Archive of Our Own

The hiss of a fresca signals the wrap-up of another awesome podcast episode. The camera's no longer rolling, crew already long gone, but Deep flashes his television smile anyways, the one he's been practicing in the mirror since his God U days, no matter if Noir is the only one to see it. Better to keep in the habit of smiling in a hot manner anyways—you never know when paparazzi is lingering in the hopes of catching an unflattering shot of you. Not that there's anything to worry about if you always look utterly sigma, but still. Better safe than sorry.

"Cheers, bro," he says, cans clinking, Noir's spilling a few drops, which makes Deep laugh at him, seconds before wrenching back his can's tab, which causes his own fresca to come bubbling up all over his glove.

"Fuck, did someone shake this? I swear someone keeps shaking mine!"

And it's Noir laughing now, "How would they even know which one's yours," which makes Deep roll his eyes. "They know I drink watermelon, bro."

Then, glancing towards the camera which is no longer rolling, leaning closer to the mic which is not recording anything anymore, he whispers, "I love juicy melons," his sexiest southern drawl, and damn, it really is a pity the episode is over already, because this is sure to get females everywhere creaming their panties. Maybe he'll work it into the next episode; they can always use another fresca sponsorship.

"And that," Noir says, rolling up his mask to take a sip, "is why someone would shake your drink, bro."

"Come on, you're seriously telling me that wasn't hot? That was so hot, dude. If you were a chick and you heard that, you wouldn't be turned on?"

Noir takes a sip of his fresca, head tilted to the side in contemplation, genuinely thinking this through. "Maybe a little," he concedes, "but not because of the melon part. The melon part was just sleazy. If anything, it's the voice. It's a good voice."

"Oh," Deep drawls, really leaning into it now, "you like my voice, sugar?" which makes Noir snort, a bit of strawberry fresca ejected from his nostrils at high velocity.

"Sugar? Seriously, sugar? You're a cowboy now?"

"What, you couldn't see me riding a horse and swinging my lasso?"

"No, absolutely not. I can see you getting thrown off a horse and the horse caving your skull in, though."

Deep pouts. "I mean, it can't be that much more difficult than riding a dolphin."

"You can't talk to horses, though. Unless…have you tried?"

"What?"

"It could be a general animal speech thing. Not exclusive to fish and stuff. Maybe you're just an animal whisperer in general."

"Bro," Deep says, "If I could talk to all animals, I would know by now. My theory is, most of them just aren't as intelligent," to which Noir laughs again.

"You're telling me a crab's more intelligent than a horse?"

"I mean, crabs don't let dumbass humans ride them."

"But dolphins and seals do tricks and flips for mackerel and shit."

"Okay, but that's fucked up. You could get a human to do flips for food if you starved and abused them."

"Aren't you part of the Vought Ocean World campaign?"

Deep leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "It's complicated."

"Yeah, I guess so. You do look really good on those posters."

And at that, Deep perks up. "You think so?"

"Yeah, dude. I mean, your biceps…it's impressive. I need to get on your routine."

"I could show you. I mean, if you wanna. Two bros hanging out together, working up a sweat…I mean, it could be fun," and that's what he's thinking about now, beads of sweat glossing Noir's bare skin, his bro's chiseled abs, because damn, that definition really is to die for, and maybe he'll even let Deep rub them a bit, massage his pecs, all of it not gay at all, just pure heterosexual admiration of another man's physique. It's not gay to oil up your bro, right? Bodybuilders do it all the time, and those guys are like, the peak of masculinity or something.

A cough from the direction of the door rips Deep from his daydreaming. "Are you two done flirting?" and Deep almost gets whiplash from how fast he sits up in his chair, head swiveling towards the sound, and he knows without looking that Noir's doing the same, because they both know this voice, holy shit, did not anticipate ever hearing it in the studio.

But indeed, Homelander is here, hands clasped behind his back, expression utterly unreadable. He's never visited the Podcast Set before, has never seemed all that interested in Manhandled in general, but Deep has always hoped that, secretly, he watches every episode, one of their most devout listeners. Rating them five stars on all the big platforms, maybe even leaving a gushing comment under their YouTube upload. Hands in his pants, touching himself to the sound of Deep's voice, his totally alpha words.

And well, Noir is there too, he supposes, but that's not why Homelander would be listening.

So, Deep flashes him the most charming smile he has. "Honored to have you, Sir," he says, "I'm so excited to see you showing interest in Manhandled," to which Homelander only scoffs.

"I'm not interested in your insipid podcast," he says, turning away from Deep as if he's nothing, as if he's only a mild annoyance. "I'm here because Noir has done some fine work recently. I think that kind of dedication deserves a reward."

"Is this about Edgar? But it—"

Homelander holds up a gloved hand, and immediately, the Deep quietens.

"Deep. I said Noir deserves a reward. Don't make this about yourself."

"With all due respect, Sir, it wasn't Noir who—"

"Deep." A shadow of something darker flits across Homelander's face. "Are you going to keep fucking back-talking me?"

He freezes, in an entirely manly way. Anyone would.

"N-No, Sir."

And they're both terrified, yes, but there's a smug sort of energy radiating out from Noir, which makes Deep want to jump across the table and smack him.

"As I said, Noir deserves a reward."

"I…Yeah, Sir."

It's easier, then, to imagine that this is more for the old Noir than the new one, just some leftover sympathy for a man long since dead. Which would be all fine and good if it weren't for Homelander turning towards him again. "And you're going to help with that, right, Deep?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. I mean, you two spend a lot of time in this stuffy studio, recording your…little podcast. So I think a little entertainment is overdue."

A gloved hand slides down Noir's back, and Deep seethes with jealousy, because it should be him Homelander is touching this way, not this guy who only just got here. But it's as if he's been forgotten entirely, no longer part of the conversation. As he speaks, Homelander doesn't even glance at him, eyes locked only onto Noir.

"I mean, it can't be easy, can it? Having to listen to this guy's obnoxious voice all day."

Deep looks at the ground, shaking. He doesn't know what he did to make Homelander this angry at him, make him want to punish him, but he won't let it get to him. It's just words, after all, and surely Homelander doesn't mean it; surely, he's just taking out some frustration. Which is fine, he can handle that. Has to.

"He's incredibly annoying, yes. But he has his uses. Don't you remember?"

A beat, before Noir realizes an answer is expected of him, and now Deep suddenly doesn't envy him as much anymore. Serves him right, though. What's that word again, where you delight in others' suffering? Schadenfreude. He's feeling very Schadenfreudig right now.

Noir seems to cycle through multiple different possible answers, ultimately settling on shaking his head.

"Your memory isn't the best anymore, huh? It's alright. Let me remind you."

And then, finally, Homelander's gaze settles on him again, and it's a little like coming home.

"Deep," Homelander says, "get on the table."

He blinks, struck dumb. Somehow not having seen this coming, and how didn't he? How is this still, after everything, such a surprise?

"Get. On. The table."

Deep's teeth sink into his bottom lip. Still, he does not move. And then Homelander looks at him, that special look, and he knows that it doesn't matter what he wants here, has never mattered, and what he is faced with is not a choice. There's no decision to be made here. If Deep wants to live, he has to obey, even as every part of his body strains against it. So that's what he does, climbing on the table, movements stiff and awkward with the shame of it.

He's not even being sexy, which is the worst part, but it's different because of Noir, whose presence somehow makes it harder to shrug out of his skin and into that faraway place where his body is nothing more than a tool to get his way, a tool to please others. This is the very first thing you learn if you want to rise up in the world. There is a point, though, where it feels as if one should be beyond this, where most people are beyond this, and yet it seems that again and again he'll return to it, this hollow space at the very bottom of the ocean.

Except that this time, Noir is there, watching him, and it's what keeps Deep from truly sinking and disappearing inside himself, though there's no reason why it should, no reason for it to matter. Because Homelander is there, too. And that's who Deep tries to think of as he struggles out of his pants—because he knows how this works, what Homelander's asking of him—and pulls his speedo down, not as graceful as he was hoping, but even though he's not looking at them, he can feel Noir's eyes on his back even through that mask, knows he must be watching, whether he even wants to or not.

Homelander will make sure he's watching. Won't even need to tell him, because they know by now how to obey, so they'll do this as they've done everything Homelander has asked of them so far: without thinking, because it's easier that way; easier to imagine yourself unable to resist than to admit you have a choice, you've had a choice all along.

Homelander whistles, as if commanding a dog, which makes Kevin let out a whine and bury his head in his forehead in a feeble attempt to hide the blush creeping steadily up his neck and tinting his face pink. His dick is still limp between his thighs, and he hopes Justin won't think he's small because of this—Kevin's a grower, not a shower.

"Ass up. Show us."

It's a command. It's a command, which leaves no room for him to disobey—no room even to think, really—so Kevin shuts his brain off and raises his ass high, presenting. And it's easier then, shaking off his pride as a dog shakes off droplets of water, his mind gone swimming.

Behind him, Homelander chuckles, and Kevin tries to discern which kind of chuckle this is, whether it means he's doing well or he's fucking this up somehow—or, indeed, if there never was a right way to go about this at all and Homelander will find a way to punish him anyways.

"See? Nice, right? You don't even have to look at his face if you don't want to. Nothing but a tight, warm hole."

A whimper escapes him, despite himself, Kevin's face flashing hot. He wants to disappear. Wants to melt straight into the table, but the presence of his bro keeps him tethered. Right now, Justin is watching him, staring right at his ass, and it's so shameful that some part of him misses the threat of violence, the hand on his neck. It's so much easier to obey when someone is forcing him directly. Though it's not as if right now there isn't—as if they could ever say no to the man that would burn their faces right off their skulls, has ripped people's heads off for less—and yet it's humiliating nonetheless, how words are enough to control them.

Usually, Kevin can find some pride in this, in obeying Homelander, being important enough for such orders—hell, usually he'd be happy to serve in any way, to just make the Homelander happy—if only Noir weren't there. If it were anyone else, at least he could find some excitement in being shown off like a pet, a toy, just some thing that belongs to Homelander, and fuck, even being punished has its own appeal, but this—this is less punishment for him and more a reward for Black Noir. And that chafes more than anything, which is probably the reason why Homelander's doing it.

Then, of course, there's also the sickening curdle of something deep in his stomach he can't quite admit to himself. Because Black Noir, the first Black Noir, knew Homelander far before Deep ever did, and though he's long dead now, there's still that faraway glance Homelander gets sometimes when talking about him. Noir is the one person Homelander's always had a soft spot for, and now that he's dead, his replacement gets to reap all the benefits without putting in any of the work.

Let it be known, at this point, that he is not jealous. Would never be. That's extremely unsigma. There's definitely some other explanation for the pit in Kevin's stomach as he hears a gloved hand smack Noir's back in a manner that seems almost jovial. Homelander would never smack Kevin's back like that, unless he were threatening him.

And then, even more cutting, the laugh. "I knew you would like this. You've been dreaming about this, haven't you? If you want to go straight ahead and fuck him now, I won't mind."

And fuck, he might. When Homelander offers you something, more often than not, you've got no choice but to accept. He's playing with his food, and he knows it, and Kevin's praying to a God he probably should not be praying to anymore that Noir knows that fucking an ass is not the same as a pussy. You can't just slide right in.

Still, Kevin braces himself, for Noir to try and to fail, for the not impossible scenario of Homelander making him do it anyways, even if something tears, and when he hears movement behind him, every muscle in his body only tightens up, stupid, but he can't control it, just can't, and any second now there will be hands on his hips, and he'll cry which will only cause Homelander to be crueler, and the dread is like something physical lodged in his throat.

Thighs trembling, Kevin holds his breath, waiting for a touch which does not come. No more movement behind him. And he loves Justin then, in a desperate, feverish way, for being reckless and stupid enough to refuse something Homelander is offering you. Or maybe, Kevin thinks, he's just being a true bro.

"Why the hesitation, my friend?" Homelander says, his voice tinged with disbelief but still amicable, and it seems as if they might just get out of this without going through with it, except that then, another laugh, and though he can't see it, Kevin knows exactly the twinkle in Homelander's eye as he speaks. "Oh, I see. You want to make him work for it, right? This is why I love you, Noir. A man after my own heart."

At the word love, a whine escapes Kevin, and though the sound is mercifully muffled by his arms, he knows Homelander can hear it nonetheless, that there's no hiding from him, and indeed, the soft chuckle from behind him confirms it. Why does Homelander always have to be so cruel to him? What has Kevin done to deserve this?

And Homelander, as if he has heard his treacherous thoughts, clicks his tongue, again as if commanding a dog, and the fact that this actually does something for Kevin, being treated this disrespectfully, is a thing to unpack another day entirely. Or probably never.

"Come on, you know what to do. Don't act coy."

Kevin shudders. "Sir, I-" he starts, but the rest of the sentence dies on his lips. There's no way of convincing Homelander, he knows this, that making excuses will only make him more angry, and yet, as so many times before, it seems impossible to follow his commands. So, all Kevin says is, "Please."

"If you won't do your fucking job, you can go back to that little shithole in Ohio."

He wouldn't do that, after everything Kevin has done for him, after how far he's gone. After Timothy, and the massacre at the tower, and everything else. Except, it's Homelander. And God, he's done a lot of things Kevin didn't think him capable of.

So, he obeys. Because, really, there was never a world where he wouldn't. Because Homelander has asked him for things before, terrible, humiliating, hurtful things, and he thought he wouldn't be able to do them, and yet he always has. Has done worse than this. Something takes hold of him, some simple, animal-brained part gets in charge, and Kevin shuts his brain off, and he does what Homelander says. No matter how much it hurts. Even if it tears, even if he starts bleeding.

Maybe there'll be something in his pain to convince Homelander that he's good and he's special, because there's some sick part of him that hopes that if he suffers enough, suffers beautifully, without complaint, does things no sane person would ever do, because he's long lost his claim on reason, or maybe what he's doing is the most reasonable thing of all, bowing down for the whims of a God—then maybe, just maybe, it will change something at last.

He reaches behind, trembling yet resolute, prepared to do this, whatever it takes, already bracing for the pain, when a whistle makes him stop short.

"Wow, look at my little guppy go. I mean, damn. He really was just going to go for it. You see what I'm talking about, Noir? I mean, look at how eager he is. So desperate it could almost make you feel bad for him if he weren't such a disgusting little creep. Spreading his legs for every porpoise or dolphin or whatever other wretched creatures there are in the sea."

Kevin buries his head even further in his arm. He's never even had sex with a porpoise or a dolphin. Their dicks are scary.

Homelander's voice softens. A little bit, only a little bit, but it nonetheless softens. "But it's a nice view, right. Now do you get why he's here?" And despite everything, something inside Kevin warms at the praise, minnows splashing around the tide pool within his chest. Maybe Homelander won't make him do this at all. Maybe he only wanted to see that he would, like back with A-Train, to push Deep right up to the edge and let him take that final step forwards, catching him just when he does.

There was a moment in time where the thought of jumping off a building if Homelander asked him turned from ridiculous to simple fact. Yes, he would. And the problem, he believes by now, lies with those who wouldn't.

But of course, it's not enough yet. It was silly of him even to hope.

"Turn around, guppy," Homelander says, and Kevin can hear the grin in his voice, can picture it right there in front of him, sharp canines flashing, and then, the second blow, hitting even harder, "Show Noir how excited you are for him."

And somehow, that is what tips things right back over into horrible. Because he's not doing it for Homelander, then, or at least not directly, and now even obeying might turn out later to be a mistake, since nobody ever seems able to predict Homelander's moods, not even he himself. Homelander is the one telling him to do this, so Kevin can't just refuse, but there's no telling if maybe later he'll get angry and possessive, blaming Kevin for listening to him, this strange sort of game where he's always left guessing and somehow always chooses wrong.

It seems impossible to move, and yet he does, or rather that animal part of his brain does it for him: turns him around, seeing them now, watching them watch him as he leans back on his forearm, spreading his thighs because Homelander won't ask him twice.

Homelander's face is impassive, as if looking at something of little interest to him—same expression as during one of those hour long meetings where nothing of value is discussed whatsoever—and it's terrible how that's still somehow doing something for him, because he's hard now, can't even quite tell when that happened, but he's hard, and they both see it, know he's enough of a freak to get off on being degraded this way.

"Don't look at me," Homelander hisses. "Look at Noir."

A whine claws its way out of Kevin's throat, the desperation in it somehow even more embarrassing than the position he's in. "Sir, please."

Not a single muscle in Homelander's face twitches. Not a hint of mercy there, and fuck, Kevin loves that ruthlessness, admires it usually, but not when it's turned on him like this. Or maybe he does love that too, but not right now, not with Noir watching. The one person there who seems to still respect him. Even the members of the camera crew chuckle behind his back, Kevin knows, but despite everything that happened with Sage, at least there's one person he's not a joke to. Until now, at least.

"Look at him," Homelander says, and really, what else is there to do? It's an order. Kevin has to obey; it's the only thing he's got left. It's the only thing he's ever been good at.

And it's only the mask, yes, but Kevin knows Justin well enough by now to read his expression even through the fabric: jaw set, corners of his mouth pulled downwards. Eyes invisible behind those darkened lenses, but Kevin knows already the way they must be narrowed in disgust, at having to watch this, at realizing just how much his bro is willing to debase himself, how much he's getting off on that, too.

It must show on his face, his despair, because Homelander laughs again, and this time it seems genuinely entertained.

"Look down, guppy."

Homelander's guppy does. Sees, there, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

"I forgot you can't see through that codpiece." A sigh. "Alright, Noir, show him. Our pathetic little fish needs some motivation."

And Noir reaches slowly—as if there's still a chance for Homelander to change his mind, though of course he doesn't—for his belt, opens the buckle. Pulls down the pants of his suit—how fortunate, or unfortunate it is they've all got two-pieces—to reveal an absolutely raging boner tenting his boxer shorts. And the relief must show on Kevin's face, because something dark flashes across Homelander's expression, a shadow passing in front of the sun.

"Don't get too excited yet. You still have to prepare yourself. Go ahead, Noir. Help him."

Noir hesitates.

"He'll need some lubrication," Homelander says, impatience growing. "I'm not a monster. So go ahead. Spit on it."

And Kevin, because there's not much else he can do, because it's best if they play along—because maybe, some part of him actually enjoys this—spreads his thighs even wider, pulling his cheeks apart with his hands. Flushing a shade darker when he feels his dick throb in anticipation.

Still, Noir doesn't move. And Homelander's getting frustrated now, it's evident. In his face, the way he holds himself, the tone of his voice, gone all icy.

"You know how this goes. You know how to do this, Noir. Spit on his hole."

And Kevin hopes, really truly hopes, that Noir will go ahead and do it already, not give Homelander any reason to get more angry than he already is, and then it comes to him, suddenly, something ridiculous, and yet the thought of it warms his heart.

Maybe, for some stupid, baffling reason, Justin is waiting for a sign from him. From Kevin. The one person who's completely slid out of the conversation—who's not even a person anymore, really—and yet, Homelander getting more furious every second, Justin is looking straight at Kevin, waiting. And when Kevin gives him a nod, only then does he move, and again there's that shadow of something on Homelander's face, but it's gone in a blink as if it'd never even been there, and Kevin doesn't have the opportunity to linger on it as Noir peels up his mask and spits dutifully on his bro's asshole.

And watching him, Kevin has a very strange thought, one he would have thought impossible mere moments ago, because right now, he's almost glad Justin's here. For once, Kevin is not alone in this, and there's someone here who actually seems to care about what he wants. And he's almost about to say it, something sappy and embarrassing, but then Homelander's hand is on Noir's shoulders, pulling him backward with enough force to slam any lesser supe into the wall, hissing, "That's enough," through his teeth, and God, it almost seems like jealousy, and all of it sets Kevin's head spinning.

He doesn't understand any of this, but he never seems to understand most things—sometimes it's enough just to do what people ask of you, and his instructions were clear and don't seem to have changed. So, Kevin reaches between his legs and starts working himself open.

A gasp, as the first knuckle slips in, not without pain, but a bit of that takes the edge off. Teeth on his bottom lip as he sinks his finger deeper into himself, slowly loosening up tight muscle, and it's good, the sting, his body fighting him still, but slowly relenting.

"Why so tense? I thought you two were close? Are you trying to tell me you've never done this?"

When Noir shakes his head, Homelander barks out a laugh, and his words hurt more than Kevin's body stretching open with only a bit of spit.

"Why were you spending time with him, then?"

The shame, hot on his cheeks. The insults, his own body not listening to him the way he wants it to, and it's too early but he wants to do well so Kevin adds another finger, and it hurts but he blinks through the tears that well up in his eyes, because he wants to do good, needs to do good, and maybe everyone is right, maybe that needling voice inside him is right, and this is all he's ever had to offer.

"Come on, Deep," Homelander says, voice jovial, which is one of the most dangerous things it can be, "Give us a bit of a show."

Kevin swallows past the lump in his throat, and he tries for a smile as he pushes in deeper, though it comes out more of a grimace. He lets his eyes lose their focus, imagines Homelander looking at him with pride in his face, pathetic, but though he can't meet his eyes, at least Kevin can cling to this fantasy as he scissors himself open.

His movements are clumsier than usual, but he can't get over the knowledge he's being watched, and it's as if he doesn't know how to do this, suddenly, has never done it before.

And Homelander seems unhappy with it, too, letting out a sigh, and the thought of disappointing him fills Kevin with dread, but his body still won't relax, muscles unwilling to loosen. It's like he's some fumbling virgin, utterly clueless.

"This is still too slow for me. Help him."

Because he knows how this works, Kevin pulls his fingers free, back to spreading his ass, but again, Noir hesitates, stupid, doesn't he know what Homelander could do to them, that making him angry might be the last thing they ever do, and Homelander's getting annoyed now, getting impatient, eyebrows drawn together, and again, Homelander says, "Go on. Get in there," and still Noir does not move. And if this is how Kevin dies, he's going to be so pissed about it. If Noir ends up surviving, he's going to haunt him so much. For the rest of his life, Kevin's ghost is going to be there, reminding him of when he let him down, hovering around ominously even as he sits on the toilet.

But instead of lasers and fire and horror, Homelander only sighs, mildly disappointed, and Kevin is still waiting for every bone in his body to get snapped like so many twigs when Homelander says, "You know what? I'm tired of this," a shake of the head, but no pain yet, no death.

Kevin blinks, dumbfounded, and then Homelander is gone, and in less than a heartbeat, he's behind him, bending his legs back by the thighs, Homelander's own thighs soft as a cushion beneath his upper back. And at last, Kevin's brain empties of all thought just as water drains from an overturned bowl. He feels himself drop down through the table, into the abyss, and Homelander is there below him, holding him, ready to catch him no matter how far he falls.

"Here. Nice and easy. Come on, Noir. What are you waiting for? Still want more?" and he pulls Kevin's legs back even further, but he's utterly gone now, not even there, and maybe Noir knows it, too, because he steps forward, and though he hasn't even touched him yet, Kevin feels drunk on it.

And they're really going to do this now, fuck, they're really going to do this, and still Homelander is talking as if there's any need for convincing left, as if it's not already inevitable, "Go ahead. Help him," and then Noir's lips part beneath the fabric of his mask, an uncertainty in his moves Kevin's never seen him have with a knife or a bat or whichever grisly instruments Homelander had them enact his design with as he moves forwards.

"Hey," Homelander says, then, his voice strangely close to kind, almost soothing. "There's no need to worry. Deep loves this shit. Don't you, Deep? You love spreading your legs for your team members."

And Deep isn't here right now, not even Kevin is here, but the person spread open on the table nods, struck dumb, because even hollowed out, he can still listen. It's the only thing he can do.

"See, Noir, we all have our job here. You and I, we go out and do the stuff real heroes do. We save people. And Deep here, well, he does his part. To keep up morale. Right, little guy?"

It doesn't matter then, what Noir thinks, what anyone would think. Pride, dignity, all these stupid concepts that seem so important yet all wash away when you're in the hands of the Homelander, and you're melting, melting. Nodding again. Watching, through half-lidded eyes, as Noir strips his gloves off, revealing long fingers whose nails are mercifully kept short, and it's Homelander who Kevin clings to as he feels himself being entered again, slipping just a little bit back into his body with a moan.

"Yes. Good. That's a lot better, right, my little guppy?" Homelander says, looking down at him, and it's amazing just how much those eyes sparkle, how Kevin can almost convince himself he is drawing genuine enjoyment from this. "Can't even finger yourself right. My silly fucking fish."

"Hold your legs back," Homelander orders, and Kevin does, working on pure instinct now, blindly obeying any command given. And though he misses Homelander's hands the second they leave him, he's rewarded with something so much more precious, because Homelander takes off his gloves, then, and what he gets for listening is a warm, human palm cradling his cheek, and Kevin turns further into the touch with a sigh that swerves into a moan as Noir seems to find that special spot inside him.

He's seeing stars, toes curling inside his boots, fingers digging into his thigh as again and again Noir strikes that chord inside him, and he must be doing this on purpose, to appease Homelander maybe, hoping that if Kevin falls apart on his fingers alone he won't have to fuck him, and God, it's working, it's really working, moans bouncing off the walls of the studio, thumb stroking his cheek so gently it brings him to tears.

"Nice, right? The noises he makes. Can you hear that little rabbit heart race? So excited. Isn't it adorable?"

No response from Noir, because of course there isn't, this is the character he's playing right now, but still it'd be nice to be reminded that Justin's here, too, not just Black Noir, the figure in the black mask who's nothing more than the shadow of a man who died a long time ago. The first Black Noir, at least, always seemed excited.

But it's as if Homelander can read this mind, again, because he lets out a chuckle.

"No need to play coy, Noir. I see your boner. The stink of your arousal. You want this as badly as he does. Have wanted it for quite a while. Same as him. Both of you dancing around each other, pretending you didn't want to fuck like animals. I get it. Everyone has urges. That's why I'm helping you now. It's your reward."

Through lashes already wet with tears—and when did he start crying, and why can't he even bring himself to be properly ashamed of it—Kevin watches Homelander smile. It's one of his secret smiles, the ones that could signal something horrible as soon as they could signal something great, but Kevin is too far out of his mind to be afraid anymore.

"Do you want to taste him?" Homelander asks. "No need to answer. I could hear your heart leap in your chest. Go ahead. Eat him out."

For a few moments, Noir doesn't move. Almost as if he cannot quite believe what he's hearing. Then, he does pull his fingers out—and Kevin hates himself for the small whine that escapes him—though again, he hesitates.

"You know how to do this, Noir. You love doing this. And he loves it, too, don't you, my little guppy?"

It's not a question for him, not really. What Kevin likes or wants hasn't mattered for a single second here, except maybe to Noir, but that's probably only wishful thinking. And as if to further solidify his helpless position—as if there were any need to—Homelander chuckles and pats Kevin's cheek, casual as you'd—fuck, as you'd pet a dog.

"Don't worry, he's clean. Always keeps himself ready for me, or anyone else, I suppose. Whoever wants a taste, isn't that right, you slut?"

Kevin doesn't need to glance up to know the way bright blue eyes twinkle, that beautiful, sadistic gleam, and Kevin loves him and he hates him in equal amounts, but if Homelander were any less cruel, he wouldn't be here, would not be so devoted. It had to be someone like this, someone voicing out loud, at last, all the things Kevin already knows about himself, how he's pathetic and he's weak and he's ugly, a freak of nature who wouldn't be missed if he died. Homelander's glove deceptively gentle against his cheek as even without his words he tears away layer upon layer of pride, leaving nothing remaining but the awful, quivering core of him, but there's something freeing about it, about finally being seen as the mess that you are.

The nights he lay up sleepless in Sandusky, gaze fixed on the ceiling, some part of him wishing it'd collapse on top of him, finally putting him out of his misery. Too cowardly still to do anything about it himself, and Homelander knows, has always been able to see right through him, even without his enhanced vision. He's a Barreleye fish, skull made of glass.

And Kevin clawed his way back to the top, yes, but it's never been the same since, knowing how easily they cut him right out of the Seven, how any moment now, they can do it again. Homelander's voice, low: If you won't do your fucking job, you can go straight back to that little shithole in Ohio.

Really, he's never entirely left.

"Go on," Homelander says, and though his voice is amicable, everyone present knows it's an order, that the threat of violence lies just beneath the friendly veneer. "Lick his pussy."

Kevin whines, eyes squeezed shut because he cannot bear to see Noir's face right now, just can't, tilting his head to the side in a feeble attempt of hiding in Homelander's palm. And Homelander, generous as he is, lets him.

"See, Noir? He likes it when you call it that. Not that that's gonna matter much in your case. Still good to know, right? And it makes things easier if you're still worried about your sexuality." A chuckle. "Come on, then. I know you want to. I can smell how badly you want to. Everything inside you is straining towards it. He wants this, too. Don't you? Go on, little guppy, tell Noir how badly you want him to eat your pathetic little cunt."

Kevin is struggling to form words, syllables swimming apart on his mouth. It's too much, and yet it's also never quite enough, so he looks at his bro with eyes brimming with fresh tears and hopes that'll convince him.

"Please," Kevin whimpers, and he doesn't need to say more, because Noir is dropping to his knees, pulling the mask up, and then his tongue is hot and wet inside Kevin, who curls even further into Homelander's palm with a low moan.

Because fuck, it's as if he's done this before, and maybe he has, and if so, why have they waited this long, because something about Justin's hot breath and the eagerness with which he laps at him now is making his eyes roll back in their sockets, the sensation of soft beard rubbing against his ass somehow rounding everything off perfectly. Most of all, though, it's the hunger which gets him going, his bro's tongue dipping in and out of him as if he's been waiting for this for a long time, and fuck, maybe he has, there's nothing keeping him from indulging in the fantasy, taking Justin's sudden fervor and imagining a world in which he's been wanted as badly as he's wanted his bro.

Because there's nothing wrong with that, is there? To fantasize, on occasion, about your bro sweaty and sticky with the blood of your enemies after a murder session, peeling his suit off to reveal his sculpted body—that's just natural, everyone does that. But it's only natural too, then, for Justin to have thought about him in the exact same way, because he's not Einstein or whatever the name of that guy with the tongue was, but Kevin knows when someone likes what they see, is just never quite able to figure out whether in this specific scenario it's friendly appreciation of another man's awesome physique or something sexual.

But it could be sexual, or at least that's what it feels like right now, with how hungrily Justin licks into him, as if he'd only been waiting for a chance to devour him whole, via his hole, and Kevin moans out, "Fuck," moans, "deeper," a little pathetically, but he can't keep the words inside him, everything spilling out.

He's painfully hard, desperate for a hand on his dick, but Homelander hasn't allowed him to touch himself yet, and though Kevin knows begging won't get him anywhere, he still asks with his eyes, though the attempt is as futile as he'd already known.

"No touching, guppy. Maybe if you're good, Noir will play with that useless clit of yours later. Not that you need that, though, do you? Needy as you are, I'm sure you can cum just from this, right guppy? For me?"

And fuck, for Homelander, Kevin would do just about anything. So he swallows the saliva flooding his mouth and nods again, and Homelander seems almost happy, or maybe it's a trick of the light, maybe he's just making up bullshit, but even if it's fake, it's still enough to keep him going as again that tongue dips into him, drawing out moan after moan.

"Hear those noises? You're doing good," Homelander says, and then he looks down at Kevin, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, that smile, "You're doing good, too. Stay with me, little fish," and Kevin can never deny him a single thing so he nods, dazedly, and then Noir does something with his tongue that makes him throw his head back, muscles in his thighs flexing, desperate to wrap them around Noir's shoulders and pull him further in.

Homelander tuts. "Don't be greedy, guppy. Let him go at his own pace."

Kevin nods, dazed, trying to relax, but he can't, his body won't listen, his head won't stop spinning.

"You don't even know how to control your own body, do you? So silly. But it's alright. Noir can handle everything you throw at him."

Kevin's grip on his thighs has loosened, but Noir is there, holding them back, and Kevin doesn't even need to do anything now, hands dropping uselessly at his side, palms up as if he's being crucified. He doesn't need to do anything, shouldn't do anything, is probably not even allowed to do anything. Mind bobbing among the waves, everything narrows down to simple sensation: Homelander, stroking his hair; Justin's tongue buried inside him.

"See how much effort he's putting in for your sake? Just to make you feel good. You know, guppy, I really think he's the best of us."

Not as good as you, Kevin wants to say, but he can't bring the words out, and fuck, maybe he's right, maybe Noir really is the very best, because just then he's adding his fingers to rub up against the little cluster of nerves that make Kevin melt, hot breath against him, and he's gone then, utterly gone.

"Fuck," he moans, "bro," and Homelander tuts as he slides his fingers into Kevin's mouth, who starts sucking on instinct alone, no thought necessary.

"Such a pretty little thing, but the drivel that comes out of your mouth really ruins things. You're so obnoxious it's baffling," Homelander says, but Kevin only smiles softly around his fingers, the insults sliding right off, nothing he hasn't heard before. Homelander called him pretty. Homelander thinks he's pretty.

"It really is much nicer like this. If you just shut the fuck up. Pity about the moans, though. If only there were a way to get the noises without any of the words…short of tearing out his tongue I can't really think of anything. Do you need your tongue to moan?"

Kevin has no idea, doesn't care, but there are fingers in his mouth, idly playing with his tongue, and there's no need for him to answer, no need for him to speak at all.

Somewhere along the way, he's gotten lost. Less than a pet, even; all that remains is an object, a toy. There's a certain thrill in that, being absolved of all responsibility, and while it doesn't erase the shame, it does make it more bearable. Easy as this, he feels himself slipping into familiar rhythms. It's so simple, and so nice, to let them just use him.

Noir is still working at him, now using both his tongue and fingers, holding both legs back with one hand, and it's nearly unbearable, but for Homelander Kevin can bear it. He's close though, wants nothing more than to touch himself, and he could, hands free now he could, but he hasn't been allowed to, and even if Homelander were to let him it's still not the same, even if he didn't hurt him he might still be disappointed, and fuck, what has gone wrong along the way where the latter scenario seems somehow so much more scathing?

A muffled whine makes its way past Homelander's fingers.

"Trying to say something?" Homelander tuts, "Use your words," except he can't, and Homelander knows this, is just being cruel.

"Do you want to cum? Is that it?" and Kevin tries to nod, but he doesn't even need to, because of course Homelander knows, and of course he'll refuse him.

"Don't be selfish, guppy. Try not to think with that useless little clit of yours for once."

The whine he lets out is garbled by Homelander's fingers. It's not little, he wants to retort, but even if he could speak right now, Homelander doesn't care about that, Noir doesn't care, nobody cares at all about what he has to say, and fuck, that's amazing, that's somehow perfect for him right now. Just a dumb, drooling object; a warm hole to play with.

"Noir hasn't even fucked you yet. Would it be fair for you to get off before he's even had any fun?"

Kevin shakes his head, dazed, or rather, he attempts to; with Homelander's hands on him, there's little he can do.

"You're actually right for once. Good job. You're so stupid, you make more sense when tongued out of your mind. It's almost cute."

He grins, dopily. He's cute. Homelander thinks he's cute. Homelander is looking down at him, amused gleam in his eyes, and he thinks Kevin is cute.

"You really liked that, huh? Pathetic. But I suppose we have to take our praise where we can get it. Not as if there's much else you're good for."

And Kevin grins around the fingers still stuffed in his mouth, thinks yes, but then Noir's finger curls inside him again, and the world melts into brilliant colors.

He's squirming, fish caught on land, hand grabbing uselessly at the air, he wants to reach forwards and pull on that mask, grab for something, but he's not allowed, and then Homelander in a gesture of infinite kindness slips his palms into Kevin's, and he clamps down with all his might, not worried about breaking any fingers because he'd never be able to hurt Homelander in any way.

Mouth free once more, he's moaning again, muttering, "I'm gonna, I'm gonna," and when he looks into Homelander's eyes, there's something there he hasn't seen before, and it's as if he's really looking back, seeing right into the core of him, and whatever he sees there, pale and strange like all the creatures that survive in the depths, he's fine with it, he won't let that stop him.

"Go ahead," Homelander says, "cum for me," and it's an order, so with a cry of relief, Kevin obeys, and it shakes his entire body, head spinning, shooting white all over his own stomach.

"Fuck," he mutters, "Fuck," and Homelander is there, holding his hands, smiling down at him benevolent as an angel, or maybe a demon. Something with wings.

And with a whispered, "Well done, good boy," so quiet Kevin's certain only he can hear, Homelander lets go of his hands again, leaves him pathetically grabbing at the air to wipe a bit of drool off Kevin's chin, and again, maybe it's meant to degrade him or maybe it's meant to be tender, but if he doesn't know which then it can also just be both, and both works for him. Both is perfect.

Vision swimming, twitching, he rides out his orgasm, the only thing he can see Homelander looking down at him, but then he turns away, and Kevin lets out a sob, because more than anything he wants Homelander to keep looking at him, stay with him in this moment, not turn away, not now, but the only thing he gets is an absentminded pat on the cheek, that beautiful gaze now fixed elsewhere.

"Good job, Noir. I admit, I wasn't sure you'd be able to make him cum just from this. Not a knack on your performance, of course, it's just…it takes more for most people. But my little guppy is so excitable, isn't he? And he makes such sweet noises…it's very motivating. And if there's one thing about you, Noir, it's that you always fulfill your mission. It's why I love you."

And yes, it makes sense, because just then, Kevin loves Noir, too. Everything is beautiful and hazy, and it doesn't even matter right now that he came untouched, any part of him capable of shame long drained away. It just feels good right now, his body feels good, the world made wonderful through the afterglow.

But Homelander is not done yet, and it was stupid, really, to imagine he'd just let Kevin ride it out, that he'd be satisfied with anything less than total obliteration. But fuck, that's what they both want, isn't it? It's what they both need. That is why this thing between them works so well, because what Kevin craves—has always craved, really—is a total erosion of the self, to disappear entirely, and Homelander needs somebody willing to sacrifice everything for him, even if he'd never admit it out loud.

"Go ahead," Homelander says. "Fuck him. It's not gay, if that's what you're worried about. My little guppy here hardly counts as a man."

At last, Kevin steals another glance down at Noir, and it surprises him, how it hurts to see that mask still on his face, chin slicked with spit, how badly he wants to rip that fabric off and see him, really see him. His bro. His wonderful, handsome, impossibly sigma bro. Who's been there all along, and Kevin never saw it, somehow missed all the signs. Thank God for Homelander. For his infinite generosity in bringing them together at last.

"Go ahead," Homelander says, "Fuck him. Fuck his pussy. Don't you see how wet he is already? He wants this, Noir. Don't you, guppy?" and though Kevin is too out of it to respond, Homelander does it for him, so kind, moving his head up and down to simulate a nod.

And Noir obeys, getting up off his knees, finally lowering those boxers to reveal a nice, pretty cock, not too thick, not too long. The platonic ideal of a cock. Kevin's too fucked out of his mind to wonder where he knows the word platonic from. The only thing he's certain of is that he needs that cock inside him, has needed it yesterday, that gorgeous cock, and all this time it's been so close to him, and he didn't know. And all this time, Noir must have wanted him, too, because he's hard, and Homelander wouldn't lie to him, is above something as human as deception. Homelander said it, so it must be true, or at least Kevin wants it to be, needs it to be.

He's so hungry, realizes it all of a sudden, how for so long it's only been Homelander Homelander Homelander, all other people pushed aside, Cassandra and Sage and Ambrosius and all those relationships that turned out to be nothing but lies. None of them cared about him, except for Homelander, and now he's showing Kevin who's been there, too, so close, and yet he never noticed, didn't believe it could be true. But Noir is here, and he's hard, and he's going to fuck him, and it's all thanks to Homelander.

And Homelander, in his infinite generosity, chuckles. "So desperate, guppy. One glance of cock and you act as if you're in heat. You really gonna make him wait any longer, Noir?"

He's not. Draping Kevin's legs over his shoulders, Noir—no, Justin, because this is Justin who's here with him, the man behind the mask—aligns himself with Kevin's hole, and with a groan, starts pushing in. And fuck, it's good, it's so good, Justin fills him just right, and though it barely hurts, it's still amazing, and not just for him, because as Kevin moans, Justin moans with him, two bros so perfectly in sync it's a marvel.

"Fuck," Kevin whimpers, "bro," but something is wrong, then, and it takes him a moment to notice, how Homelander's grip has tightened on his jaw, and Kevin considers, in some far-off, buried part of his brain, how easy it would be for Homelander to snap his neck now, how it would take almost nothing, and the wave of terror this sends through his body thrills him. But Homelander's ire, for once, is not directed towards Kevin.

"Noir doesn't moan like that," he says, voice perfectly controlled in a way that spells trouble, and within himself Kevin feels a strange mix of emotions: relief that it's not him who messed up this once, a bitter spike of jealousy at the fact Homelander's attention is elsewhere, and, most baffling of all, worry for his bro, and how strange that is, such a human emotion, the kind that should have been trained out of him long ago. He almost considers doing something, speaking up, but as his mouth opens, Homelander shoots a single, chilly glance downwards, and Kevin is silent, then, a coward after all.

Justin does the only thing he can do. He thrusts again, Homelander watching, and lets out another moan, a slightly different pitch, still too high, so Kevin, in one of the rare, selfless moments of his very selfish life, decides to help out his bro for once. Even though Homelander can see him, Homelander must know, he mouths lower, and Justin listens, another thrust and a moan that's a little lower this time, surprisingly close considering he must be guessing. A method actor, after all.

And Homelander, for his part, sighs. "Good enough," he says, grip loosening again, clouds fading from the sky as if nothing happened, as Justin starts pumping away once more, and it really is easy to believe nothing did happen at all, that they're not one wrong move away from disaster, because soon enough the cock inside Kevin starts brushing up against that special spot that makes him see stars. Because Homelander is once more so nice to him, so gentle, in a way he usually never is, stroking Kevin's hair like a precious pet as he blinks dreamily upwards, drool trickling from the corners of his mouth.

"Look at you, taking it so well. You're so good at this, guppy," Homelander is saying, and the praise, maybe, hits even better than the cock inside him does.

"So good. All nice and tight for our friend. You know, this is what you were meant to do. No silly attempts at heroics, you should just be warming our beds all day."

Kevin moans, because yes, he should, and he wants to, and in that moment, it makes perfect sense.

"Please," he whimpers, and the mild chuckle Homelander lets out is so lethal, and yet so good.

"God, of course you want that, Kevin," and it's the first time during this Homelander has said his name, a flood of pure, dizzying euphoria, but Homelander always, always, needs to twist the knife. "Isn't this what you've been dreaming of all along? Why you joined the Seven?"

It's not, Kevin wants to say, he wanted to help, wanted to protect the ocean, make the world a better place, speak up for those with no voices, except he's done none of that, is nothing more now than a cog within Vought's horrible machine, and even fucked beyond self-delusion he can't lie but he also can't be honest, so he sobs instead, a truly pathetic noise that makes Homelander's eyes sparkle with awful delight.

It's truly terrible, how from one second to the next that smile can turn into a leer and then back again—or maybe it's always been sinister and Kevin's only been too deluded to see it. But how do you survive in that tower without your delusions? Everyone has picked the hills they will die on, the one thing on which they'll never relinquish their grip, and for Kevin, that is the idea that Homelander is a hero.

And his hero, his terrible, terrible hero, grins down at Kevin and gives his cheek one last pat, lamb to the slaughter, and then reaches over to begin pulling down the zipper of his vest.

He's struggling now, ripped from his stupor, but though Homelander hesitates as Kevin's hands wrap around his wrists, both know there's little he could do to actually stop him.

"Hey, Kevin. Kevin. Are you afraid? Do you not want Noir to see your dirty little secret?"

"No…" Kevin whimpers, but his voice sounds so weak it makes him despise himself, makes him want to slip right out of his body and shake his head at the loser on the table who can't even speak up like a man. That's not him. This is not him. And Justin can't see, please, he can't see, Kevin will do anything else, anything at all, but of course Homelander only ever wants that which hurts the most.

"Don't you think that's a little unfair? He's fucking you, after all. Doesn't he deserve to know what he's sticking his dick inside?"

Kevin sobs again. Because fuck, why do angels and devils always look the same?

Homelander smiles, all teeth, canines sharp as daggers. "Thought so."

And there's nothing to be done, then. Kevin lets his hands, once more, drop to his sides, and lets his vision go blurry as Homelander pulls the zipper down further, gills shivering as they're exposed to the light, and he's glad for the mask, now, that he can't see most of his bro's face as it twists up in disgust. Not that he can bear to look at him in the first place—right now, Kevin is trying to fix his gaze just about anywhere else.

"Look," Homelander says, breathy, and if humiliation wasn't taking Kevin to pieces right now, he'd almost think there was something like a strange sort of fascination in his voice.

"Aren't they fucking disgusting? Go ahead. Touch them."

Justin, of course, hesitates. Because why wouldn't he, because who'd ever want to touch something this disgusting unless it was to hurt him?

Homelander's voice ices over again. "I said touch them."

Slowly, Justin reaches out. His hand hasn't even made contact, and already the gills flutter in anticipation. This is how Kevin thinks of them in moments like these, the gills—not part of his body, more enemy than anything else. He should be over this, they sang together, and yet the thought of Justin looking at them, looking at him, his wretchedness dredged up to the surface, it makes him sick.

"Obscene, right? Like…pussies. Three on each side."

He wants to disappear. Want to be gone. Even Homelander killing him, it doesn't seem that bad in this moment, if only he could escape from this, from the shame of his bro's eyes on him, but there's nothing he can do but breathe through it, even as tears well up in his eyes, this time not ones of pleasure.

Homelander looks at Justin. Readies the killing blow. Asks, once more, "Aren't they disgusting?" and Justin, his beautiful, amazing, fantastic bro, looks at Kevin, looks at his gills, and shakes his head. There are tears rolling down Kevin's cheek, but he doesn't even care, doesn't care about the genuine surprise on Homelander's face, how this was not the answer he wanted, which could mean horrible things, because Justin, who Kevin could kiss on the mouth, has just given him the most wonderful, precious of gifts. He'll remember this for the rest of his life.

"Huh," Homelander says, "that's interesting. I suppose we all have…different tastes. But if you like them this much, I'm sure you'll want to touch them properly, right? They're very sensitive. Give it a try."

There's not much Justin can do other than obey, and yet Kevin tells himself his bro wants this, too, really meant what he said, or rather did not say, and sure, just because he's not completely disgusted does not mean he likes them, but Kevin can pretend.

And he's so careful, too, touch so light it's completely painless as fingers are dragged along the filaments of his gills, and Kevin almost cries again, and then he's actually crying, because nobody has ever touched him there this gently, and he never thought somebody would.

"You're slacking, Noir. You're barely still fucking him. You're not here just to have your cock warmed, are you?"

And Justin's fingers leave his gills, which—my God—actually seem to sigh in disappointment, missing the touch, but Kevin can't linger on how strange that is because then Justin's hands are on his waist, and he's back to fucking him, and all thoughts melt away.

"Fuck," Kevin moans, "so good," watching his bro pound him, but then Homelander's hand is on his jaw again, tilting his head back. "Don't look at him, look at me. Eyes up here, guppy."

Whatever Homelander wants, whatever he wants. "Yes," Kevin moans, "Yes," getting lost in that bright blue, cloudless sky, the warmth of God's gaze eternal. He could just stay like this forever, because it makes everything bearable, being looked at like this, being chosen—because just through this, through Homelander's gaze, Kevin, too, becomes someone special, becomes someone good.

"Go on, Kevin," Homelander whispers, "Cum for me," and again, Kevin does, with a sob as if a knife has been slipped between his ribs, more white ropes joining the ones already drying tacky on his stomach, his chest, his gills, which shudder in response.

He's slipping away again, below the surface, and it'd be so nice and so easy to simply let go now, mind dragged into the depths, down where it's safe and it's calm and it's quiet forever.

A smack on his cheek. Homelander's voice, gentle yet insistent, "Stay with me, guppy. Not done yet. You didn't cum, did you, Noir? It would be a little unfair if our little fish got to get off alone without even doing his duty. Keep going."

And yes, of course they're not done yet, of course Homelander isn't satisfied, and neither is Justin, and Kevin wants to be good, wants to be good so, so badly, for his bro to be satisfied, too, so he'll want to do this again and again, because Kevin is good at this, being fucked, needs to be. It's the only thing he has.

But still, his ambitions scrape up against harsh reality pretty soon, because Kevin is exhausted, and he's overstimulated, everything too much and too early, so he whimpers, "I can't, please," but Homelander only responds, "You can, and you will," and there's nothing more to say to that.

Except it's overwhelming, the world too sharp and too bright, pleasure tipping over into pain more with each second, so Kevin tries again. Blubbering, "Please, I need a—a minute, please," but Homelander's not even looking at him anymore, is instead looking over at Justin.

"Don't you dare slow down, Noir. He can handle this, can't you, guppy?" Homelander says, then, glancing down again, and Kevin knows that he has to, that it all comes down to this. He doesn't even need to do anything, just needs to exist, be nothing more than a hole, and for Homelander, he can do that, for Justin.

Eyes blurry, Kevin nods, though he doesn't really believe it as he's doing it, but it's enough for Justin to keep pumping away again, Kevin's eyes rolling back in his head as he's fucked all the way out of the remnants of his mind.

And finally, Justin cums, too, a hoarse cry that's all him and no Black Noir, and as he finally feels that warmth shoot up inside him, a few tears of relief roll down Kevin's cheeks, because yes, it feels so good to be filled, but it's also over, it's over.

"Please…" Kevin whimpers, not entirely sure what he's begging for, but finally, Justin's grip on his hips loosens again, as he readies himself to pull out. And of course, of fucking course, Homelander's voice again.

"Noir. What are you doing?"

And Justin's caught so off guard he actually speaks, or begins to rather, a single "I—" slipping past his lips before an icy glare silences him again. This would be reason enough to kill him, except Homelander doesn't seem entirely ready yet to dissolve the facade.

"Keep going," he says, "We are done when I say we are done," and it makes sense, really, because this is Homelander, his cruelty aching in such a wonderful, terrible way.

It's not humanly possible to go again so soon after orgasm, but they're not humans, they're supes, so when Kevin glances over at Justin, vision blurred by tears, he sees the part of his face laid bare, almost apologetic, as if they're not in this together now, as his bro hardens inside him once more, that blessing and that curse.

Justin starts thrusting again, though it must be overstimulating for him, too, which is what Kevin focuses on, the fact he's not alone, and they're two bros, sweating and crying and drooling together in an entirely manly manner, and it's fine, they can do this, because Kevin may not know much about religion, but hasn't every disciple's faith been tested along the way? And the harder the test, the greater the glory.

"My turn," Homelander mutters, tugging Kevin's head sideways by the hair, rubbing his face against the bulge where the cock of America's most powerful supe strains against spandex. And it's strange, then, that he didn't realize it until now, somehow missed what was right below him, too focused on his own pleasure, and maybe Kevin really is selfish, he thinks, maybe he's been cruel. Because Homelander wants him, too, and Kevin wants Homelander, mouth falling open on instinct, a low moan as he tastes the tang of precum through fabric.

"You want it, huh? Tell me how badly you want it."

"Sir, please," Kevin wails, because he does want it, wants it so badly, wants to make Homelander feel good, and Justin too, and yes, he wants to feel good himself, still selfish, but that desire seems almost unimportant in contrast. Kevin wants that cock in his mouth because it's Homelander's, and because he wants to help Homelander get off, because then—yes, then he'll understand all over again what Kevin can do, that he's good at this, worthy of being kept around. And Justin will see, too. There's no shame in being submissive, it seems then, because knowing your place, knowing what you're good at, that's the most sigma thing of all.

"I could make you two keep going forever. Forever and ever. You know that, right? You can try to stop, and I'll rub your bodies together myself if I have to."

And they do know that he could and he would, there's nothing that's too far for the Homelander, no boundaries he's unwilling to cross, and Kevin loves that, courting disaster, kissing him like tonguing a live wire that any second might jolt you right out of your skin. And God, how good it feels every time you escape electrocution, when you get away with your life—and how amazing it's going to be the one day it finally happens, a bright burst of pain and light, like the best orgasm you'll ever get to have and also the last.

"God," Homelander whispers, voice low, only for Kevin's ears, despite the fact that he himself is supposed to be God now, "You're out of your fucking mind."

Whether Homelander can read his thoughts after all, understands the full depths of his devotion, or maybe it's just the more simple, animal desire he's talking about, Kevin grins, and keeps his eyes locked on Homelander's as he licks along the damp patch forming on his pants.

"Crazy bitch," Homelander mutters, but it sounds like a compliment, and the tone of his voice is almost amused, so Kevin keeps grinning as Homelander lifts his head off his lap to unbuckle his belt, peel his suit and underwear off, and then it's there, fuck, his cock, that perfect cock, pale and pink and shot through with veins of bright blue that Kevin loves to drag his tongue along. And obediently he opens his mouth, and he swallows, taking it in, all in, gag reflex so numbed by now the only noise he lets out a muffled moan.

Like this, being filled to the brim from both ends, Kevin experiences a strange moment of pure tranquility. How nice, to be less than a human. To do nothing more than exist.

And then Homelander tightens his grip on his hair and pulls Kevin off his cock again, then back downwards, pace merciless as he fucks his throat like a toy.

"Fuck," Homelander mutters, "Your mouth really was made for this," and though there's not really much of a chance for him to use technique here, Kevin still brightens at the compliment, even as there's a scoff from above.

"Faster, Noir, don't be so fucking gentle. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't even want it. You want to be hurt, don't you, guppy? You want us to hurt you."

Does he? Kevin can't even tell what he wants, whether he wants anything; he feels utterly hollowed out, scooped empty of any desire. What he wants, well, it's what Homelander wants, has always been what Homelander wants, and maybe for the moment what Justin wants, too. He's been trying to find ways to feel satisfied and powerful, and nothing helps, nothing makes that big, ugly pain at his core better, so why not just fade away entirely? Relinquish all control at last, accept that it has never been about him and what he wants, and it never will be.

There can be pleasure in serving, in existing only for the sake of someone else. Maybe eventually he'll come up for air again and find himself, at last, a full human. Maybe he'll simply drown. Still, it's better than anything he'll get with anybody else. This is the nice part of being with someone you know won't hesitate to put you down if one day you outlive your welcome.

The only thing to do, then, is to try to cling to consciousness as he's being fucked from both directions, tongue flat in a desperate attempt to get some air, saliva dribbling down his chin as he tries not to scrape his teeth over that perfect cock in his mouth.

Soon, there'll be nothing left of him. And oh, what joy. To disappear at least in a burst of pure light.

"Fuck," Homelander hisses, "why are you making that face," and even without a cock in his mouth Kevin could not explain this, could never explain it. His edges, dissolving, nothing but a blur at the bottom of the sea.

Grunts and moans and snarls, Homelander little more than a furious silhouette cursing at him while fucking his mouth, muttering, "You useless painslut, fuck, you pathetic masochistic fish fucker, you don't even want me to be nice to you. You just want to be used," and maybe it's true and maybe it isn't, but either way it doesn't matter now. "Now we're using you. Now you've got what you wanted."

With a snarl, God buries himself to the hilt and cums straight down Kevin's throat, and he tries to swallow but it's too much, he's gone too deep and forgot which way to swim upwards, floating around in the darkness with no light to guide him back, and there's no air, he's going to drown, fuck, he's really going to die here, but then Justin, in an act as irrational as it probably seems necessary to him in that moment, reaches forwards and gives a few jerks to the cock that's been abandoned and desperate the entire time, and Kevin's cumming too, then, entire body seizing up, and it's enough to push Justin right over the edge with him.

And for a single, glorious second, he's gone, he's nothing, arriving at last at the very bottom of the ocean, cold and silent and peaceful, but then he's being slapped awake again, coming coughing and sputtering back into a world that's too loud and too bright and too much in general, but it's fine, then, because above him there hover two faces, twin expressions of something so sweet it makes his return to the surface bearable again. Concern. They were worried about him.

Every part of his body hurts, and Kevin is sure he must look absolutely wrecked, cum dripping down between his thighs, cum all over his stomach, dribbling down his chin. And yet, he feels, somehow, relieved. He came up alive on the other side of it, and that's a strange, heady feeling, more intoxicating than any liquor, any drug. So Kevin, fucked to the brink of death and back, grins.

And Homelander turns away from him. That soft lap below his head pulling away, only cold table now, one last whine for the road.

"Alright," Homelander says, "I'll leave you two to it, then," and some part of Kevin wants to beg him to stay, but he's still too dizzy to form words, and he knows all too well that Homelander has barely any refractory period either—if he wanted to, he could keep going. They've pushed their luck enough for one day.

So, they wait, just two bros, neither of them moving, just in case Homelander changes his mind, but he's gone, then, just walked straight out the door, and it's only when they hear the elevator ding, then whoosh upwards, that they finally start to relax again.

It's Justin who breaks the silence, ripping his mask off, words rushing forth like a torrent as if to make up for staying silent so long. "Fuck," he rambles, "What the fuck! This is so fucked up!" and Kevin, for his part, only sighs.

"Yeah," he says. "This is gonna be such a bitch to clean. Or do you think we can just say we banged some chicks and make the janitor mop it up?"

"I was not talking about the cum! What the fuck just happened?"

"Homelander," Kevin answers, because really, that's enough. That's all of it. Homelander sweeping in like a hurricane and leaving them to pick up the pieces.

"Yeah. Jesus Christ, fuck. I didn't know this job would be so…I mean, I didn't think I would have to…God." And Justin looks at him, then, really looks at him, and there's something soft in his gaze, something Kevin isn't entirely sure what to do with. "I thought you were dead for a second there."

The thing is, Justin is handsome. He's handsome, and he's good at acting, and he has a pretty nice singing voice, and it's badass, how he skewers guys on that katana. He also seems, for some reason, to genuinely like Kevin, to care for him, which does not make sense in the least. What does he think he can gain from this? What possible reason does he have to deceive him? Why, on earth, would he lie about liking his gills?

But maybe it's fine not to know that. Maybe it's enough just to accept this, and to pretend that it's real, just for a while.

So, Kevin smiles at him. Says, "We should do this more often," and the genuine horror on Justin's face is somehow the last thing he expected.

"What is wrong with you? I thought he was going to kill us!"

"Yeah," Kevin sighs, dreamily, still too out of it to be insulted. "Me too. It's like…the reverse murder boner. Murdered boner. Almost murdered boner."

Justin scoffs, shakes his head. "You're just as sick as him."

Kevin struggles upwards, but gives up halfway and sinks back onto the table, which makes his attempt at anger feel a little pathetic. "Hey," he hisses, "Don't act like you weren't into it, too."

"This is so fucked up. You know that, right? That this is fucked up."

And isn't that the most ridiculous thing of all, to suddenly draw the line here, to decide that this, of all things, is too much. Murdering innocents is fine, but fucking Kevin is too much, apparently. Hell, Homelander said it wasn't gay! If Homelander says it's not gay, what's there to worry about?

"Being in the Seven isn't all sunshine and roses and murder. You wanted this job, right? And it's not as if you minded the fucking when it was you and Sage."

"That's an entirely different situation. You understand that, right? Or has Homelander already completely scrambled your brain?"

"I just don't see why you're making such a big deal out of it," Kevin whines, faintly aware he's sounding pathetic, but fuck it. "I mean, was it really that terrible?"

Justin freezes. Just stares at him, face pure disbelief. "Oh my God," he says then, "Is that your issue here? Do you think that's why I'm angry?"

It's been long enough for shame to return, trickling in slow and insidious. Kevin looks away, pulling the sides of his vest back together to cover himself. "I'm just saying a lot of people would kill to be in your situation. And you don't seem happy about it at all."

"Jesus. You're such a…I don't even know what. I can't even think of the word right now. But it's not good." Justin sighs, then, no more anger, just something almost like disappointment, which hurts most of all. "You two really are two fucked up peas in a pod."

"Okay, so you're complaining about Homelander and me, and now you're the one bringing up pee?"

"Peas! The round little green vegetable! It's an idiom. A common saying. I'm trying to say that you two are just as fucked up as each other, and you belong together."

And despite himself, a lovestruck little smile makes its way onto Kevin's face.

"Really?" he asks, and Justin only sighs again, wipes sweat off his brow. "Yeah. God. He's really got you brainwashed. You should get the fuck out of here and like…I don't know, swim with dolphins or whatever."

There it is. There it is, of course, of fucking course. Justin's angle. Kevin, stupid as he is, was almost starting to fall for it.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he hisses. "An opportunity to slide right into the empty spot I'd leave."

Justin looks genuinely bewildered, almost a little insulted, but he's an actor, this is what he does, and this is what he's been doing. Worming his way into Kevin's mind. Making him fantasize about pretty dark eyes and awesome bladework, when all he should've been thinking of is Homelander, the only one who's ever truly honest with him, who says what he thinks and what Kevin knows to be true.

"No, dude. I was trying to give you genuine advice. But whatever, fuck this. I need to go walk in the park and feed some ducks or some shit like that."

"But it was good, right?" Kevin asks, finally managing to prop himself up on his forearms, voice sickeningly hopeful, but he has to ask, has to know. Has to hear Justin say it.

"Yes," Justin says, "It was good," and within Kevin's chest, his heart does an entirely heterosexual somersault. This is what he's good at. And even if his bro is trying to deceive him, there's no reason why they shouldn't still have a good time.

"I mean, if you wanted to…we could do it again sometimes. No Homelander. Just two bros having fun, you know? You heard what he said, it's not gay or anything."

Maybe Kevin's imagining it, but in the split second before Justin tugs the mask back on, he looks almost sad.

"That's not the issue here, man. I need to get some fresh air. And to clean myself up. Fuck, do you need some help?" he asks, and it's tempting, so tempting, to say yes. But although Kevin has already decided to sleep with the enemy again if an opportunity arises, that doesn't mean he'll give him the chance to be all smug about helping him later.

"I don't need your help, bro," Kevin says, " I can take care of myself," and maybe, maybe, some small part of him wishes Justin would fight him on this, and for a single second it seems as if he just might, but too much has happened today, so Justin just sighs again and turns towards the door.

"Whatever, man," he says, and he leaves, door shutting behind him, gone like Homelander, Kevin at last utterly alone.

He lets himself drop down to the table again. With the last dregs of adrenaline draining away, he's just tired now, the ache coming back, the thought of getting up, cleaning himself, impossible. No matter. It's not as if anyone's coming back any time soon, as if there's anyone to miss him. Maybe he'll sleep just a little bit.

Yes, that'd be nice. He'll just sleep, and when he wakes up, he will feel better, feel more like himself. When the Deep wakes up, he'll stop missing them both.

The ducks scramble for the piece of bread, fighting each other over who gets a chunk, and Justin envies them, really, for their simple little minds, how getting a bite of food is the only thing troubling them. Though ducks have their own problems, too. It's just that right now, every problem these ducks could have pales in comparison to what he's going through.

Though of course, it can always get worse, and once again, Justin wants to kick himself for being frustrated with his situation when he's not nearly as fucked as he could be, yet, because with a whoosh and the flutter of a cape, he's no longer alone on the bench. He should not have picked a spot this secluded. Though really, Homelander can murder him just as well here as he can murder him anywhere else in the world.

"Nice sunny day, huh?" Homelander says, and the amicable tone of his voice makes Justin tense even more.

He knows enough about Homelander by now to understand that when he's trying to appear normal even without any cameras around, he's most dangerous of all. He still can't entirely tell what the other man wants of him, whether he's supposed to keep up the Black Noir facade even without a mask, so he stays quiet. Choosing, instead, to look at the ducks again, now waddling up in expectation for more bread. So, Justin tears off another chunk, watches them race for it.

And Homelander, next to him, sighs. "Alright, we're not even going to pretend, then. Fine by me. You want to fuck him again. I know you do. You're just not quite sure if you're allowed to. No need to act coy, you know I know what you're thinking. How, despite the shit that comes out of his mouth, he's a damn good lay. Always very eager to please."

That hand on his neck again. One twist and he's dead, dropped right in front of the ducks, the only witnesses here left to fight for bread over his corpse. By the time they find him, maybe the ducks will have started to move on from the bread to consuming his flesh. The end of a great acting career, a skeleton picked clean besides a park bench. And the ducks who got a taste of human flesh, maybe they'll need to put those down, too, like bears who have killed a human; then it won't just be himself Justin has fucked over, but also those poor, stupid ducks. There could have been other paths to Broadway.

Homelander's voice is a threatening whisper. "Justin. You won't touch him again. Don't misunderstand the arrangement we have. Just see it as me…lending him to you for one afternoon. But don't think you can go around having fun with him on your own. Don't touch another man's property, alright? Or I'll burn down your entire shitty acting school."

Justin nods. Homelander slaps his back, then, once more all jovial, and to any outside observer, Justin realizes, they'd look, if anything, like friends. Just some guy, a second-rate actor who'll never be recognized for his greatest role, and next to him, the Homelander. And it's terrifying, yes, because Homelander is a loose cannon, but just through his presence everything becomes more special, the thrill of getting to sit next to the most famous man in the world, becoming important just by him deigning to talk to you.

So yeah, begrudgingly, he does kind of get it, the obsession Kevin has with the guy. If Homelander asked Justin to get on his knees right now, he'd probably do it just the same.

"Good. I trust you won't tell him about our talk? He gets these…ideas in his head sometimes. It's important not to let his confidence get too high, you know? Also, bread is bad for ducks. You're killing them with this."

A friendly pat on the back, and he's gone, and he's just some guy once more, some loser on a park bench nobody would spare a second glance. The ducks stare at Justin with dumb, animal expectation.

"Sorry, guys," he says. "No more bread for you."

And yet, the ducks stare on. Wanting the bread, no matter how bad it may be for them. Even though the repercussions could be truly, truly terrible.

Fuck, Justin thinks. I'm no better than you.

It's taken too long, far too long, but finally it's done. John slides the VHS into the tray—the tech guy had grumbled about needing to use such "antiquated" technology, but he's not going to waste his time fumbling with a USB—and waits with bated breath as it whirs to life.

He sits on the sofa and leans back, watching, on the screen, that stupid studio, the empty banter, and then there he is, and then it starts, and the angle is somewhat awkward, and the microphones pushed to the side don't pick up all the sound, but it's enough, it's enough, John's hand wrapped around his cock as he pumps away, and there on the screen, Kevin's tear-stricken face as he takes everything that he's given.

Nobody even questioned him when he told them to make sure to keep the cameras rolling after wrap-up, and that annoys him often, how willing people are to obey, but in this scenario, it's quite helpful. Eyes locked on the screen, the Homelander cums all over his lap, and it seems for a second as if the Kevin on the monitor is mocking him, grinning at his desperation, at how quickly he came, so John turns the TV off before he smashes right through it.

Spent, he lets his head droop over the backrest. Trying not to think of a pathetic, masochistic fish fucker, and the way he relaxed when Noir touched his gills, how every time, no matter how gentle John was, he'd never stopped being afraid. Always afraid of him.

And could they keep doing it on their own? Probably. But Homelander has eyes everywhere, can see right through the walls, so Deep wants to be absolutely certain to have his permission before they give things a try again. Ever since that afternoon, Noir's been avoiding him, but Deep is certain it's because his bro, too, isn't quite sure about the boundaries right now, whether they'll get to bro out more or if that'll make Homelander jealous. He didn't exactly make things clear, so it's best to just ask, probably.

And maybe, there's a part of him—a part that's just a little pathetic but also totally reasonable since this is about Homelander—that's been mulling a few of the things said over in his mind. Because Homelander is not that nice, usually, and a few of the things he said seemed so genuine, and usually, he wouldn't even seek clarification over this, but just assume the best, but while walking through the hallway, Homelander is just there suddenly, and Deep finds himself opening his mouth before he's even decided he wants to speak.

"Sir," he says, and immediately Homelander's gaze snaps to him, and maybe that's why he did it, even though he knows it's probably preferable to just keep pretending. Because he didn't want Homelander to just walk by without even greeting him, without even looking. Because something in that is so painful he'd rather risk drawing the man's wrath.

"What is it, Deep? Can't you see that I'm busy?"

"I wanted to…" Deep starts, but as Homelander stares at him, he realizes he doesn't even entirely remember what he wanted to. And then, there is something he wants to ask after all, but he doesn't think he wants to know the answer, except Homelander is staring at him now, all employees making a wide berth around them, and he has to say something, so the words just slip out.

"What you said recently. Did you mean it?"

"Did I mean what?"

People walking just by them, blatantly listening, and Deep almost can't bring himself to ask, yet he does, nevertheless.

"The stuff you said about, uh, keeping me in your bed." Trying to be quiet with the last part, but still someone's eyes snap onto them in bewilderment, and if it weren't for Homelander, Deep would chase them down and smear their head against the wall so they'd never be able to tell anyone.

And Homelander sighs. "Don‘t be naive, Deep. I was just putting on a little show for Noir‘s sake."

"Oh. I see."

"You weren't getting your hopes up, were you?"

"Of course not, Sir," Deep hurries to answer. "I know my place." And usually, he does. The most frustrating part of it is that he really does know better. Knows he shouldn't even have asked, should have just lived with the fantasy, but it's too late for that now. It was stupid. He's stupid.

"Good," Homelander says, and already, Deep can sense his attention sliding away again, so he rushes to get out his question before he loses the guts for it. "So, me and Noir. Can we keep doing this?"

"It's Noir, and I. Don't say your own name first, idiot."

"Apologies, Sir. Noir and I. Can we, you know."

There are people listening, so Deep tries to be subtle about it. Thumb and pointer finger touching, forming an O, the pointer of the other hand jabbing right into the gap. Someone hurrying by gasps at that, which is pretty ridiculous, way to be a baby about it, but with Homelander watching, it's not as if he can yell at them. Or maybe yelling would impress Homelander—maybe Deep should have yelled and Homelander will think him weak for not yelling—but it's too late then, the opportunity passed as the dude or dudette—with the short hair and women wearing pants now sometimes you really can't tell—vanishes around the corner.

"Stop that," Homelander hisses, smacking Deep's hands away. "Can you go even one second without embarrassing me? But sure, do what you want." Something in his gaze gets colder, then. "If he'll have you, that is."

And Deep can't help but take the bait.

"What do you mean. I thought he looked like he had…fun, I guess."

Homelander sighs. "He's an actor, dumbass. Of course, he's good at pretending."

"But you said he was enjoying it," Deep says, hating himself for the petulance in his voice, for the fact he's even doing this, when you don't argue with Homelander, you just don't, and the way Homelander looks at him, a strange mix of pity and disbelief, it really does hurt. "Didn't I just tell you I said a lot of things to mess with Noir? It's pathetic, Deep, how desperately you cling to compliments that any reasonable person would immediately recognize as hollow. Then again, you're not exactly reasonable, are you?"

Shamed, Deep stares down at his feet. Somehow, it's turned into this again, him being dressed down in the hallway, Homelander insulting him for all to hear.

"This is a waste of time," Homelander says, turning away with a shake of the head, and Deep sees his opportunities swimming away from him, how he's once more just the joke left standing there, left lying there, unless—unless there's something he can offer, and maybe there is. Just something, anything to prove his worth.

"Noir is trying to get rid of me."

And at once, Homelander's attention is back on him, and it feels so good, feels wonderful. As if none of the insults ever mattered at all, now that he's finally useful again.

"He told me to leave, Sir. Because you, uh, don't treat me well, or something like that. Which I think is totally ridiculous. He said I should like, leave the Seven."

"Huh."

"It's total bullshit, Sir, I know! He's just trying to get me to betray you so he can take my spot. He's like…Sir, have you watched Aladdin?"

"What?"

"The movie Aladdin, with the flying carpet and the blue singing guy. There's a king in the movie, and he has like, this guy at his side who's trying to manipulate him to become king himself. And he's a wizard."

"Deep, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Noir is the wizard, Sir! He's the evil wizard trying to manipulate you! And he's trying to get rid of me because he knows I'll stick by your side! I'm like…I guess I'm kinda like the chick in that movie, who, like, knows the wizard is evil, so she's trying to warn the king, but she's also the king's daughter, so that's kind of weird if you're the king and I'm the chick. Like, she's not sleeping with her dad or anything. I don't think that's allowed in animated movies. Or like, in general? That's illegal, right?"

Homelander holds a hand up. "Just stop talking. I'll take care of Noir."

"Right, Sir. Just for the record, by that you mean…"

"I haven't decided yet."

"But you're not going to like…kill him, right?"

"Didn't you just tell me he betrayed me? That he's trying to manipulate me? And now you think I shouldn't kill him?"

"I mean, killing is pretty harsh. I was hoping more along the lines of, uh…maybe you could take away one of his movie deals. Something like that."

"You want me to punish Black Noir by taking away one of his movie deals? You think that's an adequate punishment?"

It sounds like a trick question. So Deep answers, "Maybe?" wincing, and Homelander's expression lets him know he probably chose wrong.

"I'll think of something. For now, you've wasted enough of my time."

"Sorry, Sir. But, um," and he shouldn't say it, he really, really shouldn't, "with all due respect, I think if you killed Noir it would be, like, not that good for the Podcast. I mean, I could deal with it, but like, the viewers might get mad. Or something. It's up to you, though, of course. But we did hit a new viewership peak recently. So um, yeah. Food for thought, I guess."

And he knows the minute the words leave his mouth that it's a bad idea, but once he started, he couldn't seem to stop. Homelander's eyes flash red, and they're running, now, the very last stragglers still brave enough to try to eavesdrop, and fuck, Deep wishes he could run, too. But you can't outrun a laser.

"I'll kill whoever the fuck I want to kill. If I want, I'll kill him, and I might just kill you too, for trying to tell me what to do. Never," his hands on Deep's neck then, squeezing, eyes still red, and maybe this is how he dies, all of it Noir's fault, his feet leaving the floor, "ever, tell me what to do, alright?" and Deep is nodding frantically, blubbering apologies even as he's gasping for breath, uselessly kicking at the air. And Homelander glances downwards, then, Deep following his gaze, pure mortification as he feels, suddenly, the warmth at his crotch, the soft trickle down his thighs.

"You're fucking disgusting," Homelander hisses. Looking up at Deep's face again, pure venom in his eyes. "Why would I ever want something so repulsive in my bed?"

"I'm sorry," Deep sobs, "I'm sorry," and with one last revolted glance, Homelander drops him to the floor, into the small puddle, where he cowers, suit turning damp. At least everyone has left by now; maybe he can delete the security camera feed before anyone sees. And it would be okay, would be almost okay, if this weren't the exact second where, with a ding, the doors of the elevator slide open, and out steps, of course—of fucking course—Black Noir of all people, a fountain soda in his hand, lips pursed around the straw. Sucking, quite noisily, on his drink.

"Bro," Deep whimpers, "It's not what it looks like," which is, probably, the most stupid thing of all to say, considering the fact it is exactly what it looks like, and also now Noir is looking closer, trying to figure out what it is, instead of stepping right back into the elevator.

"Nice of you to join us, Noir. But I was just about to leave. Deep here has already wasted enough of my time, haven't you?"

Deep nods, gaze firmly locked to the floor, shame making his head spin. He should never have spoken up at all. Again and again, he talks himself into these situations when he could've just kept quiet and be sitting pretty in his apartment right now, jerking off and eating junk food.

"Do what you want with him," Homelander says, and for a moment, Deep actually thinks Homelander's talking to him. But he's not looking at Deep, he's looking at Noir. Not to him, then. About him.

His head drops. He can't even bring himself to look after Homelander as he walks past him, as he hears the pat on Noir's back before the elevator slides shut behind Homelander, and he's gone. And it's only Noir then, who can somehow never do anything wrong, who's fucked up just as badly as Deep has, and still Homelander never seems quite as angry at him, and the fact that Deep knows this affection is because of a dead man somehow doesn't make things easier. And then there's Deep, still cowering on the floor like a pussy, even though he's totally not a pussy, trying to wipe the tears off his face. Deep, who somehow can never seem to do even a single thing right, can't even tell what exactly it is that he's done wrong this time.

"This is your fault," he mutters, not quite able to put the venom he wants into his voice.

Noir, most of all, sounds kind of baffled. "I just got here, man," he says, but he does walk closer, and then, in a truly surprising twist, offers Deep a hand—the one not holding a drink, that is.

And Deep almost doesn't take it, but then he does, and his bro is lifting him to his feet, and it's embarrassing, sure, the wet patch on his suit Noir is obviously trying not to glance at, but fuck—somehow, Deep is glad his bro's here. Feels, strangely enough, almost a little safer in his presence. Which is maybe a tiny bit beta, but whatever—everyone gets a little vulnerable sometimes, and wolves roam in packs, after all.

And even if Noir doesn't want him that way, if Homelander's right and he was just getting his hopes up for nothing, then well, at least they can still be friends. Despite Noir trying to sabotage him, and then Deep trying to sort of sabotage Noir but in a justified way so it's less sabotage and more like, totally fair game, they can be friends. They're like, even. Something like that.

"I…had a lot of water today, bro."

And Noir, bless him, just shrugs. "Homelander is scary as fuck. I don't really blame you. He probably did that laser eye thing again, right?"

And Deep, a strange sort of guilt pooling within him at the fact that he did rat Noir out, that all this happened because he wanted to fuck him over for trying to fuck him over, nods. "The neck grab, too. Lifted me straight off the floor."

Noir whistles. "Laser eyes and neck grab. You really pissed him off. I mean, what'd you do?"

"Don't know," Deep lies. "I guess he just needed to blow off some frustration."

"Yeah, that explains it. Not as if he needs a reason." Noir clears his throat. "I was looking for you anyways." He reaches behind him and pulls, from one of the numerous pouches of his suit, a take-out bag. Fascinating that he even fit it in there, but Deep sometimes thinks those have some sort of super-storage technology. Bigger on the inside, kind of like the Tardis. Though that's nerd shit, so he'd never say it out loud. A true Sigma doesn't even know what the Tardis is. More like re—no, he can't say that anymore. Because of woke.

"It's sort of a peace offering, I guess. After what happened. I was just…kind of caught off guard by everything, but it's not as if it was your fault. But I did sort of let it out on you, and I've been kinda awkward the last few days, so yeah. I thought we could maybe just hang out again. Watch something, maybe." He shakes the bag. "I got you onion rings. It's not a bloomin' onion, but I figured it's close. Onion is onion, right?

Deep gapes at him, unable to hide how much the gesture has touched him, but people don't…they don't do that kind of stuff for him, usually. Nobody in the seven has ever brought him lunch, except maybe Homelander with Timothy, and that doesn't count. That was more of a murder situation. "You got that for me?"

"Yeah," Noir says, smiling, and Deep looks at him, his bro, his bro's earnest, beautiful smile, and it all comes spilling out then, mouth faster than his brain again. "I told Homelander. About you trying to push me out of the Seven. Like…Aladdin. The guy trying to bewitch the king."

"Dude," Noir says, sounding genuinely kind of crestfallen, "you told him I was Jafar?"

"That's his name! I knew it was kinda like the popcorn. Jiffy pop. But I'm sorry, dude. It just slipped out. And you did try to get rid of me first."

"I wasn't trying to get rid of you! You know what you did, right? That's enough for Homelander to rip my head off."

"I know. I felt really bad right away. I asked him not to, but I don't think he liked that."

"So that's why…the laser and the choking."

Deep nods, chastised, not even entirely sure why he feels so guilty. Noir did try to manipulate him first. Except, Noir is also his friend. And if Homelander ripped his head off, Deep realizes, he'd really miss him. Not just because of Manhandled.

"You're a fucking asshole for this, dude. And I'm not a Jafar. I never wanted to push you out, that was just your own paranoia. I was trying to be helpful. If anything, I'm like…I don't know, I guess I'd be Aladdin? The guy just trying to be successful and have a good time."

"Aladdin is pretty cool. And he marries the princess…"

"I mean, yeah, I guess. I don't know who the princess is, though. No offense, bro, but this whole metaphor is kinda falling apart. Whatever." A sigh. "I should be pissed at you, but Homelander seems to have already punished you plenty. Plus, he doesn't seem to have fallen for your bullshit either. So we're good, I guess."

Deep perks up. "We are?"

"Yeah. But don't try to pull shit like that again. We shouldn't be enemies. I mean, we're both in this together, right? We're bros."

"Bros. Yeah. You're my bro, bro. We're in this together. Like high school musical."

Noir raises the bag. "Do you want to eat this before it gets cold, or what?" he asks, and Deep grins. His bro, his beautiful bro. Nothing will ever tear them apart again. "There's nothing I'd rather be doing", he says, and he's not lying. Somehow, he's not lying.

And it comes to him, with a frightening sort of clarity, that he hopes Homelander won't interrupt them this time. Because yes, he's addicted to Homelander's cruelty, to how horrible he is and the way that makes every moment of sweetness so much better in contrast—how nobody, not ever, is able to bring him this low and this close to the oblivion he'll probably never stop chasing—but there's something nice about this, too. About just getting to hang out with someone without worrying they'll break your legs. It helps if they're a sigma male. It helps if they're attractive as hell. It helps if they're nice to him. It helps if he does, kind of, sort of, really like them.

Maybe this can be a balanced thing. Homelander on one side of the scale, Noir on the other. The sweetness always making the cruelty hit that much better and vice versa. It wouldn't have been that good if Justin hadn't been there. It wouldn't have been that good if Homelander hadn't been there, either. But it doesn't have to be something mind-blowing every single time. It can just be nice, sometimes.

Yeah. Maybe sometimes, it could just be nice.

"But take a shower first, dude," Noir says. "And change your suit."

"Oh, right. Of course."

And even if bros is all they'll be, isn't that still something wonderful? To no longer be alone in that tower. To have someone to rely on. If Noir doesn't want Deep the same way Deep wants Noir, well, that's fine, that'll have to be fine. In the elevator, his bro hands him the soda, and as the sprite rushes into his mouth, straw between his lips, he realizes this is almost a kiss. They're almost kissing.