Ms.Mint

Prime:

“You know, Clark wouldn’t have survived half as long if you didn’t help him.” The man rants.

“Thanks… I think?”

“And don’t even get me started on your Superboy. He left you for Cassie, which is beyond idiotic-”

“CAN YOU SHUT UP FOR ONE SECOND.”

…

“That's even hotter in person…”

You stand up, “I’m leaving.”

In an unnecessary show of strength, he puts an index finger on your shoulder and simply pushes down, “Not yet. I need your help.”

“You, Superboy Prime. Need my help? I’m just an eye on the road.” 

He sighs, “You weren’t listening to a thing I said earlier-”

“In my defence, you said alot.”

“They need you, just like I need you. I also plan to use you for your entire worth as well, not just as a lap dog but we can tackle that letter.” He winks.

“Ew.” More to level his ego than anything, “I don’t think you have the right person. I’m just the assistant. So either you’re lost, or you’re in the wrong universe.”

Silence.

He steps closer.

Careful.

Like approaching something that might disappear if he moves too fast.

“…You fix things,” he says.

It’s not a question.

He’s not wrong.

You’ve become the ‘fixer’ for your little family.

Ensuring your little ‘family’s’ lives stay normal when they land. 

A jack of all trades, a healer, the lawyer, the guide, the incase of emergencies button.

Your fingers twitch toward the emergency beacon in your pocket out of habit. “Among other things.”

Another step.

Now he’s close enough that you can see it

the problem

His problem

He is falling apart at the seams.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

His hair is a mess

His suit is threadbarren in some spots.

From a distance he looks fine, but up close, you start to realize why he took you here.

“You’re breaking down.” You whisper.

He shrugs, “Never completely fallen apart.”

Your head tilts, staring at him intently, “For multiple reasons, I doubt that.”

“…If I did,” he says slowly, “you wouldn’t be able to fix it.”

You meet his gaze.

Steady.

“Maybe not,” you admit.

Then, softer-

“But I’d try.”

Something in his expression falters.

Just for a second.

Like a crack forming in glass that’s never been touched before.

You might not be all that he seems to think of you, but you are not about to let another super fall apart.

Especially not one who wants you around. 

He smiles, bright and excited, “I knew I’d get you to like me. It’s just like when Superman contacted you for the first time-”

Clark’s always teasing you. 

He’s always making jokes at your expense, smiling coyly and commenting on whatever comic you’re reading now, leaning over your shoulder to read and laughing when you get flustered. It’s a routine for him, something he’s grown used to during your shifts together.

More than that. It’s comforting. It helps him get through the day even when he’s late from Superboy-ing around, helps him keep even after he’s gotten lectured by the boss for the umpteenth time. 

Except you’re not here today. 

He noticed your absence immediately, and had already asked around about you only for your boss to shrug his shoulders and say you weren’t coming in today. Clark had tried to ask more questions but the boss just brushed him off, sending him to the back to bag and board more comics.

Still, even as he dives into what was usually his favorite task, Clark can’t stop thinking about you. He misses you, really. Misses your laughter when you tease him, the way you huff and cross your arms over your chest and mutter a quick, ‘that’s not funny’.

His shift drags on, the little texts he sends to you throughout the day going unanswered. It only makes him worry more—what could possibly be going on that you don’t have your phone?

He doesn’t even bother to go home after work, instead, he’s on his way to your place. He’s nervous, flying instead of walking because he can’t shake the feeling that something is horribly wrong with you. That you need him.

It’s a small victory that your living room window is unlocked, though Clark finds no comfort in that. Isn’t he always telling you to lock up tight?

He swallows it back, persisting into the warmth of your living room and locking the window behind him. He calls your name, noticing the distinct emptiness to your house.

You don’t answer.

He calls out for you again, footsteps light as he makes his way into the hallway. Still, there’s no answer. Clark’s frown only deepens.

He knocks gently at your bedroom door. “Hey, you in here?”

No answer.

He pushes it open, slow and careful so as not to walk in on anything he shouldn’t, only to find you laid out in your bed. You’re curled up in a ball, buried under so many blankets that Clark can barely make out your form.

He calls your name again, voice softer this time. You stir slightly, arms curling in to rub at your eyes. 

You blink into the darkness. “CK?”

He cringes at the sound of your voice—all scratchy and dry, sounding like every syllable hurts you. He catches a glimpse of you with his xray vision, frowning when he notices the spike in your temperature.

Sick, he realizes. You’re sick.

“What’re you—” You cough, clearing your achy throat, “what’re you doing here?”

“Was in the neighborhood, just thought I’d check in and all.”

You squint, trying to decipher the expression on his face through your bleary eyes. “Neighborhood? You live seven blocks in the opposite direction.”

“Nevermind that.”

You prop yourself up, body aching in protest, and kick away some of the blankets. You’ve been like this all day, completely laid out in your bed, in pain and hoping for a respite.

“You didn’t come into work today,” he leans against the doorframe. 

A pained smile comes to your dry lips. “You were worried.”

“I was not.” 

“Worry not, Clark.” You shiver slightly, the cold seeping in from the cracks in your blanket. “It’s just a cold.”

“You’re shivering.” 

“I’m aware.”

“Do you need anything? Have you even eaten today?”

You shake your head, a sheepish look on your face. “Didn’t want to get up,” you admit, defeated. “Body hurts so bad.”

He pauses, thinking back to what he needed when he was sick as a kid. Gingerale, plain crackers, cough syrup. A cold cloth on his forehead and someone to tell him he’d be okay. His heart sinks at the thought of you sitting here alone all day.

“What about water? Medicine?”

Again, you shake your head. Clark bites back the urge to tease you, to ask if you were just planning on dying alone in here.

“Hang tight, alright? I’ll be right back.”

It’s a half hour before Clark returns, a plastic bag hanging from his arm. You’re already half-asleep again, curled under your pile of blankets and somehow still shivering.

Your eyes open at the familiar click of your lamp flickering to life. “Clark?”

“Mhm, just me,” he says, rifling through the bag and unpacking its contents onto your nightstand. “Brought you some stuff.”

Pressing a gentle hand to the small of your back, Clark helps you sit up in bed, propping you up against your headboard. His hand lingers on the warm fabric of your shirt.

“First things first: drugs. And sorry, not the fun kind.”

You laugh a little, ribs aching horribly. Clark grabs the water he brought you off your nightstand and brings it to your lips. You swallow a big gulp before he replaces it with his palm, two blue pills resting against the skin.

You tip your head back, swallowing the pills despite the searing pain they bring to your throat. You wince, and Clark’s lips purse into a frown.

“I brought you some ginger ale too,” he gestures to the shiny green bottle on your bedside table. “And there’s lots more medicine.”

“Thanks, Clark.”

He pulls away, the sudden lack of his warmth leaving you cold. A shiver rolls through your body, limbs shaking as you desperately draw them inwards in an attempt to conceal your warmth.

He gets one step away from the bed before turning back to you. “Are you sure you’re not gonna die without me?”

“Y-yeah,” you say, but you’re shivering so badly it comes out as a stutter.

“Do you always have to be so stubborn?”

You’re too tired, too cold and too sick to think of a retort, though Clark yearns for your usual snarkiness. He sighs, kicking off his shoes.

“W-what are you doing?”

“Staying.”

You look at him with glassy eyes. “You’re gonna get sick.”

He flexes a bicep, flashing you that playful grin. “Kryptonian physiology, do your worst.”

You sigh, relaxing back into your pillows and watching as Clark shuffles over to the other side of your bed, lifting a corner of your comforter—buried under half a dozen throw blankets—and sliding under. He reaches an arm out to you, the warmth of his skin already radiating through your bed.

“C’mere.”

“You don’t—don’t have to.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna sit here and let you freeze to death, work would be so boring without you.” 

Among other things, he thinks, though he doesn’t dare say it out loud.

You roll into him, letting his strong arms draw you into his chest. The scent of his deodorant and body wash is just strong enough to seep through your congested nose, the scent a comfort to you. You rest your head against his shoulder, the shivering that’s plagued you slowly fading away.

Clark holds you tightly, resting his own chin above your head, trying to cover as much of your body as he can with his. Slowly, he feels your breathing even out, feels the tenseness of your muscles fade, feels you fall asleep in his arms.

He waits, holding his breath for minutes until finally, he can’t take it anymore. “Sleep well, angel,” he mumbles, brushing his lips over your scorching hot forehead.

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He'd screenshot any appearance you made, whether it be in your own runs or you in a single panel in an issue in someone else's run. Saving it to a folder just to stare at it later.

He bought merch of you, didn't care if it was cute, normal, or lewd. But naturally, he'd even gravitate towards the more lewder ones... much to his dismay. Even considered buying a body pillow of you once.

Then it dawned to him. Were you one of those characters made for fanservice?

You had a decent backstory, OP abilities—but some of the situations you ended up in? The poses you were drawn into?

Eh, who cares. Every character had those moments.

What matters now was that you were in front of him.

Living.

Breathing.

Real.

This was fate. The universe had brought you together! He’d read every issue where you appeared! Even wrote fanfiction in his notebook! This was the universe's way of rewarding him for being a good boy and following through his redemption arc.

His cape was doing a half-assed job at hiding you both as he dry-humped you against a wall. Your moans ringing in his ears as he pressed his bulge deliciously in the area between your thighs.

He deepened the kiss instantly—more confident now, less frantic—and this time added his tongue. Smiling smugly as he laved your mouth with his saliva.

It wasn't gentle or romantic like in the movies. This was Superboy Prime claiming what he believed—as delusional as it may be—what was rightfully his.

His other hand slid down from your neck, your shoulder, then lower.

Until it hovered at the curve of your hip—the softest part of that perfectly sculpted body he’d drooled over for months through comic panels and pixelated fanart prints taped above his bed on Earth-Prime. Squeezing your ass appreciatively and giving it a good slap, earning a noise from you.

"You'll let me fuck you out in the open, on a rooftop like this?" He pulled away, licking his lips. Eyes half-lidded and full of lust. "So fucking easy—" He chuckles, punctuating it with a sudden grind. Then moved his palm to cradle your breast over fabric first. Testing weight and shape, then pressed in slightly as if memorizing every curve.

It filled his palm snugly, like it was made to be groped just by him—the same hand he used to fist his cock into while he dreamed of you riding him.

"What's next? I bet you'll spread your legs out like the whore you are..." His voice was low against your ear, sending an unwilling thrill down your spine. "... You don't know how long I've waited to get my hands on you."

His hand creeps to your nape, brushing over the skin, threading into the roots of your hair before gripping harshly and tilting your head back. Licking a long, wet stripe of saliva against your throat—the warm pressure of the flat of his tongue drags from your collarbone to the side of your neck.

Clark bit hard, rolling his hips into yours as he did so. His touches felt thick and hot, you could only respond with moans and heavy breathing.

The sound of your moans went straight to his dick.

Fuck.

Suddenly, kissing wasn't enough.

The transition was fast—one second he was kissing you, the next he’d lifted you effortlessly and pinned you against the wall. His hands were everywhere at once:

Gripping your thighs to hitch them around his waist, squeezing your ass as he ground his hips into yours with zero patience left.

Clothes got in the way, so in between frantic kisses, he yanked his pants down, did the same to you, and pulled your panties to the side.

A curse escaped from him as he finally shoved inside, burying himself deep with a groan that sounded almost pained from how long this had been building up in him.

Your legs shook as he slid inside, filling you up to the hilt. Eyes blown wide at the feel of the stretch. "Prime—"

He thrusts sharply, getting you to shut up. "Drop the formal stuff when I'm balls-deep in you. Call me Clark."

"Okay... Calm down—" You stutter. Focusing on adjusting to his size. A sweat rolling down your brow.

"I wanna take you home." He mutters, burying his face into your neck. He breathes you in, dragging his cock out slowly. "First round here, second at my apartment. Deal?"

When he got no response, he pounded back into you. Making you sputter at the force. "Deal?" He repeats, clearly not wanting to ask again.