#anyways i blacked out and wrote this in like 45min and can't be bothered to proof-read so i'm gonna go to bed now!

[blindmagdalena]

So…I have a concept. How would Homie react to someone waking him up with a blowjob 👀

18+. Most people dream of flying. Homelander doesn't need to. Instead, Homelander dreams of you. He dreams of your lips on his, kissing the taste of blood out of his mouth. He dreams of your hands peeling away the layers of his suit, stripping him of his façade and laying him bare for your eyes alone. Your hands are always so soft. You're the only person to ever handle him like he's fragile. It would be laughable if he didn't need it so badly. Your touches are featherlight, tracing the slopes of his body like you mean to memorize them. You teach him that sex is more than fucking. You make love to him.

Homelander dreams of your mouth pressing butterfly kisses along his stomach. He loves the way you smile when his tummy jumps under your touch, faintly ticklish. Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and the adoration in your eyes leaves him breathless. There is a reverence to the way you touch him. He is undone by it, a tremble in his hands as they slide into your hair. He cradles your head, but does not inhibit your movements. He only wishes to admire. You're so much gentler than the pound of your heart in his ears. He relishes how excited you are to touch him. To worship him. He can smell your arousal, feel in your pulse the thrum of your anticipation. You can't wait to taste him, and that reciprocation alone has him hard, dripping. Homelander gasps at the first wet, heated swipe of your tongue, fingers flexing briefly in your hair as inexplicable, warm colors explode around him. This is true power. With a single drag of your tongue, you have brought a god beneath your mercy. You smile at him, and his own heart becomes loud in his ears. "I love you," he says breathlessly. His voice sounds strange, distorted, but yours is clear as a ringing bell when you whisper in return I love you, too.

"Fuck," Homelander hisses as you envelop him in the wet warmth of your mouth in one long, slow slide, savoring the weight of him on your tongue. He screws his eyes shut, but he never stops seeing you.

You once told him that you would like a deity who cussed, who could be taken apart and reconstructed by his disciples; a god who is not above his people, but who is the embodiment of them. That is precisely how he feels now— deconstructed down to his base elements. He can think only of his most primal needs.

Your eyelids flutter as his hips jerk, his cock filling your throat. Tears well and sit heavily on your pretty eyelashes, weighing them down, but you don't slow. Homelander feels outside of his own body, watching you unravel him with hollowed cheeks and clever swipes of your tongue, knowing full well that it isn't the carnal pleasure alone that sunders him. It's you, and the profound way you have come to love him. The same way you have taught him to love you.

He wakes with a gasp, but the heat and the pleasure of you don't fade with the technicolor haze of his dreams. He blinks, bleary eyed, and looks down to see you there, eyes closed, working his cock with practiced bobs of your head, his hands in your hair. When you hear him, your eyes flicker open. They're just as watery from taking the length of him down your throat as they had been in his dream. You pull off, but continue to slowly jerk his cock, hand slick with spit and precome. "Hey," you say softly, voice already rough with use. "You were dreaming, I think. Hard. Grinding. I wanted to help." You're trying to explain yourself, you even look a little sheepish, but Homelander can't fathom why. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, almost a whimper, before he manages to clear it and say, "Don't stop. Please." He needn't ask twice. You descend back down upon him, taking him to the back of your throat like he's meant to be there, stroking the base with deft twists of your wrist. Homelander's eyes roll back, his mouth falling open on a low, loud moan. You cup his balls, your hand warm against him. All it takes is a few more strokes of your tongue before Homelander is crying out, back arching off the bed, burying his cock so deep in your throat that you don't even taste it when he comes. He sees all those same colors from his dream exploding behind his lids like the fucking Fourth of July, his soul temporarily leaving his body.

The force of it makes you gag, but only briefly, the sound muffled around his cock. You draw back just enough to catch a breath, softening your handling of him, but continuing to milk his release until his moans turn to quiet, overstimulated little whimpers. Pulling off of him with a soft wet pop, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand before crawling up the bed, collapsing into his outstretched arms. Homelander closes his arms around you, cupping the back of your head. He kisses you languidly as he drifts down from his high, but with force of conviction, holding you as tightly as he dares allow his strength. "Holy fuck," he whispers, making you laugh. "Holy fuck."

"Good?" You ask, knowing full well the answer. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck. "Good?" Homelander echoes incredulously, voice little more than a rasp. "Thought I was going to fucking die." You laugh again, lifting your head to look at him. "Is that—" He kisses you before you can ask whether that's a good thing or not, his hand cupping the side of your face. He kisses you until the taste of him fades into a mixture of the both of you. When you part, his eyes are glassy with tears. "John?" You question softly, brows pinched. He smiles at you, wide and intimate. "I was dreaming about you," he says, thumb stroking your cheek. "Oh," you say quietly, returning his smile. "Good dream?" He huffs a small laugh. "The best."