He's the least unbothered by it. He know he could just take you to a shopping spree, lend you his card or whatever. But instead of that, he spends a month listening to your little needs and complaints. If your neck hurts, if you run out of something, if work is too hard on you. He also observes all the things you spend more than five seconds looking at the shops.
The 25th, there a huge basket with your name and all the things he's been recollecting. Your favorite shampoo, a neck massager, that expensive tea you like, those gloves you tried on but didn't buy, etc. And two plane tickets for a gorgeous villa in Greece.
DICK GRAYSON
Dick turns it into an experience, because of course he does. He’s never believed gifts should just sit there. They should move, breathe, make noise, leave a dent in your memory.
He starts subtle. Little things appear over the month: your favorite pastries “accidentally” brought home, a scarf he insists you borrow because “it looks better on you anyway,” playlists sent at 2 a.m. with a single line: this made me think of you.
On Christmas morning, he’s practically vibrating. There’s a small box first. Inside, something personal and deceptively simple. Maybe a piece of jewelry or a watch, but worn-in, not flashy. Something chosen because it fits your life, not because it shines.
Then comes the real gift.
He takes you out. No itinerary, no warning. A train ride, laughter, his hand warm and steady in yours. You end up somewhere beautiful and a little unexpected—maybe a winter-lit city, maybe a quiet coastal town. He booked a place with big windows and ridiculous blankets, somewhere you can see the world without being chased by it.
At night, he pulls you onto a rooftop or a fire escape, points out constellations he half-remembers from the circus, makes up the rest with confidence. He doesn’t promise forever. He promises this: presence, joy and the kind of care that makes even ordinary moments feel choreographed.
JASON TODD
He hasn't gifted that many things in his life, so he wants your present to be perfect. He asks Roy for advice, who doesn't help at all (Roy is the type to wrap his dick with a bow as a Christmas present). Then, he wanders around all the shops in Gotham, the malls and even supermarkets without finding something perfect.
That's when he finds the courage to just ask Barbara for some help, she recommends him a tiny shop almost in the limit of Gotham where he finds the most beautiful, jaw-dropping and hand made earrings with a matching necklace.
They are delicate, almost looking like orchids but not quite. With a pink, purple-ish color that sees you wearing all the time. He knows they are perfect for you.
TIM DRAKE
Tim doesn’t give you things this year. He gives you a year.
The album is heavier than it looks. No title on the cover, just your name in his careful handwriting. He hands it to you a little awkwardly, because it’s honest.
Inside, it’s chaos in the most deliberate way. Photos he took when you weren’t paying attention: you laughing with your head tipped back, half-asleep on the couch, focused and brilliant at work. Polaroids, phone prints, even a couple grainy shots clearly pulled from security footage he absolutely should not have access to. Ticket stubs. Receipts. Pressed leaves. The wrapper from a candy you said tasted like childhood.
Between the pages are notes. Not captions—thoughts. Things he never sent you, written at 3 a.m. and then folded away. Observations about how you hum when you’re nervous. Apologies for days he wasn’t present enough. Lines where he tries to explain how being around you quiets the static in his head.
Some entries are messy. Some are painfully precise. A few are crossed out, rewritten, argued with in the margins. There’s a pattern to them: he keeps circling back to the same idea, from different angles, like he’s trying to prove it to himself.
Near the end, there’s a pocket with a final letter. Short, by his standards. He doesn’t say “forever.” He doesn’t promise anything dramatic.
He just writes that this is how he remembers loving you: by paying attention, by keeping record, by refusing to let the moments disappear.
𓏵 : Your boyfriend is becoming insecure as gray hair replaces his black locks and wrinkles form on his face, And you show him that older men are simply better.
✶ kinda angsty, insecure dick :(, younger gf!reader
Ი︵𐑼 :: i love dilf dick sm ... save me dilf dick
Since childhood, Richard had always been the center of attention—not only because of the Wayne surname engraved in his family history since he was adopted—but mainly because of his beauty, which seemed sculpted for magazine covers. The headlines followed him like a constant echo: "Dick Grayson-Wayne, the boy prodigy, heir to the Wayne fortune and model since childhood."
Over the years, that narrative became a gilded cage. He learned to measure his worth by the approval of others, by the cameras that flashed when he appeared, and especially by the flawless reflection he saw in the mirror.
At home, when the world was outside and you had the cozy silence of the weekend together, Richard couldn't completely let go. Even away from the flashbulbs, he insisted on being perfect, his clothes impeccable, his hair always in order. He had this habit of adjusting his shirt collar, fixing his watch, as if every detail could undermine the image he had been building for so long.
You, on the other hand, saw in him unpolished perfection, that boy who could be covered in paint, wearing a sweatshirt or even something bizarre, and still be the most beautiful thing in the world to you. It was only when the outside world's gaze faded that he seemed lighter, but that lightness was fleeting, always threatened by the shadow of insecurity.
At 35, something began to change in the scenario he had mastered so well. The first gray hairs on the sides of his head, the subtle lines that began to mark his face, affected him more than any magazine could capture. That eternal youth he swore to protect now seemed to slip through his fingers like fine sand.
Each morning in front of the mirror brought a new silent torture, a harsh internal criticism that said, "You're getting old, and that could ruin everything." He feared the erosion of the image he had meticulously built and that so many admired. In this battle against time, he became a prisoner of himself.
But what he didn't realize was the transformation that everyone around him admired.
The media, which had previously covered him as an icon of youth and superficial beauty, now praised this new phase of Richard's life. Comments arose about how maturity made him more imposing, attractive in a different way, more real and profound. The white hair on the sides of his head, which had previously bothered him so much, became a symbol of sophistication, and the subtle wrinkles gave his face an air of experience and wisdom. Men and women began to see him differently, capturing something that went beyond appearance: a mature, authentic presence.
Curiously and paradoxically, Richard was the least able to see this new beauty. He still saw himself as a young man on the verge of losing his sparkle, unable to imagine that face marking the years with the dignity that, for the public, was already his.
While everyone wondered what he would look like at 45 or 50, he could only fear the inevitable wear and tear, without recognizing that the real transformation was happening precisely in those details he tried to hide.
And you, who are by his side watching this silent struggle, know that Richard is more than an image constructed for the world. He is that human man, full of insecurities, but also charms that go far beyond his looks. Even when he can't see himself with his blue eyes, you know he has never been more beautiful than he is now — exactly as he is.
Richard's brothers had gathered in a small bar, filled with laughter and the smell of beer, as if time had stopped for one night to allow them to be just boys again — not vigilantes, not Bruce's soldiers, just brothers trying to remember what it was like to live without the weight of the world on their shoulders.
The pool balls clattered and rolled amid laughter, and for a moment there seemed to be lightheartedness again. Until Jason, with that crooked smile and voice laden with sarcasm, blurted out:
"I guess we can't call you Dickie anymore, huh?"
Damian, as always, was the sharp echo:
"Yeah, old man, time has caught up with you after all."
The joke fell like a shard of ice on the warm skin of the night.
Richard smiled—that quick, automatic smile he used as a mask. Almost no one noticed the flaw, the slight tremor in his lips, the look that shifted for a second. Almost no one... except you.
You saw the way he withdrew, discreetly, when he went to the bathroom. You knew it wasn't out of physical necessity, it was out of a need for silence. The kind of silence he needed to face himself in the mirror and convince himself that he was still the same man who was once the most agile boy in Gotham.
You imagined him standing there, under the cold light, seeing the fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his beard growing faster than it used to, his shoulders heavier, and his soul too.And it hurt. It hurt because you knew he couldn't see what you saw.
When you got home, you didn't think twice. You dropped everything—keys, jacket, the world—and pulled him into your chest. The sound of the jacket zipper mingled with his long, tired, relieved sigh.
He wrapped his strong arms around you, his face buried in your neck, and you felt his heart beating against yours—slow, vulnerable, human.
You stayed like that for minutes that seemed like an eternity. Until you lifted your face and held his cheeks with both hands, with a tenderness that was almost sacred.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" you said softly, almost in a whisper.
He laughed, but there was melancholy in the sound.
"I think you're the only one who thinks that right now."
You felt the warmth of his breath on your palm and replied without hesitation:
"Stop it. You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen. And it's not collagen, or age, or time that changes that. It's you."
He looked away, trying to hide from the compliment.
"Are you really saying that or trying to console me?"
"I'm saying it because it's the truth," you replied firmly. "Jason and Damian are jerks. It's their job to mess with you, Dick."
He let out a sigh that was half laugh, half surrender. And then, to lighten the mood, you added with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes:
"By the way... have you seen what the columns are saying?"
He raised an eyebrow, confused.
"What columns?"
"The gossip columns, honey. They're calling you 'hot daddy.' And one said you're the perfect age to be a dilf."
He laughed, a real laugh this time—hoarse, sincere, the laugh that made you fall in love every time. The laugh that said, I'm still here.
His eyes, blue and deep like the sky before a storm, met yours. They had wrinkles, yes, but each one told a story — of someone who saved lives, lost friends, and still chose to love.
You kissed the tip of his nose, and the world seemed to stop there, in a tiny moment of tenderness between two weary souls.
"You will remain beautiful until the day you die, my love," you whispered. "And the whole world knows it."
He looked at you in silence. The kind of silence that precedes something big, like jumping off a building or a confession that changes everything.
Then he took a deep breath and smiled slightly—that smile that always came before something important.
Synopsis: For Clark Kent, becoming a father was supposed to be the happiest moment of his life. But when the woman he loves risks everything to bring their child into the world, he realizes that no miracle is worth losing her. Even Superman can’t save everyone—but if he must choose, he’ll always choose her.
Warnings: pregnancy, childbirth complications, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, emotional distress, mentions of medical procedures
WC: 5,300 words approx.
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Clark had known it from the moment he received the news. From the instant he saw you come out of the bathroom with tears in your eyes and a trembling smile, holding that little pregnancy test between your fingers. He remembered hugging you tightly, kissing your forehead, and repeating over and over how much he loved you. But even though he was filled with happiness, he couldn’t deny that deep inside, he felt fear.
It was obvious that the baby would carry something of him: Kryptonian genes. And he had no idea who to turn to about it, how to prepare to take care of you, what to expect. There were books, yes, complete manuals on normal human pregnancies. But yours wouldn’t be. Yours would be unique.
“Calm down, Clark,” Martha had said, with that sweet voice that always managed to soothe everything.
It was summer, and they had traveled to Smallville to spend a few days with his parents. You were barely a month pregnant, and until that moment, everything seemed calm. The symptoms were bearable: a lot of sleep, strange cravings that Clark rushed to fulfill without complaining, but nothing alarming.
While you slept peacefully in Clark’s old bedroom, hugging a pillow, he was in the living room with his parents. His anxiety showed in his posture: elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the floor.
“So far, she hasn’t shown any signs of risk,” Jonathan continued in a calm tone.
“I know, Pa,” murmured Clark, lifting his gaze toward him. “But the baby is growing inside her and… she’s human. She’s carrying a child with my genes.”
The confession came out heavy with anguish. His parents exchanged a look, as if speaking with their eyes. Martha took her son’s hand and squeezed it gently.
“What if nothing bad happens?” she said softly. “What if the baby only inherits your eyes, your smile? Maybe it won’t have powers.”
Clark bit his lip, unable to respond. Fear consumed him. What if your bones couldn’t withstand it? What if the baby’s heart beat too strongly? What if a simple movement could hurt you?
Martha stroked his hand like she used to when he was a boy and assured him:
“Son, she trusts you. And you’ve never left anyone alone. You won’t now.”
Jonathan nodded, looking firmly at his son.
“The key is to stay attentive. And remember: she’s not alone. She has you, and she has us.”
Clark closed his eyes for a moment. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to hold on to that hope.
During those days, his parents looked after you just as much as he did. Every time you woke up with a strange craving—ice cream with pickles, hot apple juice, or bread with honey and lemon—Clark ran to prepare it, and Martha chuckled under her breath, commenting that this was “the real training for parenthood.”
When they returned to Metropolis, that worry didn’t fade. Clark was still attentive to every detail. He sent you messages throughout the day to make sure you were fine; he called you during every work break. You, with a tired but calm smile, always gave him the same answer:
“Everything’s fine, Clark. I promise.”
And when he sighed on the other end of the line, you knew he was trying to convince himself that it was enough.
Clark was in the kitchen, rinsing the last dinner plates, when something suddenly struck him: the change in your pulse. It was subtle, but he felt it as if it were amplified in his ears. Your heart was beating too fast. He left the plate half-washed and immediately turned around.
He saw you in the hallway, leaning against the wall, one hand on your belly and your brow furrowed. Your breathing was uneven, and you were trying to soothe the pain with circular strokes on your stomach.
In an instant, Clark was by your side, his super speed carrying him to you in the blink of an eye.
“Love…” his voice came out broken, full of fear.
“I’m fine, Clark,” you whispered, though your pale face and the tension in your body said otherwise.
He shook his head, not believing you. Activating his vision, he saw it: the baby was moving forcefully. Your words fell short when you felt the first three kicks—sharp, intense—that forced you to bend slightly.
Clark frowned, kneeling to your level. With infinite tenderness, he placed his hand on your belly.
“No, little one…” he whispered, with a calmness that barely hid his anxiety. “Stop kicking Mommy.”
His palm radiated warmth, and, surprisingly, the baby calmed almost instantly. As if recognizing his father’s voice, the movements subsided. You, however, still frowned, the pain lingering.
“Little one?” you asked in a faint voice, trying to smile through your tears. “Is it a boy?”
Clark blinked, realizing what he had let slip. He quickly shook his head.
“No… no, you shouldn’t know yet. I’m sorry, love.”
But you, between gasps, smiled sweetly, softly shaking your head.
“It’s a boy…” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his neck with a weak effort.
Clark smiled too, happy, though his eyes betrayed his concern. He was proud, thrilled, but those kicks hadn’t been normal. They were strong—too strong. More than your body could endure without strain.
In the following days, Clark never stopped watching you. Every time he heard your heartbeat quicken, he would drop whatever he was doing and rush to your side. The baby seemed restless, a small whirlwind inside your womb, and only calmed down when Clark was near—when he spoke to him or touched you. It wasn’t that the baby rejected you; on the contrary, he responded to your voice with gentle movements, and you could even swear he “smiled” whenever he heard you sing. But sometimes his reactions were intense, too forceful, reminding Clark of the Kryptonian blood running through his veins.
And then the seventh month arrived.
Your belly had grown more than expected, your skin stretched under the pressure of that tiny being who seemed stronger than normal. You were hungrier, your body demanded food every few hours, and still, fatigue often overcame you. Your cravings were unpredictable: you could cry over an apple pie at midnight or ask for cereal with hot soup at dawn. Clark, patient and devoted, rushed to indulge you without complaint.
What came afterward was even stranger: you developed sharper hearing. You could pick up distant conversations, the hum of appliances, even Clark’s own heartbeat when he sat beside you. At first, you thought it was an illusion, but soon realized it was part of the bond with the baby. You didn’t panic—you accepted it as another symptom, though Clark watched each of your reactions with quiet anxiety.
But what worried him most was clear: every kick from the baby seemed stronger than the last. And although you insisted on smiling, reassuring him with phrases like “everything’s fine”, he knew better. He saw it in your trembling hands, your shallow breaths, the way exhaustion consumed you after every episode.
No vitamin, no supplement—not calcium, not folic acid—seemed enough. You were carrying inside you a being who wasn’t fully human, a little “Kryptonian super-baby,” as Clark would whisper under his breath, and it was draining your strength day by day.
He swore to himself that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you. That even if he had to hold you in his arms every second until the end, he would. And as he caressed your belly each night, speaking softly to the baby, the only thing he asked in silence was for strength: strength for you, strength for the child, and the hope that his love would be enough to keep you both safe.
Bruce had been clear from the start. “Then someone who won’t say a word.” His voice echoed as he flipped through the medical documents.
Clark, jaw tight, raised his eyes. “It’s just that… my wife is weaker.” His voice cracked slightly. “She’s afraid that… you know. The doctors aren’t ready to handle someone like our child.”
Bruce arched a brow, his tone somewhere between mockery and harsh reality. “A baby who could kill doctors with X-ray vision… or cry so loudly he brings down half a building?” he quipped, though he knew he was only cutting deeper into Clark’s worry. Then he sighed, more serious. “Bring her. I’ll get what you need. She can give birth here.”
Clark’s blue eyes shone with gratitude, but Bruce stopped him with one last warning. “The real concern isn’t the child, Clark. It’s still her. A human body carrying something like that… it’s a risk.”
Clark lowered his gaze, defeated by the truth he already knew. “Yes… I know.”
From that moment on, he never left your side. He often carried you in his arms because you could barely walk. Exhaustion marked you more each day: you ate little, your movements slowed, and sometimes your breathing grew heavy for no reason. Clark insisted on feeding you, giving you every vitamin, preparing whatever you asked for. Only when you felt the warmth of his hands on your belly did the baby calm down.
Bruce watched silently from outside the room, seeing you resting in Clark’s arms. You smiled, happy despite the weakness consuming you. And Clark… Clark looked like a man torn between the joy of awaiting his child and the terror of losing you in the process.
The calm shattered with your scream. “Clark!”
Pain surged through your body like lightning. Just calling his name was enough for him to appear instantly at your side, holding you tightly. Bruce was already calling the doctors he had prepared.
“It hurts…” you murmured, curling against his chest, tears streaming down your cheeks.
Clark, with his vision activated, saw it clearly: the baby was in position… but far too big. A natural birth would tear you apart. The doctors rushed in, professional, without asking questions. Everything was ready: Bruce had prepared a sterilized room, equipped with medical instruments. They moved you carefully, but Clark never let go of your hand for even a second. "The epidural won’t work," one of the doctors said firmly as they tried to adjust you. "What do you mean it won’t work?" Clark glared at him, as if he could intimidate even a surgeon. "Her body is different, Mr. Kent. She will feel the pain." The doctor didn’t lower his voice. They tried applying additional doses, hoping at least to dull the suffering, but it was impossible to put you completely under. It began. Clark dressed in the sterile uniform, determined that he would not move from your side. He took your hand, wiped the sweat from your forehead, and whispered: "Love, you just have to hold on. I’m with you." "Yes…" you breathed heavily, squeezing his hand. "You’re with me…" Clark never took his eyes off you, but he heard the doctors’ tense murmurs. "We must get him out now," one of them whispered to Bruce. "He has to come out," said another, staring intently. "I’m not leaving." His voice thundered like a vow. "I won’t leave her." "It’s necessary," the doctor insisted. "We’ll keep her stable. If anything happens, we’ll tell you." Clark shook his head, clinging to your hand as if your life depended on it. "Kent, it’s necessary," Bruce’s voice was firm, hard. Clark looked at him with restrained fury, until he heard your weak voice. "Go…" you whispered, barely opening your eyes. Your trembling hand caressed his face, wiping away the tears that slipped down his cheeks. "We’ll be fine, love. I promise you." His heart broke, but he nodded, only because it was you who asked. He pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead and left the room, his steps heavy as lead. In the hallway, everything was silent. Clark sharpened his hearing, desperate to catch something… anything. But there was nothing. Not your voice, not a baby’s cry. Only a cruel silence that devoured him from the inside. Clark trembled. For the first time in a long while, his hands couldn’t stay still. He paced back and forth down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the silence. He didn’t eat, didn’t drink water, didn’t even try to sit until the waiting defeated him. Time stretched like torture. Every minute was a blow to his chest. Almost an hour later, the door opened and a doctor came out with a serious face, papers sticking to his sweat-stained gloves. He went first to Bruce, but then walked directly toward Clark. "She’s hemorrhaging…" he began, his firm voice sounding like a sentence. "It’s complicated to get the baby out. Both are in danger, and you need to understand that something could happen." Clark swallowed hard, his blue eyes shining with tears he couldn’t hold back. "If things get worse," the doctor continued, "we need to know what decision to make. Who should we…?" He didn’t let him finish. "Her." The answer burst out like a broken roar, unthinking, with a shattered heart. "Just… just save her." The doctor nodded gravely and went back inside without another word. Bruce said nothing. His silence was heavy, but not judgmental. He only watched the man before him: Superman, the invincible hero, reduced to a desperate husband trembling like any human at the edge of losing everything. Clark finally collapsed into one of the chairs. His body felt heavy, as if gravity had doubled. He knew it would hurt… he knew that if they lost the baby, he would live with that wound, but he could endure it. What he could never endure was losing you. Because he loved you more than his own life. Because he needed you as much as he needed to breathe.
The tears welled up before he could stop them. He squeezed her eyes shut, but the memory pierced through her mind anyway.
“But Clark… what if I’m the problem?”
It was you—your insecure voice from those days when you still believed you would never get pregnant. You had always carried the idea that your body wasn’t ready: the cysts, the cold diagnoses that had marked your youth.
He held you that night, with the tenderness of a man who saw nothing but a future with you.
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice was steady, certain. “I don’t need children to be happy with you. I only want you. I love you.”
You remember how he buried his face in your chest, as if he could swear it by engraving those words against your skin.
“Really? You won’t get tired of me?” you had asked in a trembling voice, not daring to meet his eyes.
He lifted your face with both hands, looking at you with eyes that never faltered. “Never. You could live with me for thousands of years, and I would love you just as much as the first time I said it.”
That memory burned him now. Because all he wanted was to fulfill it. To love you for thousands more years.
The silence in the hallway became unbearable. The hours dragged on, slow and cruel. Clark didn’t dare use his hearing, his vision—anything. He was afraid. Afraid of hearing that your heart had stopped. Afraid of hearing nothing at all.
His hands trembled over his knees. He clenched his fists and breathed unevenly, as if holding himself together was the only thing keeping him upright.
Finally, the door opened again. The doctor stepped out, his face tired, his eyes lowered. And he looked directly at him.
Clark shot to his feet, his heart in his throat.
The doctor finally offered a faint, weary smile.
"Congratulations, Mr. Kent. Your wife and son are already being moved to the room Mr. Wayne ordered to be prepared."
The words burst in his chest like pure relief. Clark nodded firmly, wiping his tears with a trembling hand.
"Can I see her?" he asked, his voice unsteady.
"In just a moment." The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder. "She’s out of danger now. We’ve applied the best medications; her recovery will take time, but there will be no problem. We’ll check the wound every day, and right now a nurse is with her and the baby."
Clark only nodded. It was all he could do not to collapse right there. He took a few anxious steps, and the doctor pointed him toward the half-open door.
He walked in.
And there you were. Your face was tired, pale, your hair messy from the effort, but your lips carried a faint, warm smile as you held the baby in your arms. For Clark, the entire world stopped.
He approached slowly, with clumsy steps, as if afraid of shattering the moment. When he reached your side, he leaned down and embraced you carefully, making sure not to hurt you. He buried his face in your neck, and the knot in his throat betrayed him.
"I love you…" he murmured, his voice trembling, broken by so many hours of fear.
"I love you more," you whispered, stroking his damp cheek. Then, with a faint spark on your lips, you added: "Have you seen Ethan yet?"
Clark lowered his gaze to the little one, asleep in your arms. A tender, vulnerable smile spread across his face. But even while looking at his son, he never let go of you, as if releasing you for even a second would mean losing you.
The nurse gently took the baby to examine him, and Clark stayed with you, still pressed close, running his fingers gently through your hair. The silence of the room filled with your calm breathing and the muffled sobs Clark tried to hold back.
Suddenly, his voice broke again:
"One is enough…" he said, almost pleading. "Don’t make me go through this again. I don’t want to ever feel like I could lose you."
Your eyes filled instantly at the desperation in his tone. His fingers clung tightly to yours, as if trying to anchor himself to you, as if needing proof you were there, alive, with him.
"Clark…" you whispered, raising your trembling hand to caress his face. You made him look at you, and you saw how much he loved you in those blue eyes shining with tears. "You have me. You’ll always have me. I’m not leaving you."
He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply against your palm. He pressed a kiss to it, and then to your forehead, as if needing to seal you with promises.
"I love you too much," he confessed softly. "I don’t care about being Superman, I don’t care about the whole world. It’s you. If I lost you, nothing would make sense."
You smiled faintly, tears slipping down your cheeks, and embraced him as best you could—weak, yet firm.
"You’re not going to lose me. And neither will Ethan."
Clark let out a nervous laugh, more a sigh than a chuckle, and hugged you tightly again, cradling you against his chest.
"You’ll keep loving me more, right?" he tried to joke, his voice barely a thread. "Our son can’t steal your heart. I came first."
You gave him a soft kiss on the forehead, running your fingers through his hair.
"Always."
Clark stayed there, holding you in his arms, listening to the echo of your heart and that of his son in the next room. And in that moment, he knew he didn’t need anything else: not feats, not glory, not recognition. Only you. Only his family.
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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.
Clois in the movie is so beautiful cos we literally have this girl who has always thought she isn't worthy of good relationships who struggles with making connections fall hopelessly and crazily in love with a man who is even larger than life itself. Imagine struggling with human connections and you are able to make the most human connection ever but it's with a literal alien who can lift a building with one hand.
summary — all clark wants to do is be babied by you after a long day
pairings — clark kent x girlfriend!reader
warnings — clark being a puppy
The familiar click of the key in the lock was the signal I had been waiting for. I turned from the doorway of the living room, where I had been pretending to organize books but was really just pacing, and saw him step inside. Clark.
He looked absolutely exhausted. The sharp lines of his suit were rumpled, his tie was loosened, and his shoulders, usually so impossibly broad and straight, were slightly slumped. The bright spark in his eyes was gone, replaced by a deep, bone-weary fatigue. I knew what kind of day it had been. The news had been full of reports: a fire on the docks, a multi-car pileup on the highway, and that bizarre atmospheric phenomenon that had rattled everyone in the city. Just another Tuesday for him, another day of being Superman.
"Clark?" I whispered, and his head snapped up.
A small, tired smile touched his lips, and he held out a hand. I walked to him, taking his hand in mine. His skin felt cool, a stark contrast to the internal furnace I knew he ran on. The familiar feeling of his large, warm hand enveloping mine was an instant comfort, a solid, tangible connection to the man behind the cape. Without a word, I led him to the couch.
He practically collapsed onto the cushions, letting out a deep sigh that seemed to release some of the tension he carried. I sat beside him, and he immediately leaned his head on my shoulder, his weight a grounding presence. I gently began to run my fingers through his thick, dark hair, feeling the familiar, slightly damp waves. He closed his eyes, his breathing evening out.
The city knew him as Superman, the hero who could do anything, but in this quiet moment, with the day's weight finally lifted, he was just Clark. And all he wanted was to be home, safe, and just be babied for a while.
My hand moved from his hair to his cheek, my thumb tracing the line of his strong jaw. He leaned into my touch, a soft, almost imperceptible purr rumbling in his chest. I knew he had spent the whole day taking care of everyone else, and now it was my turn to take care of him. I wasn't saving the world, but in my own small way, I was saving my world—the one with him in it.
He shifted, turning his head so he could press a kiss to the palm of my hand. "I missed you," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleepiness.
"I missed you too," I whispered back, my heart aching with a familiar, overwhelming love. "Now rest. I've got you."
And with that, he was out. I continued to stroke his hair, watching the rise and fall of his chest. The city outside was still noisy, still chaotic, but here, in the quiet of our apartment, everything felt right. My Superman was home, and for now, that was all that mattered.
a/n: supper short ik but i wanted to get out of my writing slump
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Imagine you and Clark being the last ones to leave the office
He was finishing up on a long overdue assignment and you were overworking yourself like always. The lights were low and all that could be heard was each of your keyboards firing off as quick as they could go.
You’d stand up first. Not to leave, but to get more coffee from the break room. The moment you left your desk, his eyes would follow. 10 seconds after your silhouette disappeared into the room, he’d stand up and trace your movements.
“You know it’s not good to have coffee at night.”
You’d be hovered over the coffee machine, cursing it as it refused to turn back on.
“I wasn’t aware you were a doctor as well, Kent.”
Your words wouldn’t come off as snippy as they used to. Clark would notice a kind of softness formed around them, even if you didn’t notice. Or refused to notice.
“Stupid thing isn’t working anyways.”
He’d take a step towards you, standing next to you as you glared at the machine that was likely older than you. This was the closest you ever let him be next to you.
“Maybe it’s a sign then. It is kinda late.”
You’d look up at him, immediately being stricken with a sense of deja vu.
But for what, you couldn’t place.
“I’m not finished. I still have—“
“Work that’s not due until friday.”
You’d pause, your brain unable to come up with something sarcastic or witty for a millisecond longer than your typical.
“Stalking isn’t cute Kent.”
“It’s not stalking if everybody knows it.”
He got you there.
Didn’t mean you had to like it.
“Fine,” you’d groan, beginning back to your desk. “Whatever.”
You’d probably smack him if you saw the smile he wore as he followed behind you.
Everything would be quiet as you finally headed for the elevators for the night.
“Y’know,” he’d say quietly when the doors would close. “You’re just as apart of the team as any of us…no need to overwork yourself to prove it.”
Silence would fill the elevator, unable to find the right words.
“…I appreciate the sentiment Kent.”
Imagine not hating Clark Kent. Your brain wouldn’t admit it, but your heart knew
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Lil smthn smthn while I work on part 7, hope yall like it :)
It’s a little embarrassing how Carmen knows- that when she’s at his place watching him sketch dishes she can’t taste, he’s also paying attention to what’s on her phone. And it’s usually kistchy things- dresses and outfits with legwarmers, pop-culture breakdowns he doesn’t have time to understand, and yes, occassionally, recipes.
Carmen adores her company. It’s a private truth, one that they boht know and yet he can’t admit under her gaze. She’s a friend of Richie’s which is endlessly fucking confusing. Both because of how incredible she is, and because it is truly insane to imagine Richie with friends.
Carmen supposes they’re friends too, now. It doesn’t feel quite right, the way she scribbles notes for him in the mornings and has slept over quite often. She’s busy, has her own life and her own career and he’s lucky for the time he spends with her. He doesn’t really have time to date her the way he’d like to, with dinner dates and late night drives down Lake Shore, watching the sunrise over the lake on mornings where time feels like no object.
He’s clearly given this some thought.
Anyhow, it doesn’t matter now. Now, she’s slept over. He’s got a full-size, which felt like a good enough excuse to share the bed, even though every time they do he still ends wrapped around her like a vice, like roots of a tree, raveled in a way that seems inpenetrable.
She’s sipping on an energy drink- he’s offered her the coffee that he’s imported, and prepared with care, but she’d obviously thought it was too bitter. And now he keeps energy drinks in the house when she stays over. She’s popped in one of her wired earbuds, and the light washes over her like a halo. She’s got a bonafide glow while she sits on his counter, scrolling through recipes.
“That looks good,” he hears himself say, a little outside of himself, as she stops scrolling. It’s a pasta dish, and she’s favorited it. It looks more complex than it is, really, but he’s not sure he’s a good source.
“Hmm? Oh yeah, I had it once when I was in Paris. It was fucking insane, Carmen, it’s so good. I’m always looking for a place to get it. I don’t really think there’s a place in Chicago where you can get it, actually.”
“It was seasonal actually,” he says back, her eyes fixed to his now, “Ever used to make it every fall. Easier to source the pine nuts.”
She looks so, so fond of him that Carmen could entertain the idea of leaning over the counter and kissing her. It’s incredibly tempting, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, endeared by his knowledge. He feels guilty, how he plays with the pencil, knowing she’s stared appreciatively at his hands. He enjoys being pretty to her, leaning into the fantasy that he could be more than her weird fuck-up friend of a friend that’s too chicken-shit to ask her out. How odd is it, that he knows what it’s like to wake up to the smell of her shampoo, but has no idea how she likes to be kissed?
He’s so bad at this he’s failed before he’s even started.
He can cook, though.
Cooking is methodical, and so he does it. it’s an easy love language, for him. he dices the parsely and the other fresh herbs, sautes them wirh precision, uses some of the nice butter from work- it’s a marvel, at the end of it, fragrant and warm, waiting for her arrival.
When she does make her arrival, just on time for him, he plates the dish before she comes in.
“Oooh,” she preens, raking her eyes up and down him. He feels perciebed, but in a way that he’d like to be. Look at me, he thinks. What a pleasure to be seen by her. “Is this all for me?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he stammers out, “Thought I’d thank you for all your help. Late nights you’ve been staying up with me, talking through the menu and all- thought I could make you something.”
When she tastes it, it’s careful and adoring, and he’s good at this.
“Yes chef,” she says teasingly, “Oh my god, Carmen, this is so sweet. You didn’t have to do that. I like being here.”
He wants to kiss her again, doesn’t know why he’s not letting himself. She meets him halfway, though, kissing the corner of his mouth that only a fool would imply has plausible platonic deniability.
thinking about carmen berzatto having the fattest crush of his life on the new waitress/hostess at the bear. natalie and richard had interviewed you, raving about your experience and sweet nature, but carmen had only half-paid attention. on your first day, though, as richie was showing you the ropes, he spotted you through the kitchen’s window.
“who’s that?” he asked nat, knife frozen mid—cut while he stared.
“the new waitress, i told you about her last week,” nat sighed, annoyed at her brother’s lack of attention until she catches that look in his eye. then, she just smiles.
he makes sydney swap work stations with him after that, so he doesn’t get distracted every time you walk past the kitchen door. it’s bad enough that he can’t focus on the dish he’s plating when he knows you’ll be so close to him when he calls for hands. once did his hand shake when he passed a plate to you, nearly dropping it if it weren’t for your reflexes. you had worn your hair differently that night, that’s why, stealing his conscience for a moment.
richie, god dammit, had seen it happen. and he took every single opportunity for the rest of the night — no, week, to tease carmy for it. it only riled the chef up more than usual, forcing him deeper into his shyness and silence around you. whenever he did have to speak to you, he falls over his words and loses that strict composure the kitchen taught him.
because, hell, you’re so pretty and you’re so sweet to him and all of the customers. they always leave notes about you in their reviews, so even at home when he’s reading through them he can’t escape you. you’re like an angel, he swears, and far too good for him. he wants you, needs you so close to him — so he can smell your perfume or brush your hand on purpose for once. but he’ll be the ruin of you, this perfect thing, and he can’t be the one to break you.
Hiii I saw your post and I couldn't agree more, the world definitely needs more Harvey Specter in it. I've only recently started to watch suits but I'm absolutely in love! Do you think you could write one where the reader is an associate who is nervous about the mock trials because she's shy/soft spoken and doesn't want to have to go against Mike or thinks that Lewis has something out for her maybe? I'd love to see a softer side of Harvey.
Hi you! Thank you for the request. Hope it can capture your imagination :)
Feel free to send more requests.
Enjoy!
The Sun is Going Down
Pairing: Harvey Specter x Female Reader
Harvey walked past the bullpen when Louis stood in the middle of gathered associates. Harvey stopped dead in his tracks when he realized what actually happened there. It was Louis, who stood so close, too close, to his girl. Harvey seethed. "What's the matter, little mouse? You don't think you can't take down Jeremy here in a mock trial? Maybe you should just pack your things now and sell hotdogs in Central Park." She looked down, shook her head vigorously. "I can do it, Louis," she said, just above a whisper. "Can anyone hear what she said?" Louis spun around, granting laughs from other associates. Mike stood at the far end of the group, pity visible on his face.
"Louis," Harvey's voice boomed even in the midst of laughter.
Upon hearing Harvey's voice, Louis stopped laughing and tried his best to compose himself. No matter how hard Harvey tried to hide his anger, everyone there saw anger very much visible in his eyes. "What's wrong?" Louis asked, worry etched in his voice. "Just go," Harvey gestured with his head and Louis scurried away. Harvey looked at each one of the associates there. He caught the eyes of his girl. The sadness, oh Harvey was sure he could actually feel a physical pain in his chest. "What you looking at? Go back to work," Harvey commanded and everyone rushed to go back to their cubicle. Harvey stole another glance at his girl, who happened to also looking at him. Harvey smiled subtly at her as he walked away from the bullpen.
It was late that day when Mike strolled inside Harvey's office. The firm is now quiet, the dimmed light illuminated the corridor. Mike leaned by his door, "Go see her, she was quite shaken." Harvey just looked up at him, no words needed to be spoken. They both knew who was Mike referring to. "She's always been shy, so soft. To think again, I never thought a lawyer was a good career for her." Mike was shocked at Harvey's honest answer. Harvey always had her back, being all positive. "You should talk to her, guide her. She just needs to come out of her shell. You've seen her works, it was meticulous." Harvey sighed and glanced at his watch. "She's at the library," Mike said before leaving. Harvey rubbed his eyes before finally left his office.
Harvey saw her back. Deep in some books, reports of cases. Harvey walked quietly and put his hands on her shoulders and started rubbing. "Let's go home," Harvey whispered, lips touching her right ear. She shivered and whipped her head around. "Don't worry, everyone left hours ago." She sighed a sigh of relief and slouched in her chair. "Come on," Harvey offered his hand and she took it.
Harvey carefully observed the younger woman on his sofa, a glass of red wine in hand, as she stared blankly at the fireplace. Harvey sighed, prepping himself. He poured himself another glass of wine for him and walked to the sofa. "Wanna talk about it?" Harvey offered. "I'm not supposed to be a lawyer," she said slowly, expression blank. "Baby.." Harvey cooed, he abandoned his glass and took his girl's hand. She pulled her hand away forcefully. "You don't understand, Harvey!" She screamed as she stood up. "You're all successful, everyone opposes you fear the name Harvey Specter. You are born to be a lawyer. But look at me! Louis embarrassed me daily, everyone laughed at me, Mike looked at me with pure pity, and I just stood there because what else am I supposed to do? I know that Louis has something for me in the mock trial. He hates me, Harvey! He'll ruin me." she sobbed and fell to her knees. Harvey knew that Louis roasted her the most because he saw something in her. He needed her to fight, fall, and stand back up. Louis was always like that with associates. But this wasn't about Louis. "My darling sunshine," Harvey sat down in front of her. Her breath rapidly increased, her face red, stained with tears. "Hey, look at me," Harvey ordered gently, oh so gently. She shook her head, looked down at her clenched hands. "Sunshine," Harvey touched her chin with his finger, guiding her to look at him. She finally looked up. Harvey's heart ached at the sight of her forlorn face. "Calm down, okay? Close your eyes," she just looked at him, confused, "close your eyes," Harvey nudged her hands with him. She finally obeyed. "Calm down, imagine. The sun is going down, breath baby. The sun is going down," Harvey guided her slowly. Harvey watched his girl, "the sun is going down, the sun is going down," she whispered slowly. Harvey saw her finally calming down. "Good girl, that's my good girl." Harvey praised her and not long after she opened her eyes. "Thank you," she mouthed. "Anything for you. I'll make Louis an associate again if I have to," Harvey joked and earned a giggle from his girl. With the sound of that, the shadow in Harvey's chest lifted. Harvey lifted her from the floor, he laid them down, spooning her. He pampered the top of her head with kisses as she nuzzled back, closer to him.
They laid down quietly there, enveloped in each other's warmth for some time before Harvey finally spoke. "You know, I wasn't first in my class when I was in law school. Scottie was." Harvey said. "Your ex-girlfriend?" she mocked and Harvey squeezed her tighter in his arms. "You know why I wasn't first in my class?" she shook her head. "I wasn't sure how to hold myself there. Just like you, I was shy," both of them got quiet. Harvey continued, "I was from nowhere, from a mail room yes. And everyone was just so..." Once again Harvey paused. "So poise, so sure about what they were doing." Harvey sighed, no one really knew this story. "What I want to tell you is that I can overcome it. And I believe that you could too," Harvey said softly. She turned her body around. Eyes gazing at each other. "Why you told me that?" She asked not breaking eye contact. "It was always something I'm ashamed of, but if it could help you be the best lawyer that I know you are, then I'll do everything in my might. You're not alone, I'll always help you." He whispered the last few words against his lips. She smiled as Harvey gently kissed her lips.
It was just 3 hours before the mock trial when she saw Jeremy and Louis huddled in the corner of the library. "Gentlemen," she greeted them. Louis was about to give her a snarky comment when she raised her finger. "If this is how you two will ruin me in mock trial, please try again." She smirked as she dropped the file to the floor in front of them before walking away. She caught Harvey just outside the library, smirking at him. She walked in his direction, close enough for her to hear him say, "That's my baby girl."
