“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????