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icybarness · 3 days ago

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Beauty in Insecurity

Pairings: Actor! David Corenswet x pregnant!reader | Wc: 980

Notes: This is just a broad idea! No negativity towards the actors whatsoever! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy :) Check out my Masterlist!

Summary: Being pregnant, your hormones and insecurities become everywhere, and seeing your husband's chemistry with his co-star makes you doubt, and you can't help it.

Warnings: Body insecurity/insecurities in general, implied smut at the end

Since Superman was out, your husband was out and about during press. Being heavily pregnant at 9 months, it was a complicated balance when it came to your hormones.

Missing him, then your insecurities about your body, your shyness, your doubt about motherhood, to the small things that bother you, David never fails to remind you that you were perfect.

But you never had the strength to tell him about the chemistry between him and his co-star Rachel, which he never caught on to just yet.

You couldn't help but feel the insecurities throughout your body. She was perfect, strong-willed, just like in the movie, and definitely has her life together. You've witnessed the press and interviews together in person, and they somehow click so effortlessly. You didn't wanna be that person. You just swallowed it all down.

Somehow managing to keep down the feeling for weeks, you became distant when you didn't mean it, and your husband was catching on.

David was out getting you breakfast today, and left you alone for an hour until he came back, until the behind-the-scenes clips came out, and you had friends and family sending you clips from David's and Rachel's scenes all around.

Oh.

At the time, you felt like you were spiraling, a gnawing guilt that you felt like you were holding him down with a baby, that you were broken, feeling like the burden was you.

All you have seen were the hundreds of comments:

“Y/n is holding him down with a baby, she's stopping his career.”

“David is better with Rachel.”

“Y/N better know how to fight cause—”

You heard the front door click shut.

You were zoned out on the living room couch, eyes glassy. You didn't feel his presence until you felt him dip on the couch right next to you, one warm calloused hand in yours, the other taking your face gently to look into your eyes. Seeing you like this makes his heart split.

“Baby, you alright? What's wrong? — Talk to me,” he whispers ever so quietly, not wanting to startle in your quiet space.

“I-” you didn't know where to begin, your throat closes up after seeing his worried and broken features throughout his face.

You let everything out violently, the dam breaking loose after holding in the feelings for weeks. Zoning out from his words, as you couldn't hear, but you feel the warm embrace wrap around your frame. The struggle of catching your breath was nearly impossible.

He pulls you back, taking both hands to cup your cheeks, having your focus directly on him.

“Sweetheart – can you take a breath for me? P-please follow my breaths on three, are you ready? He breathes in. You try to mimic, but break into a fit of sobs and coughs.

“It’s okay, let's try again, you're okay.”

After a few more attempts, your shortness of breath leaves you, and your exhaustion comes to you, forehead resting on your husband's shoulder.

He wanted to know what was wrong; he's beyond worried. But he wanted you to let it out and speak on it when you're ready.

“A-Am I burdening you?” you say under a whisper, but just for him to catch on.

He pulls you back up to meet his gaze, seeing what got you in your head like this. “Sweetheart — No. Never. What got you so pent up like this?”

Tears wash through your eyes again, trying to hold back from a sob all over again, but the tenderness behind his eyes, the soothing caress of his hand up and down your back, helps with it.

“I just feel like — you can do better, you know? You're out there, you've made it, I’m just me with this baby, and I’m nothing special.” Taking a deep breath to keep going, “You just look so great together,” your voice cracking, not being able to handle it anymore.

“Baby, you mean Rachel? She’s a co-worker, honey. — Only work I promise you. “

“But behind the scenes with you and her and the comments —”

“Sweetheart, we had so much anxiety beyond words we can’t describe. If we had that in the way when it came to those scenes, it wouldn't have been the best; it wouldn't have worked out, it would have been chaos. The intimacy director was leading us through; we had to change a few things as well, but that doesn't give me the excuse for what you saw. I’m so sorry, honey,” as he kisses the crown of your head. “Don’t listen to the comments. They don't know you. They don't know us.”

David held you as you were finding the right words to rebuttal back, but you were too exhausted to care; you were drained, and you let him just hold you in the moment, but his eyes told you otherwise.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper brokenly, wanting to just have this conversation be over with.

“Honey, it’s okay. No need for a sorry. I love you for you, alright? You're beautiful, carrying our daughter, carrying so much emotion with you, just take it off your shoulders so I can carry some hmm? You're it for me, the one for me and no one else ever. — As much as I’m off at work, halfway across the world for press, you're never getting rid of me, I’ll always be there in any way, I love you,” confessing, bringing your face to his, slotting his lips to yours, just a perfect fit.

David didn't need you to explain; he knew the reasons for what you were feeling, he gets it, and all he wanted was to just make it up to you.

“Come on, my gorgeous mama — lemme show how much I really love you.”

He leads you up to the couch, into the bedroom, showing you the love you deserve.

I guess breakfast is cold now.

#clark kent x reader #david!clark kent x reader #david corenswet x reader #david corenswet x pregnant!reader #david corenswet x yn #david corenswet x you #david corenswet #dcu #david corenswet smut #david corenswet fluff #clark kent fluff #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #david!clark kent #superman x reader #superman

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icybarness · 4 days ago

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Rahhh we hit 1k on Protecting you <3 couldn’t do it without @orobaxis !!! Goal is officially completed!!!

#jazzyrambles #clark kent x reader #david!clark kent x reader #david corenswet x reader #david corenswet smut #clark kent smut

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icybarness · 4 days ago

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Cheffing it up like always🥺🩷

ARGUMENTS - CLARK KENT

summary: when arguments arise, the last thing Clark expects to see is you flinching at his voice.

warning: arguing, lil angst, fluff, reader sensitive to loud noises

authors note: omg thank you guys for 500 followers?? I seriously did not expect it but im so grateful to you guys ❤️❤️❤️also ty for @icybarness for giving the fic idea, pls check out her fic cause its rlly good!

word count: 2.7k

Clark is quiet, eerily so. No rambling of how his day went or Star wars. He doesn’t speak a single word. The air is tense, only the background noise coming from the TV filling the silence.

He’s standing in the kitchen with his back towards you, silently washing the dirty dishes in the sink, looking like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. The white button up clings to his body, the sleeves messily rolled up to his elbows. Clark won’t admit it out loud but he’s dead tired and still kinda hungry despite the hefty dinner you’ve put all your energy into making for him.

To say that today was an exhausting day is an understatement. It was one thing right after the other. The kaiju attack, being late to work again, another kaiju attack that led to him getting tossed around more than he’d like. And the final cherry on the cake? Lex Luthor doing another smear campaign in an attempt to take down Superman.

Being here at home calmed his nerves. The sound of your voice, the smell of your cooking, all of it. The stress melted off his bones the moment he took a single step inside the apartment. Though, some parts of that stress still clung to his skin like a nasty parasite. He couldn’t shake it off like normal this time. This time it was bad. And that’s the last thing he wanted you to know.

Unfortunately for him, you know Clark better than he knows himself sometimes. You saw the tension in his shoulders when he walked through the door. You heard how heavy he set down his leather messenger bag next to the door. It didn’t take a genius for you to know that something was wrong. He was frustrated, angry, tired and he wasn’t going to be saying a damn word about it until you tore it out of him.

You calmly walked towards him, your hand brushing along his back. “Clark… you okay, hun? You seem a little off today.” You softly asked, hoping that Clark would tell you. He doesn’t. It takes a second for your voice to register in his ears. “Hm? Oh, yeah, m’good. Today was uh… meh.” Clark mumbled, his gaze not meeting your eyes. His response is short and barely legible.

Your hands move to cover his and pull him away from the sink. Using a nearby hand towel, you wiped away the water that soaked his hands. Your touch is gentle and slow. Your breath hitched when you see the state of his knuckles. They're bruised. It takes a lot to bruise the man of steel. The sun is down and it'll take a while for him to heal fully. “Your hands–” Clark pulls away before you can finish your sentence.

“It's just a scratch. I'm fine.”

“Clark–”

“Y/N, please.”

You freeze for a second. The tension in the room is brewing. You and Clark rarely argue, you have a feeling that tonight might be the exception. “It's not just your hands, isn't it?” You exclaimed, judging by the way he's acting, you're not wrong. “Please, tell me the truth, Clark. You don't have to lie to me.” You pleaded.

Clark's lips turn into a fine line. He doesn't speak, he turns his back towards you again and lets out a hefty sight. “I'm not lying, I said that I'm fine.” Clark firmly spoke as he rested his hands on his hips. Oh yeah, definitely a fight is starting. “I saw the news, Clark. I'm not blind. I'm only worried about you.” Clark instantly groaned at the mention of the news. That damned footage of his getting his ass beat during the second kaiju fight. In his defense, he was tired.

“Oh god not that.” Clark groaned in annoyance. “Look, I managed to beat the kaiju not once but twice. I dealt with Luthor fine as well. There's nothing to worry about.”

“I'm not worried if you won or not–”

“Why wouldn't you be worried about that?” Clark shot back. The stress of the day was starting to bubble over. It clouded his vision.

“Because I'm more focused on if you're alive or not!” You argued, taking a step closer to him. “Why should I be more focused if my boyfriend won the fight or not against some giant kaiju when he looks like he got tossed around like a ragdoll in the middle of Metropolis?!”

“That thing did not do that to me at all.” The kaiju did in fact do that to him. Several times.

You let out an annoyed huff. “Oh my god– Why can't you just tell me if you're hurt or not Clark? I- Is it an ego thing o-or–”

“It's not an ego thing!” Clark huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His glasses still resting on his face. It was already starting to give him a headache at this point. The plastic frames digging into his own skin. “I can handle myself just fine.” Clark firmly spoke as he finally turns around to face you. You stare at him, clearly seeing through the bullshit ‘I'm okay!’ facade he has on right now. It’s absolutely infuriating.

You take in a deep breath to calm your nerves. “I'm worried about you, Clark. You need to rest. You've been pushing yourself these past few weeks. You've barely gotten any sleep. Maybe you should take a step back for a bit–” Clark instantly cuts you off with a scoff that even he doesn't realize he did.

“Take a step back? You know I can't do that. I- I have a responsibility to them. To the people. I have the powers to keep people safe and I'm going to do exactly that.”

“And what about yourself? You owe your body to take a break! The longer this goes on the faster you'll burn out. Can't you see that!” You cried out. You didn't want to see Clark burn up like the sun. He needed to understand that even he himself needed to rest. And you were doing your damn best to make sure he saw it as well. “Clark, please rest. Even if its just for tonight–”

“I don't need to take a damn rest Y/N!” Clark shouted before he could even stop himself. He’s never raised his voice at you before. It’s not even a shout really. More like a firm loud statement that sent the message horribly wrong. But the damage was already done.

The apartment shook a little from how loud his voice boomed out. Your body instinctively flinches from the sudden noise, arms raised ever so slightly in front of your body. A still silence flooded the room. Neither of you say anything. Clark’s expression matched yours somewhat. Eyes wide with disbelief. Though for you, there was another layer. He’s seen that reaction before in other people. Dilated pupils, trembling hands, shaky breaths.

Fear.

You're scared.

He scared you.

Clark takes a step forward, his hand reaching out to you, “Y/N, I–” You instinctively back away from his touch. That’s a big enough sign for Clark to back off. “I- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you I swear. Please, I didn't mean it.” Clark speaks, his voice barely above a whisper as if to make up for what he had done. Its hard for you to listen to what Clark is saying when your heart is pounding so loudly in your chest. You might think that it would actually burst out of you.

And then you felt it. That ugly feeling that scratches at your throat when you're about to cry.

Clark freezes at the sight of the thin layer of tears that are already welling up in your eyes. The first tear drop falls before you can even stop it. No, no, no, no this is all going horribly wrong. Clark never meant to make you cry. He would never dare do that to you. Not you. And yet he did. The guilt twists his chest like a piercing hot knife. Usually Clark is prepared for a lot of things but this? He doesn't know what to do. His hands are frozen at his side.

He's only a few feet away from you but it feels like he's miles away. “I- I need to go.” You sputter out, covering your face with your hands to hide the tears ready to spill. You're the one to take the first move. You're the one who takes backwards steps until you're out of the kitchen. You don't wait for Clark's response as you head towards the shared bedroom. He can hear the faint sound of the door closing echoing in the apartment.

Clark gives you your space that you need. He doesn't rush to the door like a maniac begging to be let in. He lets the consequences of his actions hit him in full force. He did this. He scared you and the guilt is eating him alive. Walking over to the couch, Clark sits down with a tired sigh, leaning back on the cushions. His fingers running through his messed up hair.

Darn it he screwed up big time.

The door slams behind you and you sink down to the floor. You don’t know what happened. Well, you kinda do, it's just that you never expected yourself to react that way. Dealing with strong noises wasn’t exactly your forte. You have your head in your hands as the tears dribble down your face.

The hardwood floors dig into your skin the longer you stay frozen in your spot. You can feel the sound of blood rushing to your ears, trying to block out your own senses. It’s overwhelmingly difficult to breathe. You could choke on it if you try. There’s this tingling feeling under your skin. Maybe it’s the adrenaline that’s causing that buzzing sensation.

You lean back on the door, the wood providing a cooling sensation to your skin. It keeps you grounded to reality.

Your body stays stuck in your current position for god knows how long. The quiet stillness in the air allowing your mind to repeat everything that went wrong tonight. Arguments are rare, but they still happen, albeit never this bad. Most of the time you and Clark manage to sort things out by the end of the night. You still end up sleeping in the same bed and holding each other tight.

This is different.

Time ticks by faster than you expect it. Seconds to minutes and minutes to hours. You didn’t even realize that you had even fallen asleep until you felt the warm rays of sun bringing warmth to your skin. By then, you’ve fully calmed down from that hectic mindset you were stuck in. Your heart doesn’t feel like it might explode so that’s a good sign.

Your muscles ache when you finally crawl yourself out of the spot you’re in. It’s a horrible position to sleep in but that wasn’t your focus right now. Your footsteps are quiet as you stumble out of the bedroom, still dressed in last night's clothes. It doesn’t take you too long to hear the familiar snoring noise coming from the living room.

Peeking into the room, you easily spot Clark sprawled out on the couch that’s way too small for him to sleep on. His face is smushed into one of the throw pillows and one of his legs is tossed over the couch. Your heart softens at the sight. He’s basically glowing under the rays of sunlight that shines through the windows. He’s like a plant with the way he kinda photosynthesizes in the sun.

Clark doesn’t stir one bit when the couch dips under your weight as you sit down next to his sleeping body. Nor does he wake when you push back some of the strands of curly hair that cover his face.

It isn’t until you’re softly whispering his name does Clark finally wake up. “Clark, wake up.” Your hand gently shakes him a little. Clark groans softly, burying his head deeper in the pillow. “Five minutes…” He mumbles, completely unaware of the fact that you’re not in the bedroom anymore but by his side. He opens his eyes ever so slightly, trying to gather his surroundings after being roused from his half decent rest as the sunlight burns his eyes.

“Sweetheart?” Clark croaks out.

“Yeah?”

“...”

“OH! You’re awake–” Your eyes widen when Clark basically scrambles from his spot on the couch and accidentally lands on the floor with a loud thud. The wood groaning under his weight. A soft groan of pain escaping his lips. You barely had enough time to get up and avoid getting pulled down with him. “Are you okay?!” You exclaimed, bending down to his level to make sure he didn’t hit his head. Your eyes scanning his form quickly.

“No– Wait, yes– I’m… I’m good.” Clark mumbled, scratching the back of his head shyly. He slowly gets up from where he fell, a tint of pink in his cheeks from embarrassment. When he lifts his head to meet your gaze, there’s this look of guilt written all over him. You two are awkwardly sitting on the floor together, unsure of what to say to even start the conversation.

“Look– About last night, I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted at you. Not when you were just worried about me.” Clark sighed, leaning back on the couch. “You didn't deserve that. I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you. That's my fault. I… I scared you and I'm sorry.” Clark quietly apologized, his hand hesitantly reached out to yours, half expecting for you to pull away only to be pleasantly surprised when your warm hands grasp his.

Your fingers brush along his knuckles that were still somewhat scratched up from yesterday's fight with the kaiju. “I wasn't scared of you, Clark. I never was and never will be scared of you.” You reassured, lifting his knuckles to your lips. “I just got a little startled. That's all. You know how jumpy I can get sometimes.” You sighed. “I shouldn't have ran off. I know. I just… needed some time to process everything.”

There's this weight that immediately lifts off of Clark's chest from your words. The guilt he harbored in his heart dissipating bit by bit. “Oh… so you weren't scared of me?” You shake your head at this. “No, I wasn't. Not at all. Just startled, that's all.” You assured, sparing him a sweet smile as you squeezed his hand.

Clark melts back into the couch, his fingers running through his hair and massaging the bridge of his nose. The glasses now long gone from his face, scattered somewhere in the room. “Thank God for that. I was so worried that you were scared of me or something. I wanted to check on you but I didn’t want to force you and make you uncomfortable.” Clark mumbled, his words a little incoherent.

“You? Make me uncomfortable? That’s impossible.” You huffed, settling into Clark’s side as you laid your head on his shoulder. His arm moving to wrap around your waist, fiddling the hem of your shirt mindlessly. “I know you have this responsibility as Superman to protect and save everyone, but you have to think of yourself as well Clark.”

“I don’t wanna see you run yourself to the ground. You’re important too, Clark.” You tuck your head into his chest, the soft thumping of his heart resonating in his chest. His gaze softens at the sight. It doesn’t take much to see the concern lingering in your gaze. Something that he was too blind to see last night. A mistake that he promises he won’t repeat again.

“I’ll try to take things easy, sweetheart. I promise.” Clark mumbled, pressing a sweet kiss on the crown of your head.

He holds you in his strong arms. Warm and protecting. Nothing in the world could disrupt the bliss you’re feeling. Until that is you hear the loud grumbling from Clark’s stomach.

“Take out and cuddles?”

Clark is already picking you up from the floor and heading towards the bedroom with a sheepish grin on his face. “Yeah, take out and cuddles.” That's how you two ended up cuddled up in bed and eating breakfast in bed.

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icybarness · 5 days ago

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In tearssss omg!

Hi! Not sure if you have already but do you think you could make a fic of reader losing all of her memories and Clark vowing to continue to love her anyway despite if she never remembers him or not? I would eat that up LOL I love your writing!!!

i can see us (lost in the memories)

Summary: Lex Luthor decides to break Superman by erasing all your memories of him. Clark Kent will continue to love you, even if those memories do not return.

Dad!Clark Kent x Female!Reader

more kent family adventures here!

You wake to the sterile hum of fluorescent lights, your head pounding like a drum that won’t stop beating. There’s an ache deep in your chest—familiar and foreign all at once—as you try to sit up, only to realize your wrists are bound to a cold metal chair. The room smells like steel and chemicals, sharp and biting in your nose.

Then, a voice. Smooth. Calculated. Too calm.

“Well,” Lex Luthor says, stepping into your blurred vision with a grin that never reaches his eyes. “Looks like the serum worked.”

You blink, disoriented. Serum? Your mind scrambles, clawing for something—anything—to hold onto. Your name. Your home. A face. But when you try to reach for the memories, there’s nothing but static. White noise.

“I imagine you’re feeling… confused,” Lex muses, crouching to meet your vacant stare. “That’s normal. You’ve forgotten him, haven’t you? Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

You open your mouth, your voice cracking like a brittle branch. “Forgotten… who?”

His smile sharpens. “Superman.”

The explosion comes seconds later—a roar of twisted metal and shattering glass as the wall caves inward. A rush of wind knocks Lex back, scattering debris like paper. You flinch, heart pounding as a blur of red and blue moves faster than your eyes can follow. And then—stillness. Dust settling.

He stands there. Tall, broad-shouldered, chest rising and falling with restrained panic. The man in the cape.

You stare.

His eyes find yours instantly, and something breaks in his expression. Relief floods his features—and something else. Something raw and fragile that makes your stomach twist.

“Y/N.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but it hits like a tidal wave. “God, I found you.”

You shrink back instinctively, confusion clawing at your ribs. Why does he look at me like that? Like I matter?

He moves slowly, like approaching a frightened animal, and kneels in front of you. His gloved hands tremble as they touch your restraints—metal melting under his fingertips like wax. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

The binds fall away, but you don’t move. You can’t.

“Who… who are you?”

The question cracks the air like lightning. His hands freeze mid-motion. His entire body stills. And then, for a second, he just stares—like maybe he didn’t hear you right.

“What?” His voice breaks on the word.

You swallow hard. “I don’t—” Your throat tightens. “I don’t know you.”

The silence that follows is worse than any scream. His face—God, his face—shatters. Like glass splintering under too much weight.

“Y/N…” His voice is shaking now, thick with something that sounds like desperation. “It’s me. Clark. It’s… it’s your husband.”

Your stomach drops. Husband? You search your mind again, frantic—but there’s nothing. Just emptiness and a dull ache where the memories should be.

“I don’t—” Your voice cracks as panic rises. “I don’t remember you.”

He flinches like you’ve struck him. His breath hitches, chest trembling as he struggles to hold himself together. You see it—the raw pain in his eyes, blue like fractured ice.

“You don’t remember…” He swallows hard, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “You don’t remember Leia either, do you?”

“Leia?” The name feels foreign on your tongue.

He closes his eyes, and for a moment, you think he might break entirely. When he speaks again, his voice is barely there.

“She’s… she’s our daughter.”

Your heart stutters. Daughter? Your daughter? You shake your head, tears burning your eyes. “I—I don’t—”

And then he does something you don’t expect. He doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t shout. He just pulls you into his arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You go rigid at first, but his warmth is overwhelming. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. His heartbeat thunders against your ear, strong and steady, like an anchor in a storm.

“I’m going to fix this,” he whispers, voice breaking against your hair. “I swear, Y/N. I’ll bring you home. To us. To her.”

His words hang heavy in the air, and even though you don’t know him—don’t know Leia—you feel his grief like it’s your own. And for a fleeting second, you wonder if some part of you, buried deep beneath the fog, remembers after all.

For a second, he thinks he didn’t hear you right. That maybe the pounding in his ears—the roar of blood and fear—distorted the words.

But then you look at him, eyes wide and empty, and ask again, “Who… who are you?”

It feels like the floor caves in. Like the entire world just… tilts.

His breath stumbles out of him, a broken sound he barely recognizes as his own. This isn’t possible. It’s not possible. He’s replaying every second, every move—was he too late? Did he miss something? Did Lex—

Lex.

Clark can’t even make his mouth work for a moment. He just kneels there, staring at you like if he looks hard enough, he’ll find you—the real you—behind those eyes. But they’re looking at him like he’s no one. Like he’s a stranger.

“Y/N,” he whispers, and your flinch is like a blade to the chest. His hands—still trembling—fall uselessly to his sides. He wants to touch you. He wants to shake you, scream, remember me, but his throat is closing up.

You ask again, softer this time, almost apologetic, “I don’t… I don’t know you.”

The words knock the air from his lungs. For a heartbeat, he can’t breathe. Can’t think. All he hears is the echo of them tearing through him like shrapnel.

His fingers curl into fists so tight the metal floor cracks. Because this—this is his worst nightmare. Not you dying. Not even losing you. But this. You alive, breathing… and looking at him like he’s nothing.

He forces himself to speak, voice raw and shaking, “It’s me. Clark. Your husband.”

The way you look at him after that—confused, scared, he feels like he’s burning alive.

The world outside the compound is a blur—steel and sky, lights whipping past too fast for your eyes to track. He holds you tight against him, one arm firm around your waist, the other shielding your head. There’s a strange sense of security in his grip, even though your mind is screaming You don’t know this man.

When the rush stops, you find yourself standing in the warm glow of a home. Soft lamplight. A couch. Pictures on the walls.

And then—crying.

Your body reacts before your brain does, a strange pull in your chest as the sound cuts through the air. He stiffens against you, breath catching. Slowly, he turns his head toward the source.

A crib sits in the corner of the living room. Inside, a tiny baby with dark curls and flushed cheeks kicks her legs, fists waving angrily as tears roll down her face.

Your stomach knots.

He sets you down gently, his movements careful, almost reverent. You can feel him watching you as you step closer to the crib, like he’s afraid of what you’ll say—or if you’ll run.

The baby sees you and lets out a hiccuping sob.

“She’s…” Your voice is hoarse. “She’s beautiful.”

Something shifts in his face at that, a flicker of hope breaking through the storm in his eyes. “Her name is Leia,” he says softly, moving to stand beside you. His voice cracks just slightly. “We named her.”

Your breath catches. You look down at the tiny girl, her little fists curling and uncurling, her eyes—wide and blue like his—locking onto yours.

“I…” Your throat tightens, a lump rising that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t remember her.”

He exhales sharply, like the words physically wound him. You see his hands curl into fists, then relax again as he fights for control.

Leia lets out another wail, and instinct overrides everything—you reach down, sliding your arms under her small frame, lifting her against your chest. She’s warm. She smells like milk and something sweet, something home.

The moment her cheek presses against you, she quiets. Tiny fingers clutch at your shirt.

You freeze, overwhelmed by a sudden sting in your eyes. “She… she knows me,” you whisper, like you can’t believe it.

Clark swallows hard, tears brimming in his lashes as he watches you hold her. “Of course she does,” he murmurs, voice breaking on the edge of hope. “You’re her mom.”

You want to believe that. You want to remember. But all you feel is an aching hollowness and the weight of a life that used to be yours—a life just out of reach.

And when you glance up at him, standing there like he’s barely holding himself together, you wonder if that hurts him more than anything else.

He’s not sure how he’s still standing.

He thought he was prepared for this—thought nothing could break him after today—but then you said that, voice trembling as Leia curled against you like she belonged there. Like she knew.

And you don’t.

His hands are fisted in his hair now, nails digging into his scalp, because he can’t fall apart in front of you. Not when you’re looking at that baby like she’s a puzzle you can’t solve. Not when every part of him is screaming to pull you into his arms and never let go.

He watches your lips brush Leia’s curls, gentle, hesitant, like muscle memory guiding what your mind forgot. And for a second—a cruel second—he almost believes it’s enough. That having you here, breathing, holding her, is enough.

But then you glance at him, eyes shining with tears and emptiness, and whisper, “I don’t remember her.”

He smiles for you—soft, broken, the best he can do—but inside? He’s coming apart at the seams.

He’s still there when Clark storms back into the compound—barely standing amid the rubble, his sharp suit smudged with dust but his grin perfectly intact.

“Well,” Lex drawls, clapping slowly, mock applause echoing off the broken walls. “Superman to the rescue. How… predictable.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He’s too focused on you in his arms, breathing shallow but alive. Lex’s eyes flick to you—and the smirk deepens.

“Something wrong, Boy Scout?” His voice drips venom. “She didn’t recognize you, did she?”

Clark freezes mid-step. Slowly, his head turns—those blue eyes narrowing to a glacial point.

Lex chuckles low. “Oh, that look. God, I live for it. Because for the first time, you can’t punch your way out of this, can you? I didn’t hurt her—not really. I just… rearranged a few things.”

Clark’s jaw flexes, and the air vibrates with suppressed fury. “What did you do?”

“Relax,” Lex says casually, like they’re discussing weather. “She’s alive. Breathing. But those memories?” He taps his temple. “Gone. Wiped clean. No Clark Kent. No Superman. No happy little family with your sweet baby girl.”

Clark’s fists clench so tight his knuckles whiten. The floor cracks beneath his boots.

“You son of a—”

“Oh, spare me the moral outrage,” Lex cuts in, tilting his head. “Face it, Kent. You live for control. For keeping them safe. But now?” His grin widens into something sharp, cruel. “Now, she looks at you like a stranger. Like some cape-wearing freak who broke into her life. And that’s the best part—I didn’t even have to kill her to destroy you.”

Clark moves in a blink, a blur of rage, his hand fisting in Lex’s collar, slamming him against the crumbling wall. The building groans under the force.

“You think this is a game?” His voice is a low growl, barely human. “You think I won’t end you?”

Lex only smiles, teeth flashing. “You won’t. Because deep down, you know—if you kill me, she never gets those memories back.”

Clark’s breath hitches. His grip falters just slightly.

And Lex sees it. He leans in, whispering, “Checkmate.”

The house is quiet except for the steady hum of the baby monitor and the soft sound of Leia’s breathing from the crib. You’ve been sitting on the edge of the couch for what feels like forever, staring at your hands, heart pounding in your chest. He’s across the room, standing by the window, his silhouette bathed in moonlight, shoulders tense as if he’s holding up the weight of the entire world.

You can’t stop looking at him. The man who swears he’s your husband. The man who saved you. The man whose face breaks every time you flinch away from him like you’re not supposed to.

And yet… there’s something there. A thread. A whisper at the edge of your thoughts that tugs when you look at him. Like the smell of rain before a storm, like a song you almost remember.

“Clark,” you say softly, and his head turns immediately—too quickly, like he’s been waiting for you to say his name all night.

His expression is guarded, like he’s afraid to hope. “Yeah?”

You swallow hard, your voice shaking. “I… I need your help.”

He crosses the room in an instant, kneeling in front of you like he’d drop to the ends of the earth if you asked him to. His hands hover, trembling, as if he wants to take yours but doesn’t dare. “Anything,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Just tell me.”

Your chest feels tight, words sticking like thorns in your throat. “I keep… feeling like something’s there,” you whisper. “Like something’s just out of reach. When I look at you, it’s like… it’s like I should know. I almost know, but then it’s gone. And it’s driving me insane because I want to remember. I want to know you.”

The breath he takes sounds like it hurts.

You stare at him for a long moment, then—hesitant—you ask, “Can I… can I hold your face?”

For a second, silence. His lips part, and his eyes go wide like you’ve just broken him open. His throat works around a sound he can’t quite make, and then he nods so fast it’s almost frantic, like the motion itself might make you believe him.

“Oh gosh, yes,” he breathes, voice breaking, tears welling so quickly they shine in the dim light. “Please. Please—hold me.”

Your hands tremble as you reach up, and he leans forward like he’s been waiting for this moment since the second you were taken. When your palms finally cup his face, the warmth of his skin nearly undoes you. His jaw is strong beneath your touch, but it quivers, and his lashes are wet, tears sliding down as his breath shudders out of him.

He closes his eyes and leans into your hands like a man starved, like your touch is oxygen after drowning. His own hands rise, covering yours gently, as if anchoring them there so you won’t pull away.

“I missed you,” he whispers, voice breaking apart like glass. “I missed you so much.”

The words hit something deep inside you, something fragile and trembling. A flicker—a flash—of laughter, sunlight, his smile in a way that makes your heart ache. It’s gone before you can grab it, but it leaves a warmth that feels real.

“Clark…” Your voice is soft, uncertain, but your thumbs brush his cheekbones as if they remember what your mind can’t. “I—I think… I think I loved you.”

His eyes open then, glistening, and for a moment, the weight of his love is almost too much to look at. “You still do,” he says, voice hoarse with conviction, like it’s a prayer. “You always will. And I’m not going anywhere until you remember. Not now. Not ever.”

And then he presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours, trembling like he’s breaking and healing all at once.

You close your eyes. And for the first time, you believe him.

You lock the bathroom door and slide to the floor, hands shaking as the sobs finally tear out of you.

It’s too much. All of it. The pictures on the walls, the way the house smells faintly of coffee and something warm, the man who moves around you like he’s memorized every breath you take.

You want to remember. God, you want to. For him. For her. For this life that feels like it should fit but doesn’t.

But every time he looks at you like that—like you’re his whole world—you feel like you’re breaking him all over again.

You press your palms to your face, choking back another sob. You’ve lost yourself. Lost everything. And the worst part? You don’t know if you’ll ever get it back.

Days pass in a quiet rhythm that feels both foreign and oddly comforting. The house becomes less of a stranger, though every photo on the walls still looks like someone else’s life. Pictures of you—with him—smiling in ways you can’t remember feeling. Holding a baby that’s yours but doesn’t feel like yours, even though you’re trying so hard to make it real.

Leia helps, in her own small, miraculous way. Her giggles soften the sharp edges of your fear. Her tiny hands reaching for you make something inside you ache with a fierce, instinctive love you can’t explain. And Clark… Clark is everywhere, but never too close.

He moves like gravity around you—always there, never pressing, never demanding. He makes breakfast. He folds laundry. He hums while rocking Leia to sleep in the dim glow of the nursery, his voice low and soft like a secret lullaby you almost recognize.

And through it all, he never asks for more than you can give.

It’s late when you find him on the porch, sitting on the steps, staring at the stars like they hold answers he can’t reach. The night air is cool, wrapping around you as you step outside, barefoot and hesitant.

He turns at the sound of the door creaking open, and his smile—gentle, aching—makes your chest tighten. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You shake your head, moving to sit beside him. Silence stretches, filled with the hum of crickets and the distant rustle of leaves. You glance at his hands resting on his knees—broad, calloused, strong—and wonder how many times those hands have held you, loved you, fought for you.

“I feel…” Your voice trembles. “Like I’m failing you.”

His head whips toward you, eyes wide with something that looks like heartbreak. “What?”

You swallow hard. “You’ve done everything for me. You… you saved me. And I’m trying, Clark, I swear I’m trying, but I still can’t remember. Not you. Not us. And I see the way you look at me—like I’m yours—and I want to be, I do, but I don’t know how to make this right.”

His breath shudders out of him, and for a long moment, he just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every detail. Then he exhales slowly, turning his gaze back to the stars as if steadying himself.

“Do you hate me for it?” you whisper suddenly, voice cracking in the quiet night.

His head snaps toward you, startled. “What?”

“For not remembering,” you rasp. “For looking at you and feeling… nothing.”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment, you think he won’t answer. Then, so softly you almost miss it, “Every time you look at me like that,” he says, voice breaking on the edges, “it feels like I’m losing you all over again.”

The words rip through you like glass. You reach for him without thinking, fingers curling in the fabric of his sleeve. “Clark…”

He shakes his head, blinking hard. “But hate you?” He exhales, shaky and raw. “No. Never. I couldn’t if I tried. You don’t owe me anything,” he says finally, voice soft but steady. “Not your memories. Not… us.” He swallows, jaw working. “When we got married, I made a promise. That I’d love you. Always. No matter what.”

He looks at you then, and the sincerity in his eyes is almost too much to bear. “That promise didn’t have conditions, Y/N. It wasn’t ‘I’ll love you if you remember me.’ It was ‘I’ll love you. Period.’”

Tears sting your eyes, blurring the starlight. “Even if I never remember?”

His answer is immediate, fierce, like the question hurts him. “Yes. Even then. Because you’re still you. And I… I’d find you in any lifetime. Memory or no memory.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t speak. You just stare at him—the man who sits beside you like the world is breaking under his feet and still says he’ll love you through it all.

And for the first time, that strange pull inside you doesn’t feel so faint. It feels like a tether, like something deep and unbroken, waiting for you to find your way back.

“Clark…” You whisper his name like a prayer, and he smiles—small, tender, like the sun rising after a long, cold night.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly, reaching out—not to touch you, but to offer his hand, palm up, waiting. Always waiting.

You slip your fingers into his. And for the first time since this started, you don’t feel lost.

It happens in pieces. Small moments that slip past your defenses like sunlight through cracks.

The first comes in the kitchen, a quiet morning when the world still feels half-asleep. Clark is flipping pancakes at the stove, hair messy, T-shirt clinging to his back. Leia is in her high chair, smearing applesauce everywhere with a proud grin.

You’re sipping coffee, watching him hum under his breath—a tune that makes your chest ache. When he glances back and catches you staring, his lips twitch into that easy, lopsided smile.

And suddenly—flash.

You’re standing in the same kitchen, months ago, laughing so hard your stomach hurts because he’s wearing an apron that says “World’s Okayest Chef.” He’s burning pancakes, and you’re teasing him for thinking he could outcook you. His arms are around your waist, his breath warm on your neck, and he’s whispering something that makes you melt—

“Y/N?” His voice pulls you back, gentle and questioning. You blink hard, gripping your mug like a lifeline.

“It’s nothing,” you whisper, but your heart is pounding.

The next comes a week later. You’re in the bedroom, humming softly as you rock Leia. She’s warm and heavy against your chest, her little fingers curling into your shirt. The mobile above her crib spins slowly, playing a sweet lullaby.

And then—another flash.

You’re in this room again, late at night, hair a mess, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Clark’s arms circle your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both watch Leia sleep for the first time. You’re crying because you’ve never felt a love so big it scares you, and he’s kissing your temple, whispering, “We made something perfect.”

The memory crashes into you so hard you almost drop the bottle in your hand. You sink into the chair, clutching Leia tighter, tears stinging your eyes as your breath comes fast and uneven.

You don’t tell Clark. Not yet. Not until you’re sure. But the flashes keep coming—his laugh when he tickles Leia’s tiny feet, the way his glasses fog when he sips tea, the weight of his hand in yours during a thunderstorm.

Every piece is a thread, and they’re pulling you back, weaving you into the life that was yours all along.

It happens on a quiet Sunday evening. The three of you are in the living room—Leia babbling in her playpen, Clark sitting cross-legged on the rug, stacking colorful blocks while making ridiculous sound effects just to make her laugh.

You’re on the couch, watching them, your chest so full it feels like it might burst. He looks up suddenly, catches your eye, and smiles. That smile—warm, boyish, with the biggest dimples—hits something deep inside you like lightning.

And then it all comes.

Not in fragments. Not in whispers. In a flood.

Your wedding day—his trembling hands as he slipped the ring on your finger, the way he cried when he saw you in your dress. Your first kiss under a Kansas sunset. Dancing barefoot in the kitchen at midnight. The night Leia was born, how he held you like you were the most miraculous thing in the world, tears streaming down his face as he whispered, “You did it. You gave us forever.”

The memories slam into you, raw and overwhelming, and your breath hitches into a sob before you can stop it.

“Y/N?” His voice is sharp with concern, already moving toward you in a blur. He’s on his knees in front of you in an instant, hands hovering but not touching, eyes wide and scared. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head violently, tears spilling fast now as you grab his face with trembling hands. “I remember.”

He goes absolutely still. Like the world stopped spinning. “What?” His voice breaks on the word.

“I remember everything,” you cry, fingers clutching his jaw as if anchoring yourself to him. “Clark—I remember you, I remember us, I remember—”

Leia squeals from the playpen, and the sound splinters something inside you. You turn your head toward her, fresh sobs ripping through your chest. “I remember our baby.”

Clark’s breath shudders out in a sound you’ve never heard before—half laugh, half sob—as his arms crush you to him like he’ll never let go again. His face buries in your shoulder, and you feel him shaking, feel the wet heat of his tears soaking your skin.

“Thank goodness,” he chokes out, voice raw and breaking. “Thank God. I thought—” His words dissolve into another sob, and you hold him tighter, crying into his neck because you never want to forget again.

“Clark,” you whisper against his skin, “I love you. I never stopped. I never—”

His hands cradle your face now, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes wild and glistening. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you say, fierce and certain, and his mouth crashes to yours in a kiss that tastes like salt and hope and home.

When you pull away, Leia is still babbling, her little hands reaching out like she knows something big just happened. Clark lets out a shaky laugh through his tears, lifting her into his arms and holding her between you.

And the three of you stay like that—clinging to each other in the quiet glow of the evening—while outside, the stars keep watch.

Forever, just like he promised.

The house is quiet again, except for the soft hum of the baby monitor in the background. Leia’s finally asleep after an hour of storytime and Clark’s ridiculous animal voices that made you laugh so hard you almost cried. You’re curled up on the couch now, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old flannel shirts that smells faintly of his cologne and something warm, something home.

Clark sits beside you, one arm draped along the back of the couch, his other hand resting on your knee like he can’t stop touching you—like he needs the reassurance that you’re really here. There’s still a hint of redness around his eyes from earlier, but his smile is soft and a little shy, like he’s almost afraid to speak first.

You break the silence. “I should tell you… how it happened.”

He tilts his head, giving you his full attention instantly. “The memories?”

You nod, chewing your lip before answering. “They came in pieces at first. Little things. Your laugh. A song. The way you make coffee.” You pause, eyes dropping to your hands. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to give you false hope.”

His fingers curl around yours gently, squeezing like he wants to anchor you in the present. “You could’ve told me,” he says softly, though there’s no reproach in his voice—only tenderness.

“I didn’t want to hurt you if it… didn’t go anywhere,” you admit. “But every time I saw you with her—” Your voice breaks, and you take a shaky breath. “Clark, you never gave up on me. Not once.”

He smiles faintly, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “Wasn’t possible.”

The simple certainty in his tone makes your chest ache in the best way. For a moment, you just look at him—this man who would’ve waited forever without asking for anything in return.

“Can I ask you something?” you whisper.

“Anything.”

“When you said… you’d love me even if I never remembered—did you mean that?”

His brows knit, and he leans closer, eyes searching yours. “Of course I meant it.”

Your throat tightens. “Even if I… never got them back and fell in love with someone else?”

The question hangs heavy in the quiet room. For a second, you wish you could take it back. But then he exhales slowly, eyes glistening under the lamplight.

“It would’ve broken me,” he admits, voice low and steady, raw with honesty. “I won’t lie about that. But I would’ve kept loving you anyway. Because it’s not a choice for me, Y/N. It never was.”

You swallow hard, tears burning your eyes. “Clark…”

His hand cups your cheek now, warm and gentle, tilting your face toward his. “Do you know what I told myself every night while you were gone? That no matter what, you’d still be out there. Breathing. Alive. That was enough for me to keep going.”

You cover his hand with yours, pressing into his touch. “You’re insane,” you whisper, smiling through your tears.

He laughs softly, leaning his forehead against yours. “For you? Always.”

For a while, you just stay like that, tangled together in the quiet, your breaths mingling, your heart full to the brim with love and the weight of everything you almost lost.

Finally, you murmur, “Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for not giving up on me.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice breaking against your skin. “Never. Not in a million lifetimes.”

And when you curl into his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heartbeat, you know—truly, deeply—that promise was real.

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy @nixandtonic @bl00dstained @tqd4455 @vestafir @sweettbepbo @skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey @soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars @qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179 @kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser @ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kaorisakamotofan @randomfangirlof @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @animegamerfox @thychuvaluswife @clarkclit @tayhobart @obsessedwthdilfs @kneelarhmstrung @helalokithor @loveelylani @kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin @jvanilly @angelbunny222 @sheslikecherrypie @drewswife @artsymaddie @laniec03

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icybarness · 5 days ago

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Size Kink with David

Pairings: Actor!David Corenswet x reader

Summary: A headcanon where you're just a girl who's 5 feet, and your huge husband is 6'4. You're insecure about it, but he loves it.

Notes: MY 5FT GIRLIES STAND UPPP! Tired of being overlooked... reader insecurity in the beginning, and David's rebuttal in the end! Here’s my masterlist!

Warnings: Insecurities about height, little smut at the end!

Being 5 feet was not for the weak. Being with your wonderful 6’4 husband in public tends to cause some stares, even speculations about your age in the media.

God damn it, you're the same age as him.

David didn't care, though; he knew he was yours. Reassured you always that he’ll always be there, never leaving you. You hung up the moon and stars; you were the shoulder he leaned on, especially with his rise in popularity, you were his rock at the end of the day when things got rough.

Some cons about your height? Reaching in high places.

Reaching the cabinets, climbing the countertop to reach your favorite boxes of snacks? He’s right behind you, his chest pressed up on your back, breath fanning behind your ear.

“Careful there, my love, we don't want you to fall now, alright?”

David reaches to hand you the box, smirking like it was his absolute favorite thing to help you out with. You tend to sigh out of frustration, feeling bad about how much he has to help you with things.

Like the time he took you to see your favorite artist on your birthday, but you weren't able to see the stage with the larger crowd, so he offered to hoist you up on his shoulders. He absolutely didn't mind; he wanted you to enjoy your birthday happily.

David would always have to hunch down to kiss you, always lowering himself so he could see that pretty face of yours.

Sometimes when he doesn't wanna hunch, he'll hoist you up, your legs wrapped around his torso, where he can kiss you for hours on end.

He was your gentle giant, always careful with you.

You tend to get thrown around in large crowds, but your husband was always there securing you, his warm embrace there. Anywhere where it's crowded? Always has an eye on you, never having you leave his sight.

His biceps? He smirks at how you drool over them. He also loves how they're almost as big as your head. The comfort of his embrace puts you in a trance, a trance of peace, of a safe place where you can be.

When you guys have get-togethers in the house, you take a seat on his large lap, his big frame and arms snaking around your waist, as you're talking with friends or family, he doesn't even think you know that you're making him hard.

Sometimes, you were insecure about your height; negative thoughts plagued you. Thinking your husband could find someone who was slightly taller, and not bring him any inconvenience all the time.

When he first heard about your insecurities, it was like a shot to his heart. He constantly reassures you that he loves everything. The height honestly turns him on, and he especially shows it when you guys are in bed.

During sex? He did not want to break you whatsoever. You were so small, yet he was so huge; hurting you was the last thing he wanted.

But you were always frisky, you wanted all of him, and in the end, he gives it to you.

He's a full-on munch in bed when it comes to you. He loves when you are slotted under him in a missionary position, his massive frame caging at your small frame, his sudden thrust into your gummy tight walls, your small hands locked in with his bigger hands...

What sets him off the most as well? Your small hands raking his broad back, as he's pounding into you over and over.

"Da — David I'm cumming ahh-" as your writhing under him, so small, so tiny, as you clutch on him like a lifeline.

"Atta girl —" grunting into your ear as he finishes inside of you.

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icybarness · 5 days ago

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Sneak Peak tonight!

Releasing at 5pm pst! In the meantime check out my latest angsty fic Protecting You !

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icybarness · 5 days ago

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Absolutely feral rn.

David Corenswet photographed by Alvaro Beamud Cortés for VMAN Magazine

#david corenswet #superman

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icybarness · 7 days ago

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Dad!Clark Kent/Pregnancy Recs

N/A: Continuously being updated! <3

Check out my masterlist!

Pregnancy Nightmares by @octraiin

Poison Aint Fun by @maikorian

Out of Harms Way by @maikorian

Desserts by @blushandfics

"Papa! Clark Kent 1/2" by @faestunna

Baby fever with Clark Kent by @francixoxoxo

Dangerous Afflictions by @megalony

Dad!Clark Kent Headcanons by @babydoll-stories

Birthday Surprise by @hearts4hughes

Reassurance by @maikorian

Baby Blues by @umethyst

Breathe by @satellite-evans

Clark watching his daughter latch on to you for the first time by @ohgollysupaman

Call for Help by @megalony

Fluffly! Dad Clark Prompt by @l4long-winded

Husband Clark! and Mom! reader by @blushhbambi

________

Series:

Kent Family Adventures Series (I couldn't choose one ._.) @orobaxis

IFFF I had to choose some favorties:

Thank you for loving us like this by @orobaxis

Kidnapped by @orobaxis

All the Stars by @orobaxis

#clark kent x reader #david!clark kent x reader #superman x reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent x you #david!clark kent #david corenswet x pregnant!reader #david corenswet x reader #superman x you #clark kent #clark kent angst #clark kent fluff #clark kent x pregnant!reader

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icybarness · 7 days ago

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breathe

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Becoming parents isn’t easy—you’re sore, exhausted, and Clark’s “help” is driving you up the wall.

Word count: 4.7k+

Warnings: fluff, angst, comfort, postpartum recovery

A/N:

This is not my greatest work, so I apologize lol

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The birth had been brutal.

Not the kind of birth you saw in films, where a woman glistens prettily with sweat and then, as if by miracle, a perfectly clean baby is nestled into her arms within minutes. No. This had been a marathon. Hours that bled into more hours until time felt like a cruel joke. Every contraction felt like a wave pulling you under, and you’d fought for air through each one. Your body screamed, your mind frayed, and there were moments you swore you couldn’t keep going.

You cried, you cursed, you begged the universe to give you just a second of relief. Somewhere around hour twelve, when the pain had turned into something primal and endless, you snapped at Clark—voice hoarse, eyes wild, tears streaking down your cheeks.

“If you tell me to breathe one more time, I’ll end you, Clark Joseph Kent!”

He’d nodded frantically, squeezing your hand like he’d never let go. His face was pale, his blue eyes wide and brimming, and for a terrifying moment you thought he might pass out before you did. Later, you realized he’d been crying—quietly, desperately—through most of it. Tears had carved tracks down his face, unnoticed by anyone but you, because Clark Kent, who had faced gods and monsters, was utterly undone by watching you in pain.

And yet he stayed. He whispered encouragement when you wanted to scream, he wiped your forehead when you didn’t want to be touched, he offered his hand even though you squeezed hard enough that any normal man’s bones would have shattered. He flinched, yes, but he never pulled away. You were fairly sure you’d left bruises on him, but he only kissed the back of your hand between contractions, murmuring, “You’re so strong. I’m so proud of you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Hours later—after exhaustion had hollowed you out, after you thought there was nothing left to give—there was a cry. Sharp, urgent, alive.

They placed her in your arms.

Ella June Kent.

Seven pounds. Healthy lungs. Soft downy hair sticking up like she’d fought her way through the storm just to find you. Her tiny body felt impossibly warm, impossibly real, against your chest. Her cry sliced through you, but instead of despair it brought a flood of relief so powerful you nearly sobbed.

You did sob, actually. Ugly, gasping sobs, the kind that shook your entire chest. Your whole body trembled as you clutched her close, terrified and overwhelmed and completely undone by the love that bloomed in you all at once. Terrified love, exhausted love, but love so sharp it hurt.

When you lifted your eyes, Clark was staring at her like the entire world had just rearranged itself in front of him. Tears slipped freely down his cheeks, and he didn’t bother to hide them this time. His broad chest hitched as he tried—and failed—to steady his breath.

“She’s… she’s perfect,” he whispered, voice breaking. “God, look at her. Look at her, honey.” His hand trembled when he reached out, brushing Ella’s impossibly small fist with his giant finger. She gripped it instinctively, and Clark let out a choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “She knows me. She—she knows us.”

You’d never seen him so undone. Not by battles. Not by danger. Not by anything the world had ever thrown at him. Clark Kent, Superman, the man who carried the weight of the planet, was reduced to tears by seven pounds of new life wrapped in a hospital blanket.

You pressed Ella closer, kissing her soft forehead, and whispered, “Hi, baby girl.” Then, softer, to Clark: “We did it.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his tears mingling with your sweat. “You did it,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “You… you’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. I swear, I’ve never—” His words broke off, lost to another wave of emotion.

And for a moment, the pain, the exhaustion, the chaos—all of it faded. All that existed was you, Clark, and Ella June. A family.

You sat in the hospital bed, the stiff sheets pulled up around your waist, Ella dozing against your chest. Her tiny breaths were feather-light puffs against your skin, her little mouth opening and closing in dreams, and for the first time in hours you felt the faint stirrings of peace.

But then Clark shifted in the chair across from you. A creak of metal legs on tile. The sound of his broad shoulders adjusting under the world’s worst plastic hospital chair. And then… breathing. Loud, purposeful, Clark Kent breathing.

“Clark,” you muttered without lifting your eyes.

He was upright in an instant, like he’d been waiting for his name. “Yes?”

You took a slow, shaky breath. “Stop breathing like that.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “Breathing… like what?”

“Like… like you just discovered oxygen.” You tilted your head toward him, glaring through sleep-heavy eyes. “Every inhale sounds like an announcement. Ta-da! Air!”

His brows furrowed, genuine confusion painting his face. “I’m just—breathing,” he said helplessly, as if the mechanics of it had never been questioned in his thirty-something years of life.

“Then breathe somewhere else,” you snapped, more sharply than you meant to. “Take your farmboy lungs into the hallway for a second. Please.”

Clark’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He stood slowly, as though afraid to startle you—or the baby. “You want me to… stop breathing?”

“I want you,” you said, tightening your hold on Ella as if the baby were your shield, “to exist more quietly.”

He pressed his lips together, staring at you like you’d just asked him to dismantle the planet barehanded. His big frame looked awkward and out of place in the too-small room, a man who could bench-press tractors reduced to tiptoeing around your frayed nerves.

“I’ll… try?” he offered weakly.

You finally looked up at him. His hair was a mess, his eyes glassy from lack of sleep, and his shirt rumpled from two days of refusing to change into anything else. His whole body was tense, and you noticed—through the fog of exhaustion—that he was breathing shallowly now, as if trying to shrink the sound of himself down to nothing.

You sighed, guilt pricking at you, but it was quickly swallowed by irritation. “Oh my God, Clark, now you’re holding your breath. You’re going to pass out in the maternity ward and then I’ll have two people to worry about instead of one.”

His lips twitched, sheepish. “Well… you told me to breathe quieter. I’m not… very good at that.”

Despite yourself, a strangled laugh slipped out, half a sob. “You’re impossible.”

Clark’s expression softened at the sound, his shoulders lowering a fraction. “I just… I don’t know what to do half the time.” His voice cracked, and he glanced down at his hands, wringing them together like a boy scolded by his teacher. “I don’t want to make you angry. I just… I don’t know how to help.”

Something in your chest twisted at the rawness in his voice. Ella stirred softly, smacking her lips in her sleep, and you rubbed her back in small circles while staring at Clark. The poor man looked wrecked—eyes rimmed red, cheeks still damp from earlier tears.

You shifted, making space on the bed. “Come here.”

His eyes widened slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“Sit,” you ordered. “Quietly. But sit.”

Clark obeyed immediately, lowering his massive frame onto the narrow hospital mattress. He moved so carefully, like he thought the slightest motion might break you, or wake Ella, or ruin everything.

“See?” you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Better. Not so… overwhelming.”

He let out a breath—quietly this time, bless him—and rested his cheek gently against your hair. “I can do that,” he murmured. “I can… sit quietly.”

You smiled faintly, eyes heavy. “Good. Because I really don’t think I can handle Superman-level breathing right now.”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound warm and low. “I’ll work on my… stealth breathing.”

And though exhaustion tugged at every inch of you, you felt just a little lighter, leaning into his warmth, Ella between you both. Clark’s arm came up around you, tentative but steady, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you closed your eyes and thought—maybe, just maybe—you’d survive this.

Later, you were trying to get Ella to latch, hunched in the awkward hospital bed with your back aching and your body still sore in places you couldn’t even name. It felt like every muscle had been rearranged, every nerve ending raw and exposed. Ella squirmed restlessly against your chest, her tiny mouth seeking, fussing, and you fought the urge to cry from sheer frustration.

Out of the corner of your eye, movement. Of course: Clark.

He appeared at your side like some overgrown, panicked nurse, juggling a granola bar, an apple, and what looked suspiciously like an entire pitcher of water. His eyes were wide, hopeful, almost desperate.

“You need fuel,” he said softly, setting the food down on the tray table with a tenderness usually reserved for holy artifacts.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, shifting Ella slightly, trying not to let your voice shake.

“You haven’t eaten in—��

“Clark.” You didn’t look at him, your tone sharp. “If you count the hours since my last snack one more time, I will throw the apple at your perfect face.”

There was a pause. You could feel him stiffen beside you, chastised like a schoolboy. “I just…” He cleared his throat, voice softer. “You’re not yourself when you don’t eat.”

That did it. You turned and glared at him, exhaustion sharpening your words. “I just gave birth, Clark. Of course I’m not myself. My body feels like it’s been through a demolition derby, my hormones are trying to kill me, and I have a tiny human literally sucking the life out of me. Not myself is an understatement.”

His face flushed immediately, his ears going pink. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish, looking like the shy farmboy you’d fallen in love with all those years ago. “Right. Right, yeah. That… that makes sense. Sorry.”

You exhaled heavily, turning back to Ella, who was finally settling. “You’re forgiven. But stop trying to feed me like I’m a prize cow at the county fair.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he blurted, eyes wide. His voice cracked, and you looked up just in time to see the tears he’d been trying to blink away. “I just… I don’t know what else to do. You’re in pain, and you’re tired, and I can’t fix any of it. I can’t take it away. So I think… maybe if I make sure you eat, or drink water, or…” His voice trailed off, thick with emotion. “It’s stupid, I know. But it’s something.”

Your chest softened at that, the frustration dissolving into guilt. He wasn’t annoying you on purpose—he was unraveling, just like you, and trying so hard to hold it together for all three of you.

You reached out, resting your hand over his where it gripped his thigh, knuckles white. “It’s not stupid. It’s… too much sometimes, but it’s not stupid. You’re just trying. And I love that.”

He gave a watery smile, ducking his head, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re carrying this alone.”

You squeezed his hand, then smirked faintly through the haze of exhaustion. “I don’t. I just need you to… calm down a little. Less cow-feeding. More… quiet hand-holding.”

Clark nodded solemnly, like you’d just given him a mission. “Okay. Less cow-feeding. More hand-holding.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, timidly, as though he couldn’t help himself: “…Do you want yogurt?”

You closed your eyes and groaned. “CLARK.”

He flinched. “Right. Sorry. Forget I said that.”

But when you finally looked at him, tears still in his lashes, cheeks still pink, you couldn’t help but laugh softly—because even when he was insufferable, he was yours.

Two days later, back home, you were desperate for rest. The house felt unfamiliar with a newborn in it, every creak and sigh of the floorboards amplified by the tiny weight of responsibility you now carried. Clark had insisted on “baby duty” so you could nap, his eyes wide and eager as if sheer enthusiasm could replace your shredded nerves.

You managed ten minutes.

You cracked one eye open when the sound started. Heavy, rhythmic, thud-thud-thud. Not crying, not screaming—pacing.

Dragging yourself upright, you padded toward the nursery, and there he was: Clark Kent, six foot four, broad as the barn doors, pacing the length of the floor with Ella tucked in his arms. His big frame filled the small room, his socks whispering against the wood, but somehow every step sounded like a hammer strike.

“Clark.”

He froze mid-step, eyes snapping up to you like a child caught sneaking cookies. “Sorry!” His voice was a guilty whisper. “Did I wake you?”

“You are stomping,” you said flatly, leaning against the doorframe, “like a nervous Clydesdale.”

His mouth fell open. “I—what?”

You crossed your arms, glaring at the way his broad shoulders hunched sheepishly. “You’re trying to rock her, right? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to march her into basic training.”

“I’m rocking her,” he insisted, shifting Ella slightly in his arms. He gave you that earnest, boyish smile—the one that usually melted you but currently made you want to throw a pillow at him. “She likes the movement.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “She likes gentle rocking. Not… the Clark Kent Stride of Doom.”

His ears turned crimson, creeping down his neck. “I didn’t realize I was so loud.”

“You’re literally shaking the floorboards, Clark. She’s going to grow up thinking the house is haunted.”

At that, he actually winced, his blue eyes wide with dismay as he glanced down at Ella. She was still half-asleep, making little contented noises despite the earthquake walk. “Haunted?” he whispered, as though she might understand. “I don’t want her to think that…”

You almost laughed at the genuine distress in his voice. “Well then, maybe tone it down. Less stampede, more lullaby.”

Clark looked around, baffled, like you’d asked him to solve the riddle of the Sphinx. “I’ll… I’ll walk quieter,” he promised, lowering his steps into an exaggerated heel-to-toe shuffle that made him look like the world’s most conspicuous burglar.

You covered your mouth, half to stifle a laugh and half to keep from groaning. “That’s not quieter, Clark. That’s weirder.”

He froze again, cheeks bright red, Ella shifting in his arms. “I don’t know how to… quietly walk. I mean—I can float, if you’d rather—”

“Don’t you dare float the baby,” you cut in immediately, horrified. “I will never sleep again if I know you’re levitating her around the nursery.”

His expression was wounded. “I wasn’t going to—! Okay, maybe I thought about it, but only for a second.”

You dragged a hand down your face, exhaustion pulling at every word. “Clark. Sweetheart. I love you. But you need to… just sit down. In the chair. Right there. And rock her.”

He hesitated. “But… walking keeps her calm.”

“Clark. Chair. Now.”

He obeyed instantly, lowering himself into the rocking chair with comical care, like the baby was made of glass. Ella fussed once, then nestled against his chest, soothed by the rhythm of the chair.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him stroke her tiny back with a look of wonder and terror mixed on his face. His shoulders sagged, the nervous energy bleeding out of him now that he was forced to stay put.

“See?” you whispered, softer now. “That’s better. You’re not scaring the floorboards. Or me.”

Clark glanced up, shame mingling with a sheepish grin. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up. She’s so small. And I’m so… not.” His voice cracked slightly, his eyes glistening. “I feel like I’m going to break something just by existing near her.”

Your heart squeezed. You crossed the room and touched his arm gently. “You’re not going to break her. You’re her dad. She’s supposed to feel safe with you.”

He looked down at Ella, who had one tiny hand curled around his shirt, and swallowed hard. “I don’t feel safe for her. Not when I can’t even… walk right.”

The rawness in his voice made your eyes sting. You bent down, kissed his temple, and whispered, “You don’t have to be perfect, Clark. Just… quiet. Sometimes quiet is enough.”

He gave a shaky laugh, blinking fast, and nodded. “Okay. Quiet. I can do quiet.”

And for the first time since bringing Ella home, the house felt peaceful.

It was 3 a.m.

The world was silent outside, but inside the house you were locked in a warzone of sleeplessness. Ella was fussing, her tiny face scrunched up, fists waving in protest. Your arms ached from hours of rocking her, your eyelids burned from being forced open too long, and your whole body screamed for rest.

Across from you, perched on the edge of the couch like a man preparing for battle, was Clark—with his laptop glowing harshly in the dark.

“According to this pediatric site,” he said quickly, scrolling with the frantic energy of a college student cramming for finals, “newborns cry for an average of—”

“Clark.”

“—two to three hours a day, but sometimes it can be—” His eyes were darting across the screen, his voice tightening with every word.

“Clark.”

“—a sign of gas, or maybe she’s too warm, or—”

“Clark Kent!” Your voice cracked, pitched louder than you meant, and Ella wailed louder in your arms, as if echoing your despair. “If you read one more parenting article to me, I swear to God I’ll make you eat the WiFi router.”

Clark’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. He immediately closed the laptop with a guilty click, the sound almost too loud in the quiet room. His ears flushed crimson, and he ducked his head. “Sorry. I just thought—”

You groaned, shifting Ella against your chest as she whimpered. “I don’t need Google, Clark. I need sleep. I need peace. I need you to stop sounding like WebMD and start sounding like my husband.”

He nodded furiously, words tumbling over each other. “Right. Yes. No more articles. I just… I thought if I could figure out why she’s crying, maybe I could fix it. Maybe I could… do something. Instead of just sitting here watching you suffer.”

That softened you despite yourself. You turned your head to look at him. He looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, his glasses askew, and his eyes—those beautiful blue eyes—were rimmed with red from holding back tears. He was trying so hard, clinging to research like it was a lifeline.

“Clark,” you whispered, gentler this time.

He looked back at you, helpless, boyish in his uncertainty. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t fight this with strength, or speed, or anything I usually rely on. I can’t… save you from this. And it’s killing me.” His voice cracked on the last word, his throat thick with unshed tears.

You reached out and caught his hand, squeezing it tightly. “You don’t have to save me. You just have to… be here. Not perfect. Not super. Just here.”

He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing over your knuckles like he was grounding himself. “I am here. Always. I just… don’t know how to be useful.”

You gave him a tired smile, your heart twisting even as frustration lingered. “You’re useful when you’re holding her. When you’re holding me. When you’re not quoting online articles at 3 a.m.”

A faint laugh bubbled out of him, watery but real. “Okay. No more articles. I promise.” He paused, hesitated, then added tentatively: “…But maybe just this one about—”

“Clark!”

He flinched so dramatically you almost laughed, snapping the laptop shut again as if it had betrayed him. “Shutting up now. Shutting up. Completely article-free.”

You leaned back against the couch, finally allowing a tiny smile to tug at your lips despite the exhaustion pressing in on you. “Good boy.”

He blushed, grinning shyly through his tears, and leaned closer to kiss your temple. “Anything for you.”

And for a little while, the three of you sat together in the dim light, Ella’s cries softening as she drifted back to sleep—Clark holding your hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

It came in the middle of the week.

Ella had been screaming for hours, her tiny lungs somehow endless, her face red and scrunched, her fists waving like she was fighting demons only she could see. Nothing soothed her. Not rocking, not feeding, not singing. Your arms ached from holding her, your body still screamed from the aftermath of birth, and every nerve felt stretched to breaking.

And Clark—sweet, well-meaning, infuriating Clark—hovered. He fetched water. He adjusted pillows. He asked you if you needed to sit down, if you needed a blanket, if maybe she was gassy, if maybe she was overtired, if maybe—

Something in you snapped.

“I can’t do this!” The words tore out of you, raw and ugly, as you clutched Ella tighter against your chest. Your sobs broke through on top of hers, a jagged duet of despair. “I don’t know what she wants, and I don’t know what I’m doing, and I’m failing her, Clark!”

Clark froze mid-step. His eyes went wide, his entire body sagging like you’d just punched him in the gut. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might break apart himself.

“You’re not failing her,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You collapsed onto the couch, shaking with sobs, Ella still wailing in your arms. Clark dropped to his knees beside you immediately, but—careful, always careful—he didn’t touch you until you allowed it. His big hands hovered in the air, useless and aching to help.

“You’re doing everything,” he said, eyes glistening, his voice almost reverent. “I can see it. You’re amazing. Stronger than I’ve ever seen anyone be.”

You shook your head violently, tears streaming down your face. “I can’t even make her stop crying! And you’re just—standing there, and breathing, and pacing, and—”

“Annoying you,” he finished softly. His voice carried no defensiveness, just quiet shame, like the truth hurt but he couldn’t deny it.

Despite yourself, a wet laugh burst out of you, tangled with a sob. “Yes. God, yes. So much.”

His face crumpled, his lips trembling as he looked down, twisting those enormous hands together like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I don’t mean to. I swear I don’t. I just… I don’t know what to do. I want to fix everything, but I can’t. And when you snap at me I just—” He cut himself off, voice breaking. “I feel useless.”

That hit you straight in the chest. Useless. Clark, who could save the world before breakfast, thought he was useless because he couldn’t fix this—because he couldn’t stop the crying or ease your pain.

Your heart cracked open.

You reached out, grabbing one of his hands with your free one, pulling his attention back to you. “You’re not useless,” you whispered, fierce through the tears. “You’re just… you. And I’m… a mess. And right now, it feels like too much. But you’re not useless.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes shining. “Then tell me what to do. Please.” His voice shook, and the desperation in it broke you further. “I’ll do anything. Just tell me.”

You sniffled, wiping your cheek against Ella’s soft hair. She was still crying, but quieter now, maybe soothed by the rhythm of your heart—or maybe by the sound of your voices breaking. “Sit,” you said, nodding toward the couch. “Hold my hand. And… breathe quietly.”

Clark gave a choked laugh through his tears, his lips trembling as he nodded like you’d given him the most important mission of his life. “Quiet breathing. Got it.”

He sat beside you, tentative at first, then solid, grounding. His big hand wrapped around yours, warm and steady, his thumb stroking gently. His other arm hovered at your back until you leaned into him, and then he pulled you in carefully, like you were the most fragile thing he’d ever held.

Ella fussed in your arms, then let out a hiccup and nuzzled against your chest, her cries softening further. The three of you sat together in the dim light, your tears soaking into Clark’s shirt, his falling silently into your hair.

“You’re not failing,” he murmured into your temple, voice thick with emotion. “You’re everything. Both of you are everything.”

And for the first time all night, you let yourself believe him.

The house eventually quieted.

Ella finally drifted off against your chest, her little body warm and impossibly small in your arms. Her breaths came in soft huffs, her lashes brushing her cheeks, the kind of fragile peace that felt like it could shatter if you even thought too loudly.

Clark sat beside you, his enormous frame folded into the couch like he was trying to make himself smaller, less overwhelming. One big hand rubbed slow, gentle circles on your back, steadying, grounding.

“I’m sorry I’m annoying,” he murmured after a long silence, his voice low and almost ashamed.

Your lips curved into a weary smirk. “You’ve always been annoying, Kent. I married you anyway.”

His cheeks flushed pink, a boyish grin tugging at his mouth despite the exhaustion shadowing his face. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

“Guess so,” you said, leaning your head against his shoulder, your body finally allowing itself to sag against him. Ella shifted softly, still asleep, her tiny breaths filling the quiet space between you. “Just… remember. Quietly.”

Clark chuckled under his breath, the sound warm and careful, almost a promise. “Quietly.”

For a few heartbeats, there was only silence—the three of you pressed together, the storm of the last week settling into something softer. But then the weight of your words earlier came back, pricking your chest with guilt. You swallowed hard, shifting slightly to look at him.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?” His head tilted toward you instantly, eyes soft, ready. Always ready.

Your throat tightened. “I’m… sorry. For snapping at you. For being so harsh. I hate it—I hate that I’ve been mean to you. You don’t deserve that.” Your voice wobbled, and tears pricked at your eyes again. “You’ve done nothing but try, and I keep pushing you away like you’re the problem, when really, it’s just… everything else.”

His brows knitted, and before you could spiral further, he shook his head, leaning down to press his forehead to yours. “Hey. No. Don’t apologize for that.”

You blinked up at him. “But I keep—”

“You just had a baby,” he interrupted gently. “You’re healing, you’re exhausted, and you’re carrying more than anyone should have to. If you snap at me, it’s not because you don’t love me. It’s because you trust me enough to fall apart in front of me.”

Your breath caught, his words sinking straight into the cracks in your heart.

“I don’t mind being your punching bag if it means you don’t have to carry this alone,” he whispered, his thumb brushing along your cheek. “I’d rather you scream at me a thousand times than ever feel like you have to hold it all in.”

Your chest tightened, tears spilling before you could stop them. “God, I don’t deserve you.”

Clark smiled softly, his own eyes shining. “Good thing you’re stuck with me, then.”

Before you could argue, he leaned in and kissed you. It wasn’t desperate or fiery—it was steady, grounding, the kind of kiss that said I’m here. I’ll always be here. You melted into it, your free hand curling into his shirt, Ella nestled safely between you.

When he pulled back, his lips lingered against yours, his breath warm. “We’re in this together. No matter how messy. No matter how loud. Okay?”

You nodded, pressing your forehead to his. “Okay.”

And for the first time since Ella’s birth, you felt like maybe—just maybe—you could sleep.

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icybarness · 8 days ago

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Thank you for all the love the new fic has been getting! It was such a delight to write something super angsty hehe. If you haven’t seen it go ahead and check it out it’s called Protecting You! Let me know your thoughts, feedback, what you liked about it in my inbox or unless you want to chit chat too hehe!

I have a few upcoming wips on the way, some request as well! Should I give sneak peaks? Let me know!😌

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icybarness · 9 days ago

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Protecting you

Pairings: Clark Kent x reader | Wc: 3.8k

Notes: In collaboration with @orobaxis, who helped with part of the story, thank you for helping me out a lot 🥺 I genuinely enjoyed writing this, and I really hope you guys like it! <3

Summary: You and Clark get stuck in the pocket universe. He figures out a way to get you guys out of here, tensions rise.

Warnings: Lots of blood, injuries in detail, angst, hard crying/hyperventilating from the reader, kryptonite poisoning?!

Quiet. Darkness.

The eerie coldness that fills your space, the thousands of glass-like boxes that hold people as if they were prisoners.

Ending up in some pocket universe was not on your bingo card.

All you remembered was wanting to find Clark, where LexCorp took him when he turned himself in, integrating LexCorp and his goons on where they took your husband. You were walking back to your apartment when it went black.

Tossed into the glass box, you jolted awake, finding your senses of where you were, looking up at Lex from where he tossed you.

“I’ll be back for some questions,” As he goes off into the distance.

With one palm to the ground, pushing yourself up, you see him in the corner staring at you, as he was finding words that he was not able to speak. But his eyes say so much.

You felt no hope. Anguish. All you could do at the moment is cradle Clark in your arms, rocking him back in forth, hoping for all of this to be over.

As much begging and convincing you had on Metamorpho, he didn't let up. Continuing the process of making kryptonite with his hands. Continuing to bring Clark so much pain.

You hated it. The heaving, shortness of breath, the swollen eyes, wrinkled skin. He was leaving you slowly. The thought of your husband leaving your arms, having Superman himself leave you in your arms, was something you prayed to never have it happen.

You were terrified.

“Baby, hey- it’s okay. We're okay,” as you murmured at the crown of his head, shaking over the fear you're losing Clark right in your arms.

You needed to be strong. You couldn't let Clark see you like this. You can't show the fear that was written across your face. Just hanging on.

“So, you told me you can save my son, right?” Metamorpho mentioned quietly, glancing towards you.

“Y-yeah, he can. He can’t do this with the kryptonite around, but he will save your son, I promise you,” as you said, glancing over to Clark for approval that he’s able to, just to make sure, and he nods ever so slowly.

Hesitating, Metamorpho slowly shrinks the kryptonite from his body, until it vanishes like it was never there from his hand.

A choked gasp.

Clark clutches you as he finally can breathe, not used to getting so much air in one moment, the relief. The full relief.

“Hey- Hey, I got you,” massaging the back of his head, waiting patiently for him to get back to his senses again. Clark stumbles to get up, but you hover just in case he falls over again, and you realize it before he does.

The sun. He needs the sun.

“Why do you still look like- that?! Cmon now!” Metamorpho starts shouting now, urging him to get the hell up.

“I- I need the sun to heal. I need to heal faster,” as he’s on his knees, feeling like a slow defeat. You held his head up with a finger underneath his chin; you won't let Clark doubt like that. Ever.

“I have an idea. I- I can bind different materials to create an artificial sun, but I’m not sure if it’ll work. It might be bright – maybe even harmful to y/n.”

Clark looks over to you. He doesn't hesitate as he knows what to do instinctively; Clark wraps you into his arms at the far side corner of the box, his back facing towards Metamorpho. He was shielding you.

“Just do it. I got her,” shouting over to Metamorpho.

“Honey, can you close your eyes for me? It’ll be okay, I promise.”

He was able to feel in the moment that this was all his fault that you're here. That you're stuck in this situation with him, the pain in your eyes that gives worry.

That's when it all happened, all too fast.

The bright beam of light turns your vision from behind your lids all white, hearing the grunts from Clark, the warmth from his arms, caging you in the corner from any harm from the harmful rays.

From that, all you remember is the journey to get back.

Clark is holding you in one arm, the other balancing Metamorpho’s son, all while being chased by guards.

All you remember is the weak grip Clark had on you, trying to get you home.

In the blink of an eye, you were yanked through the portal before it closed, landing on the ground quite viciously, a large, sharp piece of glass piercing into your abdomen. The pain bit into your skin, angry and gnashing. But this is not the time.

Great. I’ll go deal with that later, you thought to yourself.

From being yanked out, you were released from Clark's grip, but still had Metamorpho's son tucked into him. With blurry vision, trying to get up, all you saw was Metamorpho take his son and make a run for it.

He was gone.

“C- Clark?” You attempted to push yourself off the ground after the harsh landing, making the glass shard push deeper into you than you wanted it to be.

The hissing, cry of pain, the tremble you held as you clutch your abdomen, glancing down on the wound.

You can’t be serious. Not now. Then you look up to land your eyes on Clark.

He was unconscious.

Forgetting the pain in that moment, scurrying over to him from the ground, you bring him to your arms. The blueish, blackish veins scurrying all through his body, traveling to his neck and face. He’s out like a light.

The slow, shallow rising of his breaths.

From a distance, you see guards running towards you with guns in place, but you were both alone.

“No, no, no- hey, baby, wake up, please. You can’t do this to me, please,” as you lightly shook him, a state of panic as the guards finally circled you.

You don’t feel the tears finally running down, you're heaving to yourself, rocking him in your arms, calling his name like a mantra for him to wake up. This can’t happen.

“Baby, please don't leave me alone, p-please, I can't do this without you, don’t leave me,” as you cupped his cheeks with trembling hands, feeling him turn cold by the second.

The guards start circling around you, guns pointed and ready to take out Clark first, like it was part of their duties.

“DON’T TOUCH HIM- YOU'RE NOT TAKING HIM PLEASE,” as a broken sob came out of you, short of breath, you were hyperventilating, one would say, but you weren't letting anybody near him. You're not gonna lose him. Over your dead body, you're not giving him up.

You didn’t want him to go. You had no escape. After all, you couldn't carry a 200-pound man to safety.

All you could do was have him in your arms. You shielded around his figure, shelling around him, protecting him from the guards, blocking their view so they couldn't see him.

You couldn't care. You'd rather take any shots before him. You would take any harm. They had to get rid of you first before they take him.

Just as you heard the barrel of the gun, ready to fire right at you, you braced for the impact, but the sound of Mr. Terrific came from a distance.

It all happened too quickly. You see guards dropping like flies. One by One.

You were frozen in your spot, your head bowed down at Clark's temple, until you heard silence. Gazing up slowly, you check around to see if it’s all over. Mr.Terrific comes to your view.

“Y/n, we gotta go here lemme-”

“N-No!” as you tugged Clark the other way, cradling the back of his head as you shield his face at the cranny of your neck, not wanting anybody to lay any hands on him, he's been through enough.

“Y/n- you need to bring him somewhere safe. I need to stay back to check the portal won't open again; no way in hell you'll be able to bring him back to the ship. You need to let me.”

You hesitate. A state of frenzy over who is bad and who is good. You know Mr.Terrific won’t bring any harm to Clark. You're just scared all around. Hesitant. But you eventually cave in.

Mr. Terrific lends you a helping hand bringing Clark to the ship, as he tells you the directions on how to work the engine, all the way to the steering.

Once the adrenaline was slowly wearing off, your wound becomes almost unbearable. But you needed to push through for Clark. Good thing you were wearing a thick black sweater where the blood seeps through slowly.

Then off you go.

To SmallVille.

_________________

Once you finally landed, as best as you could, you took Clark's arm around your shoulder, carrying him out of the ship to his parents.

Finally settled, they lead you to Clark's room, where he can get some rest.

You chuckle softly, seeing Clark taking over the small twin bed his parents kept since he was small. His room was untouched; posters to trophies, and awards.

“Will he be okay?” Martha asks worriedly.

“Y-Yes. Just some kryptonite poisoning. He’ll be okay.”

You felt uneasy. But you didn't want to put the worry on Clark's parents, but you knew he'd be okay by the next morning. Just hoping.

Pain clawed across your abdomen, sharp and unrelenting. Each step sent another stab through your core, and you knew you couldn’t ignore it any longer. You had to take care of it, now. Forcing yourself to move, you slipped out of the room as quietly as possible. Your legs wobbled beneath you, every movement a struggle as dizziness wrapped around you like a vice.

The bathroom door clicked shut, and the dam you’d been holding back shattered. A wave of sobs tore through you, hot tears streaming as the pain spiked to an unbearable high. Lifting the hem of your black sweater, your breath hitched. Blood. Too much of it. Crimson streaks smeared your skin, pooling, dripping. You bit down hard on a scream—Ma and Pa couldn’t hear this. And Clark… especially Clark. If he heard, there’d be no hiding it.

Your gaze flicked to the glass shard buried deep in your abdomen. You had to get it out before it did more damage.

When your eyes caught the mirror, your stomach sank. Veins, dark and jagged, threaded across your arms, creeping toward your neck and face. Almost like Clark’s—but faint, ghostly lines you wouldn’t notice unless you looked close. You told yourself it didn’t matter. It had to be from the blood loss, the fatigue. The gash was the problem. That had to be it.

You tore through the cabinets with shaking hands until the first-aid kit hit the counter.

Rolling up a dish rag, you shoved it between your teeth and bit down hard, praying it would muffle the sounds you couldn’t hold in. The sting of alcohol lit your nerves on fire as you pressed it to the wound, and when you dug in with the tweezers—God—your body convulsed with agony. Groans ripped through your throat, muffled only by the cloth as you fought to keep them from escaping.

You weren’t a doctor. Not even close. And the gush of blood told you as much. It coated your hands, soaked through the towel beneath you, painting the tiles in deep red. The bathroom looked like a murder scene.

Piece by jagged piece, you pulled the glass out, your vision tunneling as pain tore through you in waves. You didn’t know how you stayed conscious. Every nerve screamed, every muscle burned, and still, you kept going, tears blurring everything.

Finally, it was out. Barely breathing, you fumbled for the gauze, clumsy fingers wrapping it around your waist after your shaky, makeshift stitches—if you could even call them that.

One wrap. Two. Three. Four. That would have to be enough.

You collapsed against the cold tile, forehead pressed to the floor, forcing air into your lungs. Somehow, you pushed yourself upright and caught sight of the mirror.

God, you looked like hell.

Smearing away the tears with the back of your hand, you inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. You cleaned the mess—what you could, anyway—and stumbled out, heading toward Clark’s room.

He was asleep when you slipped inside, his face calm, chest rising and falling steadily. Relief washed over you in a shaky exhale. At least he was okay. At least this day was almost done.

But the heat burning beneath your skin hadn’t left. From your neck to your face, it crawled, a wildfire you couldn’t smother. You told yourself you’d deal with it tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

You settled for the bean bag in the corner of his room. It'll work for now, just a waiting game till he wakes up.

Fluttering your eyes shut, you were out within 5 minutes.

__________

God, he’s felt like he's been hit by a truck. He didn't know how long he’d been out for, but he felt the strength seep back into him that he was missing earlier.

Hazily sitting up, he catches your frame across the room where the moonlight peeks through the curtains.

His face breaks into an immediate frown. Gosh, how long have you been sleeping there? You must have been so uncomfortable.

Clark gets up slowly and makes his way over to you, enjoying the sight of your peaceful slumber. Taking one arm under your knees and the other snaking around the lower part of your back, he carefully lifts you up, steadying you so you don't wake up.

He felt your body heating up; maybe he thought you were just getting a fever from how cold it was in the pocket universe.

By dialing down on how your breathing was, Clark notices you were knocked out into a full slumber. Maybe you were just tired and getting sick. He didn't pay any mind; he plans to take care of you tomorrow and just let you rest right now from the events that happened.

Man, he feels so bad. The worries you left him, how it was his fault that you were kidnapped and dragged into this mess. He’ll make it up to you.

Tip-toeing quietly over to the bed, your shirt rises before he sets you down.

Gauze. How the hell?

He sets you down into the bed, flickering on the bedside lamp, lowering it to a dim level just enough for him to see and analyze.

He slowly looks, then sees the very faint blackish & bluish litter on your arms to your face. He instantly knew.

Oh my God, you were also affected.

From situations in the past, Clark learned that humans can experience Kryptonite poisoning canically but not as strongly, just very light symptoms like heat flashes and fever. No wonder you feel so hot. Why didn't he figure it out sooner?

He knew you'd be fine, with lots of rest, it would pass, but he couldn't help but feel the worry washing over him. He just wants to take the discomfort you've been feeling. To leave it on his shoulders.

Slowly, he grabs the hem of your shirt to raise it, and sees the soaked gauze that lies on you underneath.

The guilt eats him alive. You've been in much more pain than he was.

He carefully sets you down on the ground right at the bedside, and through it all, you were still knocked out from your slumber.

It must have been from the kryptonite; you have been heavily knocked out from exhaustion through the kryptonite and the injury.

He hastily removes your gauze, catching the bloody, raging, swollen gash that was poorly stitched.

Gosh, y/n, why didn't you wake me up?

Clark gets to work, leaving you for a second to grab a damp rag and the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinets.

Coming back, he sets you on his lap, dampening the cloth to your skin, cleaning away any of the blood that has been seeping out of the stitch and onto your stomach.

Carefully removing your stitches, he restitches them back up in a cleaner, smoother manner. Still feeling some pain even in a deep slumber, you stir just oh so lightly.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, I got you. I’m so sorry.”

After wrapping you in the gauze, he hooks your legs with his arms underneath you, arms on your back, and gently places you back on the bed, tucking you in. Clark reaches over to cup his palm to your forehead, and gently makes his way to caress your hair, leaning in to kiss you on your forehead.

“Goodnight, my love.”

______________

You doze off until the morning comes.

Your eyes flutter, thick blankets wrap all over you, neatly tucked in. You glance up, seeing the beanbag in the corner, realizing you're in his bed.

He must have carried you to the bed during the night.

Raising the hem of your tee, you glanced at the new gauze. Huh. Did he clean you up last night? Had he noticed?

A light nausea hits you, and the migraine engulfs your features ever so aggressively. You couldn't point a finger at the reason.

The morning light shimmers its way into Clark's room, but as you get up, you don't see him. He must have been somewhere jotting in the house, you think to yourself. Making your way down the stairs, spotting Martha, she instantly notices that you were looking for his son.

“Morning, sweetheart, he’s out in the front,” Martha mentions as she directs her eyes to the front door.

You nod your head as a way of thanks, making your way outside.

You stood at the doorway, spotting Clark on the tiny porch bench, almost taking up all the space for his size.

“You moved me to the bed, didn't you?”

Clark finally looks up. He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, but you manage to offer him a smile.

Guilt was eating at him.

“You were hurt; I had to. What husband would I be? Are you doing okay? Why didn't you tell me last night?”

You make your way over to the bench, Clark scooting over to make room for you. You take a seat next to him. “Just a migraine, feeling under the weather, that's all, but doing okay.”

Oh right. The second-hand Kryptonite poisoning you attained. The reminder was still there that this was his fault. Clark takes your hand into his and shifts his body towards you.

“Honey, you had slight effects from the kryptonite.” He looks into your eyes, scanning your features that your doing okay. “For very long periods — humans can get light symptoms, especially in close proximity.”

“R-Really?” You never knew. Who knew, really.

“Oh, I guess it is what it is then,” as you let a huffed giggle, a slight smile, to brighten up the mood. But deep down, you were so tired, still hurt deep within you.

Clark could tell you were hiding.

“Don’t forget about the stitches, too, you didn't tell me about.”

You looked back up at him, eyes glassy, and didn't know where to start. Scared out of your mind, guilty of not telling him.

“ I-I was scared, Clark; you needed the rest, I couldn't wake you, I couldn't bother.”

Astonished, Clark rebuttals. You were never a bother, he thought. “Honey, I care about you. When I’m sick, asleep, halfway across the world, I worry. Please just tell me, okay?”

“Okay.”

The pause of silence hits the air, deafening around the two of you.

“You look better,” whispering like it was something sacred, feeling as if you said it any louder, he would disappear, and you would be tugged back into yesterday's events.

“ I-I was so scared, Clark,” you stammered. “I was so scared of losing you — you were barely breathing and the veins— ”

At this point, you were sobbing all over again. Reliving the memories from yesterday.

By this time, Clark took you into his lap, each of your legs dangling from both his sides. He was quiet, eyes full of concern, listening attentively until you were finished.

“The guards were around us, they had their weapons drawn — I would die before they were gonna lay hands on you, Clark. I was so terrified of losing you.”

Clark's heart squeezes. The thought of you sacrificing yourself when hurt shook him to his core. Your heart is too pure, full of care towards him. It should be him who takes the hits first before you. Not you. He would rather take the pain first before you.

“Honey— ” he whispers, taking you to his arms as you sob into his neck.

It hurt you so much that it terrified you deeply when you witnessed him like that. Almost like you couldn't get the image out of your brain.

“Hey— I’m here, aren't I?” as he starts to wipe your tears with his thumbs, kissing all over your face, kissing all the tears away that he caused you.

It felt heavy on him; all he wanted was to take all the pain away from your shoulders if he could.

“This is all my fault. I lead you there. You were kidnapped because of me, you're hurt because of me.”

Your sobs subsided so lightly, bringing your head back up to look at your husband. His fault? Could never be.

“Baby– no one would have expected this; no one knew kryptonite would be around. I inferred your disappearance, so I expected it. I wanted to find you to bring you home,” as you were huffing, bringing your hands up to hold Clark's back hand where he was cupping your face. “You brought us home. You gave it your all. This isn't your fault; it is more so than mine. I kept the secret away from you, and I brought you so much worry, so I’m sorry.”

You were exhausted at this point from your breakdown, from the pain that lingered in your mind. But you're glad the worst has passed. You lower your head back down to Clark's shoulder just to know, just to feel that he’s still here with you.

“It's all over, baby. I’m so sorry you had to see me like that; I know it may not take all the memories of what happened last night, but I’m okay. If so, you were the one who helped us get out of there, alright? You brought me home. At the end, it's none of our faults; we were just unlucky that it crossed both our paths at the same moment, and I would fight for us just like you would too. We’re okay, alright?”

The tenderness of his hold, the truth behind his words.

We will be okay.

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