#lex luger

Summary — a life intertwined from the start, sharing every milestone—first love, first kiss, first time. a forever kind of love forged through years of shared dreams and memories. But life shifted, strained by the weight of Clark’s dual existence as a reporter and Superman, and the devastating loss of your baby girl. Grief and unspoken pain drove a wedge between you, his absence growing as he buried himself in work or missions, leaving you to grapple with self-doubt and loneliness.

Warnings — Explicit Language, Sexual references, Mention of miscarriage, and lots of angst! MDNI!!

You stared at the message from Clark, the words glowing coldly on your phone screen:

Can’t make it in time. Don’t have to wait up.

Don’t wait up. Each letter felt like a tiny shard of glass, slicing deeper into the ache that had settled in your chest. This was the third time this week he’d bailed, and the sting of it wasn’t new anymore.

You weren’t surprised he was avoiding you—not really. Whether he was off saving the world as Superman or chasing a deadline for The Daily Planet, Clark was a ghost in your life lately, slipping through your fingers like smoke. The absence of I love you in his text felt louder than the words themselves, a silence that echoed in the hollow space between you. When had it started to unravel? You couldn’t pinpoint the moment, but the weight of it pressed against your heart, heavy and unrelenting.

Your mind drifted, pulling you back to a memory that felt like a lifetime ago.

You were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, the cool porcelain grounding you as Clark paced the small bathroom, his broad shoulders tense with anticipation. His blue eyes sparkled with a mix of nerves and boyish excitement, like a kid waiting to open a long-awaited gift. You felt it too—that electric hope buzzing in your veins, tempered by the quiet fear that had lingered through too many heartbreaks.

The sharp beep of the timer snapped you out of your thoughts, and your breath hitched, lodging in your throat. Clark stopped pacing, his gaze locking onto yours, soft but intense, like he could see right into your soul. “Ready, baby?” His voice was a gentle caress, warm and patient, moving at your pace despite the eager tremor beneath his words. You could feel how much this moment meant to him—how much it meant to both of you. Us. The word felt sacred, a vow you’d both clung to through every loss, every tear, every fragile hope.

You stood, legs shaky, and crossed the short distance to the sink where four pregnancy tests sat face-down, lined up like soldiers awaiting judgment. Different brands, because you’d both been too anxious to trust just one. Your hand trembled as you reached for the first, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out the world. Slowly, you flipped it over.

Positive.

Your breath caught. You flipped the next.

Positive.

Then the third. Positive.

And the fourth. Positive.

The world blurred as tears spilled over, hot and unstoppable, streaming down your cheeks. You didn’t even know why you were crying—relief, joy, disbelief, all tangled together in a knot you couldn’t unravel. Clark’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close, his warmth enveloping you as you soaked his shirt with your tears. His heartbeat was steady against you, grounding you in the chaos of your emotions. So many losses, so much pain, and yet here it was—a miracle, a blessing you’d both fought so hard for.

“Are you okay? Please don’t cry, baby…” Clark’s voice cracked, his own eyes glistening as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing away your tears. His worry was so tender, so him, it only made your heart swell more.

“No… no, happy tears,” you managed, your voice thick with emotion as you looked up at him. A wobbly smile broke through, bright and raw. “So happy.”

His face lit up, a grin spreading wide, mirroring yours—two people caught in the gravity of a moment that felt too big for the world to hold. He pulled you closer, laughing softly, a sound that vibrated with joy and relief. “We did it,” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. “We’re gonna have a family.”

The memory was so vivid, so full of light, that it made the present feel even darker.

You clutched your phone, Clark’s curt message staring back at you.

Where was that man now?

The one who’d held you like you were his whole world? The one who’d cried with you, laughed with you, dreamed with you? You didn’t know when things had started to go wrong, but the distance between you felt like a chasm too wide to cross. And yet, despite the hurt, the love you’d felt in that bathroom—the love you’d built through every trial—still flickered, stubborn and unyielding, refusing to let go.

The dinner you’d spent hours preparing sat cold and forgotten on the table, a silent testament to another night alone. You let your phone slip from your fingers onto the couch, the weight of Clark’s message still burning in your chest.

With heavy steps, you trudged toward the bedroom, your heart dragging behind you like an anchor. Piece by piece, you shed your clothes—jacket, blouse, jeans—tossing them into the laundry bin with a carelessness that mirrored the numbness creeping over you. Your fingers worked your Burmese curls into a messy bun, each twist of your hair a small act of defiance against the chaos swirling inside.

You stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, the hiss of water filling the silence. Steam began to curl in the air, but your eyes caught on your reflection in the mirror. You stood there, bare, staring at your body. Your belly was almost back to its pre-pregnancy shape, just a soft pudge remaining where your baby girl had left her mark. She’d added weight to your frame, a gentle curve you’d once loved because it reminded you of her, of the life you’d carried. But now, under the harsh bathroom light, doubt slithered in.

Maybe Clark didn’t like it. Maybe he saw the extra softness and turned away. Maybe he blamed you—for the weight, for the losses, for the babies you couldn’t carry to term. The thought twisted like a knife in your gut.

You chuckled bitterly, the sound low and hollow, barely audible over the running water. “Can’t do anything right, huh,” you muttered to yourself, the words dripping with self-loathing. They hung in the air, heavy with the pain you’d been carrying alone for too long.

“Hey, Alexa, play ‘Pray You Catch Me’ by Beyoncé,” you called out, your voice cracking just slightly as you grabbed your towel and shower essentials. You wrapped your hair carefully, tucking your curls beneath a scarf, and stepped into the warm spray of the shower. The water cascaded over you, but it couldn’t wash away the ache in your chest. You closed your eyes, letting the music fill the room, haunting melody wrapping around you like a mournful embrace.

“Nothing else ever seems to hurt like the smile on your face…” The lyrics spilled from your lips, soft at first, your voice trembling as you sang along.

“When it’s only in my memory, it don’t hit me quite the same…” The words felt like they were written for you, each note slicing through the fragile walls you’d built around your heart. Tears welled up, hot and relentless, mingling with the water streaming down your face. You didn’t bother wiping them away; there was no one here to see, no one to judge the way your shoulders shook with silent sobs.

You leaned your forehead against the cool tile, the contrast jarring against your heated skin. Memories of Clark flooded in—his warm smile, the way his eyes used to light up when he looked at you, the way he’d held you all those months ago, both of you crying tears of joy over those positive tests. That Clark felt like a ghost now, replaced by someone who couldn’t even spare you an I love you in a text. The distance between you wasn’t just physical—it was a growing void, one you didn’t know how to bridge.

“Prayin’ I catch you whispering, I’m prayin’ you catch me listening…” Your voice broke as you sang, the lyrics a desperate plea to understand where it all went wrong. Did he see your pain? Did he even care? The weight of your losses pressed down harder—each miscarriage, each hope shattered, each moment you’d blamed yourself for not being enough. The shower water couldn’t drown out the voices in your head, the ones that whispered you’d failed him, failed your family, failed the dream you’d both held so tightly.

You sank to your knees, the water pounding against your back as the tears came faster, raw and unstoppable. The steam felt suffocating now, but you didn’t care. You hugged your arms around yourself, as if you could hold together the pieces that were breaking apart. “What are you doing, my love?” Beyoncé’s voice sang, and you choked on a sob, wondering if Clark would ever call you that again.

The love you’d felt in that bathroom moment, the joy of building a future together, felt like a cruel mirage now—one you kept chasing, even as it slipped further away.

You stayed there, curled under the water, letting the music and your tears carry the weight of your grief. The shower was your sanctuary, the only place you could let the facade crack, where you could admit how much it hurt to love someone who felt so far gone. And yet, despite it all, a stubborn spark of hope flickered deep inside—a longing for the Clark who’d held you like you were his world, a belief that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to us.

The sharp clink of dishes jolted you awake, your heart lurching as you sat up in bed, the remnants of last night’s tears still clinging to your lashes. “Clark?” you called softly, your voice thick with sleep and the weight of yesterday’s sorrow. You slipped out of bed, the cool floor grounding you as you padded toward the kitchen, the sound growing louder with each step.

There he was, standing in the dim morning light filtering through the window, cleaning up the dinner you’d left forgotten on the table. Clark Kent, looking as handsome as ever in his rumpled button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his dark hair slightly mussed like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. But the sight of him—so familiar, yet so distant—twisted something deep in your chest. He probably thought less of you now, you thought, your insecurities whispering that you weren’t enough, not after everything you’d both lost.

He turned at the sound of your voice, his blue eyes softening with a mix of guilt and regret as they landed on the untouched lasagna and homemade garlic bread—his favorite. “Was this for me?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. “I’m sorry.”

You forced a small smile, the kind you’d perfected over months of pretending you were okay. “Yeah, but it’s fine. You had to work.” The words were gentle, but they carried the weight of all the nights you’d spent alone, all the times you’d swallowed your hurt to keep the peace. You stood there, arms crossed, suddenly aware of your disheveled state—bonnet long gone, your Burmese curls wild and free, edges slightly fluffy but still framing your face. You probably looked a mess, but Clark’s gaze lingered, and for a moment, you felt exposed under the intensity of it.

Clark set the plate down, his jaw tightening as he looked at you, really looked at you. He felt like shit. Things had been so different since you’d lost your baby girl, a wound neither of you knew how to heal. He couldn’t explain the ache in his chest, the helplessness that consumed him every time he saw the pain in your eyes. He knew he’d been distant, pulling away when he should’ve been holding you closer, but you’d said you needed space, and he’d taken it too literally, too afraid to push you when you seemed so fragile.

Now, seeing you standing there, so beautiful despite the sadness etched into your features, he felt the full weight of his mistakes.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said quietly, gesturing to the food, his voice thick with emotion. “I should’ve been here.” He took a step closer, his eyes tracing over you like he was seeing you for the first time in months.

The pregnancy had changed you in ways that made his heart stutter—a glow that hadn’t faded, even after the loss. The extra weight you carried, the soft curves that had settled in all the right places, drove him wild in a way he hadn’t admitted out loud. Your hips, your breasts, the way your cheeks had gotten just a little chubbier—it was all so perfect, so you. He thought you’d never looked more beautiful, and it killed him that he hadn’t told you enough.

You wanted to believe the warmth in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were still his everything, but the distance between you had carved a wound too deep to ignore.

“Can we talk?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. You weren’t sure if you were ready for this, but the words slipped out anyway, raw and desperate for something—anything—to bridge the gap.

Clark’s eyes softened further, a flicker of hope breaking through the guilt etched into his features. He nodded, setting the dish he’d been holding back on the table, his movements careful, like he was afraid of shattering the fragile moment. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “Of course, baby.”

The word baby hit you like a tidal wave, stirring memories of happier times—nights spent tangled in each other’s arms, laughter filling the spaces where pain now lived. You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure as you gestured toward the living room. “Let’s sit,” you said, needing the distance of the couch to feel grounded, to keep from falling apart under the intensity of his presence.

You settled onto the couch, tucking your legs beneath you, your wild curls spilling over your shoulders. Clark followed, sitting close but not too close, his hands clasped tightly in his lap as if he was restraining himself from reaching for you. The morning light cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the lines of exhaustion and sorrow that hadn’t been there a year ago. He looked like he was carrying the weight of the world—not just as Superman, but as the man who loved you and didn’t know how to fix what was broken.

He could tell you didn’t know how to begin this conversation, the look on your face broke him.

“I’ve been a shitty partner,” he started, his voice rough with self-reproach. “I know I’ve let you down, pulling away when you needed me most. I thought… I thought giving you space was what you wanted, but I see now how much I hurt you.” His eyes searched yours, pleading for you to understand. “Losing her—our baby girl—it gutted me. I didn’t know how to talk about it, how to be there for you when I could barely hold myself together. But that’s no excuse. I should’ve fought harder to stay close.”

Your throat tightened, tears threatening to spill again as his words echoed the pain you’d both been carrying. “I needed you, Clark,” you said, your voice cracking under the weight of your honesty. “I needed you to see me, to hold me, to tell me we’d get through it together. But you were gone—physically, emotionally—and I started to think maybe you blamed me. Maybe you thought I wasn’t strong enough, that I failed us.” The confession poured out, raw and jagged, each word cutting deeper as you laid bare your insecurities.

Clark’s face crumpled, and he shook his head vehemently, leaning closer. “No, God, no. I could never blame you. Never.” His hand reached for yours, hesitant at first, then gripping tightly when you didn’t pull away. “You’re the strongest person I know. You carried us through so much, and I… I let you down. I was scared—scared of saying the wrong thing, of making it worse. But I see you, I always have. You’re so beautiful, inside and out, and I hate that I’ve made you feel like you’re anything less than everything to me.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and you felt the warmth of his touch seep into you, thawing the cold ache that had settled in your bones. The way he looked at you, with such raw adoration, made your heart stutter. “You still think I’m beautiful?” you asked, your voice small, almost disbelieving. “Even now, after… everything?”

Clark’s gaze softened, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips. “Especially now,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “The way you’ve carried yourself through all of this, the way you still find a way to smile, to make me dinner even when I don’t deserve it… You’re breathtaking. The way your curls frame your face, the way your curves make my heart race—God, I can’t stop thinking about how perfect you are. Our baby girl would’ve been so lucky to have you as her mom, and I know she will be, one day, no matter how long it takes.”

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over, but this time they weren’t just from pain—they were from the flicker of hope his words ignited, the possibility that you could find your way back to each other. You squeezed his hand, your voice trembling as you spoke. “I don’t know how to do this, Clark. I don’t know how to keep going when it hurts so much. But I miss us. I miss you.”

He leaned forward, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I miss us too,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out together, okay? One step at a time.”

You nodded, your tears mingling with his as you sat there, foreheads pressed together, hearts raw and open. The pain was still there, sharp and unrelenting, but so was the love—a stubborn, resilient thing that refused to let go. For the first time in months, you felt like you weren’t facing it alone, and that small spark was enough to make you believe, just maybe, that you could rebuild what you’d lost.

You sat there for what felt like an eternity, the warmth of Clark’s forehead against yours a fragile anchor in the storm of emotions that had been raging inside you for so long. His breath mingled with yours, steady and reassuring, a rhythm that slowly began to sync with your own erratic heartbeat. The tears continued to fall, silent now, tracing salty paths down your cheeks and onto his hands, which had found their way to cradle your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

Clark opened up about his own vulnerabilities, the pressure of being the Man of Steel when inside he felt like crumbling clay. “I need you to know,” he said, setting down his fork to take your hand across the table, “that you’re my strength. Not my powers, not the suit—you.” The words wrapped around your heart, mending cracks you hadn’t realized were there.

As evening fell, the city lights twinkling outside the window, you found yourselves back in the bedroom, undressing not with the frantic passion of old but with a deliberate slowness, rediscovering each other inch by inch. His hands explored the new softness of your body, whispering praises that made you blush, while you traced the scars on his skin—reminders that even he wasn’t invincible.

The lovemaking was tender, emotional, tears mixing with sighs as you connected on a level deeper than physical. Afterward, wrapped in sheets and each other’s arms, you lay in contented silence, the weight of the past still there but lighter now, shared between two instead of borne alone. Clark pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice a rumble in the dark.

“No matter what comes next, we’re in this together.”

Boyfriend slash bodyguard Diesel told his babygirl Shawn to stay there, he's going take care of Razor Ramon!