Chapter Text
The production lot had mostly cleared by the time the sun dipped behind the sound stage. Only a few trailers remained lit, with flickering overheads humming against the desert silence. One of them was Henry Cavill’s which stood half-packed and open at the door, his silhouette outlined in the doorway as he lifted a garment bag from the back wall and folded it carefully.
Inside, the air still carried the sterile scent of makeup powder and leather, a blend of Superman and man.
You lingered in the frame, hesitant. You were just a junior on the crew, props mostly, but you’d had a front-row seat to Henry’s transformation for months. Watching him become something mythic on set, only to laugh quietly with the boom operator ten minutes later. He wasn’t untouchable. But he was devastating.
“Hey,” you said, your voice too soft.
Henry turned, brows lifting just a fraction. He still wore the black undershirt from earlier, sleeves snug on his biceps. His forearms were dusted with faint hair, veins trailing beneath tight skin as he set the bag aside.
“Well,” he said with that low rumble of a voice, “was wondering if I’d see you.”
You stepped in, slow. “You were?”
He nodded once. “You’ve been avoiding me all week.”
You swallowed. “Not avoiding.”
“Then what?”
You shrugged. “Trying not to embarrass myself.”
He let out a short breath half a chuckle, half something darker. “It’s not embarrassing, you know,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Watching someone try not to look at you is worse than just looking.”
You flushed. You couldn’t help it. He’d noticed. Every glance. Every time you lingered by his trailer longer than you had to. Every time you adjusted the cape and had to remind your fingers not to trace the curve of his back. Every time you said Mr. Cavill even though he always said, Call me Henry.
Now he was standing there, shirt stretched across his chest, looking at you like a question he already knew the answer to.
“Did you want something?” he asked finally, one brow arching. The kind of line he might throw out in character, but this time without the Kryptonian warmth.
You nodded, heat crawling up your neck. “Yes. But... I wasn’t sure if it would be okay to want it.”
His jaw tightened not with anger, but restraint. Henry took one slow step forward. “Say it,” he said.
You blinked. “Say what?”
“What you want.”
You exhaled, body prickling with nerves.
“I…. I want to kneel… for you.”
Silence bloomed between you. And then Henry’s gaze darkened not cruel, not cocky, just settled. Certain like he’d been waiting for the signal to stop pretending.
He stepped closer. “Take your shoes off,” he said.
You obeyed immediately, bending to untie them, your fingers fumbling.
“Slower,” he added, voice like velvet against the tension in the air. “If you’re going to be on your knees for me, I want to watch you earn it.”
You swallowed hard and started over, slower this time. You were hyper-aware of his eyes watching every move, every tremble in your fingers. You placed your shoes neatly by the side of the trailer rug, and then lowered yourself down onto your knees, palms flat on your thighs.
He circled behind you.
“I’ll be honest,” he said, his voice now right at your ear, “I didn’t expect this. I had a feeling, sure. But I thought maybe I was just flattering myself.”
You tilted your head toward him without turning fully.
“But you kept looking,” he continued. “kept blushing, kept lingering.”
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. His hand came down, slow and heavy, resting on your shoulder. Just the weight of it made your chest throb.
“You know what I like?” he said. “When someone listens. I spend half my life having to talk like I know everything. Being Superman. Being stoic. In control. But this? Right now?” His palm pressed down firmer, making you straighten in your posture.
“This is what I actually want.”
Your breath hitched. “To be in control?”
His fingers slid under your chin, tilting your head up. “To have someone give it to me.”
He studied your face like he was reading a script memorizing lines he didn’t want to forget. Then his thumb brushed your bottom lip.
“You want me to use your mouth?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Then keep your hands behind your back. I’ll handle the rest.”
You obeyed, fingers locking behind you as he undid his belt, the clink of it shockingly loud in the tight space. His trousers slid open, and you could already see the thick shape beneath his briefs impressive, but not arrogant. Nothing about Henry felt performative. He was real, heavy and present.
He stepped forward, the tip of his cock already exposed as he pulled the waistband down. You inhaled sharply—God, he was big—and before you could look up again, his hand rested on your head.
“Slow. Keep eye contact when you can.”
You nodded and leaned in, letting your lips part as you took the head of him in, soft and warm against your tongue. His breath hitched above you just enough to show he wasn’t unmoved. His hand tightened slightly, guiding you deeper.
You worked him in slowly, feeling his weight settle against your tongue, his shaft hardening as you took more. His other hand reached behind and uncurled your fingers, testing the tension in your arms, letting you know he knew you were being good.
“Good boy,” he murmured. “Stay just like that.”
You moaned low, the sound vibrating against him. That got a reaction, he growled under his breath and held you there a second longer before letting you pull back and catch air.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re going to make me ruin you.”
You blinked up, your lips slick, your breath hot. “Then do it.”
He pulled you up with one hand on your chest, spinning you toward the trailer’s small couch. He didn’t throw you just placed you, like you were something precious but pliable. You bent over without instruction, bracing against the cushion. You heard the condom wrapper, the hiss of foil, then a lubed hand sliding along your backside.
“You still in?” he asked, voice a little strained.
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Good. Because I’m not going to hold back much.”
And he didn’t. He pushed in with one steady, punishing thrust stretching you slow but deep, letting the sound of your moan fill the trailer. His fingers dug into your hips. The rhythm started steady, controlled but it didn’t stay that way. You felt him unwind with every movement, the façade cracking, the Superman polish slipping off.
He grunted as he fucked you, low and guttural, one hand reaching around to wrap your throat.
“You’re mine right now,” he said. “No cameras. No crew. Just mine.”
You nodded, mouth open, moaning wantonly into the pillow.
“Say it,” he growled.
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Fuck.... Mr. Cavil... I’m yours.”
That pushed him over. His pace stuttered as he pressed deep, groaning with relief as he finished inside you, gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. You felt the shudder go through him, felt him melt behind you, warm breath on your neck.
After a moment, he leaned in and kissed your shoulder.
“Wrap’s over,” he whispered. “But I’m not done with you.”
You smiled, still gasping. “Good.”
Because neither were you.