★Juju

Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.

You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out. 

But you can feel someone. 

And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer. 

Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.

He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over. 

You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia. 

That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid. 

You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something. 

You’re not. 

You don’t even know what you’d be looking for. 

All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep. 

You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch. 

Which is probably why your back always hurts, now. 

It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.

But it’ll pass.

Hopefully. 

It’s not, but hopefully, it will. 

Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process. 

You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“

“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”

You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.

“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.” 

“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”

“Nah. That sounds cold.”

“It’s ice-“

“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”

“I guess, but-“

“Can I ask you a question?”

You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”

“Did you guys have a fight?”

“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods. 

“Yeah. You and Clark.”

“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again. 

You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.

“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”

Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”

Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.  

Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince. 

“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante

“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark. 

You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.

“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.

“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”

“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing. 

That means something. 

You can’t fucking remember what. 

“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.

“How was… my vacation?”

“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”

“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing. 

“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you. 

“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“

“You were listening to me. I know you were.”

“But I didn’t even look-“

“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”

He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile. 

“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“

“I am-“

“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“

“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”

“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”

You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns. 

For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place. 

Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing. 

Your head sort of hurts. 

But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog. 

You don’t even remember going on vacation.

And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again. 

Someone is watching you.

Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.

But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.

It’s like nothing ever happened at all.

The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place. 

There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all. 

But it’s gone now.

You just wish you’d known what it fucking was. 

There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work. 

It’s almost certainly the paranoia. 

It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia. 

If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

“He’s cute, right?”

“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute. 

“You think I’m cute?”

“Don’t get a big head.”

“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”

“Yeah? What kind of facts?”

“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”

You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”

“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle. 

“I have cow eyes?”

“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”

You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”

“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”

“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”

He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“

“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”

“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”

You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”

“Alright. Come here.” 

A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-

Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.

“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”

“Yeah, um- Sorry.”

You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe- 

You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.

So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest. 

“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket. 

You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back- 

“Taste it.”

He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“

“What are you, a doctor?”

“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“

You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you. 

You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it. 

“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”

“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”

He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything. 

And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.

“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore. 

He can see that. 

His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops. 

“You’re sure your ankles okay-“

“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.

“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”

You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”

“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body. 

You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy. 

He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back. 

“I- I’m- I don’t-“

Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“

“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”

Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“

“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“

“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“

“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”

“I-“

“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.

It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.

No. It’s all fine. 

There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine. 

You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.

Everything was not fine. 

You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse. 

The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath. 

You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom. 

It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall. 

He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids. 

And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up. 

“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“

He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”

You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover. 

It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.  

Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off. 

Because fucking everything sets you off. 

“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”

“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed. 

“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.

It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams. 

You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.

Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”

“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”

“Too late?”

“I forgot my lunch.”

“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.” 

“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“

“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”

You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything. 

“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“

“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”

“But Jimmy said it was-“

“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”

“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“

Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”

“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”

“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”

“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”

“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“

“To fish guts?”

“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”

“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.

“I don’t get sick, darling.”

“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“

He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss. 

This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss. 

Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air. 

And he fucking knows. 

“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”

“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”

“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“

You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“

“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”

Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick. 

“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”

You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.

It should. 

But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.

“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond. 

You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter. 

“You end up here often?”

You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”

He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”

“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“Mormons.”

The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily. 

It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.

You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.

There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man. 

You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies. 

No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun. 

“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”

You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say- 

“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”

A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“

“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”

“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“

“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”

You go slack, and he grins. 

“There you go. That’s my good girl.” 

For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen. 

Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap. 

Wrong. 

Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong. 

You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home. 

And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed. 

But it’s not safe. 

Not anywhere. 

You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here. 

But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out. 

That keeps you warm. 

“Put it on, baby. Please.”

“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”

“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“

“But maybe it does.”

He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”

You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes. 

“I hate it when you play that card.”

He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”

“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.

“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”

You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work. 

But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back. 

“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.

“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”

“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles. 

“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“

“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”

“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”

You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”

“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”

“I’ve had banana splits before-“

“Not like these, though-“

You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”

Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.  

“I just think- It’s not the same-“

“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”

You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”

“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”

The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer. 

You stop looking around at things.

And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor. 

You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all. 

“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“

“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”

“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing. 

“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”

“I, uh- Thanks.”

“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”

“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”

“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”

He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“

Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all. 

“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly. 

“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“

“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”

“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”

You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”

“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”

The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer. 

Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins. 

Spend a little too long looking in the mirror. 

Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.

And you’d never said I love you. To anyone. 

But you said it to him.

The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.

And he loves you back. 

But only in your fucking head.

“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”

“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”

“Well, they have nothing to study-“

“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”

Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red. 

Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”

“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.

Which is gathered near your desk. 

It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing. 

Then Clark looks at you.

Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately. 

You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire. 

“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin. 

Then he looks away.

And you just feel cold. 

“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.

“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“

“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.” 

“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”

“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”

“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”

Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”

You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing. 

“I- He had a hard few weeks-“

“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look. 

“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”

“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”

Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“

“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”

“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”

“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.

This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes. 

Different from all the other flashes. 

The same as it seems to be now. 

He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“

“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”

“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“

“What’s on you, the truth-“

“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“

“You’ve done a lot worse-“

“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”

“I already fucking know-“

“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“

“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”

You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.

“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“ 

He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof. 

“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head. 

“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”

You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“

“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”

His eyes widen. “How-“

“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”

“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”

“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I wanted you to tell me.”

“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”

You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“

“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”

“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”

“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”

“And… other stuff.”

“What other-“

“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“

“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose. 

“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”

Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“

“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”

You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.

“I’m Superman.” 

“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”

“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss. 

The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance. 

“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”

“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”

“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs. 

“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“

“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”

Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.

“Um, yeah?”

“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“

“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental. 

But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced. 

He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing. 

Which is something he does, when he’s listening.  

You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that. 

But you know it’s Clark. 

That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark. 

Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind. 

You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you. 

Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground. 

Everything is so, so wrong. 

And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together. 

You’re not even sure it can be put back at all. 

You have to ask him. 

It’s eating you alive. 

Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match. 

Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place. 

Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more. 

It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose. 

There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him. 

And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman. 

You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth. 

Clark is Superman. 

He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear. 

He has the same fucking face.

When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.

But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out. 

It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew. 

You don’t know how you started dating. 

You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence. 

Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek. 

The paranoia hasn’t gone away. 

You still don’t know where it came from in the first place. 

And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.

One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.

It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know. 

You can’t figure out what that question should be. 

So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping. 

You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane. 

You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first. 

This is mostly so you can say you tried.

And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice. 

See if anything at all comes back. 

“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”

There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs. 

“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”

The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire. 

You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”

“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”

“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”

“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”

You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”

“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”

You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”

Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“

“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”

“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”

“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.

“That’s true. She did.”

“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”

You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side. 

She likes you. 

The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.

You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either. 

He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.

You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more. 

The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances. 

But it didn’t matter. 

She likes you. 

And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear. 

“She likes me.”

“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”

The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name. 

It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you. 

You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.

But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size. 

He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“

“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”

“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap. 

He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.

Now. 

“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“

“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”

You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.

“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“

“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.

“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan. 

Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage. 

“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“

“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”

His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”

“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”

“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”

You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger. 

He used a grown-up curse word. 

You’re getting what you want. 

“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”

You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”

He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”

You nod, and he raises his brows. 

“You going to let me take care of you?”

“Yeah- Oh-“

Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.

“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“

“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.

“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”

You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care. 

“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”

“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“

“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.

“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.

He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy. 

You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning. 

Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear. 

“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”

One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan. 

“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”

You nod, and Clark clears his throat.

“Can I please do the, uh-“

“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help. 

He doesn’t let you.

Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him. 

“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”

You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.

“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“

Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress. 

“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“

“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.

“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“

Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.

He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized. 

When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.

But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him. 

Then his kisses grow sloppy. 

His thrusts become uneven.

And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body. 

Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss. 

You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands. 

“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck. 

He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you. 

He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.

He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it. 

“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”

You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“

“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”

“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch. 

“Yeah. I have the best too.” 

Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head. 

But without any lust or need. 

Just worry. 

And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.  

“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp. 

He lets you. 

Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.

But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again. 

Someone watching. 

And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away. 

He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out. 

Like he wants to catch you, but can’t. 

Like he knows you’re already gone. 

You can’t sleep. 

If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh. 

Something you’ve never had before. 

That it feels like you never really had at all. 

And you don’t understand. 

You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it. 

If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you. 

But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.

At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark. 

He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry. 

As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it. 

Won’t fix it. 

If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all. 

Then, you feel it. 

Something watching you. 

Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet. 

There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air. 

You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”

Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry. 

And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before. 

You think you’ve seen it a million times before. 

But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you. 

Like he cares. 

“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.” 

You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“

He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball. 

“Why are you here?”

Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“

“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“

“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”

You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”

His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.

Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.

Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom. 

Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all. 

“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly. 

He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first. 

You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move. 

The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave. 

Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.

And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle. 

You never would have forgotten that. 

But you did. 

And you don’t understand. 

Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit. 

But he doesn’t. 

This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him. 

They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do. 

You do. 

And it makes the emptiness hurt even more. 

Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m not.” You say it before you can think. 

You can tell him. 

You tell Clark everything.

He mutters your name, and you shake your head.

“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“

A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm. 

You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there. 

You never would have let go. 

“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”

You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you. 

As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”

You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”

There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.

“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”

Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it. 

Your own screams. 

“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“

“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek. 

“Clark-“

“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”

“You’d rather not have me at all?”

Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.

“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“

“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”

You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”

“When-“

“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”

He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”

“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”

“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”

There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips. 

“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”

Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”

He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“

“I feel safe now.” 

You do. 

For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe. 

And you’re not going to let go.

“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”

“You will, I trust you-“

“I almost didn’t-“

“But you did-“

“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“

“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“

“I- I’d never make you-“

“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“

“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“

“I’ll be okay.”

“But-“

“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”

Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second. 

Then he’s moving. 

Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.

Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep. 

And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee. 

Feels like yours. 

“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him. 

“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.

“You and me.” Clark whispers. 

He’s not letting go either. 

“It’s always been real.”