Fresh 🍋

You shuffled towards him, just dropping your things and shucking your shoes on the way. You figured this was not the time to uphold your roommate agreement of minimal clutter.

Taking note of the trail you left behind you, Dean smirked. "Too excited for a stop at the coat closet, pretty?"

You flushed, feeling like you fucked this up before it even started. So you were supposed to uphold the roommate agreement right now.

"Shhh, just teasin'." He grabbed your hips, guiding you to sit on the couch next to him. You kept your eyes locked on his angry red tip the whole time, not sure where else you were supposed to could look.

"You can touch," he said easily, obviously anything but shy. "Wouldn't be jacking off in the living room if I didn't want you to."

You reached out tentatively, only now flicking your eyes up to his. He gave you an encouraging nod, and when your fingers wrapped around him he hissed. His cock made your hand look tiny, comedically so, and there was so much that it made you wonder how you were going to cover so much ground. The skin was warm and surprisingly soft, and the velvety texture only made you want to touch him more.

"Just like that, princess. Just want you to play. It's way more fun to watch you play with cock for the first time than get another fucking handjob."

You nodded, feeling totally entranced by the thing you were holding in your hand. Never was that a word you would think you'd use, but just like the rest of him it was fucking perfect. Or maybe it was perfect because it was attached to perfect thighs and a perfect tan stomach that was attached to a perfect tan neck which attached to his perfect fucking face. Your eyes followed your train of thoughts, and when you looked up at him with that wide, innocent gaze dean felt like all the air had been punched out of him.

You felt like you were groping him more than stroking him, but you had yet to hear a peep of a complaint. Your thumb traced the divot under his head, and you watched him flinch when you brushed the flat part. Then you gripped him, slipping all the way down to feel the textured skin of his sac.

Dean watched you with wonder, seeming to have been telling the truth when he said that he'd rather watch you explore than make him cum.

"Having fun?"

His words shocked you out of your trance, but you quickly nodded in affirmation.

"Yeah. You're so... pretty. Can I... um. Can I put you in my mouth?" Your words were quiet and unsure, the verbal equivalent to a fawn, but you felt like you were about to start drooling so you didn't really care.

"Course you can, baby. Wanna get on your knees or lay on your tummy?"

"My knees," you whispered back, your eyes still locked on where your hand was wrapped around his cock.

He whipped the cushion against the back of the couch onto the floor, positioning it so you could kneel on it.

"Are you excited? Little thing like you is gonna have cock in her mouth for the first time. Fuckin' adorable."

You scrambled to the floor in response, the tip of your tongue immediately finding the head. The look on dean's face was so blissed out that you could shove your insecurities aside, and just play. Your tongue darted out to lick him everywhere you were interested in, and once his whole shaft had been worked up to a shine you closed your lips around the head. You worked slow, taking him bit by bit and laving your tongue the whole time, and when you got to taste a bead of him you moaned excitedly.

"Jesus, you're fuckin' cute," dean panted, his hand gently petting your head. "Actin' like a little puppy. I fuckin' love it."

Your whole body buzzed with the praise, and his words spurred you on to take him a little deeper. You finally understood the term 'mouthfull of cock.' He rested heavy on your tongue, and your whole universe seemed to shrink to what you could fit in your mouth.

"Look at you. Didn't even have to ask and you're trying to take me down your throat. Would've fucked my hand in the living room sooner if I knew you were gonna react like an eager little whore."

He found that out the hard way.

You were drawn to your grotto each time the full moon was out, developing a particular habit of trying to escape the apartment, each time causing Clark the most distress to try and find a way to soothe you while also keeping you contained.

You also became a bit more loopy than average.

Clark likes to call it your moon drunk. You slurred your words saying the strangest, most endearing things to him. It was his favorite when you got like this. So chatty and clingy, just spilling everything that came to your mind.

But the most notable way the full moons affected you was the sudden insatiableness for him that you developed.

It was a fact that he learned after the third full moon with you, something he assumes was when you fully found yourself trusting your nature with him to reveal the full depths of how the full moon's energy affected you.

Usually just before the full moon reaches its apex, you become insistently needy, a fact that you always denied the next day.

At first, Clark was hesitant to indulge you, not wanting to seem like he was taking advantage of your nature, but you were so, so persistent.

And the one time he denied you, you became so pained and humiliated that you locked yourself in the bathroom, wailing and weeping pearls until Clark had to pry open the door and coax you into the bedroom just to stop the cries that were so loud and heartwrenching, he was sure the neighbors heard.

He knew not to deny you again after that incident.

In fact, he made sure to take careful consideration of the full moon nights, either getting off work early or taking the whole day off to help you through your needs.

So when Clark found out through work that there was a rare supermoon approaching, he made sure to call the day off at least a few weeks in advance to help ease you through the effects of however this full moon might affect you.

This would be the first supermoon the two of you experienced together after all.

The only other special full moons that the two of you experienced are the occasional blue moons, which Clark tends to find make you sadder than a typical full moon.

Clark turns over in bed, admiring your sleeping figure. He awoke before you today, not unusual for these types of days, where you tended to stay up all through the night. He took in your beautiful resting features, hoping that tonight would be a supermoon that brought you peace.

You started to stir, rustling around, until slowly peeling your eyes open. The sunlight seeping through the windows caught your attention first, realizing that you slept in later than usual. You rolled over to face Clark's side, smiling when you noticed he was already awake and watching you.

"Good morning love," he says, brushing your sleep-tussed hair out of your face.

"Good morning," you reply softly, nuzzling your nose into his neck, suddenly eager to take in his scent.

"How are you feeling?" Clark assessed while tucking you in closer, his eyes scanning over you. The full moon effects rarely started so early, but he could never be too sure, especially not with a rare one like tonight's. He would have to be extra attentive today.

"Good, today's going to be a good day. I can feel it."

"Oh yeah?" Clark smiles.

"Yeah." you nod assuredly.

"What else can you feel, hm?" Clark asks back, nuzzling back into you, placing soft kisses to your exposed neck and shoulder.

"I feel," you exhale softly as Clark sucks into the sensitive spot behind your ear and you pull his muscled body even closer atop you, you giggle softly before saying, "Your lips."

"Mhm," Clark mumbles against your skin, moving to kiss lower near your collarbone, "What else?"

You chuckle, squeezing his muscled arms, "And your perfect body on mine."

"And?" Clark sucks on your chest now, not quite reaching your soft breasts. Your fingers entangle into his messy soft curls, pulling his face flush against you.

"And your soft hair and skin."

Clark sighs against you, his warm breath sending a ripple down your spine.

"I think I can also feel you making me salmon for breakfast? Maybe on that strange bread with a hole you like?" You ask with that higher tone of voice that makes Clark fold every time.

It's his turn to let out a small laugh, and he pulls back to gaze into your eyes. "A bagel? Is that what my love is craving this morning?"

You nod against him, finally placing a kiss to his awaiting lips. Clark deepens it, chasing the kiss whilst rolling you flat on your back so he hovers over you. "Okay, I'll go make it for you."

"Extra salmon?"

"Of course."

Clark places a few more chaste pecks to your lips before getting up completely from bed. He smiles at the soft whine you let out at his absence.

Clark finds himself in the kitchen taking out all the necessary items for your salmon bagel. On days like these, he usually cooks for the both of you, bringing it back into your bedroom for breakfast in bed, followed by a lazy day and eventful night.

So he's a bit shocked when he feels your arms wrapped around him from behind just twenty minutes later. You snuggle into the hard planes of his back as he works to cut thin slices of fish for you.

He turns around in your arms, holding a small piece of fish in between the pads of his fingers, he brings it down to your lips, feeding it to you. You sigh contentedly.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"You feeling okay? You're usually never out of bed this fast."

"I know, but it's like I said. I can feel that today's going to be a great day. And I missed you. You were gone too long." You pout.

Clark kisses your pout, before turning around and finishing up your bagel. You follow him around as he makes coffee and your tea, washes the dishes, turns on the tv and finally settles into the couch together.

If his observations are correct, you're definitely more clingy than normal already. But it's not like he minds.

Clark was expecting this to happen.

And its like that for the rest of the day too. You are glued to his side, not even realizing that you haven't broken apart from him since those twenty minutes in the morning. He moves, you move. You shower him with kisses and cuddles, remaining tucked into his side all day and only get up to leave to pee.

Which happens a lot because you've also been strangely thirsty today.

Clark (and you) get up multiple times to refill a large cup of water for you to gulp down in seconds. He's never seen that from you before, but you see nothing wrong with it.

You just smile shyly and hand him the cup again twenty minutes after downing the other. "One more, please?"

It isn't until after your shower, right before sundown, does it seem like you start to feel any outward effects.

"Clark?" you start, approaching him with damp hair and fiddling fingers, quickly glancing out the window and back towards him.

"Yes?"

"I want to go. To my grotto."

Clark's lips curved. 

It's begun. And right on time, too.

"Not today, love. Another time." He meets your stance in the middle of the living room and places his large hands on your shoulders. He hopes you won’t give him too hard of a time on this. He hates telling you no.

"But I feel it, Clark. It's so strong, and it's calling me. I have to go. Right now."

You try to walk around him towards the front door, but Clark is quicker.

He stops you in your tracks with a gentle but firm hand to the waist. "I know, I know. But we've talked about this before. It's too dangerous tonight. It's a full moon, baby, and I don't want you to get hurt out there."

You glance out the window one more time, before facing him with large glassy eyes, and nodding your head in defeat.

"Okay."

Clark's brow shoots up.

That was it? No arguing back? No trying to make a run for it? This was so unlike you to give in so easy. He expected more fight this time around.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're right. I don't want to get hurt out there." You nod again, walking back towards your room to plop on the bed.

Clark follows behind, studying you carefully. The moon was still rising, at least another hour before its apex. He wasn't sure whether to accept this reaction from you as a win just yet.

He makes sure to watch you cautiously. The next hour passes in a haze of soft touches and murmured words.

You've migrated to the center of the bed, limbs sprawled out like a starfish, your head resting in Clark's lap as he sits against the headboard. His fingers card through your drying hair, the motion rhythmic and soothing. The tv plays some nature ocean documentary neither of you are paying attention to, the soft narration a distant hum in the background.

"Clark," you say, your voice carrying that telltale slur he's come to recognize, "Do you know how many stars there are?"

"I don't, love. Tell me."

"More than I can count on my fingers. And toes. And yours too."

Clark chuckles, his chest vibrating against your back. "That's a lot of stars."

"Mhm. But you know what's prettier than all of them?" You tilt your head back to look up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused, pupils blown wide. There's a soft pink flush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck.

"What's that?"

You reach up, fingers fumbling, trying to trace the line of his jaw but missing by a few inches. Clark catches your hand gently and presses it to his face, guiding it to where you were aiming. You giggle, the sound light and airy, and your thumb traces the strong line of his jaw.

"You. You're the prettiest. Prettier than stars. Prettier than pearls. Prettier than anything in the ocean."

Clark feels his heart squeeze at your words. He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "Thank you, that's a high compliment, coming from a mermaid."

"I'm not a mermaid right now," you say, your voice taking on a petulant edge. "See, no tail. I'm just yours."

"Always," he agrees softly.

You shift in his lap, suddenly restless. Your fingers curl around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it. "Do you remember the first time we met, Clark?"

"How could I forget?" He watches your face carefully, noticing how your pupils are beginning to expand even further, how your breathing is becoming just a little more shallow. 

"I was so lost," you start. "When I washed up on that shore, I thought they were going to sell me. Or worse. I thought I was going to die. I could feel the air leaving my body, and I was so scared, Clark. I was so scared."

Your eyes are bright now, a sheen of wetness gathering at the corners. "And then you came.. You held me so gently. You said it was going to be okay."

Clark's throat tightens. He remembers it vividly, finding you on that rocky shore, your beautiful tail glinting silver under the pale moonlight.

The way you'd flinched away from him, terrified, your sharp teeth bared. And how he'd spoken to you in the softest voice he could muster, the same voice he used with scared animals, with children, with anyone who needed to know they were safe.

"I thought you were a monster at first," you continue, your words tumbling out faster now, the moon's pull clearly taking hold. "So big. So tall. You were glowing in the light, and I thought, oh no, I've died and now a sea demon is coming to drag my soul to the depths."

"I was not glowing," Clark protests, but he's smiling.

"You were! You were—" You struggle to sit up, and Clark helps you, his hands firm on your waist as you turn to face him. You straddle his lap, your legs on either side of his hips, your face inches from his. "You were so beautiful. Like a prince from the stories the elders used to tell. The ones who come to rescue princesses from sea witches."

Clark's hands settle on your hips, steadying you as you sway slightly. "You thought I was a prince?"

"I thought you were an angel," you correct, your voice dropping to a whisper. "My angel."

Clark swallows hard. "I'm just a man, sweetheart."

"No," you insist stubbornly, shaking your head. "No, you're not. You're so much more. You're stronger than anyone. You're braver than anyone. You saved me. You saved my life. You gave me a home. You gave me everything." Your voice cracks, and a pearl slips free from your eye, rolling down your cheek.

"I love you so much, Clark. Do you know that? Do you know how much I love you?"

Clark catches the pearl with his thumb, brushing it away. "I know, baby. I know."

You press your forehead to his, your breath mingling with his. "I can't wait to surprise you tonight."

Clark's brow furrows. "Surprise me?"

But you're already moving on, your attention fluttering away like a butterfly. You lean back, your hands braced on his broad shoulders, and start babbling about something else entirely. "The moon is so bright today. I can feel it in my bones. It's singing. Can you hear it? It's singing to me. It sounds like whales. Do you like whales? I love whales. They're so big and gentle, like you—"

"Love," Clark interrupts gently, his hands tightening on your hips. "What did you mean by that? 'Surprise me.'"

You tilt your head, blinking slowly, your eyes unfocused. "Hmm? What did I say?"

"You said you can't wait to surprise me."

Your face splits into a wide, loopy grin. "Oh! Did I say that? I don't know. Sometimes I say things. It's the moon's fault." You nod sagely, as if this explains everything.

Clark's eyes search yours, a flicker of concern mixing with deep affection. He hopes you’re not planning on running away.

Before he can press further, your body does something strange. He feels it. A ripple of energy passes through you, a shiver that travels from your core outwards, and suddenly your eyes are clearing, the dreamy haze sharpening into something else entirely.

"Apex," you breathe, the word barely audible.

Clark glances at the window. The moon has risen high in the sky, a luminous silver disk so large and bright it seems to fill the entire frame. Moonlight streams through the glass, pooling across the floor in a shimmering puddle that edges towards the bed. A beam of pure silver light lands directly across you both, illuminating your face.

And Clark watches as you transform.

You gasp sharply, your hands flying to his chest, and he sees it. Your eyes. The soft color that he fell in love with, that he dreams about, that he's memorized in every detail—they've changed. Your irises have become something otherworldly, a luminescent silver that glows faintly in the moonlight. A shiver runs through you, and when you arch your back, your skin takes on an iridescent sheen, tiny scales catching the light like scattered diamonds along the curve of your spine, your shoulders, your cheeks.

"Clark," you whimper, and your voice is different. More desperate. "Clark. I need you. Oh, I need you."

"Baby—"

"Please. Please, I can't—" You're already moving, grinding down against his lap, and Clark feels the heat of you through both your clothes. "It hurts. It hurts so bad. I need you to help me. I need you inside me."

Clark cups your face, his thumb stroking your glowing cheek. "Slow down, sweetheart. Let's take our time—"

"No!" The word is a sharp sob, and your fingers dig into his shoulders, claws extending just slightly, not to hurt but to hold on. "No slow. No time. Clark, I need you now. Right now. I can't wait. I can't. It's too much."

"Okay, okay baby, let's just ease into it yeah—"

You ignore him, trying to lean down and capture his lips, but he leans back before you can make contact.

You feel your frustrations rise, and try not to let it get to you. Instead, you use your words, your slurred, loopy, words. 

“Did you know that when there's a supermoon, most mermaids enter their mating heat,” you whisper sensually into Clark's ear. 

Clark stiffens. No he did not know that. 

You nod, continuing on, “The supermoon makes it stronger. It makes us just want to fuck, and fuck and fuck. I need you. I need my mate. Please, please, please—"

Clark gasps at your vulgarity. He knows for a fact that you did not learn that word from him and he plans to address your language later.

But right now your hips are moving frantically, your body acting on instinct, and Clark can see the tears starting to stream down your face, each one a perfect pearl that falls onto his chest.

"Please don't deny me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please. I can't take it. I can't. I'll die, Clark. I want my mate."

Clark's jaw tightens. He's seen you desperate before, seen you in the throes of the full moon, but never like this. Never this frantic, this pained, this utterly undone.

He can hear your heart, can feel the fevered heat radiating from your skin, can smell the salt of your tears and the sweet, heady scent of your arousal.

He could try to soothe you. He could hold you, speak to you, try to calm you down. But he remembers what happened the last time he denied you. The wailing. The pearls. The broken sobs that nearly destroyed him.

And the words you just said: I'll die.

There's a chance it's the moon talking, the hysteria of the moment. But there's also a chance it's not. And Clark would never, ever risk that chance.

"Okay," he says softly, his voice like warm honey. "Okay, love. I've got you. I'm going to take care of you."

You sob in relief, your hands immediately going to his shirt, trying to pull it off. "Yes. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, thank you—"

"Easy, sweetheart. Easy." Clark helps you, tugging his shirt off and tossing it aside, then working on yours. Your skin is glowing now, beautiful and ethereal, and when you're finally bare before him, his breath catches. The faint scales have spread further, delicate shimmering patterns along your collarbone, down your ribs, curving around your breasts. You're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Touch me," you beg, grabbing his hands and pressing them to your chest. "Touch me, Clark. I need you to touch me."

He does. He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you cry out, your back arching, your hips grinding down harder. He kneads the soft flesh gently, watching your face, gauging your reactions. You're oversensitive, he realizes. Every touch makes you jolt and moan.

"Please," you whimper. "More. I need more."

Clark flips you over gently, laying you flat on the bed. The moonlight streams down over your naked body, making you look like a goddess, like something born of starlight and saltwater. You whine at his absence, reaching for him, but he shushes you softly.

"I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere."

He trails his mouth down your body, pressing gentle kisses to your neck, your chest, the soft curve of your belly. You writhe beneath him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you.

"Let me taste you first," he murmurs. "Let me make you feel good."

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes, yes—"

Clark doesn't wait. He lowers his head and licks a broad stripe up your center, and you scream.

The taste of you is different tonight. Saltier. Sweeter. More potent. It’s delicious. 

He moans against you, his tongue diving deeper, lapping at your folds. You're so wet, so incredibly wet, and you're trembling, your whole body shaking beneath his mouth. He can feel your muscles fluttering, your arousal coating his tongue, and he drinks you in like he's been lost in a desert.

"Oh" you pant, tugging at his hair. "Yes, Clark, please—"

He slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. Your legs tighten around his head, your hips bucking up to meet his mouth. He works you relentlessly, his tongue flicking over your clit, his fingers thrusting and stroking.

And then you shatter.

You cry out his name, your body seizing, your climax crashing through you. He feels you pulse around his fingers, feels the gush of liquid that floods his mouth—sweet and salty and so much of it. He drinks it down, moaning, his eyes closing as he savors every drop.

God you’ve never tasted this good before.

"Clark," you sob, still trembling.

He rises up over you, shedding his remaining clothes in a hurry. His cock is achingly hard, leaking precum, and when he sees the desperate, pleading look in your glowing eyes, he knows he can't wait any longer either.

"I'm going to give you what you need, baby," he says, his voice low and thick with desire. "I'm going to take care of you."

"Please," you whimper, spreading your legs wider. "Please, Clark. I'm ready. I'm so ready. I need to feel you inside me. I need my mate to breed me."

The words hit him like a freight train. He stares down at you stopping his movements, his heart hammering. "B-breed you?"

"Yes," you nod eagerly, glad that he’s understanding. "It’s a supermoon, Clark. The best time to make babies. Don’t you want me to have your babies?”

Clark inhales shakily. He knows that he has to be especially careful with his words to you right now. The wrong words could set you off completely. 

But this is so new. You’ve never discussed children before, gosh, he didn’t even know if it was possible for a mermaid and kryptonian to have kids.

There's a deep, primal part of him that roars to life at your words, a part he's always kept carefully controlled. But he pushes it down, forcing himself to stay gentle, to stay present, for you.

Besides, the longer he contemplated, the more squirmy you got underneath him. He decides not to overthink it, for both of your sakes. You’ll cross that bridge if when you get there.

“Oh, of course I do, love. I’d want nothing more. You’d be the most beautiful mama,” Clark agrees, finding that the words are more truthful than he’d like to admit right now.

You light up at his words, clearly turned on even more by his agreement, evident by the wetness seeping from your core. You reach up to cup his face, nodding quickly. "Please fill me up."

Clark doesn't need to hear more. He lines himself up, presses the tip of his cock to your entrance, and slides inside you.

You both gasp. You're so tight, so warm, so welcoming. He sinks into you slowly, inch by inch, watching your face as he takes you. Your mouth falls open, your eyes rolling back, a broken moan spilling from your lips.

"Gosh" you whisper, your legs wrapping around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back. "More, Clark. Give me all of you."

He does. He sinks to the hilt, buried deep inside you, and you both stay there for a moment, breathing heavily. You're clutching at him, your claws digging into his back, but he doesn't feel the pain. He feels your pulse, feels the rhythmic flutter of your walls around him, feels the moonlight on his skin.

"Oh," you breathe, your voice trembling. "Oh, it's so good. It's so good, Clark. You feel so good inside me. So big. So perfect."

"Yes baby," he groans, his forehead dropping to yours. "You feel amazing. So wet for me. You’re dripping."

"I'm always wet for you," you pant, your hips starting to move. "Always. I'm always ready for you. I need you inside me. Always—"

Clark begins to move, slow and deep, thrusting into you with measured strokes. He wants to go faster, wants to pound into you, wants to satisfy that desperate, primal need he sees in your eyes.

But he also wants to savor this. To be gentle. To remind you that you're safe, that you're loved especially during this vulnerable time.

But you have other ideas.

"Harder," you beg, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "I need it harder, Clark. Faster. Please. I'm not going to break."

Clark obeys. He starts to thrust in earnest, his pace quickening, the bed creaking beneath you. You cry out, your head thrown back, your body arching into his. He drives into you deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you shatter again.

This time, you don't just tremble. You convulse, your walls clenching around him so tightly it almost hurts. 

And you gush. A torrent of liquid floods around his cock, soaking the sheets, soaking him. He moans loudly, thrusting through it, and he feels your liquid hit his chin, his chest, dripping down his stomach.

"Water," he breathes, suddenly understanding. "All that water you've been drinking—"

You smile sheepishly. “Surprise.”

“Oh love,” Clark groans, his cock hardening and twitching inside of you.

"Taste it,” you insist. “I made it just for you.”

Clark stares down at you, his heart pounding. Your eyes are glowing, your body shimmering, and you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He can't help himself. He lowers his head and starts licking the liquid off your skin, moaning at the taste. Sweet. Salty. Perfect.

"Oh my" you gasp, watching him. "Clark—"

"It tastes so good," he murmurs against your skin, his tongue lapping at the curve of your breast. "So good, baby. Thank you. I want more. I need more."

"Yes," you sob. "Make me come again. Make me come again and I’ll give you more. Every drop."

Clark obliges. Anything to get another taste of the sweet liquid you make.

He positions you on your hands and knees, the moonlight streaming down onto your back, illuminating the faint scales that shimmer along your spine. He slides back inside you, deeper now, reaching parts of you he couldn't before. You cry out, your body shaking, and he begins to thrust again, faster this time, his rhythm a little more desperate, snapping against you.

"You're so beautiful," he groans, his hands gripping your hips. "So perfect, baby. So perfect. I love you so much."

"I love you too," you sob, pushing back against him. "I love you so much. I'm so close—"

Clark drives into you, hard and deep, and you climax with a scream. You gush around him, flooding his cock, soaking him, but he doesn't stop yet. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release. He can feel it building, a pressure in his core, a white-hot heat that's almost too much.

"Fill me," you beg, your voice breaking. "Fill me up, please. I want it."

"Gosh baby—"

"Come inside me," you urge, your walls clenching around him. "Come in me, Clark. Fill me up. Make me yours. I want to feel you. I want to taste you. Please—"

That's all it takes. Clark groans, his hips stuttering, and he comes. He pours into you, thick and hot, filling you to the brim. You gasp, feeling it, and the euphoria is so strong you start crying in pleasure, more pearls falling from your eyes as you shake and tremble beneath him.

Clark holds you steady, riding out his orgasm, and when it's over, he collapses behind you pushing apart your legs and drinking up every last drop of your shared juices. 

He can’t get enough, the taste so addicting, he’s almost upset you’ve never squirted for him before.

"I love you," you whisper, your voice small and exhausted. "I love you so much, Clark."

"I love you too," he murmurs in between laps of your sopping cunt, "More than anything."

The night goes on just like that.

Clark loses track of time. He loses track of everything except you and your divine taste.

You're insatiable. Every time he thinks you're satisfied, your hands find him again, your mouth finds his, your body presses against his. He fucks you in every position—on your back, on your knees, on your side, in his lap, against the wall. He makes you come until you're hoarse, until your voice is gone, until you're shaking so hard you can't hold yourself up. He drinks every single gush of liquid that you produce, licking it from your skin, from his skin, from the soaked sheets.

And each time, you beg for him to do it again.

"More," you pant, straddling him, bouncing on his cock. "I know you want more Clark. Come, I’ll give you more—"

He comes inside you again and again, his seed mixing with your arousal, your liquid, your tears. You release again and again and again as well, leaving everything soaked. The bed, the floor, the walls. Everything is wet, glistening, and beautiful.

Clark's tongue finds you again. He's on his stomach between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth buried in your folds. You're crying, trembling, your fingers tangled in his hair as he works you with his tongue and fingers.

"Clark," you sob, your hips bucking. You felt that this was it, all that you had left to give to him "Clark, I'm—"

You gush against his mouth one final time, letting go of the most release, and Clark drinks it all, moaning like he's tasting the finest nectar, not wasting a single drop. He doesn't stop until you're limp beneath him, your body finally still.

"Just one more" you whisper, barely audible. "Please—"

He doesn't need to be asked twice. He slides back into you, fills you, makes love to you one last time. He comes inside you, and you come with him, your body clenching around him, milking every last drop.

When it's finally over, you're both completely exhausted. Clark holds you in his arms, your back against his chest, your body tucked into his. The moonlight has started to fade, the apex passed, and your eyes are slowly returning to their soft brown.

"Are you okay?" he murmurs, kissing your hair.

"I'm perfect," you whisper. "That was... that was incredible."

"Was it what you needed?"

You turn in his arms, your eyes meeting his. There's something soft and vulnerable in your gaze. "Everything I needed. And more."

Clark smiles, pulling you closer, cuddling you to his chest. "Good."

You rest your eyes, feeling the moon’s effects finally easing down.

“Love?” Clark starts, and you have a feeling you know what he’s going to ask.

“Yes?”

“Why haven’t you…uh, you’ve nev—never done that before. You know…” He trails off not wanting to voice the actual words out loud.

You grin, hiding your face, “It only happens on supermoons. The energy just makes it easier for us.”

“Oh, I see.”

You turn around, crawling to lay on top of him, face to face, your voice dropping back into that seductive tone, “And we know that men like you get wayyy too obsessed with our taste.”

Clark simply hums in agreement. You were right, he was already obsessed and addicted, itching for more, as if he hadn't gotten enough already.

You continue, “So it’s better that it only happens rarely. Makes us less likely to get used for it.”

Clark's brow furrows, a flicker of hurt passing through his eyes. He cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I would never—"

"I know," you interrupt softly, pressing a finger to his lips. "I know you wouldn't. But there are others who would." Your voice drops, a shadow of old pain flickering across your features. "That's why I was so scared when I first met you. I thought you were like them. I thought you wanted me for... what I could give you."

Clark's arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against your hair. "I'm sorry anyone ever made you feel that way."

You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his chest. "You don't have to be sorry. You're the one who showed me it could be different. You're the one who showed me what love really is." You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, a sleepy smile on your lips. 

"And now you're the only one who gets to taste me. Ever. Got it?"

Clark laughs softly, his chest rumbling beneath you. "Got it."

"Good." You settle back against him, your ear pressed to his heart. "I'm exhausted."

Clark hums in agreement, his hand finding its way to your hair, stroking gently. "Sleep, love. I've got you."

The next morning, Clark wakes up to you sleeping peacefully beside him, your hand resting on your belly. The sheets are in tatters. The room smells like salt and sex and love.

Every little thing adds up when it comes to Sam. He hasn't really done much so he gets flustered easily, and when your lips brush the shell of his ear with a seductive whisper, he's doing his absolute best to hide his hard on.

Every time your hand brushes his or your fingers trail up his arm his breath hitches and his eyes squeeze shut, willing himself to act all least slightly normal.

It doesn't really work.

When you get sick of the hints he doesn't pick up on, or does and just doesn't do anything about, you decide to get a little more....forward.

When his head is stuck in a book, too focused on that to realise that you've been giving him the eye for twenty minutes, you give up on subtlety.

You stroll up to him, pluck the book from his hands and lean down close, pressing as much of yourself against him as you can.

"Say the word, Sammy, and I'll walk away"

His eyes flick up to yours, pulse thudding in his ears, watching as you take his hands and place them on your sides, relishing in the feeling of finally touching you.

You close the distance, climbing into his lap, lips trailing up and down his neck, teeth beginning to graze.

His grip on you tightens, his jaw clenched hard, fighting inside.

It only took a few grinds of your hips down onto his and your mouth on his skin for him to fall apart, bucking up against you, shooting ropes into his boxers.

You looked down at him with an exaggerated little pout, his eyes glassy.

"Poor baby" You swiped a tear away from his eye, bringing it to your lips to taste "You're just a desperate little thing, aren't you"

He nodded, shame flooding over him, moving to bury his face in your neck.

You gripped the hair at the back of his head tight, pulling him back to see him again.

"Nu-uh, Sammy. I wanna see those pretty mystery eyes cry"

You find the whole thing absolutely hilarious. Compared to other hunters you’ve met, the Winchesters are by far the most committed to their craft.

“Is this… a Buc-ee’s uniform?” You snort whilst sorting the laundry into piles — lights on the left, darks on the right. You’re all in agreement that it’s best to pile everyone’s clothes together — family style — to save on money. You certainly don’t have the funds to complain.

Sam glances at you, huffing out a laugh. The cartoonish, buck-toothed beaver grins maniacally on the chest of the bright red T-shirt. “Yeah. Weird case, that one.”

You grin, holding the shirt against you as if seriously considering whether you should borrow it or not. It wouldn’t be the first time you shared clothes with Sam; he always has to downplay how much he likes the sight. “Did the case involve Buc-ee haunting the gas station, or…?”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” he says with a small smile. He cringes a moment later when he lifts a pair of Dean’s dirty boxers up. He picks it up by the waistband with the very tips of his fingers, tossing it in with the dark pile. “God, this is gross. Dean, come touch your own stuff, man.” 

“In a second,” the older brother calls back, punching his thumb into the keypad of the laundromat’s vending machine. Dean returns to his station a moment later with a small bag of peanut M&M’s and a handful of quarters for the machine. He lets them clang against the top of the washer before looking between you two with a smile. “Hey, wanna vote on who gets to stay with the stinky socks?”

Sam glances at his brother, squinting. “And how, exactly, are we gonna decide that?” Nobody wants to be stuck sitting around with the laundry — everybody knows that.

“Easy,” Dean says. He touches his nose, quickly muttering, “Nose goes!” 

Before Sam can react, you drop a pair of your own pants to touch the tip of your nose. He sends you a look of absolute betrayal, and you shrug, smiling innocently. 

“What? He said nose goes, Sam. I have to respect it.”

Sam’s shoulders sink, and Dean pats his back with a shit-eating grin. “Tough luck, kid.” 

Once the three of you have sorted the laundry into piles, Dean hooks an arm around your shoulders, flashing a smile at his little brother. 

“We’re gonna play hooky. Call us when the chores are done, Sammy.”

You shoot Sam a pitying look, gently removing yourself from Dean’s side. “See you. Don’t have too much fun.”

The younger brother wears a tight smile, watching you leave with his brother, driving off to who-knows-where. He deflates once he’s alone in the laundromat, leaning against the washing machine with a heavy sigh. He begins to shove the clothing into the washing machine — lights in one, then on to the darks in a second machine. In the middle of tossing piles of clothes into the machine, something drops to the floor. Sam bends down to pick it up, only to stop in his tracks. 

Navy blue underwear, clearly yours, lay innocently upon the linoleum floor. Sam’s fingers twitch, still halfway to daintily picking them up and throwing them in with the rest of the load.  

Unfortunately, Sam’s cock twitches, too. 

He shouldn’t be this invested in a pair of underwear. They’re nothing spectacular — there’s not much time for sexy lingerie or lacy panties on the road — but they look soft. Gently worn and lived in. A vision of you wearing one of his shirts with a comfortable pair of underwear beneath is beamed directly into his brain, and he blinks hard, trying to will the arousing yet domestic image away. 

He’s going to pick them up, Sam tells himself, and he’s going to toss them in with the rest of the laundry. Simple as that. He’s not going to be weird about this. He’s certainly not the type to steal them like some creep.

…But he could always borrow them. Just for today — just for a few minutes, really. You’ve borrowed his clothes before, after all. What’s so different about this? 

Even Sam knows that explanation is flimsy bullshit, but it’s all he can offer when he suddenly shoves your underwear down his back pocket and sets the washer to run. The next hour and a half or so will surely be a miserable, boring wait anyway — he might as well have some entertainment. 

Sam glances around him before scurrying off to the restroom in the back corner. He locks the door behind him, presses his back to the door, and reaches for the underwear in his pocket. The fabric bunches up in his palm, crumpled in his big hand. Just looking at it is making him half-hard already. 

Hesitantly, Sam lifts the underwear to his face. He’s terribly curious to know what you smell like — even if pressing the gusset of your panties to his nose makes him blush from the shame of it. Sam inhales deeply, audibly sighing on the exhale. Every fantasy he’s ever had about stuffing his face between your legs is suddenly about to get far more vivid. 

Sam audibly moans, parting his lips against the fabric. He breathes against it for a minute, hot air blowing past his lips. Without thinking, he closes his mouth around the cotton gusset, sucking on your underwear. It’s embarrassing how he’s salivating, his spit wetting the navy dye into black. 

His jeans are already so fucking tight. Sam stuffs your panties in his mouth, holding them in place between his teeth while he reaches down, hastily pops the button, and parts the zipper’s teeth. The second his fingers curl around his cock, Sam stiffens further, standing at attention. He aggressively pumps his cock with his fist, drooling into your underwear all the while. The heady scent of you has him moaning into the cotton, his head thudding back against the door while he leaks into his palm. 

It’s not enough. 

Still drooling, Sam pulls the garment from his mouth, draping it around his stiff cock. He closes his damp hand over it, then begins the friction anew. Your panties are dragged up and down his shaft, getting soaked in spit and precum, until the fabric is little more than a damp rag for him to fuck into. Sam can still taste you, the flavor of your used undergarment lingering on his tongue. He groans, lashes fluttering as he gets off, finally cumming on your underwear with a stuttered sigh. 

When the post-orgasm clarity hits, Sam slumps against the door, still clutching the soiled panties around his softened cock. The fabric is utterly soaked through with fluids. Sam grimaces at his own handiwork, dragging your underwear over his cock to wipe up the overspill. Now that he’s holding the damp garment in his hand, he’s not sure what to do with it — but the sight of his cum soaking your underwear is truly picture-worthy. With shaking hands, he dares to flip open his phone to snap a photo. Something for later, he tells himself, that isn’t so deplorable. 

Sam washes his hands and reluctantly rinses off your underwear. He’s careful to make sure no one’s around — the laundromat is still empty, thankfully — and Sam quickly tosses your underwear in to be cleaned with the rest of the load. It’s out of his system now. 

Until he plucks them out of the dryer and stuffs them right back into his pocket, that is. A dirty little secret, a last minute decision that has him blushing. It’s fine, he assures himself. He’ll give them back the next time you have to do the laundry. 

You certainly won’t miss a single pair until then, right?

> masterlist. > main.

Those days you woke up rested, still in each other’s arms with his lips ghosting across your neck, placing a couple soft kisses in between a raspy ‘good morning’. Those were the good nights.

In your time together you’ve also discovered the bad nights.

You wake up to Homelander screaming, crying or thrashing around often enough that you’ve learned to manage it. 

One way or another.

Some nights it requires soft cooing words as you hold him close, rocking him from side to side, taking on the role of a mother soothing a crying child. Another night you hum anything that comes to mind—soft songs and rhythms that put Homelander to sleep faster than you’d expect. 

Some nights neither of you manages to fall asleep again so you sit in the dark of the room, talking in hushed voices akin to naughty kids staying up all night during a sleepover—worried the adults might overhear. While nobody is here to hear the two of you, the fantasy of a lighter moment in time feels too exhilarating to abandon.

You talk about anything and everything those nights. You talk about silly things like favourite colours and why there’s more to life than red, white, and blue—no, gold doesn’t count either.  Have big debates on what are statistically most likely to be people’s favourite meals or drinks—you insist it’s not milk—or what would be the most nutritionally logical food if you could only eat that for the rest of your life. It’s the type of conversations you’ve had with friends instead of studying or working. You’d think they’d be too mundane to entertain and distract Homelander but he’s glowing, immersed in the experience of a low-stakes conversation that won’t matter by the morning. The memory of a peaceful time, however, will.

You make it your mission to give him the sleepover experience he’s never had in those evenings.

You talk about life experiences and events—you even share your most embarrassing moments just to get his mind off things and pretend to pout and get mad when he can’t hold back his laughter. It’s a rare thing these days—you enjoy it fully even if it comes at your expense. 

You introduce him to many games. You play ‘Would You Rather’ for at least an hour. It gets sillier and sillier by the hour.

“Would you rather have the Deep as your best friend or never get another blowjob?”

“Oh Christ, can we go back to when I was picking between a hug and a kiss?”

“Nope, you gotta answer. That’s the rule of the game.”

The 4 am giggles have fully set off by now and you find just about everything funny. The choked noise of disbelief at the question alone sends you into a wheezing fit. Homelander pulls you closer, and you can’t stop the way your laughter makes you shake against him.

“What if it’s a long-distance friendship? I kick him out of the Seven and send him back to Sandusky.”

He’s bargaining and all it does is send you down another spiral of tears-in-your-eyes laughter.

“Still gotta be a best friend though. You’d have to get on the phone with him ever so often.”

“Fuck—okay, define best friend.” 

“Somebody you go to with your deepest, darkest secrets. Somebody to hold you close when you’re upset.”

“Mhmmm, I have you for that.” He nuzzles into your neck, pressing a couple cute kisses into your skin. You’re so sensitive to laughter that the tickling sensation makes you burst into giggles. You make your escape but his iron grip doesn’t let you get far.

“You’d have to go to him too! What if we get into a fight? You gotta talk to your bestie Kevin about that.”

“Please, don’t ever say that—You know what—I mean—pfft—blowjobs are overrated anyway. Handjobs are still on the table, right? We’ll just have to get your hand really wet and then it’s no skin off my back.”

“Wow, okay, I’ll remember this.”

“Babe—”

The petulant tone just sends you into another fit of giggles—you swear your abs are gonna ache in the morning.

“Alright, your turn. Would you rather be skinned alive or burned alive?”

“What?! Those are horrible options. The fact that you’re even making me think about it is mean enough.”

“Exactly—now you know what I’m going through. Not that I’d let either happen. You know I’d save you, right?”

“Yeah, your water bestie could put out the fire.” 

“Alright, now you’ve done it.” 

The tickle fight that ensues makes you scream with laughter, begging for mercy like you’ve never had to before.

That ends the ‘Would you Rather?’ round and you move onto more unique games. You start enjoying Homelander’s powers for silly reasons. You’ve seen them in action, you’ve even seen him abuse them in bed but never have you just… had fun with them.

That night breaks another first for you both.

You’re both lying on your back staring up at the ceiling. Homelander’s using his penetrative vision to see through all the layers of the tower’s rooftop, pointing out the direction of stars he can see.

“How far can you even see?”

“Well, far, but they’re pretty fucking far away. Still just looks like a spec in the sky. Do you want to fly out with me? We can hover in the sky, watch the stars together.” It’s romantic and sweet but you’re more than content with just being next to him here. No great feats or displays of powers necessary—insane eyesight aside. Plus the bed is awfully comfortable and his body is oh so warm against you.

“No, I want to stay here. But let’s do that another night, I think that’s a really fun idea.” 

You tuck yourself closer to him, his arm automatically wraps around you, stroking up and down the side of your arm as he looks in other directions telling you all he can see through buildings and how many layers he manages to see through. You feel him puff his chest out anytime you let out a particularly amazed ‘wow’. 

When his discoveries lend to people getting ready in the early mornings or having sex is when you shut this activity down. But the laughter he’s freely sharing with you just might be worth invading other people’s privacy.

You spend these nights together until the dawn breaks. Both of you end up feeling more tired than usual in the middle of the day, but one knowing look is enough to put a fond smile on your face.

There are, however, some nights that are harder to recover from. His nightmares can leave him shaky and tense in the confusing state of in-between sleep and wakefulness and sometimes words are not enough to untangle the mess in his head.

He lashes out, screams, or pushes you away—seeing you for someone else.

He’s turned away from you. Too frazzled to even seek out your comfort. You know a part of him is worried that he’ll lose control of his lasers and blow two holes cleanly through your skin and bone—he’s said so before. You can’t say that hasn’t crossed your mind before, but he’s not hurt you yet—even accidentally. 

He’s not asleep, you can tell he’s still tense. He’s clutching the shared duvet so tight, it’s a straight line across your bodies. He nearly pinches it entirely off your side. Glancing into the mirror across from him doesn’t help you. While the moonlight illuminates the room, it’s not enough for your average eyes to discern anything more than vague silhouettes.

“Homelander,” you tap his shoulder gently with your fingertips, resisting the urge to pull back when he flinches. “It’s okay.” The rest of your fingers land on his hot, soft skin, slowly lowering your palm fully over his shoulder blade. You rub in slow circles over the tense muscle. He’s almost scorching hot, as if all that pent up frustration and inability to pulverize a target to release the pressure cooks him from the inside out.

“I’m fine—” His voice is hoarse yet one you could barely call menacing.

“Sh, sh, shhh…” You cut in, letting your tone extend into silence as your hand moves closer to his spine stroking your knuckles along the left side of it. “Just focus on me.”

If there’s one thing he’s even more affected by than the messy thoughts in his head it’s touch. Simple press of skin against skin that would mean nothing to anybody else. No matter how long you’ve been together, the novelty of every time you go out of your way to touch him has not worn off. Whether it’s holding his hand or seeking out a hug, he makes you feel like that’s the best part of his day.

You alternate between stroking with the back of your finger across his nape, just about meeting the short hairs and turning down to his back, palming over the expanse of his bare skin.

Anything to get his mind out of the dark spiral you drag your finger in the shape of letters across his back, spelling out a range of words and phrases ranging from ‘Homelander’ to ‘I love you’.

You smile to yourself once you see the tension of his shoulders release with a sigh. Your lips swap shifts with your fingers and you place little kisses across his neck and shoulders, enjoying the way he shudders and leans closer to you.

“Mhmm… closer.” He rumbles softly, his voice more a purr than the tension-strung rasp it was before.

You grin into the kiss you’re placing against his shoulder as you scoot over, your body now firmly pressed against his back. Homelander sighs in relief, the presence of you grounding. Your arm snakes in between his arm and his side as you let it limply curl around his midriff.

It’s not enough for Homelander. He grasps your hand in his own, pressing it firmly against his chest. He releases a heavy breath with the added pressure of your palm in between his pecs. Once he lets go, his own hand now hanging limp and loose with the fatigue of waning adrenaline rush, your hand kneads the pliable muscle and skin, nails making little lines in between the swirly chest hair.

Surprising even yourself, you let out a salacious little heavy breath when your hand goes in to cup his pec from the bottom giving it a squeeze. Without a thought you press your hips against his ass as if you could grind into him from this angle.

Getting a handful of his pec feels obscene enough to him too, except Homelander isn’t shy about the raspy moan he lets out. Feeling encouraged, your fingers give his nipple a squeeze before going back to kneading both of his pecs, one after the other, with a little thrust from your hips against his. Most of it isn’t even conscious, your body just reverts to what it knows best. Comforting one another through sex has always been a reliable remedy.

His body feels so good in your hands. Suddenly you wish he was lying underneath you so you could get two glorious handfuls of his tits, squeezing them and seeing the look on his face as you do. Even with the time passing the room is still too dark for you to make out his expression through the mirror’s reflection.

“You want me to take care of you?” The deep rasp of your voice should embarrass you but the need with which you run your hand across his body takes over.

His nod is followed by a nearly inaudible whimper.

His nerves are long gone but he’s not eager to twist this moment into your usual dynamic. The feel of a phantom hand that he cannot see is a thrilling change to your usual comforts.

Your hand slides down to his stomach, squeezing the side of him before tracing lines across his skin—teasing the line of his waistband.

“It’s okay John, I’ll make you feel so good.” You whisper his name into his ear like a dirty secret. Homelander groans and bucks his hips forward on autopilot—his body used to the naughty sensation of grinding against your silhouette in the middle of the night. This time he doesn’t meet the soft swell of your ass in front of him so he pivots, pushing back against you instead.

Your hand settles over the top of his soft cotton sleeping pants. Part of you is glad he’s worn them today, the feeling of them is divine when you brush up and down his thighs. While the feeling of his bare thighs against your palm is a nicer indulgence you enjoy the way he jumps when you squeeze, not expecting the faint sensation to turn so vivid within half a second.

He’s so jumpy like this. He has nothing to be afraid of nor surprised by. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him by a mile. Yet he’s acting like a virgin hitting third base.

He gasps out loud when your hand slides across his cock. He’s already hard. You wonder what was the first thing that made his cock jump in excitement in your comforting gestures today.

He’s usually more of an active participant in your bedtime activities but today he’s letting you lead. It’s a nice change. His cock is hard and hot through the fabric of his sleeping pants. He’s not wearing any underwear so you get to feel the glorious fullness and heft of his cock through the soft cotton, gift wrapped just for you.

You lose yourself in the feeling of your hand gliding over the thick outline of him up and down. The softness of the material against the pulsating hardness is a fun textural feast to experience. It’s mouth-watering. Homelander always needs, yearns so strongly his body takes over where his words don’t hold up.

“You’re doing so well, baby.” You continue whispering in his ear, kissing tiny little tickling kisses into his neck right under his ear. “Does this feel nice?” You ask, sweet as honey, as you cup his balls through his pants before returning to tapping your fingers across the head of his cock, feeling the wet little patch where he’s soaked through the material stick to your finger each time.

“Do you want more?” You tap your fingers across his considerable length.

“Uh-huh.” His response is clipped and breathy, choking on the way he’s been holding in his overwhelming reactions.

You both hiss in unison when your hand squeezes tight around his cock, feeling the pulse thud confidently against your grip. You rarely get to feel him tent a pair of loose-fitted pants like this. His suit is rigid and unforgiving—removing the fun of feeling his cock ache to be touched directly.

Even though you’re enjoying this soft play a little too much, making your own underwear damp the same way he’s making his pants at the highest point, you want your man to relax. He’s gone back to feeling tense and high-strung. Albeit for nicer reasons.

Your fingertips dance around the thin elastic band, finally slipping underneath and wrapping around his thick cock. The skin of his shaft is velvety soft and smooth, a treat for your hands when you feel the bump of his underside vein throb under your fingertips. You need better leverage to grip him properly and give him a good long stroke.

“Help me out?” You nudge at the fabric.

Instead of just pulling the waistband down enough to give you full access to his heavy cock, Homelander rips the fabric off, letting it separate at the seams and fall in tatters down on the bedroom floor next to his side of the bed.

You can’t deny that the effortlessness of it sends a thrill down your spine. You’ve long stopped him from ripping your clothes off anytime things get heated fast because you got frustrated with having to replace your wardrobe each month—seeing this makes you reconsider.

You let out an airy little laugh, “yep, that’ll do. Thank you.” You reward him with a little kiss on his neck. He preens and exposes more of his skin, letting you nuzzle into him fully. Daringly, you lick a line up the pretty slope and attempt to suck a hickey into the softest part of his neck. You fail—of course—but you’re persistent, surely one of these days it’s going to take.

You finally wrap your hand around his bare cock, forming a fist over the head. The poor man has been diligently leaking pre-cum, thoroughly wetting the head from where he rubbed it against the fabric.

You coat your hand in the substance, rubbing the smooth tip in a circle before you slide down, stroking just over the edge of his tip. It’s a sensitive part of him, you feel his thigh twitch against you involuntarily.

You spread his wetness down his shaft, impressively there’s enough of it for this to be a smooth comfortable slide of your hand. So attuned to each other’s bodies you both groan at the first full stroke of your fist down the entire length of his cock.

Your hand repeats the motion, stroking up and down in a soothing rhythm, neither too fast nor too slow. Just right. Even a simple rhythm is too much for poor Homelander who’s nearly trembling all over at the way your hand twists at the top. 

His cock makes a little wet squelchy noise when your fist runs over the head and closes at the top. It shouldn’t make you as wet as it does but there’s something inherently sexy about his body getting so aroused he’s produced enough pre-cum to slick your hand fully.

Your thumb slides over the tip and across the slit each time you stroke upwards, reaching a faster, heavier rhythm. The thud of your hand is nearly embarrassingly loud in the quiet home as your fist meets his hips at a steady interval.

Homelander’s freely whimpering now—to an untrained ear he sounds closer to sobbing (and he might well be) but you know that his most tortured whimpers equate to the best pleasure. 

It doesn’t even take beyond two minutes in total for him to fall apart. Your hand concentrates at the top of his cock, gliding over the edge of the head seamlessly, sending electric pleasure down his limbs. His cock twitches all over, throbbing heavy and hard in your hand.

His wet choked up moan is all you get as a warning before his entire body flexes and releases, his cock spurting pearly white ropes of come over your fist and his torso. He’s even managed to reach up to his neck. You give him a couple more deep and long strokes, really squeezing it all out of him.

With a heavy sigh he sags against the mattress, all of the fight and stress released out of him. In more ways than one.

“Mhm, that was beautiful.” You lean over and finally give him a little peck on his lips.

“Thankss for….mhmmmm… that.” His speech is slurred and a little heavy but the content smile on his face is all the thanks you need.

“Tissue?” He groans weakly and you nod, turning towards your end of the bed, plucking a wet wipe or two out of the package.

By the time you turn around with the wet tissues he’s asleep, huffing little sleepy breaths as you wipe his chest down off his own mess. Since he’s already asleep you go the extra mile to get out of bed and walk to the nearest trash and dispose of the tissue.

On the way back to bed you notice it’s gone 4am already. Settling back into bed hoping to fall asleep quickly you’re surprised when Homelander turns around, spooning you just like you did him earlier, huffing a quiet sleepy breath and settling his head against the top of your back.

Regardless of how the night goes, you will always have each other to rely on.

Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):

✦ his head always thrashes side to side, chest heaving, and forehead sweating. he lets out huffs time to time, sometimes a whine slipping through.

✦ he’d shift, unknowingly kicking his blanket clean off and onto the floor. he’d always end up on his stomach, erection pressed firmly into the mattress. each thrust into you in his dream meant a rut into his bed.

✦ sometimes he’d moan your name, desperate and pathetic. it’d come out in a broken whisper tied with a firm grip on his pillow.

✦ after waking up, he’d curse at himself in shame. then, of course, deal with his raging erection.

✦ he’d flip onto his back and lower his sweats. his cock would spring out against his lower abdomen, coating it in a sheer layer of pre. he’d grip himself, letting his thumb run over his tip in attempt of holding off.

✦ but of course, sam was never a patient man. so, he’d begin to pump himself furiously. his head would fall back, and his jaw slacked open.

✦ still, all that flood through his mind was you. your name left his lips like a prayer. he imagined it was your hand around him, pleasuring him while whispering sweet nothings into his ear. he envisioned your eyes narrowing on his throbbing cock before letting out a giggle. it made his back arch.

✦ he would start to rut up into his fist with his eyes screwed shut. he’d moan and whimper, “oh, f-fuck!” the pleasure was always too much for him to bare.

✦ his hips would stutter when he was close, then speed back up after he released over his stomach. he liked to keep going for just a moment, letting himself tense up in discomfort before finally relaxing against the bed.

✦ after cleaning up, he’d lay in bed again with you on his mind. he’d check his phone, hoping one day a notification would come from you, but alas it never did. so instead, he settled on dreaming of you.