Summary: Clark started noticing that you were growing older faster than he was. He has to come to terms with it, no matter how painful.
tags: angst, growing old, clark being in grief because he will outlive you, major character death
Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting your bedroom in hues of gold. Clark stirred awake before you, as he often did, his instincts attuned to the world long before the rest of the house woke up. For a while, he just lay there—watching you breathe, listening to the faint rhythm of your heartbeat beside him.
It was one of his favorite things in the world.
Your hair was splayed across the pillow, catching the sunlight. He reached out to gently brush a lock away from your face, smiling to himself. But then he paused.
There, glinting silver among the strands, was something that made his chest tighten. A delicate gray hair.
It was so small, so ordinary, and yet for him, it felt monumental.
He froze, fingers hovering in midair. The smile faded, replaced by something uncertain and heavy.
You stirred at his touch, blinking drowsily. “Clark?” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
He blinked rapidly, quickly forcing a soft smile. “Hey,” he whispered, his hand finding yours. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
You smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “You’re always awake first,” you teased, squeezing his hand before turning on your side. “You should try sleeping in for once.”
Clark chuckled quietly, but the sound felt distant to him. He leaned forward and kissed your temple, lingering there longer than usual. You didn’t notice, already half-drifting again, but he did. He noticed everything.
Because in that quiet moment, a thought took root in his mind and refused to leave.
You were getting older. Slowly, beautifully, naturally. Time was leaving traces on your skin and in your hair—and he wasn’t changing the same way. His reflection had looked the same for years now. The fine lines that came and went with stress disappeared almost overnight. Even the gray that sometimes threatened his temples would fade within a week.
You, on the other hand, were fully human. And though he loved that. He loved every second of your life’s rhythm…it terrified him too.
He lay there for a long time, tracing his thumb over your knuckles, listening to the sound of life outside the bedroom. Somewhere down the hall, Leia was laughing with Jon over breakfast. She was seventeen now—sharp, confident, witty like her mother. Jon, thirteen, had inherited his father’s restless curiosity and his mother’s stubborn heart. They filled the house with noise and chaos and light.
And one day, Clark realized with a pang, they would be grown. They would have their own lives. And he… he might still look the same. Still be the same.
But you wouldn’t.
He swallowed hard and blinked back the stinging in his eyes.
When you finally sat up and stretched, noticing the way he was watching you, you gave him that soft, familiar look—the one that always made him feel seen. “What’s wrong?” you asked.
He hesitated, then shook his head with a small, practiced smile. “Nothing,” he said, though his voice betrayed him.
You studied him for a moment, frowning slightly. “Clark…”
He sighed, defeated. His fingers brushed the side of your hair again, and this time, he couldn’t hide the tenderness in the motion. “I saw a gray hair,” he said quietly.
You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh, that? Yeah, I found one last week.” You smiled, amused at his reaction. “It’s just one, Clark. Or a few, maybe. Comes with the territory.”
But he didn’t laugh with you. He just looked at you, eyes full of something far deeper than worry. “I know,” he murmured. “It’s just… sometimes I forget that time doesn’t move the same for me. And then I see something like that, and it hits me all at once.”
You softened instantly.
He looked down, his voice quieter now. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” he admitted. “And I don’t know how to… how to face that I might, one day, have to.”
You reached out, taking his face in your hands. “Clark,” you whispered, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You can’t think like that. You’re not losing me. Not now. Not for a long time.”
His eyes glistened. “But someday…”
“Someday doesn’t matter right now,” you interrupted gently. “You can’t live in that fear. We have today. We have Leia, and Jon, and every morning that starts with you beside me.”
He closed his eyes, breathing you in. Your warmth, your scent, the pulse of life beneath your skin. He nodded slowly, because you were right. You always were.
Later that morning, after you’d gone to make coffee, Clark stood by the window and watched the sunlight dance across the kitchen where Leia was helping Jon with cereal. Their laughter echoed through the house, bright and alive.
He looked at you, with your hair pulled into a loose bun, a silver thread or two catching the light.
You were aging. He wasn’t.
-
One night, after you’d fallen asleep, he sat in the living room in the dark, his hands clasped together so tightly they trembled. The house was still, save for the gentle hum of your breathing down the hall.
And then, softly, like a man afraid of being overheard by the universe, he began to pray.
“Please,” he whispered into the quiet. “If there’s anyone listening… if there’s anything left in me that’s still human enough to be heard…please.”
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, the tears slipping through his fingers. “Don’t make me live without her. Don’t let me watch her fade while I stay the same.”
Clark’s voice broke, raw and pleading. “I don’t need to fly. I don’t need to be strong or invincible. I’d trade it all, every ounce of power, for one lifetime with her. Just one. Growing old together, the way people are supposed to.”
He bowed his head, the weight of years pressing down on him. He thought about how your hair had begun to curl differently now, how your hands bore faint traces of time, how your eyes—still bright, still fierce—carried more softness when you looked at him these days.
He remembered the first time he’d seen you, young and full of laughter. How you’d teased him, how you’d made him feel human even when the rest of the world insisted he wasn’t.
And now, as he sat in the quiet of your shared life, the thought of you slipping away while he stayed the same tore something deep inside him.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was small. “Let me be like her. Let me age. Let me feel it all. The aches, the years, the growing old. Let me earn every second with her.”
You had stirred at some point, perhaps sensing that the bed was empty. Quietly, you padded into the living room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The moment you saw him—his face buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling—you knew.
“Clark? Honey?” you whispered gently.
He startled slightly, wiping his eyes quickly, but you’d already seen the tears. You crossed the room, kneeling before him, taking his hands away from his face.
“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.
He shook his head, the words caught in his throat. “It’s nothing, I just—”
“Don’t,” you said. “Don’t lie to me.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, your eyes searching his, your thumb brushing the dampness from his cheek. Finally, he broke. “You’re changing,” he said quietly. “And I’m not. And I hate it.”
You blinked, caught off guard, but before you could speak, he continued, his voice trembling. “Every time I see another year touch you, it’s beautiful…and it hurts. Because I know I’ll stay the same while you…” He swallowed hard. “While you keep moving forward.”
You cupped his face gently. “Clark,” you murmured, your voice full of tenderness. “That’s what love is supposed to be. Moving forward together, even if the steps don’t always look the same.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. You could feel the faint tremor in him, the quiet desperation.
“I don’t want to outlive you,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be here without you.”
You kissed his forehead, your lips lingering there. “Then don’t think about how much time we have,” you said softly. “Think about what we do with it.”
Clark’s eyes opened then, glassy but full of devotion.
You smiled through your own tears and added, “Besides… when I grow old and gray, you’ll still be the same man who makes me feel like I’m the luckiest woman on Earth. That won’t change.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he pulled you close instead, burying his face in your shoulder. You held him there, your fingers threading through his dark hair as the quiet night settled around you.
Outside, the stars burned bright and ageless, but inside the Kent home, there was something far more enduring.
A man who could live forever, praying only for the chance to grow old.
-
The years had passed quietly. They crept in with gentle familiarity, one silver strand at a time, one softened line, one slower morning. You were well into your later years now. The house had grown quieter, still full of love, but slower somehow, softer. Leia and Jon had their own lives, their own homes, yet they visited often. The laughter still echoed in these walls, but it came from the memories now as much as the moments themselves.
You moved more carefully these days. Your hands trembled slightly when you held your tea. Clark never let you carry anything heavier than a plate. He still looked almost the same—the same strong lines of his jaw, the same impossibly bright eyes. Maybe a touch more silver at his temples, but it suited him in that effortless way everything did.
Sometimes, when the two of you went out, to the farmer’s market, or to the park to feed the birds, strangers would smile kindly and say, “How lovely that you brought your mother out today.”
You always laughed it off. Clark, though, would just smile politely and squeeze your hand, his eyes soft and aching.
You and Clark sat together in the home you had built, still the same place where Leia had taken her first steps, where Jon had learned to fly for the first time (through a window that had long since been replaced). The walls carried laughter in their beams and love in every scratch, every photograph framed on the shelves.
The evening sun poured through the window, painting you both in honeyed light. Clark sat beside you on the couch, reading a book with one arm around your shoulders. His hair was still thick and dark, his face still the same boyish handsomeness it had always been. There were barely any changes, perhaps a softness in his eyes that came only with time, but not a single line that betrayed the years.
You, however, had changed.
Your hair, long streaked with silver, was gathered loosely at your neck. Your hands bore the quiet story of years lived fully, creased, delicate, and a little unsteady. There were days when the aches in your body slowed you down, when Clark had to help you out of bed or hold your arm as you walked down the porch steps.
You hated needing help. You hated feeling small when once you had been strong.
But Clark never seemed to see you that way.
He treated you with the same care he had when you were young, the same reverence, the same awe, as though every wrinkle and every gray hair was a miracle he was lucky to witness.
Still, that didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in.
You watched him for a long moment, studying the man who hadn’t changed much since your youth. The same broad shoulders, the same earnest face.
When he caught your gaze, he smiled. “What’s that look for?”
You hesitated before answering, voice soft but trembling. “Do you still love me?”
His smile faded, replaced by quiet concern. “What kind of question is that?”
You looked down at your hands. “I mean… really love me. Even though I’m…” You gestured to yourself vaguely. “Old. Slower. I can’t keep up like I used to. You’re still… you. Still strong, still young. Sometimes I look at us, and I think…what do you even see in me anymore?”
Clark set the book aside and came to sit beside you. He reached for your hands, holding them carefully, as though they were made of glass.
“I see you,” he said softly.
You shook your head, tears forming. “Clark—”
“No,” he interrupted gently. “You listen to me. I see the woman who taught me how to live in this world. The woman who showed me that being human isn’t about what you can lift, or how fast you heal, or how long you live. It’s about love. It’s about what you give to others.”
His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, tracing the faint blue veins beneath your skin. “You gave me everything, sweetheart. You gave me Leia and Jon. You gave me a home. You gave me laughter, and warmth, and a reason to come back every night.”
Tears slipped silently down your cheeks. “But I can’t even do much anymore. You’re always taking care of me now. I feel so… useless.”
He smiled sadly and leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You could never be useless to me. Do you know what it means to take care of you? It means I get to repay even a fraction of what you’ve done for me. All those years you worried over me, patched me up, waited for me to come home in one piece…you think I ever forgot that?”
You let out a shaky laugh, still crying. “I just don’t want to be a burden, Clark.”
He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re my heart. You always have been.”
You sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind outside, the creak of the old house. His arm came around your shoulders again, pulling you close.
“Do you remember,” he whispered after a moment, “when we were young, and you told me that even if we could never have kids, we’d still be a family? Just the two of us?”
You nodded faintly.
“Well,” he said, voice full of quiet emotion, “now it’s come full circle. The kids are grown, living their own lives. And it’s just the two of us again. Still a family. Still us.”
You smiled through your tears, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, the same rhythm you had known for decades.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “You’re everything to me, gray hairs and all. You’ve given me a life I could never have imagined. You’re still my miracle.”
You smiled softly, eyes closing as warmth filled your chest. You realized that time hadn’t stolen anything from you. It had only deepened what you already had—love that was stronger than youth, truer than beauty, and far greater than time itself.
Clark held you tighter, and you could feel him smile against your hair.
“Always,” he murmured. “I’ll always love you.”
-
Clark had always thought he understood time.
He could fly faster than it, move through it in the blink of an eye, but time—real time, the kind that wears away at the edges of a person’s soul—was something he could never escape. It always caught up, not to him, but to the ones he loved.
He saw it first in you.
When you both were young, he never thought much about how it would look one day—how your hair would silver while his stayed dark, how the laugh lines at your eyes would deepen while his reflection stayed frozen, unchanged. You used to tease him about it. He used to laugh. But now, when you reached for him at night, your hand a little frailer, your breath a little slower, he realized that time had drawn a line between your worlds.
He watched you live in full color. Each year marked with growth, change, wisdom…and he, forever the same, remained a witness.
Leia grew up in that same light. His little girl, the one who once slept curled against his chest, was now a woman—a brilliant, graceful woman who had inherited his eyes and your warmth. He still remembered how she used to reach for him with her tiny hands and call him “Daddy.”
Now Leia came to visit with streaks of gray in her hair and a laugh so much like yours that it ached.
And Jon…still the same mischievous smile, still the same spark. But even Jon had changed, grown older. His shoulders ached after long flights, his powers waned in small, barely noticeable ways.
One evening, Clark stood by the window of your home, the golden light fading into a soft indigo dusk. You were sitting in your favorite chair, a blanket over your legs, reading a worn book. Leia sat across from you, her hair tied up, glasses perched on her nose as she helped you with something on your tablet. The resemblance between you two struck him. Not in the way people always said, “She looks just like her mother,” but in the way she moved, the gentle patience in her gestures, the small hum she made when she was thinking.
And then it hit him. Leia, too, was aging. Slowly, naturally. Like you.
It was something he had always wondered about in silence. Whether his children would inherit his longevity or your humanity. He had always told himself it didn’t matter. But now, seeing the faint silver threading through Leia’s hair, it crushed him in a way he hadn’t expected.
Because one day, one day soon, by his measure, he would be the only one left unchanged.
He pressed his forehead to the glass, closing his eyes, trying to steady the ache in his chest. For all his strength, for all his power, there was nothing he could do to slow this kind of loss.
He had imagined, long ago, that maybe he would outlive the world itself. But now, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want eternity. He wanted this—the wrinkles on your hands, the laughter that grew richer with age, the quiet mornings when you’d wake up beside him and mumble that the coffee was too strong.
He wanted to grow old with you.
He would have given up his strength, his powers, his flight, his entire Kryptonian legacy, just to sit beside you as equals, gray and human, both fading together.
That night, after Leia left, he carried you to bed. You were half-asleep, murmuring something soft and familiar, and as he tucked the blanket around you, he found himself whispering,
“I wish I could slow down with you.”
You stirred, eyes half-open. “Hmm?”
He smiled faintly, brushing a stray strand of white hair from your face. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.”
But he couldn’t. He lay awake for hours, listening to your breathing, memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat.
He would sit sometimes on the porch, long after you had gone to bed, looking out at the stars he once flew among. He used to feel at home up there. Now, home was wherever you were.
-
One night, as he brushed your hair before bed, an old habit he’d never let go of, you looked up at him in the mirror and asked quietly, “Are you ever tired of taking care of an old lady like me?”
He froze mid-motion, his reflection meeting yours. “What?”
You smiled, faint and teasing. “Be honest, Clark. You could be out there doing anything, seeing the world, saving it, living. And here you are, tying my robe and making sure I take my pills. Don’t you ever get tired?”
He set the brush down, stepping closer. “No,” he said simply. His voice was steady, sure. “Never.”
You turned slightly, looking up at him. “Not even when people mistake me for your mother?” you asked softly.
His lips curved in a sad smile. “Every time that happens,” he said, his hand finding yours, “I just think…if they only knew.”
He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If they only knew how much I love you. How lucky I am to have you. How every day I wake up and thank whatever force in this universe let me find you.”
Your eyes shimmered as you looked at him, still as impossibly gentle as he’d been the day you met.
“Clark…” you whispered, voice cracking slightly. “You’ve loved me through everything. Through years and years. You’ve held me together even when I felt like I was fading. You never once made me feel like I was a burden.”
He cupped your face in his large, warm hands. “You’re not a burden,” he said softly. “You’re my everything.”
You smiled faintly, leaning into his palm. “You know,” you said, your voice fragile but calm, “I’ve loved you all my life. Every version of you. The farm boy, the reporter, the man who could catch the world if it fell. I loved you as a boy, a teen, a man who became the symbol of hope. I watched you become a dad.”
He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
“I don’t know how much time I have left,” you continued. “But I can tell you this, Clark Kent. Loving you… that’s a life worth living.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. He pulled you close, holding you so gently as though afraid you might break, but you didn’t—you just melted against him, your head resting against his chest, listening to that steady heartbeat that had never changed.
Outside, the world carried on, but inside, everything was still.
You closed your eyes and smiled. “You’ll be all right, you know,” you murmured. “When I’m gone. You’ll have the kids, and you’ll have the stars.”
Clark’s voice was low and shaking when he whispered, “None of it means anything without you.”
You looked up, tracing his jaw with your trembling fingers. “Then make it mean something for both of us,” you said softly. “Live for both of us.”
He kissed your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.
When you finally drifted to sleep against him that night, he stayed awake for hours, just listening to you breathe, memorizing every sound, every small movement, because for Clark, every moment spent with you was a prayer answered.
He never got tired.
Not of you.
Not even for a second.
-
A few years later, the house that had been your home was quiet that night.
Not silent—the kind of quiet that feels alive, that hums softly with the rhythm of breathing and memory. The rain outside tapped gently on the windows, a calm, slow cadence that seemed almost deliberate.
You were in bed, the blankets pulled to your chin, your hand resting in Clark’s much larger one. Leia sat by your other side, fingers curled around your wrist, while Jon knelt at the foot of the bed, head bowed. The lamplight was dim, golden and kind, painting the room in a soft glow that made everything look almost eternal.
You had grown frail, your breaths shallower now. But there was still a faint smile on your lips—the same one Clark had fallen in love with decades ago.
He had known this day was coming. He had told himself he was ready, had rehearsed this moment in his mind a thousand times. But now that it was here, he wasn’t ready at all.
“Clark.”
When your chest stilled, he didn’t move. Neither did Leia or Jon. The air felt heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Clark bent forward, pressed his forehead to yours, and whispered your name like a prayer. “I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”
Leia reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. She had tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “She knew, Dad. You were always right here.”
Jon swallowed hard, his throat tight, eyes glassy. “Mom’s… gone.”
Leia nodded softly. “Yeah.”
Clark didn’t answer. He sat there for a long time, still holding your hand, tracing the lines of your palm as if he could memorize them once more, as if his touch alone could tether you back.
Hours later, when the rain had stopped and the night grew still, the three of them sat together in the living room. Leia leaned her head against Clark’s shoulder, while Jon sat cross-legged on the floor, staring into the quiet fireplace.
It was Jon who broke the silence. “You know,” he said softly, “I read somewhere that when a person dies, their brain keeps working for about seven minutes. Like… it replays their life. Their memories. Everything they loved.”
Clark looked down at his son, his expression distant but tender. “I’ve heard that too.”
Leia shifted, looking up at her father. “Seven minutes,” she repeated quietly, almost to herself. “That’s not very long.”
Jon shrugged, rubbing at his eyes. “I just hope… I hope I was in some of those minutes.”
Leia turned to look at her little brother, her lips parting in surprise. She was quiet for a long moment, remembering the smile on your face during your last moments.
Then she smiled—through the tears, through the grief—that same soft, knowing smile she’d inherited from you. “Jon,” she whispered, her voice cracking but sure, “I’m a mother now.”
Jon blinked at her, confused.
Leia reached out and gently took his hand. “We were all of her minutes.”
She looked at both of them, her father, still immortal and ageless in body but weary in soul, and her brother, who had inherited your humanity, your kindness.
“If her brain really played those seven minutes,” Leia whispered, “we were all of them. Every single one.”
Clark felt something in his chest break open. The truth of it was so simple, so piercingly real. You had poured yourself into this family—every heartbeat, every breath, every laugh and sleepless night, every whispered “I love you.” You had loved them with every part of yourself, and that love didn’t fade. It lingered in the air, in the walls, in them.
His eyes closed, and the tears came then, silent and unrestrained. He reached out and pulled both of his children close—one on each side, his arms wrapping around them the way they once had when they were small.
As the night deepened, Clark whispered to the stars outside the window—softly, reverently, as though you could still hear him,
“Thank you for giving me forever.”
-
Clark closed his eyes. He let himself believe that maybe you weren’t really gone. Maybe those seven minutes weren’t an ending, but a bridge—a soft, golden moment stretched across eternity, where you’d wait for him, smiling the way you always did when he came home.
And when his time finally came, he knew he’d find you there, waiting with open arms, whispering, “Welcome home, my love. I’ve been saving every minute for you.”
(also guys good thing clark woke up after this nightmare! coincidentally, he had this nightmare the night he found out you were exposed to some cosmic energy that also renders you immortal! wow, so no one actually dies! haha im coping so hard)
Sometimes the media says “there are no words” to describe or justify horrific attacks on hospitals. Other times, the media has countless words to describe and justify horrific attacks on hospitals.
Hi !! sorry to bother you , you made a gifset of massimo the no caption needed one and l wanted to know where the last gif from that gifset comes from and if it's from the movie in which part .
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