It should have been clearer to you, what Martha Kent had been busy creating for you prior to your own bridal shower held in the garden of the Kent Farm. She had sworn herself to secrecy ever since she causally asked you to stand in her beloved sewing room, only weeks before the shower, so she could measure every curve of your body. 

You hadn’t questioned it at the start. Nor, did she let you in on her intentions at the finish line either. 

“Ma wants to see you.” Clark catches you mid-stride, catching the faint surprise worn on your face as he peers over the top of the morning newspaper. He turns the page, satisfied that there had been nothing regarding Superman in the headlines, “She said she needs more measurements.” he informs casually. 

You turn your head to stare down the familiar hallway of the Kent household, lowering your voice to speak, “Again? She just measured me last week. You know she’s doing all sorts of measurements of my body from head to toe?” Clark looks back up from his newspaper and shrugs, “Head to toe, Clark!” 

“Honey, no doubt it’s a wedding gift. It is only a few months away.” Clark folds the paper in half to give you his undivided attention, “She might be making you a dress for the reception. I did mention that being a trend.” 

“She’s already doing the alterations for my actual wedding dress. For free.” you argue in a panic.

Clark stands and your head falls back to stare up at him when he saunters over to you—a handsome smile with prominent dimples spreading across his face. His palms smooth over the swell of your hips and you are reduced to a puddle of goo when he dips his head to press a featherlight kiss to your lips; leaving you craving more as he pulls back. 

“Just accept the love she gives you, okay?” Clark mumbles and pecks your lips again, this time with a little more passion. “You deserve it.” he hums. 

You give some form of a nod, with your head a little woozy from the way your husband-to-be was handling you. He tilts his head, brows raised as he waits for verbal confirmation that you were going to stop resisting the way the Kent family cared for you. 

When you verbalise the promise he needs to hear, he kisses you once more, and longer this time. One large palm trails down to your backside and he grabs a firm handful, humming with the deepest content before playfully smacking it as you take your leave. 

You swat at his hand with an airy laugh, unable to contain your own giddiness over the little love bubble you share. You peer over your shoulder when you walk down the hall, to see Clark drag his bottom lip between his teeth, arms folding across his broad chest with his blue eyes cast downward on your frame. 

It makes you sway your hips more, and he clasps a hand over his mouth before you disappear into Martha Kent’s sewing room. 

“Hi, Ma.” you say as you enter. 

“Oh! Hi, honey. You’re not busy are you?” Ma stands from her position behind a mountain of glittery tulle that was part of a commissioned prom dress. Her hands come to either side of your face when you respond that you’ve got all the time in the world for someone like her. “Good. Now, I just need to take a few more measurements to ensure I’ve got it all correct. Stand up there for me, sweetheart.” 

You do as she says, standing in front of the floor length mirror. Martha hurries to your side with measuring tape and taps the inner part of your leg so you separate them. She mumbles the numbers to herself, and then lowers her tone even further to discuss what her next steps will be for her creation. 

Once she stands to full height, you observe as she walks to her desk and is quick to take note of the last remaining measurements required. 

“You excited for your bridal shower?” Martha asks and looks to you with a warm smile. 

“Nervous, but excited to see everyone.” 

“Oh, it’ll be fun.” she chirps. 

You twiddle your thumbs, “Can I ask what you’re taking my measurements for?” your tone gives off the energy of a scolded child. 

Martha taps her nose, “That’s for me to know, and you to find out, sweetheart.”

That should have been a signal to where opening the gift from Martha Kent was going to go at your intimate bridal shower. You were sat amongst your closest friends and family, showered in gifts from the majority of them—even after you had insisted that presents were not mandatory. Some were sentimental such as, hand painted plates for display, or two coffee mugs with the date of your wedding and a photo album to keep the memories lasting forever. Naturally, with some mischievous friends involved, the gifts turned explicit and you were left swatting at them with pink fluffy handcuffs and a pleather whip that they insisted were for the horses on the farm. 

Martha Kent sat close by with a pale blue box sat upon her lap, amused by the younger generations antics and watching her future daughter-in-law swelter with mortification. 

When you eventually reach Martha for the gift, your tightened muscles from embarrassment loosen when you let out a sigh of relief. Martha Kent was a respectable, midwestern woman who sewed for a hobby and made chilli and cinnamon rolls on the weekends. There was no probable cause for the contents of the box to be…suggestive. 

(Wrong!) 

“Now, I made this in a pinch. I hope the measurements are correct, but we can sort it out no bother if it isn’t fitting right.” Martha explains as you sit back in your seat, fingers dancing over the pretty lace bow she had wrapped around it. 

You shake your head, “You’re one of the best seamstresses, Ma. I’m sure it’s perfect.”

You undo the bow and remove the box lid, expecting some sweet item of clothing—you know, like a modest dress—and you can see through the thin tissue paper that the fabric is a deep red. Almost burgundy. Once the paper is peeled back, you hook your index fingers under the thin straps and raise it out of the box to inspect. 

It’s a dress. If you could call it that. More of a dress for behind closed doors, never to see a public setting. It’s entirely sheer, aside from the intricate flower patterns that were embellished with tiny blue beading. 

There was no denying it was beautiful but—

“Where is the rest of it?” you blurt without thinking. Your gaze drops from the dress to Martha Kent who wears the broadest smile. “It’s amazing, Ma. I just—I don’t think I could wear this out. Is there—” you dip your hand into the shallow box to locate the rest of the dress amongst the tissue, “—Is there another piece to go underneath it?” 

Martha grasps your forearm, “Bless your heart. No, honey. This is it.” 

Your friends with more sexual prowess begin to sing their excitement over the suggestive dress. In this setting, your skin begins to burn from a sudden spout of coyness. 

You also take a moment to think about how Clark will like it without a shadow of a doubt. It’ll take all the sternness you can muster for him not to tear the fabric in a hurry. 

You blink, “…This is it?” you repeat quietly. 

“Yes, sweetheart!” Martha cackles, “I want some grandkids outta you two!” 

“Honey—” Clark calls ahead when you reach the gate that leads down a set of stairs and onto the beach. He’s already overheating from the imposing, red hot sun overhead and a catalogue of furniture, towels, sand buckets and spades, snacks and beach chairs stacked onto him like a working mule. To add to this, he has your four daughters yanking at his limbs as if they were playing a game of Buckeroo. “—Did you pack the SPF for the girls?” 

You look over your shoulder at your husband, “In the pink backpack.” 

“Which—There’s two pink backpacks.” Clark dangles the two backpacks in question from the crease in his elbow; where one of the girls was happily swinging from. He huffs, “Are you sure it’s packed?” 

“Yes, Clark. It’s packed.” you shake your head, “Can you please let me help you?”

“No!” Clark takes a wide step to prevent crushing the other daughter that was wrapped around his leg, giggling with each step. “I want you to relax, sweetheart. Let me deal with the heavy duty stuff.” 

The two of you had decided to put your hard earned savings together and purchase a long weekend trip to a beach house that had access to the waterfront. For the cost, you would’ve looked further out of the town, but with four kids under five—not pointing any fingers at who were to blame for that—it was all about convenience over cost. Sometimes. 

You had bookmarked a handful of options and your husband, in dizzy excitement over making memories at the beach with his gang of girls; had booked the first tab you had open on the laptop that stayed on the kitchen counter at all times. 

So, two weekends later, you were in a quaint beach-town in the peak of summer, with your husband carrying everything but the kitchen sink down to the sand.

Plus, who were you to deny Clark Kent of some tiny swim shorts and showing off his good physique whilst holding all four girls above the sea level as the waves crashed against his broad back? (The baby No. 5 bells were ringing piercingly loud.)

You hold open the gate for Clark and his entourage, eight sets of little hands yanking at his skin as they figured out ways into hang off of him upside down. He gives you a wide smile—because this is all he ever dreamed of—and struggles to bend a little to press a kiss to your lips. 

As soon as your lips make contact, the girls erupt into a fit of giggles at the sight. 

You stay close in proximity as you ask again, “You really don’t want me to carry at least one inflatable?”

“I’ve got it—Ow, Joy,” Clark cries, “Don’t use daddy’s earlobe as an anchor to climb, please.” he shifts a bag to sit back up on his shoulder, “I promise, I am fine, honey. You look beautiful. Radiant. Just carry that.” 

He kisses you again. This time with a smug smile that silently translated all his thoughts about you in a swimsuit beneath the button-up shirt of his that you threw over it in a mad rush. 

(Baby No. 5 imminent.) 

It takes around twenty minutes longer than the average time to reach the shore with the kids insistent on using Clark as a climbing frame as he waddles slowly behind you. With their little limbs all over his body, they manage to kick off a few items which only furthers the length of time spent as Clark has to stop to pick it up, adjust the backpacks, the umbrella, the inflatables, the chairs—just everything. You wait patiently, foot tapping as Clark offers a lopsided smile and the confidence to tell you that he has got it all under control. 

Once you reach a good area to lay everything out for the day, Clark does a headcount of everything whilst you blow up the arm bands for the girls; that have since climbed off of their dad in replacement of building sandcastles. 

You can see it in his face before he says it. 

“Clark.” you warn, “Whatever you have forgotten, it is not important.” 

Clark waggles a finger, “It is. I forgot the pop-up tent for the girls. I’ll have to go back.” he speaks in a tone of guilt. 

“Pop-up tent? For what? We have the umbrella.” 

“Options, honey. Look at them.” you turn your head as he gestures to the girls, “They’re eating sand instead of the sandwiches I made. They need options.” 

You redirect your gaze back to your husband, “Fine. Go ahead.” 

Clark hums and kneels to press a fleeting kiss to your lips before he speeds back up to the beach house in record timing—for an average human. Not Kryptonian. 

You spot him after ten minutes of, presumably, whizzing around the house to locate the pop-up tent he so desperately needed for the girls. Only to see he has his arms full of unnecessary items that won’t be looked at twice by your little ones. 

When he reaches you he dumps the next wave of furniture at your feet. He then takes the opportunity to fish into the back pocket of his trunks, pulling out a long, blueish box. (You’re not an idiot. He doesn’t need to flip it over for you to know what it is. It’s a pregnancy test.) 

You go wide-eyed. 

in wife!reader world they have about 4 kids and they’re 100% all girls.

clark has always been the one passionate to find the cute outfits with the bow to match—you just want to get out of the house on time—and he shows his baby what outfit he has picked the night before for her. then she grows and she wants to wear the tutu and the duck wellies and the yellow hard hat to the store but ONLY if her daddy wears a tutu too. and like, you guys really need food so he wears one of hers on his leg for moral support.

he spends most nights in bed researching how to look after her hair, different hairstyles, and how to cut it because his daughter must have the cutest hairdo the whole of the nursery in metropolis. he doesn’t cop out on any of these important things!!! it becomes their own little thing and soon enough clark is spending most of the time in his baby girl’s hair salon on the floor with butterfly clips in his curls and one tiny bobble barely hanging on with his grown out curls because his baby has seen his passion for her hair and she wants to return the favour. (even if he’s being beaten with a small hairbrush.)

he does the whole plastic princess heels for her, lets her paint his nails whatever colour she wants and proudly wears it until the polish has chipped away—he gets kind of sad because that’s lowkey a passage of time and she’s only getting bigger. he does the makeup, maybe forgets he has pale blue eyeshadow when he is in a pinch to go fight someone in the city. headlines the next morning: superman wears eyeshadow????