walls, of fierce independence, crumbled under the weight of those three words. You felt a sting behind your eyes, a tightness in your throat you hadn't experienced since you were a child, clutching that bracelet in a cold orphanage bed.

You pulled your gaze from his, looking around the vast, almost sterile beauty of the Fortress. The crystalline structures, the advanced technology, the sheer scale of it all – it was a home built by a god, for a god. And you, the human, were suddenly standing in its heart.

"What now?" you finally managed to croak out, the question raw and unvarnished. You weren't asking about him, or his next battle. You were asking about you. About the life that had just been irrevocably shattered and reborn in the same breath.

He took his hand from your shoulder, and you almost missed the contact. He stepped back, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. "That, I think," he said, his gaze sweeping over the Fortress, then settling back on you, "is up to you."

He turned, gesturing towards a section of the Fortress where various screens glowed with data. "My family built this place as a sanctuary. A place for knowledge, for growth. For… understanding." He paused, looking back at you, a profound invitation in his eyes. "You're from Krypton. This is your heritage too. Maybe… maybe this is where you start to figure out what that 'something' is your mothers spoke of."

Krypto, who had been patiently observing, trotted over to Superman, nudging his hand with his head. Superman scratched behind his ears, a faint smile playing on his lips.

You looked at the white suit, at your red-lined jacket, then back at the man who was now patiently waiting, not for a fight, but for a choice. The human part of you screamed to turn and run, to disappear back into the anonymity of your old life. But the other part, the part that had soared through the night sky, guided by a stranger’s pain, the part that had spoken an ancient language, felt a flicker of something new. Something akin to… curiosity. And perhaps, hope.

The roar of Krypton’s destruction, the whispers of your mothers, the wheezing breath of a broken hero – they had all led you here. To the heart of something immense, something terrifying, and something profoundly, undeniably, yours.

You took a deep breath, the cold, clean air of the Fortress filling your lungs. For the first time in a very long time, you didn't feel lost. You just felt… at the beginning.

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