husband!clark kent fluff ⋆˚꩜｡
for fem!reader ok??? im self indulgent and listening to copycat killer its not my fault.... 2.2k words
ok sooooooooooo let's pretend like i've been here the whole time! depression's a bitch eh :D
there really isn't any susbtance here it's just husband!clark during the winter time, nice and cozy hopefully
if this sucks doodoo pls ignore i seriously haven't written creatively in a while so um. also i think all of my past writing is cringe so we have to get over that now! i don't remember how to do anything on this app either. i wanted it to be cool and colorful like other peoples' but again idk how to do it... anyway try to enjoy idk
Turn on fireplace noise ambient stuff and listen for like five seconds before and like lay down it’s a part of the immersion :P
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There’s a singularly unique feeling that you only get curled up in your plush duvet in the dead of winter.
You’ve barely come to when you realize you’re drooling. Palming the one corner of your mouth, you roll over, all the knobs in your spine crinkling and cracking, and stick your face right into your husband’s chest.
Clark’s the same as you are. Head tossed back on his pillow, mouth agape, one arm flung under your neck. He insists he doesn’t snore, but this morning, he does. You dot a kiss on his pec before pulling your self-made blanket soufflet tighter around you both. Despite whatever he’s got going on with heat-vision or any other of his generative abilities, Clark makes a point of tucking you in every night and crawling in after you. In the winter, it’s especially so “Mother Nature doesn’t steal our cozy”.
The fireplace ambiance from your shared noise machine crackles on. It sits in the corner of the room, plugged into the wall. Clark had gotten it for you when you’d moved in together, far before your marriage. He knew it helped soothe you to sleep, and before long, he couldn’t live without it. One of his favorite traditions in your relationship is choosing seasonal noise machine noise. Cozy fireplaces and bonfires for winter, brown noise for the fall, green noise and rain into spring and summer, and binaural beats whenever he was feeling particularly passionate.
You try drifting off again, but it’s no use. You settle with your cheek pressed against Clark’s sternum, staring out the window.
It’s snowing, you realize. Today is going to be the nicest lazy day inside. A dull throbbing begins pulsing in your head. It starts at your temples and migrates medially into the center of your forehead. So much for being cozy.
You try pressing your face deeper into Clark’s chest. It should be easy, given the sheer real estate of his body. Even after all these years, you can never pass up an opportunity to just feel him up. Or stare. Both are equally enjoyable endeavors.
As you continue to stare out of the window, the bright, blank snow begins to soothe you. Right outside your window is incredibly still, incredibly quiet; you feel that the more you stare, the more the serenity of the snow will become a part of you.
Your headache is probably from your addiction to screens. You’d tell yourself to get out more, but seeing as the outside world is blanketed in snow… Oh well!
The purchase your cheek has on Clark’s wooly pajamas is suddenly lessening. Your husband, in his sleepy glory, is rolling over. He’s such a heavy sleeper– it doesn’t matter if you’re sitting on his chest or blow drying your hair sitting on the bed. He will knock out, stay knocked out, and lose that sense of sweet awareness you’ve come to love.
You grumble, and he grumbles, and now he’s stirring awake. He’s laying on his side, your cheek now slumped on his bicep. Now, instead of being flat on the bed, you’re propped up at an incline in an effort to stay close.
“Honey?” he murmurs, the two syllables raspy in his morning voice.
“Mmm.” He rolls back over, to your delight, and you crawl back over him. As you’re settling into his chest once more, his arms come to curl around you. One hand slips up your neck, into your hair; the gentle scritches start. “Mmmmmm.”
“When’d you wake up?” he asks gently. You don’t think he’s opened his eyes yet.
“Like two seconds ago.” You turn your head to kiss his pec again, this time so he can actually enjoy it. “You were getting antsy.”
He returns your favor, pressing a kiss to your scalp. “Good morning.” Clark’s fingers never still against the opposite side of your head.
“Good morning,” you parrot back. “Did you sleep well?”
“As well as I usually do…”
“You need to be taking your vitamins, babe, I’m telling you…”
“But I don’t need vitamins!”
“To sleep better you do. Or you need to start drinking tea. We also need to stop doomscrolling before bed…”
He stays silent, accepting your insistence. His chin is close enough to the tippy-top of your head so that you can feel him nod groggily. You take the following extended silence as acceptance, before you realize his hand has stilled in your hair and he’s snoring again.
Over the next thirty minutes, you seriously consider extracting yourself from your husband and getting up to start your highly anticipated lazy day, but you just can’t bring yourself to. Eventually, Clark startles himself back awake, and you’re stretched out by him laughing.
You venture into your shared bathroom to start your morning routine while Clark ambles over to shut off the noise machine and start his stretching. “Baaaaaaaaabe,” he calls, not even two seconds later. “I’ve had a fantastic idea. Do you want hot chocolate with me?” His voice is bright and sunny now, his sheer excitement evident. You smile at yourself in the mirror. Every morning, it’s the same. He wakes up full of sunshine and joy for you, the life you’ve built together, and of course, breakfast.
“Do you want a cheesy omelet with me?” you call back. Clark gives you no vocal response. All you hear is the pitter-patter of his footfalls as he scuttles out of the room. You dip down to wash your face; you barely keep yourself awake against the warm water.
In no time, your happy little apartment is filled with the smell of frying turkey bacon and mozzarella cheese. Clark’s always like this– stealing items from your to-do list and taking them on himself. “Anything so that you can rest,” he always says. He insists that you work too much, that you don’t give yourself sufficient grace. So he’s made it his life’s mission to make your life as easy as possible.
“You stole my idea, babe,” you say chidingly. You pad into the kitchen, giving him an eyeful that he doesn’t see. He’s stood in front of the stove trying to take up as much space as possible, just for the sake of keeping you out.
“Ummm, no… I’m making a warm breakfast for my cold wife.” He hadn’t even seen the throw blanket you’d tucked yourself into. “Isn’t it so beautiful outside? You never see scenery like this in Smallville, you know.”
You wedge yourself between him and the loop-around cabinetry. “Don’t change the subject. I’m going to do something nice for you, okay?” You rise onto your tippy-toes, and Clark immediately responds, gently setting down the spatula in his hand to instead cup your face for your good-morning kiss. While these daily kisses are almost never anything steamy, they’re almost always you and Clark’s favorite constant in your relationship. He loves saying he’d rather carve an ice-sculpture of Lex Luthor with a fork before he went a morning without kissing you hello. “But you are right. It’s very pretty. Very calm.”
He reclaims the spatula with his outside hand to pull you into his side with his other hand. “Is the heater working okay? Are you too cold?” His hand rubs up and down your arm over the blanket.
“I’m okay. Cozy,” you say truthfully. “A cuddle would be helpful…”
Clark laughs at your voice’s lilt. “You know, I think that’d help me out immensely, too.” He bumps your hip with his. “TV brekkie?”
“There’s a new season of Love Is Blind,” you offer. You look up at him, hoping to catch his eye. Not that you mind staring at his side profile… your most shallow love for your husband is your infatuation with his tendency to be so damn chiseled.
He beams. “Enough to binge?”
You weasel your way to the cabinet that you keep all your mugs in, plucking two from the shelf with the hot-cocoa mix alongside them. You know all the sugar isn’t good for you, but both you and Clark are massive sweettooths. Why skimp out on your first lazy snow day of the year?
He stays at the stove, hovering over the frying pan containing your breakfast. He watches you over his shoulder, that same stupid grin plastered across his face. You travel across the kitchen to the fridge, his smile contagious to the point that you find yourself grinning at the carton of milk and the tin of whipped cream in your hands.
As every body in orbit eventually does, you find yourself back next to Clark, your shining star. You pour your two mugs worth of milk into a tiny pot, trying not to stare into Clark’s pan. The luscious smells have intensified, the turkey bacon fully crisped, the mozzarella gooey. If you look at it, you won’t be able to entirely ignore the hunger clawing on the inside of your stomach.
“Let me know if anything starts bubbling?” you ask, glancing back up at him. He’s chewing on his lips in an attempt to stop smiling. That always makes you laugh.
“Sure, honey,” he responds lightly, his glee barely contained. The two of you haven’t had a day to bust yourselves in ages. Between your own work, the Daily Planet, and the entire Superman thing, you haven’t had a chance to sit on your asses and do nothing together. With the snow, Clark won’t be expected to go into work later, and you had the day off anyway. His giddiness is beginning to rub off on you.
You spoon a dollop of whipped cream into each of your waiting mugs. You find some dark chocolate bars in the snack cabinet and decide why not? By the time you’ve crushed up some squares and sprinkled them into the whipped cream nestled in the mugs, Clark has dug out a bag of marshmallows.
“Hey! I’m supposed to be doing this for us!” you exclaim as he dumps marshmallows into the milk. “You’re already handling breakfast, babe.”
He crowds you out from in front of the stove. “Go sit, honey.” He looks over his shoulder at you, a dreamy smile floating across his mouth. “Really, I got this.”
You sigh and roll your eyes at the back of his head. Before you know it, Clark’s making a show of setting your plates on the coffee table in front of you as you lounge on your sofa. He’s finished the hot chocolate for you, placing them carefully by your breakfast plates.
You stare at him, unabashed. Clark’s hair is all fluffed up, stray curls clustering over his forehead. Even though the sleep shirt he’s wearing is thick, and you can’t really see the shape of his arms, you get the inkling that if you get close enough to feel him up you’ll find nothing but solid muscle. You let your eyes naturally travel south. Damn him for wearing pants.
Cark quickly rounds the table, collapsing into the cushions next to you after you open up your blanket cocoon to him. He drags you closer to him, draping your legs over his thighs. “Did you say Love Is Blind?”
Your arm closest to him hooks around his neck. You scritch at the skin just under his neck, much to his immense happiness. “Only if you want to, honey. I want you to choose.”
He leans over and gently sets your plate on your lap. “I want to do what you want to do.”
Your chest flushes with warmth. “But I want to do what you want to do.” He gently rubs at your shin, smiling at you goofily. “I want you to choose!”
He leans all the way in to kiss your cheek, then just under your eye, then your lips. “Then I choose Love Is Blind.” Clark pulls away only a few inches in favor of staring into your eyes. Before he moves to do anything else, he lightly bites the inside of his cheek, his eyes flitting all over, up and down, side to side. “I love you.”
You need to force yourself to keep eye contact. Your cheeks hurt as soon as you start smiling at him. “I love you too. I love you.” You chase his lips for a final, chaste kiss. His mouth against yours is gentle, soft. He tastes like chocolate…
You barely separate, your noses bumping, sending both of you into fits of giggles. “You haven’t even started on your fruit of labor,” you prod, holding up your plate. “Eat.”
“I need to be sure you’re comfy, first. You’re cranky otherwise.”
“Am not.”
He leans back into the couch while palming the TV remote. “You get hangry, babe.”
Well, you guess you do. “Just eat, Clark!”
He bites lightly on the tip of his tongue as he tries to get your show on. Yes, he’s technologically challenged, and it’s almost always incredibly inconvenient, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. The extra time he takes fumbling with whatever it is you spend watching his cheeks dimple and his eyelashes flutter.
Maybe an hour later, an episode in, he’s not even doing anything with the remote; you’re staring at him anyways. He’s clutching his mug with both hands, his brows are furrowing, the corners of his lips tipping down into a frown. A goopy, light-colored trail of whipped cream sits right on his upper lip.
You had to have done something right, to end up here.