pairings: corenswet!clark x reader
summary: in the intimacy of their first night at home, clark watches with awe as his daughter latches for the first time.
It was just the three of you, finally removed from the poking and prodding of nurses or the buzzing fluorescents above your bed. The lamp— your lamp, in your own home— was far less aggressive, casting a soft amber halo over the living room, the baby blanket Clark’s mom had knit draped over the arm of the couch, and you curled up in the middle of it all like the heart of the home.
Clark had stationed himself beside you on the couch, knees angled toward you, his big hands resting on his thighs like he was physically holding himself back from fussing over you. Which was saying something— Clark Kent could fuss with the best of them.
In fact, he’d been fussing over you for nine months straight, ever since the little pink lines showed up on the pregnancy test. You could hardly go to the bathroom without him hovering nearby, waiting and watching, prepared for every eventuality. The only difference now was his fussiness had split in two, still all over you and now the baby.
She was in your arms— all impossibly small fingers and scrunched-up newborn face, still making those soft, uncertain little sighs and coos as if breathing was something she had to remember. Her rooting motions had started, mouth nudging against the fabric of your shirt.
You practically jumped when you noticed it, everything the nurse taught you flashing through your head like study notes from anatomy class. Baby’s automatic reflex. Means they’re hungry and ready to eat.
“Clark?” Your voice was tense, nervous. Of course he was there in a second, humming in response, finger reaching out to stroke the small chub of her cheek, “She’s hungry. I can tell. The rooting motions, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember.” Little did you know, Clark had taken notes. They sat stashed in his briefcase wedged next to his next article like a bible.
Clark shifted a little closer, his eyes bright but cautious, like he was watching a tightrope walker taking her first step. “So… what do we do first?” His voice was soft, hesitant, as if he wanted to make sure you led the way.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, suddenly aware of how much you wanted this to go right, how you didn’t want to disappoint the two most important people in the world. “We try to get her to latch,” you said, your voice quieter than expected. You raised your daughter slowly, supporting her head with one hand, her body cradled carefully against your chest.
The baby’s lips parted instinctively, but when you tried to bring her closer, she pulled away, the motion jerky but unsure. Your heart sank a little.
Clark’s hand moved to rest gently on your knee, a quiet anchor. “That’s okay. She’s learning. We’ll get there.”
You nodded, grateful for his unwavering positivity as your own hands trembled. You tried again. This time, her mouth brushed your skin, then opened wide— but just as she seemed to latch, she slipped away again, making a soft, frustrated cry.
“Oh, sweetheart,” you murmured, smoothing her tiny hair with your fingers. Your chest tightened with an ache, not just from all the physical soreness the nurses had warned you about but from the fear you weren’t doing it right.
Clark reached out again, tentative, his big hand hovering as if unsure where to touch without breaking something fragile. Finally, he settled his palm lightly on your arm, fingers warm and steady.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “We got all night. You’re doing amazing.”
You weren’t exactly sure you believed him, but you sat still, baby rooting softly, letting Clark’s presence ground you. The tiny, beautiful miracle of your daughter in your arms was more than enough to calm the frustration running through your veins.
Then, with a patience neither of you knew you had, you guided her again. Her perfect pink lips opened wider this time, and she latched on, her lips sealing in a way that felt both miraculous and terrifying.
You gasped softly at the unfamiliar tug, a strange mix of discomfort and relief. Careful, as to not jostle your daughter, you and Clark high-fived gently over her head.
Clark’s breath hitched after watching you two for a moment, and you tore your eyes away from the miracle on your chest to see his eyes shining wetly now. A single tear escaped his lashes, and he tried in vain to wipe them away.
“Sorry, sorry. Oh gosh, I’m so lucky.” His voice cracked a little, the raw emotion laid barren in the quiet of the room.
You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, fingers intertwining with his familiar warmth. “Big ol’ softie,” you teased, a smile tugging at your lips despite the weight of the moment.
Clark laughed quietly, sheepish but unable to hide the pride shining in his eyes. “Yeah, well… can you blame me? Look at you.”
His voice was thick with awe and his expression even more obvious, cupping a hand over his mouth as he grinned like an idiot. His gaze lingered on you with a quiet intensity that made your breath catch. To him, you were everything— tired, yes, and with milk stains on your shirt, but also breathtakingly strong and beautiful and radiant in words he didn’t know how to describe.
His eyes— capable of red hot lasers yet brimming with tears— never left you, tracing the soft curve of your cheek, the way your breath hitched as your daughter settled deeper against your skin. His hand tightened gently around yours once more, grounding you both. He swallowed hard, his voice rough when he finally spoke again. “You’re incredible.”
The words were simple, but the weight behind them was immense. To Clark, you embodied a new kind of heroism he had never known nor encountered on all his missions as Superman. In the quiet room, surrounded by the soft sounds of your breathing and the tiny, steady rhythm of your daughter’s suckling, Clark’s love for you deepened in a way that felt like it could hold the life you were building together and more.
