ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴀᴠɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ᴜꜱ
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: The Three Body Problem
✶ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
+ clark kent x f!reader | A multi-chapter exploration of growth, the heart, and the unsaid.
wc: 2.5k a/n: this fic is my baby, and I'm so excited to finally share it. prepare for heartbreak, navigating very human feelings and miscommunication that will make you want to rip your hair out. i truly hope you enjoy! please please give me feedback to shape the story better as it progresses!
©all graphics by yours truly.
The Three-Body Problem (noun; a classical mechanics conundrum where predicting the individual trajectories of three gravitationally interacting celestial bodies is chaotic and three bodies create unpredictable orbits, often leading to violent ejection.)
·✶·
Clark’s eyes are shut, teeth clenched, his face, a map of intense pain. Sweat beads along his hairline, catching the dim light of the apartment— a sight that would indicate a fever in any other man, but for someone like Clark, it signifies only one thing.
His world is breaking apart.
You’re there in a flash, sinking to the floor in front of him. You take his hand into yours gently, and press it firmly to your wrist.
“Clark,” you murmur softly, and his eyelids flutter, chest heaving in uneven pulls. He flinches as if the very air is abrasive. His dark, unfocused eyes flit to yours and you lean in, eclipsing the world for him.
“Focus on my heartbeat. Just the rhythm. Don't listen to anything, don't look through the walls. Just look at me.”
He obeys, his world narrowing until the only thing left is the thrum of blood beneath your skin. His fingers wrap around your wrist tight, so tight your pulse echoes against your own skin— and slowly, but surely, color returns to his face, shoulders sagging as the world softens to a muffled hum around him.
When his eyes finally open, they’re back to their summer blue and he lets out a shaky breath. “I have no idea what I’d do without you,” he admits softly, giving your wrist a squeeze— sending a spark that travels straight to your chest— before letting go.
“Be admitted to Metropolis General in five seconds flat," you retort, but there’s no real bite to your quip. You hear your voice fall flat in real time, pursing your lips into a straight line to keep them from quivering.
Sensory overload isn’t a regular occurrence for him; but it worries you nonetheless. It's not easy to see Clark this… helpless. Metropolis is everything that Smallville wasn’t, and even for someone like Clark, the change is a lot to adjust to.
“Hey, I'm okay,” Clark’s voice calls softly from behind you, but you don't turn to look at him. You make your way back to the kitchen, knowing Clark’s eyes are glued to you, and resume your mission with the laundry basket. He follows you (he’s always following you into places, like a lost little puppy) and leans onto the kitchen counter beside you.
“Ma was right,” he says, putting on a warm and cheery tone, “In making sure you were stuck with me forever.”
The word forever hangs in the air, a heavy weight that neither of you acknowledge.
“Hey, I chose to study Astrophysics and you followed me here,” you muse, snapping a pair of jeans straight before handing them to him. “Don’t blame Mrs. Kent just because you can’t live without me.”
Clark pries them from your hands, as he grins boyishly from ear to ear, his pearly white smile bright in the golden haze of the Sunday afternoon.
It’s dangerous, how you keep pushing the boundaries of what best friends are and what shouldn’t be.
“I didn’t follow you,” he counters, his voice dropping into the playful tone he only uses when it’s just the two of you. “I just happened to realize that Metropolis has a slightly higher need for someone who can catch falling helicopters.”
There is a sudden movement, a soundless blur and all the clothes lay magically folded in front of you. None of them are correctly folded, however, and you have to roll your eyes at him.
“Did you grow up in a barn?” you groan, stepping into his personal space to reach for the steam iron on the counter behind him. “You’re so difficult.”
You don’t move around him; you move through his space. Your hip brushes his as you reach, a contact so natural you don't even blink. He doesn't pull away; instead, he leans into the touch, a subconscious magnetic pull that has governed your lives since you were ten years old. It doesn’t mean anything, it's just the way your bodies have learned to exist in the same square footage.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray thread on your sleeve, lingering for a beat longer than necessary. His touch is light, but the heat of it seeps through the fabric.
"And yet," he smiles mischievously, “You love me."
You roll your eyes, though your heartbeat does a little stutter.
"I’m phoning Mr. Kent, I have something of his I’d like to return."
·✶·
Monday rolls in with a sweltering summer wave, the kind that pricks at your skin through your clothes as you and Clark navigate the crowded campus courtyard. The sun glints off the glass buildings, but Clark doesn't seem to notice the temperature; he just walks with that effortless stride, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours in the flow of late-for-class students. He's dressed in jeans and a plain blue t-shirt, your one tether to simpler, quieter times at Smallville.
“I’m thinkin’ I’ll drop this class,” you huff, the strap of your backpack digging into your shoulder. You shift the weight, your forehead furrowed with stress.
Clark tilts his head, his eyes searching yours with that trademark quiet intensity. “You know we both absolutely need Chem for our degrees,” he reminds you, his voice a calm anchor that soothes your heart.
“Professor Santiago gives us too much work, Clark! It stresses me out just looking at the syllabus.”
A shout of your name cuts through the noise of the quad just then. Stopping, both you and Clark turn toward the voice as a bright smile instinctively splits your face.
“Oliver!” you call out, a little too excitedly.
The tall, blonde man jogs toward you, coming to a breathless halt in front of you. He offers Clark a polite, chin-flick of a nod. Clark returns the gesture, his smile fixed and professional, though you notice the way his jaw tightens— a subtle hardening of his features that most people would miss.
“Hey, I didn’t hear back from you last night,” Oliver says, his attention snapping back to you, voice carrying a hopeful vibrato.
“Oh, yeah,” you say, shifting your bag again, still smiling up at him. “I was buried under a chemistry assignment, Santiago is ruthless.”
“That’s tough.” Oliver’s smile tugs upward, leaning in slightly, narrowing the space between you. “Do you think we could… tonight, then? There’s a screening at eight.”
You offer him a small, non-committal smile, casting a sideways glance at Clark. He’s standing remarkably still, his hands tucked into his pockets, looking between the two of you with an expression that’s hard to read— a mask of polite curiosity that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
“I’ll let you know, Oliver,” you say softly. “The professors haven’t exactly been generous with our free time lately.”
“Right,” Oliver says, a quiver of disappointment in his voice, shoulders dropping just a fraction. He promises to catch you later and bids you both goodbye, disappearing into the sea of students.
Clark gives you a slow once-over, his eyebrows arched, mouth opening to surely, comment something.
“He asked me if I wanted to go to the movies,” you confess before he can start.
At that, Clark’s mouth breaks into a broad, dimpled grin.
“That’s what I thought,” you say, making a face. “Bring it on. Tease me all you want.”
He adjusts his glasses, the frame catching the light, expression turning serious. “Well… do you want to? See him, I mean?”
You shrug, a sudden heat that has nothing to do with the weather rising in your cheeks.
“I don’t know? I mean, he’s definitely cute."
Clark’s smile falters— a momentary flicker, like a candle caught in a draft.
You could have imagined it.
“Well, you should,” he says after a beat, his voice an octave lower, lips curving into a supportive smile. “If you want to, that is.”
There’s a slight, nauseating tug beneath your navel that you choose to ignore. You nod and smile back at him.
“Maybe I will,” you murmur quietly, Clark already walking ahead of you.
You follow Clark into class in silence, the atmosphere feeling strange and thick, even once you've unpacked beside him at your desks.
Chemistry is usually a frustrating class because of measurements and dry theory, but Clark has always been the quiet filter, making everything seem like a breeze.
Right now, however, that filter is more of a wall. He is uncharacteristically silent, or maybe just too focused on eyeing the slow drips from the pipette.
“Have you hung out with him before?” Clark asks.
The question drops into the space between you, sudden and sharp, cutting through the low murmurs of the laboratory. You are halfway through gently swirling a beaker of Calcium Hypochlorite, the liquid a translucent white.
“Um, yeah,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck. You keep your eyes fixed on the glass, annoyed by the sudden thrum of defiance in your chest. You haven't done anything wrong; there is no reason for your heart to kick against your ribs like a guilty thing. “We have Physical Mechanics together. We’re partnered up for a project. He is… easy to talk to.”
You finally look up, and catch Clark's gaze. There is a flicker of something raw behind his glasses. He opens his mouth to say something but the air in the room suddenly curdles, as if the pressure had dropped to zero.
A chill settles deep within your spine.
And then, the class explodes.
·✶·
Everything happens dizzyingly fast. You’re slammed against the floor, your breath being driven from your lungs by the sheer mass of Clark’s body pressing into your back as debris rains down around you. The air is a thick, smoky curtain that tastes like copper and molten plastic. Heat licks at your side, and you spot a hungry orange glow burning through the fog out of the corner of your eye.
A scream, high and terrible, pierces the cackling of the fire. Clark hauls you up by the shoulders, his grip tight enough to bruise, dragging you through the chaos. You cling to his arm for dear life, your boots skidding over debris as you both navigate the sea of panicked students. When you finally burst into the quad, the sunlight instantly blinds your eyes. You gasp, drawing in stinging lungfuls of air as Clark’s hands skim your arms, a frantic search for any sign of hurt. You can tell he’s simultaneously scanning your body with his x-ray vision, and you suddenly feel a little exposed.
"Stay here," he rasps once satisfied that you’re unhurt, eyes dark with worry. "Don't move."
You nod, breathless and watch as he sprints back into the maw of the screaming building. You slide down against the cool brick of a planter, ears filling with a high-pitched ringing. You aren’t afraid for Clark; he has survived worse, but you watch the entrance with a hollow dread for classmates who aren't super humans.
After what feels like hours, Clark finally emerges from the diminishing shroud of smoke. He’s carrying an unconscious student by the legs… but he is not alone. A woman is with him— her dark, mermaid curls bouncing against her shoulders, her brown skin luminous even beneath the soot. She supports the student’s torso, her movements fluid and impossibly calm.
They reach the fleet of ambulances together, moving in a manner that’s enchantingly synchronised; almost like they’ve done this before. You watch them hoist the gurney with the first responders and help the injured student into the ambulance.
As they walk back toward the grass, the woman says something that makes Clark’s face break into a quiet smile. She lifts her elbow, pointing to something, a scrape maybe, and Clark’s brows knit together in fussing concern.
You watch as he grabs a first aid kit by himself, and dabs at her skin with a piece of gauze. His head is bowed close to hers (a little too close) as they rapidly exchange words. You’re not sure if your smoke-filled mind is playing tricks, but you can actually see electricity crackle between them, drawing them closer.
Suddenly, Clark’s head snaps in your direction. He looks startled, as if he’d momentarily forgotten about you, and jogs back to you. The woman follows a few paces behind, her stride feline and graceful.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, kneeling in front of you, his hands hovering near your face.
But you aren't looking at him. You’re looking at her.
Up close, the woman is a dream come to life. Her skin, as impossible as it seems, is glowing— a soft, unearthly shimmer that makes your vision swim.
“This is Luma,” Clark says, and his voice has a nervous, electric quality you’ve never heard before. He leans in closer, whispering with an excited grin, “Luma Lynai. She’s... she’s like me.”
The words somehow feel worse than the blast you just experienced, the faint ringing in your ear amplifying by a hundred decibels.
Like me.
A cold, slumbering monster stirs in your chest, stretching its maw but you force your lips to stretch into a friendly smile.
For years, everyone around you (and part yourself) had convinced you that you and Clark were binary stars, locked in a private, inevitable orbit. That eventually, the laws of physics would work out and you would someday collide. It was always assumed, the unspoken simmering underneath the surface— friendship or something more— this bond was for life.
But as Clark stands up, turning his back to you to address her— his posture subconsciously mirroring hers, their silhouettes overlapping in the sun and casting a shadow over you— you realize that in a system of three bodies, the orbit almost always decays.
✶ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ
✶ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ. ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ, ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ, ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ! ✶
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