Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Homelander was hungry.

Every supe who’d ever laid eyes on him knew that he hungered.  It was in every tilt of his head, every glimmer of red that flashed in his eyes, and how his teeth bruised over his lower lip in sneering disapproval. 

Everyone knew he was a predator, and his unique ability to make them all feel like prey was one of the many reasons why all (but a select few) scattered like rabbits when they knew he was near. 

The Deep was one of those few.  Because he knew what it looked like Homelander was starving.

It was hard to tell the difference at first.  When Deep first got called into Homelander’s office, he felt very much like a fish out of water.  Looking up at his superior’s face, Deep saw nothing but a cold, unyielding grimace, and swallowed that pun down before he could even think of speaking. 

“Deep, why so far away?” Homelander called from his desk.  Homelander’s questions weren’t actually questions, but rather choices between life and death, and luckily, the Deep was smart (or stupid) enough to choose life every time.

“Sorry, sir.  You needed to see me?”

“Wanted, Deep, wanted.  I don’t need to see you.”  At the other supe’s pitiful nod of assent, Homelander leaned back in his chair and continued.  “But you’re right.  I did call you in.”

“If this is about this morning, I’m sorry.”  Deep threw his hands up, slumping into the opposite chair.  “I’m really sorry.  That we upset you.”

Homelander grimaced.  “You upset me every day.  No.  Like I said, I’m surrounded by sycophants!  No one dares to challenge me.  No one wants to look me in the eye.”

“Do you…do you want that, sir?”  Homelander finally focused his gaze and was intrigued to find Deep actually looking back at him.  Staring at the smooth plane of his face not just somewhere in his general direction.  “Would that make you happy?”

The blond man tsked.  Whatever brightness he’d had in his eyes dimmed once more.  “I don’t care what you think makes me happy.  But if you’re so interested,” and here he spat the words with venom, “you could answer me this.”

The Deep’s eyes widened.

“You looked A-Train in the eyes when you went to blow him,” Homelander continued.  “You looked him in his eyes and dropped to your knees like a fucking puppy.  So, you’d rather suck a man’s cock than look me in the eyes, is that right?”

The Deep did that stupid thing where his head started to bob down in an effort to look away, like he was becoming paralyzed.  Homelander detested it.  “Answer me.”

Deep swallowed, hard.  “No, sir.  I wasn’t gonna do it anyways.”

“That surprises me,” the blond man muttered.  He sat up in his chair, folding his hands on the desk like he was about to make an offer.  But all that came out of his mouth was, “Ok.”

Deep was baffled.  His hands hovered over the arms of his chair, ready to get up.  There was always a catch.

“Are you gonna just sit there like a dumbass?” Homelander raised his eyebrows and made a dismissive gesture at his coworker.

“No, s—no, Homelander,” Deep finally said, getting up with a quick nod of his head.  “Thank you.”

As he turned to leave, Homelander’s voice pierced through the office dead space.  “Where are you going?  I never told you to go.”

A clammy sweat was beginning to form on the back of Deep’s neck.  He turned and saw that Homelander had sat back in his chair, spreading his legs wide.  Almost like an invitation.  But no, surely…

“I want you to blow me.”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“You heard me.  Blow me.”  Homelander spread his legs even wider, and Deep nearly choked.  The gesture would seem inviting, almost slutty, if not for the impassive gaze of the man doing it.  “Consider it a gift from me.  Since you can’t even dare to scrabble your way up to my level, you can be my footrest.  Wouldn’t you like that?  To be my dog?”

No, that didn’t sound nice to him at all.  And, to be fair, he already kind of was Homelander’s dog.  Probably like some breed of—

“Deep!”

“Yes sir!  I’d…I’d like that.  I’d do anything for you,” Deep stammered, finally snapping out of his trance.  He stumbled over to the desk and his knees hit the ground with a thud.  For the second time that day.

As he sat there, feeling suddenly shy, Deep’s hands began to tremble.  What if this is another test? he thought.  For real though, if I got up and said no, he’d probably laser me in the chest.  But then again…why would he want this?

Homelander’s fingers, as if answering his secret questions, found their way into the Deep’s hair.  They found fistfuls of the brine-bleached strands and pulled: hard and forward.  Deep let out a small choke as his cheek was smushed against the bigger supe’s thigh. 

Slowly, Deep raised his gaze until he was looking up at Homelander.  His hands settled on the belt of the other supe, and, at the nod of approval, slid it to the ground.  Then, praying to whoever was listening that his hands weren’t too sweaty, Deep pulled down the waistband of Homelander’s suit and felt real, human skin.  Almost like the supe was wearing a human skin suit, a messed up disguise.  “Go on,” the man in question prompted, his tone neither encouraging nor disengaged. 

“Homelander, I’ve, I’ve never—“

“I don’t care what positions you have or haven’t tried, Deep, spare the sex diary for your fish friends.”  Impatient, Homelander lifted his hips, allowing Deep to slide down the tight fabric.  Underneath, he was wearing black boxers, but the real prize was…well.

He was huge.  Most importantly, he was hard.  For the fucking Deep.

Deep couldn’t believe it.  He’d had no idea he could invoke any emotion in his boss other than disgust.  Or if Homelander had simply been hiding it the whole time, maybe even playing with it while the Deep groveled and stammered like an idiot. 

“Sir, you’re beautiful,” was all he could say.

“Do it,” was all he got in reply.

Deep shakily began to slide his hands back up Homelander’s thighs, but as soon as he reached the edge of his boxers, the other man jolted out of his seat.  Deep was once again grabbed by his hair, this time wrenched to his feet.

“I knew it.  I knew it,” and his bright eyes were shining with something akin to contempt.  “Knew you were just a little cockslut.  So eager to get on your knees.  So eager to please me, to get so close to me that you’d start melting into my won skin.  You’re pathetic,” Homelander spat, pushing him back onto the desk.  “And you know what, Deep? I realized that about you.  That’s why I asked you to blow A-Train.  Now you can’t say you almost blew me without admitting you won’t throw yourself at any supe with a cock.  Well, guess what?  I’ll make sure that the only cock you ever get to touch again is mine.”

There was a pause.  Deep felt his chest rise and fall so heavily, it felt like he had weights strapped to it.  There was the question.  Was it really a choice of life-and-death he’d just made?  Or was it a choice that reflected intention, an intention he’d never had when he got on his knees for A-Train?

Ultimately, Deep pushed those thoughts out of his mind, folding his hands in a show of deferral.  “Thank you, sir.  Truly.”

When he stared to look up, he found a strange twinkling in Homelander’s eye.  Gone was the predatory apathy of a cat tired of living in mouse holes.  The whites of his eyes were almost completely obscured.  There was a lovely little wrinkle in his forehead, like he was deep in thought.  This Homelander was different.  He knew that a game was afoot.

This Homelander was starving for a win.

“I’m going to break you,” were his last, venomous words to Deep, as he pulled up his suit pants.

“Please put me back together after, sir,” Deep tried to joke under his breath.  Homelander didn’t respond.  Gone was the furrow in his brow, the glint in his eye.  All he could do was sit in that stupid, squeaky chair and wave the Deep out of his office.

Because he was Homelander.  And Homelander could do anything he wanted to.

And now, finally, he had his paws on a new game.  He could finally hunt. 

Chapter Text

The Deep never tried to think hard about anything Homelander did.  He found it easier for him to just take it day by day.

On this particular day, nearly a week after his last visit into the supe’s office, he found himself being followed.  For a minute, he’d prayed that it was just Ashley being annoying, but those were definitely the footsteps of someone with big, heavy boots.  And a big, heavy—

Deep walked faster, praying he’d make it to the elevator before he’d have to turn around and have one of those uncomfortable conversations he’d become so accustomed to having.  But, just as he made it and slipped through the still-opening doors, he heard a voice behind him.

“Do you mind?”

Deep leaned up against the wall of the elevator in a show of politeness and nodded.  With pursed lips, Homelander stepped into the elevator and stood opposite him.  His hair seemed more ruffled than usual, and that wrinkle that Deep had unfortunately began to fixate on was back.  This time, it was at the quirked-up corner of his lips. 

(This wasn’t the same wrinkle, of course.  Deep just couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it.  In fact, he’d found himself, in the week following his encounter in the office, fixating on aspects of Homelander’s face.  Anything but the eyes, yet somehow, every time he looked, Deep felt piercingly seen.  Watched, more like.)

“You’re very fast.  Trying to run away from something?” Homelander pointed out. 

“No, sir, not running.  Just…forgot to feed my octopus.”  Deep smiled the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, praying to whatever other gods existed that Homelander didn’t see him sweating.

“Oh, your octopus!”  Homelander’s smile widened.  His smile was the opposite of Deep’s—it started with the burning intensity of his eyes, then spread out to a cluster of wrinkles that propped up his smile, like a marionette on a string.  Every second the Deep watched, Homelander’s smile twitched and fluttered, like it was sagging under the weight of his own mouth.  It felt disgusting to watch.  Yet almost hypnotic.  “Yes, I remember you got another one.  Shame about Timothy.  It’s a real shame that you ate him.”

If Deep was any more caught off guard, he probably would’ve said something awful.  “You told me to eat him.  I…I had no other choice!”

Luckily, Homelander seemed to be amused.  “You could always’ve said no.”  Deep recalled their last conversation in the office.  According to Homelander, he was a sycophant and an imbecile.  “I simply felt that having a friend with you would comfort you.  Cheer you up.  After all, you’re back on the team now, aren’t you?”

An ironic question to ask, given that it was entirely Homelander’s choice if he stayed.  Deep grimaced in assent.  Like it or not, this was really for the best, he told himself.

“You didn’t name your new octopus.  Are you scared he’ll die too?”

“She…she has a name.  Her name is Ambrosius.”  Deep hesitated to elaborate any further, given Homelander had never shown this much interest in anything he said, which was suspicious in and of itself. 

“Terrible of me to assume.”  There was a stale pause, then Homelander gestured his head towards the elevator panel, which Deep was currently blocking.  “Mind pressing that for me?”

They’d been stopped.  Just chatting it up, as if they were friends.  And Deep felt like even more of an idiot than before.  Of course.  He hit the button the other supe had gestured to.  “…Stan Edgar’s office?  What do you want there?”

“Going to feed my octopus,” Homelander responded.  “I keep him in a tank there.  I call it my Think Tank.” 

“Dang.  I could give you tips, bro.”

“I don’t want any.”  The elevator ground to a stop on floor 82.  As the doors slid open, Homelander clapped Deep on the shoulder.  The sheer force of it made his knees buckle, but he held firm.  “Have you thought about my offer yet?”

“What offer?” the Deep quivered, racking his mind for the answer nervously.  His memory kind of stopped at the point when he’d nearly pulled the blond man’s dick out. 

“The offer where I break you under my fucking boots, and you say please and thank you.”  Somewhere in the midst of these words, Homelander’s hand had crept up and begun fondling Deep’s neck.  Deep was used to this gesture, but now, it had a hungrier undertone.  He felt the warmth of the supe’s thumb pressing into his Adam’s apple, and with each swallow, it was almost like Homelander was stroking his throat.  It wasn’t the gesture of someone who wanted to hold anymore—no, this hand wanted to possess. 

Deep felt a sudden warmth concentrating in his lower stomach.

“Think about it, okay?”  The question was soft, almost considerate, and the Deep tried not to think about (oh, he was definitely thinking about) how the other man’s hand could practically wrap around his entire neck.  “That’s all I ask.”

And with that, he stepped out of the elevator, leaving a very stunned Deep behind.  Who hadn’t even picked his own floor yet.

Heck yeah!  Deep couldn’t help a grin forming on his face.  He’d gotten the boss’ interest, one way or another.  Now he could be the real office siren.  He could imagine himself strutting down Vought Tower’s halls, spinning in the meeting room chairs…but the question remained on his mind of whether or not it was even a choice.  Homelander could be very impulsive, but the fact that he’d fixated on this idea of whatever this offer really entailed for a week meant that he really wanted it.  That, just maybe, he really wanted him.

This thought was enough to satisfy the Deep, and he felt content enough to stay in the elevator for a few flexes in the mirror.  By the time he’d assured himself of his own machismo, Ashley was pounding on the other side of the door, telling him to “let me the fuck in, you fish”.  He reluctantly had to accept that, even if Homelander’s attitude towards him might’ve changed, unless the supe released a literal proclamation (which wouldn’t be beneath him), he’d have to wait on his fantasy.

*

After a long day gathering intel, the Deep returned to Vought Tower to find the halls empty.  The rest of the Seven had retreated back to their apartments, and the employees had fled to whatever corners of the world they lived in.  He didn’t really care.

Exhausted (and not just from the toll of having to interact with so many adoring fans), Deep pushed open the doors to his apartment.  Maybe after such a long day, he could finally get to that episode of Real Housewives he’d been putting off. 

“There you are!”

Or maybe not.

“Gah!  Dude!  What are you doing here?” Deep gasped, rushing in.  Homelander had his gloved hands pressed up against the walls of Ambrosius’ tank and was standing in the middle of the room like he owned it, like Deep was his honored guest.

“Chill, relax.  Ambrosius and I were just having a chat.”  The octopus bubbled curiously in her tank, pressing her arms against the glass in a silent hello.  This man talks so much.  And not nearly as poetic as you, she remarked.

“I know,” Deep mumbled under his breath.  He crossed the room to stand face-to-face with Homelander, before stopping short.  He realized he was still wearing his civilian clothes.  For some reason, it made him feel so much smaller before the tall blond.  Deep never felt convincing in his out-of-touch attire, but in Homelander’s presence, he suddenly felt a lot more human than before.  “So, uh, she say anything nasty about me?”

There was that weird, puppet smile again.  “No idea,” Homelander beamed.  “Just glad you have some company in here.  It stinks of chum.”

Deep wasn’t sure how the two thoughts were related, but he didn’t dare push it.  “Uh, make yourself at home bro.  Sorry, wasn’t expecting company so late.”

Homelander swished his cape around him and stretched out on the edge of the bed.  He seemed pleased with himself about something, and it unnerved the other supe greatly.  “You got intel.  Wearing that.”

“Yes I did.  Is it a little too indie?” Deep cringed at himself.

“The denim on denim might be a bit much.”  Homelander shrugged it off, eyes roaming over the Deep’s form as he stood by the bed. 

“You’re right.  I’ll go change,” Deep agreed, turning his back to make a quick exit to the bathroom.  He grabbed his gloves on the way, which he’d thrown haphazardly onto the floor.

Homelander noticed the gloves and raised an eyebrow.  “You wear your costume to sleep?” he asked incredulously.  “I mean, it makes sense.  You probably secrete all over it with your, with your gills or whatever.”  He waved a hand as if to dismiss Deep to the bathroom, as if this was his own office. 

“They don’t secrete.  They don’t secrete anything,” Deep said pointedly.  “That’s gross.  No, of course not, I wear boxers and I, oh, I’m probably boring you,” he rambled, face red. 

The other supe shrugged.  “You’re not.  Go on.”  It wasn’t really the interest that Deep had wanted (maybe something closer to his status in the Seven and his importance as a very valuable, respected team member?), but it was a start.

“Well, that’s pretty much it,” Deep finished lamely.  “Just boxers.”

“Just boxers,” Homelander echoed.  Deep hadn’t realized it, but at some point, he’d sat on the bed next to Homelander.  Now, there they were, the blue light from the tank cast upon their faces. 

Another pause.  Deep waited for the moment when the dream would end, when Homelander would laser his tank or storm off or make fun of his gills again.  But it didn’t come.  “I thought about your offer, sir,” he finally admitted.

“Great.  I’m glad you’ve put some thought into this, Deep.” 

“I need more details,” Deep declared, his voice sounding a lot louder than he’d wanted.  Homelander tilted his head.  His eyes were dark and wide again, and one hand was uncharacteristically fisted in the folds of his cape.  Deep continued, voice wavering as he hid it behind a chuckle, “Well, what exactly do you mean, you’ll ‘break me’?  You’re very strong.  You could probably do anything you wanted.”

“Probably?” came the answering rumble, thick with suspicion.

“Definitely.  You definitely can.  I know that,” Deep was quick to clarify.  “But, um, to me specifically.”

A beat.  Homelander seemed pleased, or at least, not murderous.  “Yes,” he mused, and his lip twitched, “that’s true.  I could do anything I wanted to you.  You wouldn’t even have the guts to stop me.”

Deep didn’t like the word choice of guts.  It reminded him of all those many times when he’d seen someone’s insides turned into barbecue at the wrath of Homelander’s laser beams.  Yet somehow, he felt confident in the fact that the supe wasn’t alluding to killing him.  Death would be quick and merciless for him, he knew that.  This, this almost-intimate conversation, felt like a prelude to a much worse fate.

“But I wouldn’t kill you,” Homelander cut into his thoughts.  “You earned your way back into the Seven.  And I respect that.  Would be a waste of a seafood dinner.”  Ambrosius let out an unhappy splash as she swished in her tank.  “You know why I really asked you to blow A-Train?”

“To show that I was going to do it,” the Deep said hesitantly.  “That’s what you told me, sir.”

“I wanted to watch,” Homelander growled, and this time there was no kidding in his voice.  “I wanted to see how you’d do it—if you’d sit pretty and be all nervous, sweaty and shaky, or if you’d grit your teeth and close your eyes through it.  I wanted to see if you’d look up at him with his cock in your mouth, or if you’d be so into it your eyes would roll back in your head.  I wanted to see if you’d like fingers in your hair, spearing your head on his cock, or if you’d want to grab his hips and be in control.  Tell me, Deep, would you like it if someone abused that pretty little throat of yours?  Made it hard to swallow?  I wanted to know this.  I wanted to see you spit up his cum, to have it stain your suit, and have you walk around the office with this mark of shame—that you’re a dirty cocksucker.  I wanted everyone to see you like this, because that’s what you deserve.  It’s what we Seven deserve, only the finest and strongest can fuck like we do.  And it had to be you, Deep,” and here he cleared his throat, “because, above all, you need to know this about yourself.”

Deep was silent, so silent he could hear his heart hammering in his chest.  He wasn’t gay—yes, he’d had his fair share of dudes approach him who’d seemed more than just fans, but he’d never—he would never—no, he couldn’t imagine it.  “I’m not gay though,” was all he could answer with. “Sorry?”

Homelander didn’t reply; he was back to staring at the tank.  A lump formed in Deep’s throat as he watched the rise and fall of Homelander’s shoulders under the suit.  Did he hurt his feelings?  Seriously?

“I’m, uh, gonna go change now.”  Deep realized he’d been stretching out his gloves from the nerves, and that they were having this very odd conversation while he was still in a jean jacket. 

“You’re not going anywhere.”  Homelander stood up abruptly.  Deep flinched, bracing for the worst.  Which, with Homelander, was a lot.  Instead, the blond supe towered over Deep standing between his legs.  His smile was back again, with the tips of his upper teeth catching on his bottom lip in a catlike grin.  The supe leaned forward so that their noses were almost touching.  Deep could practically smell his breath, minty and fresh, like the most stereotypical, American toothpaste he could imagine.  “Not until I’ve had my fill.”

His presence was overwhelming—the stench of his breath, his dark eyes boring (metaphorical, luckily) holes into Deep’s forehead, his large hands gripping onto Deep’s thighs.  Deep found himself leaning back, not to get away from Homelander, but rather to let himself go.  To sprawl back onto his bed, swallow his pride, and, for once, do something good for the Seven.  After all, maybe this is what he was meant to do?  Homelander certainly thought so.

And Deep wouldn’t admit it, but as Homelander towered over him, he was a little turned on too.  Maybe it was the deep, commanding presence of the other man.  Maybe it was the filthiness of his words.  But most of all, it was their truthfulness.

Deep was just as curious as Homelander was.  And, like it or not, he was about to find out if he could play with the big boys.

Chapter Text

Homelander fucked hard. 

The Deep had never really imagined it before, never taken time out of his day to imagine the man in front of him with his dick out.  Sometimes, he’d wondered if it would even make a difference.  You know the saying, imagine the audience in their underwear?  That’s what it would feel like.  Even with his dick out, you’d always be the more naked one in the room.  The sheep in a herd guarded by a wolf. 

He fucked with passion but without any love.  Homelander was quick to get on top of him, barely touching, merely commanding with his voice.  Deep stripped for him with a burning heat in his cheeks, his breaths coming shallow.  He only got a few moments of bliss, of looking into Homelander’s face and seeing every emotion but anger flickering across the older man’s countenance, before he was turned over and roughly shoved into the pillow. 

Tears sprung to the Deep’s eyes, not just from the fact that he was being pounded into the mattress, or that this was, in fact, pretty gay, but from the warmth that emanated from the other supe’s fingers.  It felt like a firm, warm hug.  In a deluge of aggression and torment, this was the closest thing to love he could find.  It was the pastor’s guiding hand holding a boy under the water to be born anew.  It was every time he’d looked up at that stupid Homelander poster growing up and wished those eyes were looking back at him.  Now, they followed him every day and he just couldn’t bear to fucking look.  Well, those eyes were on him again now.  And his hand was there on the back of his neck, closest thing to God’s blessing.  With every thrust, Deep was sent deeper and deeper into the delusion that he could somehow get fucked into heaven.  By no merit of his own, he knew that, and that somehow turned him on even more.  It was the thought that the man on top of him was powerful enough to do such a thing.  To perform a miracle on the lowly freak of nature that he was.  And it was the truth.

Small whimpers and moans of praise fell from his lips freely, slurring together into a burbling mess of flattery.  All of it went unanswered, but the silence was never loud.  Deep could hear loud grunts and feel hot breath over his neck, dissolving into higher pitches and heavier pants as the other man grew closer.  He wondered to himself in the silence of their arrangement if Homelander was like this with all the girls he fucked.  He also wondered if he was the first man Homelander had fucked like this, like really fucked (and not in a “no homo” kinda way).  The thrill of being anything remotely special flushed his cheeks pink.  Deep knew he didn’t deserve any of it.  The older supe had never revealed much about his sex life.  It wasn’t exactly a topic of conversation at the office. Not when they had a job to do and the masses to dote upon.  Everyone knew Homelander had girls at his call, ready to do anything for a smile and a quick fuck.  In a way, Deep related to them.  Not that he was gonna start groveling and trying to shine Homelander’s shoes.  He knew that, deep down, that would disgust the other man.  Just like how he had him on his stomach right now, fucking him into the bed, smearing his pre-cum all over his sheets.  It’s so he doesn’t see my gills, Deep told himself.  Maybe if I kept my shirt on, he’d let me look at him next time.

He couldn’t help but groan at his own stupidity.  One, that he even fathomed there would be a next time, and two, that, even while getting his shit rocked by Homelander, he was still thinking of ways to impress him. 

He was still thinking when, with a sudden groan, Homelander bit into the Deep’s shoulder and let go with one last, shuddering thrust.  He collapsed on top of the smaller supe, which probably would’ve killed an ordinary man, pinning Deep into the mattress.  And he didn’t say anything, just stayed there.  Almost in an embrace, but not quite.

“You didn’t cum,” Homelander sniffed with mild distaste as Deep rolled over.  His hair was perfectly unruffled and his cheeks weren’t even flushed.  Because of course—the Deep hadn’t even touched him.  “Why didn’t you cum?”

“Bro, you, you—“ Deep gasped, scrambling to come up for the correct answer.  “You didn’t even touch my cock!”

The other man’s lip twitched. 

“I can’t believe this,” Deep continued.  “We had sex.  We had sex.”

“Stop being poetic.  We didn’t have sex.  I fucked you and you deserved it.  Congrats.  Here’s your flowers, now get in line,” Homelander drawled, sitting back at the foot of the bed.  (Deep liked to think, looking back at this moment, that he had a smart and witty comeback, but here, his brain short-circuited at the feeling of cum pooling out of him and he responded with something best described as “aughmphmm”.)

“So we fucked,” he finally croaked out after a minute of watching cum drip onto his ruined sheets.  “Fucked?  Did the devil’s tango?  Cracked open our oysters?”

“Hate that one, and I’m not even you.  Come on, Deep,” and here, Homelander sighed.  “Pull it together.”

“My bad,” he apologized, bowing his head in deferral.  “I’m just…you’re just so good, sir.”

“Your first time like this?” Homelander asked.  “Being the bitch?”

The Deep winced as he sat up and his gills fluttered in protest.  Homelander’s gaze lowered; Deep wrapped his arms protectively around his chest.  “I wouldn’t say it so crudely.  I’m not a bitch, at least I don’t think so?  But you’re right.”  He tried his best to put on a cheesing smile, one he’d put on in the mirror for himself.  “Hey, my dad always said that your real life doesn’t begin until you’ve breached all holes!”  Homelander’s face instantly dropped.  “I…he didn’t say that.  I was joking.”

The blond man’s expression was darker now, with an expression the Deep recognized.  It was the same, ravenous hunger that had consumed him earlier that night, as well as in their covert office meeting last week.  He got on his hands and craned forward until his body was bracketing Deep again.  He was practically sitting on top of his legs.  “You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.  Keep it useful with other things.”

Deep squirmed as he felt a pair of fingers wiping up his thigh and circling his hole, collecting the liquid gathered there.  When Homelander removed his hand, Deep opened his mouth in anticipation, causing the other man to almost throw back his head and laugh.  “I knew it.  Such a cockslut, didn’t even move my hand yet,” he said with a grimace.  “Look at me.  Closely.”

Deep felt Homelander’s eyes burning a hole at the back of his skull with intensity (metaphorically, of course).  He complied, setting his jaw firmly, eyes tracing over the soft wrinkles cut into the sides of the head supe’s face.  They looked touchable—maybe if he reached out, just once, he could feel what it was like to play God—

“OW!  FUCK!” Deep swore at the sudden, searing, pain on the left side of his abdomen.  He looked down in all-too familiar horror to find Homelander pressing his cum-stained fingers into one of Deep’s gills, the slits reflexively clamping shut at the intrusion.  “Homela—John—fuck—sir, you know that hurts!”  His voice trailed off into weaker pants as the pain became overwhelming.  Homelander was knuckle-deep, and now, as if that wasn’t bad enough, began to scissor his fingers back and forth, stringing the cum across each fringe of the gill. 

“You’re right,” Homelander muttered with a frown, his pace slowing for one merciful second.  “That girl.  She assaulted you.  I forgot.”

“Yeah, well, kind of a touchy subject,” Deep admitted, gritting his teeth as his gills enveloped the supe’s fingers, surrounding them with tight, fluttering warmth. 

“Shit, you’re so tight.  Maybe these disgusting things have a purpose after all,” Homelander murmured, more to himself than the helpless body beneath him.  He looked up and his pupils were dilated like a cat who’d just seen a new bird in the nest.  “Can I teach you?”

“Sir, ah, teach me what?”  The aquatic supe was one finger away from begging for mercy. 

Homelander leaned in so close that his fingers were practically hooked into his gills, like he was the fisherman and Deep was the chum(p).  He let his voice go all deep like he did when he was out of meetings, when, just for a second, Deep could see elements of John surfacing from beneath the facade.  “I’m gonna teach you.  I’m gonna teach you how to overcome the pain.  Because that girl didn’t fucking deserve to use your perfect body.  And I do.”

Deep was so stunned and overwhelmed with emotion at this statement, so gentle, terrifying, and enigmatic all at once, that the sensation of Homelander spearing his gills open was fading to a dull ache.  The sound of his voice had actually worked—no, there it was again.  “Sir, please keep talking.  Please!”

The blond supe’s eyebrows knitted together.  “Nope,” he decided quickly.  “Not dealing with your shit right now.”  The quick withdrawal of his fingers from Deep’s sensitive body left his upper left gill swollen and puffy, and every time it fluttered, they both could see strands of cum forming and collapsing on themselves.  “But fuck, if that’s not a pretty sight.”  There was something like approval in Homelander’s voice.  It quickly turned into his usual malice.  “If you dare to say stupid shit like that next time, I’ll shove my cum so deep you’ll never be able to reach it.”

What shocked him most—the terrifying implications of that threat or the equally-terrifying implications of the words “next time”?

Homelander stood up unceremoniously, eyeing his handiwork with a certain level of pride.  It was the first time he’d regarded Deep’s gills with anything but repulsion.  He ran his fingers through his hair before sitting on the bed and putting his suit back on.  Deep watched on, exhaustion beginning to run heavy through his veins.  His hand instinctively went to cup his gills, to feel the sore tissue quiver under his fingers.  Deep could already see the beginnings of a purplish bruise emerging on his body, a mirror of the wounds that’d formed after his nasty fan encounter. 

“Don’t touch it,” Homelander commanded, hand wrapping around the other supe’s wrist to wrench it away.  “If I see you touching it again, your hands will be tied.”  His lips turned up into a sneer.  “But then again, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Deep was floating in and out of consciousness now--he couldn’t even imagine himself doing anything but sleeping now.  Maybe cuddling up in his blankets, nice and warm…

“Oh, and take care of that, won’t you?”  Homelander waved a dismissive hand at the other man’s flagging cock.  He didn’t even bother to wait for an answer, just shook out his cape and strode out of Deep’s apartment. 

Deep was left behind a total wreck.  Fortunately, Ambrosius didn’t seem interested in poking fun at him, just retreated to the back of her tank.  Following the older supe’s advice, he tried for a minute to jerk off, but lost interest quickly and settled to roll on his uninjured side instead.  It didn’t seem to matter.  He felt so full that it didn’t even matter what he did; it wasn’t the same without Homelander being there.  He’d never had this experience before, not being satisfied after sex.  Maybe it’s because he liked the feeling of control.  He liked the feeling of watching someone fall apart under his hands, like he had some semblance of grandness, of power.  And maybe he’d just have to accept that he’d never get that with Homelander.

Deep screwed his eyes shut and tried to fall asleep before the tears came.

*

He was breathing in Homelander.  Somehow, not very different from a day at the office, where everything was polished and perfect, where everything had this haunting shadow of the supe, like he’d touched it and it could never be the same again.  Deep had noticed this before, but now he felt it rattling in his chest.

Every member of the Seven was marked by Homelander in different ways.  This one felt more tangible with every passing day.  It ached with every breath he took, each gasp pumping more cum into his body, absorbing more Homelander into his bloodstream and making him dizzy.  Each breath hurt more and more, reminding Deep that he was marked now. 

Homelander acted like nothing had passed between them, just like after their office rendezvous.  Because, to him, nothing had happened at all.  Deep tried his best not to get hurt by it.  It should’ve been easy, after many years of working with the supe, learning that he could only depend on Homelander to make a fool out of him every day.  But this time was different.  He’d split him open and now expected him to put himself back together.  And what was that about teaching him?  About helping him heal from his past, from his time away from the Seven?  Deep didn’t bring it up, but his mind tossed and turned during boring intel meetings, alternating between strangely non-sexual fantasies and memories of the warmth in Homelander’s voice.  He was lucky that he didn’t believe in any of that Sigmund Freud shit, otherwise he might’ve blurted out something on accident.  Wouldn’t have been the first time.  But part of him wanted to say something stupid.  Make a bad joke, one that would never make Homelander smile, and have him snap at him or even make him eat some seafood again.  Then maybe he could stop feeling that stickiness in his throat, in his lungs, whenever he took a breath.

His teammates already knew.  When Black Noir caught him changing into civilian clothes, he pointed at the yellowed blotches on the side of his chest, which he’d never bothered to bandage.  “I bumped into a statue,” Deep had answered lamely.  “A really big one.  You haven’t seen it yet.”  The other supe shook his head in disbelief.  If he didn’t know know, like most of Deep’s teammates, he still knew the one basic principle of the Seven: if something was amiss, it was because Homelander was changing the game.  That’s why, every night, Deep made sure to leave the lights on when he slept.  So that, if things really had changed between them and it wasn’t just his delusional imagination, Homelander could find him.

Part of him wanted to leave the Seven again.  Fake some kind of temper tantrum and storm off, only for Homelander to chase after him and drag him back.  If he’d ever had any fantasy of the sort, it disappeared every time he woke up to an empty bed.  Deep didn’t know what he was expecting anymore.  All he knew was that he could never be free.

Chapter Text

Homelander was pacing up and down his apartment.  He didn’t normally like to stay there, in fact, he felt at home roaming the halls of Vought Tower, seeing the rest of the Seven hard at work fulfilling their mission.  His mission.  But lately, something felt out of place.  It wasn’t the newcomers he’d recruited.  Sister Sage and Firecracker were adjusting rather well.  The latter supe was just the boost to his audience numbers that he needed, and someone who truly believed in what this mission was about was someone he had to have by his side.  And he’d known, ever since visiting her, that Sister Sage would possess the intelligence, calculated cruelty, and most importantly, the self-dignity to stand by his side as his new second in command.

Fuck, dignity.  There was the problem  Homelander scowled as he stood in front of the mantle.  A jar of incriminating, grey hairs.  That was the opposite of dignified right there, those little traitorous strands of deceit.  Even his own body couldn’t stand up to him.  Homelander scoffed and pushed the jar behind an empty picture frame, one that probably came with the place.

Kiss-asses, the whole lot of them, he thought to himself as he paced.  Sister Sage had dignity, yes—she respected herself enough to at least question his authority.  It made this whole “bend the world to my unquestionable will” thing a lot more convincing.  At least to him, and if the puppet master was satisfied, then wasn’t that all that mattered?

The worst of them was the Deep.  He didn’t even attempt to hide his sniveling patheticness behind a mask like the others.  He was just…pathetic.  Even in bed.  The other supe had simply bowed his head and taken what was given to him like a good little boy.  Homelander didn’t think the other guy was used to bottoming—he knew the Deep was just a lowly fish fucker, and it wasn’t exactly a pleasant thought to imagine Deep getting it from a barracuda, or whatever slimy creatures he fraternized with.  But being submissive, that was clearly right up his alley.  In that moment, he seemed less scared of Homelander.  He almost seemed more scared at how much he wanted it. 

Homelander flexed his fingers, the fingers that had reached into the most raw and vulnerable part of Deep just days ago, and had since been tainted by the blood of traitors.  But is it really the most vulnerable? he asked himself, continuing to paced with renewed vigor.  No, it wasn’t.  It was his mouth, rough with stubble and calluses.  Always flapping away in the Seven’s meetings.  Spewing sycophantic slop like Homelander’s own personal praise machine.  Saying things that should’ve gotten him killed ages ago.  Pursing into a tight frown every time Homelander came near.  Hiding the soft expanse of his throat.  The most direct path to his heart.

“I’ll fuck his throat next,” Homelander announced in an almost-grand manner.  The presence he’d felt behind him shifted awkwardly.  “I’ll fuck his pretty little throat until he finally shuts up.”

“I…I’m so glad, sir,” Ashley finally piped up, well-aware that Homelander could sense her.  Ever since her demotion, she’d been sneaking her way around Vought Tower, trying to justify her futile mortal life by being the human equivalent of a clipboard.  “I was just letting you know that the Deep and Black Noir had new patrol intel that they wanted to discuss with you.”

Great.  Intel and the Deep, two of the most useless things he could ask for.  The supe plastered a blinding white smile on his face.  “Fantastic.  Take me there.” 

As they exited his apartment and headed for the meeting room, Homelander saw a glimpse of Deep, his face warped through several pieces of glass.  There was a bright smile on his face, and for a foolish moment, Homelander wondered if he would ever see any kind of that authenticity towards him. 

That smile faded as soon as the meeting room door opened and he came in, cape swishing behind him.  It was indeed just the aquatic supe and Black Noir.  “Alright,” Homelander prompted with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “This had better be good.” 

Deep began his usual, rambling spiel about some intel mission they’d gone on, one Homelander had probably approved but already forgotten.  He hasn’t shaved in a while.  He smells of sweat, more than Black Noir does.  Sweats like a fucking beast.  Disgusting.  Homelander sniffed the air.  No cologne either.  He knew the Deep had been into those stupid cologne collections, Dior Sauvage or whatever the fuck his fans had been sending him.  But there was nothing but the raw, unfiltered smell of another person.  Homelander recognized it immediately—it was the same scent that reeked from the inside of his suit when he took it off.  The other supe still smelled like him.  And, by God above, if part of Homelander didn’t wish that the Deep could know that, know just how delicious his debauchery tasted…

“…and that’s about it.”  There were a couple, pitiful claps as Deep finished, mostly coming from Ashley in the corner.  Then, all eyes turned towards Homelander expectantly. 

“Well, I, um…I think that’s great.  And good work, you two,” Homelander finally spit out after an uncomfortable pause.  “Really, great stuff.”

“Homelander, while you’re here, I did want to talk to you about, uh, the Vought lab,” Ashley said, stepping forward tentatively.  “News will get out soon enough, and we should get on it while we’re still ahead.”

The blond man stopped in his tracks, eyes still fixed on the Deep’s face and how his eyes looked more hollow and lifeless than usual.  The lab.  Fuck.  He’d almost finished blocking it out, but now that idiot had gone ahead and ruined everything.  Homelander swallowed hard, his face draining of all emotion.  To Ashley, this was a wise sign to back away.  Of course she couldn’t just run, so she stood with her back against the door, one hand on the handle, waiting for the telltale red flicker in Homelander’s eyes.  “I…I shouldn’t have brought it up yet.  I’m so sorry.” 

“Go.”  The command came from somewhere deep inside him, sounding more like a growl than a word.  “Get out of my sight and don’t say that I don’t do you any favors.”  Ashley scrambled to leave.  “Go!” he barked at whoever might still be listening.  His hands came up to fist in his hair, to tear, to destroy, to hide his cringing face.  He could still hear how they screamed as he killed them all, how Barbara had cried…

“Hey...dude?  You good?”  Of course it was Deep.  Always sticking around when he wasn’t wanted.  Homelander suppressed the strange, scratchy feeling at the back of his throat.  The Deep was the only other one left in the meeting room, looking more like a kicked puppy than a concerned friend.  “You kind of zoned out there.  Didn’t seem like yourself.”  He let one of those embarrassing, stupid smiles reach his face, adding, “Probably bored you, didn’t I?  I know you’ve got cooler things to do, sir, than listen to the same shit.  I just thought—”

“You thought what.”  Homelander spat the words right back at him, finally straightening up.  The Deep froze, cowed under the other man’s authoritative gaze.  “You thought that I would care what you had to say?”

The other supe sputtered, stalled, and looked around for any help, but none would come.  Homelander stood between him and the door.  “I know you don’t,” he began cautiously.  “I, I know that.”  He hung his head.  “I don’t know what I was thinking.  I’m sorry.”  A pause, then any trace of authenticity vanished as he popped his head back up.  “Uh, it was Black Noir’s idea.  He told me to call you in.” 

The blond man began to pace and circle him like a hungry shark.  His eyes were wide and wanting.  “How,” and his voice came out a quiet crackle, “how can you be useful to me.”  It wasn’t a question—he was thinking out loud.

“I want to be useful to you.  Please, bro, you gotta let me try,” Deep gasped out, eyes watering at the overwhelming closeness between them.  “I’ll be useful.  I’ll…be good.”

“Keep talking,” Homelander mused.

“I’ll go on patrols.  Every day, if you want me to,” and there went that stupid mouth of his again.  “Or none at all.  I get it, I’ll probably fuck it up.  You know me best.  I’ll stay here.  Y’know, a little remote work situation.  I can do other stuff too, not just Seven stuff.  You need more demographics covered?  I can do graphic design!  You probably don’t know this, but in college, I did my frat’s—“

“Kevin.”  Hearing his name seemed to snap Deep out of his dumb, blabbering trance.  “Down.”

There was a muffled thud as the other man’s knees hit the carpet.  Like he’d done it a hundred times before.  Homelander stood in front of him, imposing figure blocking the Deep from the outside’s prying eyes.  Fuck, he really was pathetic, hands already pawing softly at the belt line of Homelander’s suit, eyes big and glossy with want.  “Let me be useful.  Please,” and his tongue darted out to wet his pink, pretty lips, and Homelander was gone.

“Show me your gills,” he commanded, his lip curling upward with malice.  Here, of course, is where the aquatic supe hesitated, one hand resting over his suit zipper.  Homelander’s eyes darkened into something of a predator’s smile.  “Don’t worry, I know those little things are all bruised up.  All mine.  I won’t be using them today.” 

Keeping his face turned up towards the heavens, Deep shrugged off the vest part of his suit, revealing blue-ish green blotches around the  edges of his gills.  Soft and delicate, yet hardened with bruised and warped tissue.  Practically battle scars.  Homelander’s gaze softened.  His fingers wound their way into Deep’s hair to pull tight, but not without some mercy.  His hair was so dark…dark and brown…

His grip on the other man’s hair tightened, and Deep involuntarily let out a choked whine.  His hands scrabbled for purchase against the blond supe’s legs, finally gripping onto his thighs and pulling the two of them close.  Homelander let his belt hit the floor and guided the Deep’s warm, wet mouth onto his cock.  “Good.  So good for me.”  He massaged Deep’s cheek with his gloved hand, feeling the bulge of his cock slide and press against the inside of the supe’s mouth.  “Gonna fuck you so hard.”

All Deep could get out in return were little choked moans as his head was guided back and forth with increasing force.  Homelander could smell arousal dripping off of him, and when he looked down, he saw Deep’s gills fluttering open, as if waiting to accept his cum again.  “Can smell you getting wet,” he snarled, punctuating each word with a thrust of his hips that had Deep’s eyes rolling back into his head.  “My little guppy’s so wet and he hasn’t even been touched yet.” 

Homelander rocked his hips so hard that he knew he was bruising the back of the Deep’s mouth, who was now practically choking on spit and pre-cum, his head smacking against the edge of the meeting room desk with each thrust.  He could smell the coppery scent of blood in the air, and moved his hands down to grab the damp and matted curls at the base of Deep’s neck. 

“John, ah—please—fuck—“  The Deep was fading in and out of coherency, his throat distending as he took Homelander all the way, teeth scraping on each delicate vein.  He was begging now, pleading for something—his own release, mercy, death, the other man didn’t know what—and his voice was intermingled with a chorus of screams echoing at the back of Homelander’s mind.  He screwed his eyes shut, the roar of the lab incinerator getting louder with each twitch of his hips.  The Deep’s tightening grasp on his thighs brought him back to reality.

“Look at me.  Look at me!”  Homelander demanded, pupils dilating.  Fuck, he could see thin grey hairs shining with wetness at the base of his cock.  He was ruined.  Every part of him was tainted.  “Take them out.”

“Take what out,” rasped the Deep, finally coming off the other’s cock with a gasp for air. 

Homelander answered by grabbing the supe’s hands and forming them into fists.  “The hair.  Take.  It.  Out.”

Deep finally seemed to focus, his eyes darting between the patches of silver hair and the treacherous expression on Homelander’s face.  “I don’t wanna hurt you.”  A funny thing to say with rivulets of blood running down his back and his throat so clearly abused beyond belief. 

“You can’t,” was all the reply he was given.  “Now be useful.”

The first pull was anything but painful.  It was like a child tugging at the edge of his cape.  Then Homelander got his cock back into the other’s mouth, and that seemed to act as sufficient motivation.  They fell into a rhythm—with each withdrawal of his hips, Deep wound his fingers tight into the thatch of curls and pulled.  Piece by piece, until they were both falling apart.  Homelander’s hands, big and strong, cradled the back of Deep’s head, almost like a safety net.  His breathing grew shallow as he felt a telltale tightening in his chest.  The voices were getting louder now, echoing from the meeting room walls themselves.  John could almost see them, see their faces as he’d killed them one by one that morning.  The screams as the incinerator roared, as his laser beams cut mercilessly—he could smell the flesh burning regardless.  And Barbara, silently begging for mercy, her eyes fixated on the man who was saving her for damnation as the door closed behind him.  Barbara, Barbara… “Hurt me, hurt me,” John began to plead, not sure to whom he was begging.  “Hurt me, please,” and his voice devolved into a scream as his hips stuttered and he came down Deep’s throat.  He could hear the crackling of hellfire encroaching on him, on them, and John had to smile because he’d saved them.  He’d saved all those terrible people who’d done terrible things to him.  He could feel peace now, not pain.

The real world returned, bright and hazy all at once.  With it came disgust at the sight of the man before him, cum dribbling down his mouth.  Homelander dragged his fingers along the other man’s chin, almost lovingly, before pushing them back between those pretty lips of his.  The Deep looked on the verge of fainting, or the closest thing to it for a supe.  Worst of all, his eyes were wide with awe.  In between his fingers, poking out like little needles of deceit, were dozens of grey hairs.  Homelander shuddered and turned his gaze away, composing himself.  “You did well,” he finally said stiffly.

“Thanks.”  The Deep’s voice was hoarse and underlined with something terrible—sincerity.  Ugh.  He was like a piece of gum stuck to his boot.  He’d never be able to get rid of him, would he?  “So, uh, what should I do with these?”

The Deep was lucky he hadn’t made any other comment on the silver hair in his hands.  Homelander stared at him deadpan.  “Give yourself some extensions with them.”  And with that, he turned and strode out of the office. 

No one would see how his hands flexed and twitched under his gloves as he walked.  No one would hear him whisper a goodbye as he left the Deep behind—because he didn’t say that.  And no one would see Homelander return to his apartment, reminding himself that this was all the right thing to do, before collapsing on his couch and letting himself, for the first time in a while, scream.

Chapter Text

Deep knew a little bit about Homelander’s past, which, if it was up to the other supe, was already way too much.  He knew what was common knowledge.  Homelander was the first to be injected with Compound V and survive.  He was the first successful test in Vought’s long, controversial history of little experiments.  Due to no fortune of his own, simply his will to live, Homelander had endured the trials that shaped him into the man he was today.  And so God created the world, that others would follow in his wake. 

The Deep was among them.  Who didn’t look at Homelander and get inspired, who didn’t see the man on TV and think, now there’s a living miracle?  Deep never considered himself a fanboy, unlike some of those sniveling teenagers who undoubtedly crossed some line behind private doors, making art or, yuck, writing love stories about the supe.  He’d never been like that—a sharp pang of knowledge that he was practically Homelander’s age, as well as some shred of self-dignity, held him back from ever considering diving into that kind of territory.  But he knew what it was like to want.  Some people grew up with pictures of Michael Jackson or Madonna on their walls, but knew in the back of their minds that they’d never become pop stars.  For Deep, from the first moment he was conscious of Compound V flowing through his veins, he knew this wasn’t an option.  He would become just like that man on his bedroom wall or die trying.

Deep knew other things, too, things that ate away at his conscience in the middle of the night.  Sometimes, if he paced around Vought Tower after hours, prowling for a midnight snack, he could hear noises coming from Homelander’s apartment.  He always tried to tune it out, fearing that being caught snooping would be the last this planet would ever see of him, but his super-sharp hearing could not be stopped.  There was pacing.  And grunts, not of exertion, but of futility.  The footsteps echoed with no clear direction, disappearing into the abyss of the empty hall soundscape, before resuming at choppy intervals.  Deep heard them almost every night, as he’d inadvertently adjusted his snacking schedule, like most things, to live in Homelander’s orbit.  They weren’t the booming sounds of Cerberus pacing ‘round the gate, protecting the souls of the damned.  They were the sounds of a caged animal, a hungry animal that took and took and never knew how to give.  Deep’s mind often wandered to what Homelander had screamed in his most vulnerable moments, a scream injected with pain-riddled fury as his hair was ripped out and his self-image constructed anew.  Hurt me, hurt me.  What kind of animal begged to be beaten?  Was it really boredom from a life of feeling nothing?  Or, and Deep found himself drawn to this idea more and more, was it a cry for help from someone who felt too much, who grew up engineered to absorb and take on any hardship given to him? 

Perhaps, he thought to himself on one particular morning, he was projecting too much empathy on the other man.  But it was hard not to, watching him now.  Homelander never let anyone see him like this.  Almost soft, if you squinted.  And yet, Deep was there, relaxing on a lawn chair like they were at a family barbecue.  His foot idly drew circles in the grass, searching for the source of the incessant cricketing that echoed across the yard.  Homelander—no, this was John—whoever he was, he seemed like something out of a family sitcom.  Soft, blond hair, blinding smile on his face, and those tall, broad shoulders that nearly blocked the light of the setting sun.  A baseball mitt in one hand, he was currently playing catch with a young boy, no more than twelve, who kept a pained grimace on his face as he caught and threw the ball. 

Deep didn’t know why he was here, but seeing that all-too-familiar grimace on the boy’s face, a boy who he was now forced to work with…it felt wrong.

He’d never say it out loud, naturally.  He never really started conversations with Homelander anymore.  The other supe seemed more interested in talking to Deep than usual, and that was a thin line of friendship he’d never had to balance on before.  Of course, he didn’t have many friendships founded on the basis of a dick up his ass either.  But he had to hand it to Homelander.  This, this little family diorama, this little Fourth of July fun-fest…this seemed domestic.  Kind, if you looked at it through Deep’s eyes.  He’d gotten a glimpse of who he presumed was the mother through the window of the humble, isolated home.  She looked terrified, as if Homelander might snatch up her son and devour him whole.  Deep had tried to signal to her, not knowing much of ASL or gestures, but was pretty sure he only frightened her even more, as she’d disappeared from the window afterwards.  What message had he even been trying to send?  Help me?  Nice kid—fuck, not like that.  Does Homelander traumadump during sex with you too? 

“Kevin!”  There was that casual, friendly, I-don’t-have-my-dick-half-in-your-ass-at-all-times tone.  Homelander/John was waving him over.  Right.  He was Kevin now, in his civilian clothes (“no denim”, Homelander had insisted, but he’d worn ripped jeans anyways because fuck it, trends were trends).  Just Kevin, on an intel mission, a mission that somehow ended by watching his boss taunt him, his boss, who could roleplay this nice, picket-fence life whenever he wanted.  “You ever play field before?”

“I’m not a sports guy, sir,” Kevin cringed at the words leaving his mouth, but got up from his chair anyways. 

The boy, (Ryan, he remembered, that’s it) wrinkled up his nose.  “Why does he call you sir?”

John clapped a hand on Kevin’s shoulder, strong and assertive.  “He calls me that because I’m kind of his boss,” he said in a conspiratorial tone.  The hand began to massage strong circles at the junction of his neck.

“So, does he think this is like HR, orrrrrr…” Kevin said under his breath.

John gave him a deadpan look.  “He knows enough.”  He thrust a mitt into Kevin’s hands—he wasn’t even sure where that had come from. 

“Okay, good, because this--“ he pointed at the hand which was now idly on the back of his neck, owning, “—this does not look like an appropriate workplace dynamic.”

“C’mon!” Ryan piped up, evidently tired of their bantering.  “I wanna hit!”

“Alright, alright,” John gave in, turning away to go give the kid his bat.  “Now you gotta hold it with both hands.”  He crouched down beside his son, moving his body into position to swing.  Ryan’s eyes narrowed with focus; Kevin suddenly felt like he was going to become a victim, and he backed off into the makeshift outfield of the yard.  The others’ voices faded to a murmur as the chirp of crickets overtook them.

Kevin weighed the mitt in his hand uncertainly, feeling the smoothness of the leather, the rough stitching.  It felt all too much like a supe glove.  He put it on anyways.  Just another role to play.  When John and Ryan turned to check on him, he shot back a thumbs-up and a smile, widening his legs in a game stance. 

The first ball came his way, far off to the left, moreso rolling than flying.  But he had to admit, the kid had an arm, especially considering the ferocity of the pitches John was giving him.  Pitches bordering on superhuman. 

“This isn’t fair!” Kevin kept calling out, every time pitcher/umpire John ruled against him.  “There are no foul lines!”  He let most balls roll away, already far out of reach, and the ones that were somewhat on target, well, let’s just say his hand slipped.  Ryan laughed, loud and clear of any malice inherited from his father, and John said nothing, only stared at him with that piercing gaze that seemed like it was undressing him and melting his flesh all at once. 

After one ball landed halfway between them, both John and Kevin started towards it.  The latter deferred, letting the blond man grab it.  Fuck.  Kevin averted his eyes.  Something felt terribly wrong about getting caught staring at someone’s ass by their own kid.  Something felt terribly wrong about the whole thing—especially how his body tensed and flushed at the image of Homelander like that for him—because it was wrong to want something from someone who only took and took and never knew how to give back. 

He was so distracted, he missed a perfect swing from Ryan, until it hit him in the face.  “Fuck!” 

“Very good!” John praised, patting his son on the head before walking out to where a very dazed Kevin was standing.  “Play your part, guppy,” he growled through his teeth.  “I brought you here for one reason only.”

And here I am, playing quarterback or whatever.  Thinking we were having something nice that we shared.  Kevin’s face soured immediatley, but he turned away to hide it.  “Yeah, well, thanks for thinking I could ball.  But did we really have to wear civilian clothes for this?”

“I’m trying to make this easier on him,” John responded, tilting his head in Ryan’s direction.  “Supe or not, kid’s got a lot to learn.” 

“About what?  Baseball?” Kevin scoffed.  “You’ve been putting this kid on a pedastal for weeks now, trying to bring him into our world.  Why play games with him?”

The other man’s hand came up to rest at Kevin’s side, fingers digging into the impressions of gills, gills that clenched out of reflex.  “You think he likes this?”  His hand gripped the ball so tightly Kevin worried it might break.  “I’ve shown him the insignificance of humankind, the sheer monotony of their little ways, and he has to come home and play baseball with his mommy every night.”  His face grew pensive and near-wistful.  “Soon, we’ll be able to take him away from this place.  But you’ve got a lot to learn too.”  He punctuated each accusation with a little jab to the gills.

“Ryan, come in!  Dinner’s ready!” came a tentative voice calling from the porch.  All three boys turned.  It was that woman from the window earlier, only now, she hovered in her own doorway, keeping her gaze fixed on her son.  Kevin saw her clearly now—it was that guy Butcher’s wife.  Becca, he remembered.

Something awful itched at the back of Kevin’s mind as John knelt down to say goodbye to Ryan.  This kid, this kid who was going to do all these amazing things for the Seven, who already was doing those things, was a child born out of violence.  Just like Homelander. 

The Deep felt an awful, sinking feeling in his gut as Homelander rejoined his side.  It wasn’t envy, no, supes never envied humans.  It was something closer to pity.  It burnt at his tongue as the two of them left Ryan’s house and travelled back to Vought Tower, silently and tensely, as most of their interactions were.

He felt pity, yes, that was it.  Pity for Ryan, that, as sweet as that evening was, it was all a lie to make Homelander feel better about himself.  Pity for Homelander, that he’d never get to be John except in pretend, just like he’d never get to be Kevin.

And most of all, pity for himself, that he would ever get himself to care about two people who would never care for him back.

*

Later, as most nights ended nowadays, Deep wound out in his apartment, sweat slicking his back, helpless mewls falling from his mouth.  Homelander was under him, this time, but this didn’t stop the supe from setting a vicious pace, hips snapping up and down at a speed that would shatter any ordinary pelvis.  One hand was rested on the small of Deep’s back, spearing the man deeper on his cock in a brutal counterrhythm.  The other hand was barely a knuckle deep into his gills, but every small motion inside felt like torture.

Maybe this is my purpose in the Seven, the Deep contemplated, writhing uncomfortably.  To be fucked stupid, even stupider than before, so he can scoff at my brainlessness later and then fuck me over it in one big cycle.  If he ignored the sensation of blood pooling in his mouth, mixing with his saliva from the way he bit into his own cheek, it felt almost pleasant. 

“I’m going to go deeper, guppy,” Homelander warned, thumb carressing the fluttering edges of Deep’s gills like a lion toying with its prey.  At least he sometimes gave warnings. 

Through tears staining his vision, the Deep nodded weakly.  Homelander didn’t go slow, he never did, but Deep was almost glad he didn’t prolong the torture any longer.  The air felt like it was leaving his body, everything that was his forced out to make room for the other man in his lungs, in his chest, in his head, everywhere.  “Ssstopp…dude stop…it hurts…” he babbled helplessly, unable to suppress the helplessness in his voice, how he whined and squirmed around Homelander’s cock in an attempt to drown the pain with some kind of pleasure.

“There, there,” Homelander soothed, wiping at Deep’s snotty, red-streaked face with his free hand, which still bore its signature glove.  “I’m only halfway in.  You’ve gone further before.  You’re not a baby.”  He sneered at the last word.

“I think I am,” Deep sobbed, feeling the rough scrape of calloused fingers against his ribcage, shifting through his organs like a junk pile at a garage sale, searching for his heart.  “Fuck, can you at least touch me or something?!”  His wrists were bound behind his back, wrapped up in a loose denim knot from his own jeans, leaving him exposed and helpless. 

“You gotta say it first.  Say you have no limits,” Homelander chided him, twisting his fingers painfully deep.  “You’re in the goddamn Seven, and you let these disgusting things of yours be your weakness.  You have no weakness.  You have no limits.”

“I have no limits, I have no limits, please sir!” he begged, the slow drag of his pubic bone against Homelander’s chest the only good feeling still anchoring him to reality.  He sensed the knife twisting in his side, the coldness in the other man’s eyes burning into him, as he began to feel himself slipping away.  “Stop!”

Finally, mercifully, Homelander backed off.  Deep let out a sob at the emptiness when the supe slid off him, strong hands manhandling him onto the edge of the bed like he was some kind of precious cargo.  His whole body ached.  “Fuck.  I thought I was gonna die,” he panted in relief, rubbing his sore wrists as Homelander freed him from his denim prison.

“You weren’t.”  Homelander sat next to him with a pointed expression, which was maybe a step up from straight-up leaving him?  Deep wasn’t sure.  “You disappointed me today.”

“‘m sorry.”  The excuse felt lame, bitter on his tongue.  Slowly, as they sat in the silence together, Deep felt his body coming back alive.  He felt the rough callouses around the base of his palms, the dull ache in his sides that subsided over time, and heard the burbling of the aquarium tank that brought him a sense of safety.  Basking in this temporary truce, he turned to see Homelander already looking at him.  Face illuminated by the blue backlight of the tank, the supe’s face looked almost tired.  His eyes were empty, drained of the hunger that Deep was used to seeing.  “You said the Seven have no weaknesses, sir,” Deep began cautiously, eyes trained on his companion.  “And—and I believe that—I know that.”

Homelander raised his eyebrows.

“Your son.  If he’s not a weakness…then what is he to you?”

Homelander didn’t hesitate to answer.  “I love him.”  He couldn’t meet Deep’s eyes, but his voice was unwavering.  “And you should learn from me, Deep.  Love is not a weakness.  I’m giving him everything he needs in life.”

They shared a moment together, only broken by Ambrosius’ quiet murmuring in her tank.  Do you love me? Deep wanted to ask, but he already knew the answer to that.  He thought about that evening they’d shared, how picture-perfect the scene had been, how Homelander had dragged him all the way out there to play a part in giving Ryan one last shred of normalcy before he turned to the Seven for good.  And wasn’t that an act of love in itself?

Tears suddenly welled at the corners of his eyes, and Deep found himself too exhausted to stop them.  Pulling on his boxers in an attempt to look somewhat dignified, he stood and faced Homelander on the bed.  The other man looked tired of taking.  Maybe, Deep realized, just this once, he needed to give.

Maybe that would stop the hunger from consuming him.

Deep mustered up all the strength he had in his body.  “I’m done,” he declared.  “The deal’s off.”

“What?”  Homelander didn’t seem angry, or even surprised.  Moreso confused.  “You can’t just ‘call off’ the deal.  You aren’t ready.”

“I…you’re probably right.  And I don’t think I’ll be ready for a while,” he admitted.  “But there is one thing you can do for me.  If you want me back in this deal, that is.”

That brought the glint back into Homelander’s eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  “Something I can do for you?  I’ve given you the fucking universe.  There’s nothing you don’t have from me that I haven’t already graciously given.”

“There is one thing.”  As Deep repeated these words, he felt the air change around him, and that telltale heat grow at the base of his spine.  Only this time, he didn’t feel helpless.  He felt prepared.  “Love.”

Before the other supe could protest, or even move from the bed, Deep did the most stupid, most brave thing he’d ever done in his short, insignificant time with the Seven, a time spent under Homelander’s thumb.  He leaned forward and, with the sinking feeling in his chest of a doomed man walking to the gallows, captured Homelander’s mouth in a gentle kiss.

Chapter Text

…and nothing changed.

No sudden light came to Homelander’s eyes.  No soft gasp escaped his lips.  No pounding heart, sending blood rushing to the Deep’s ears, drowning out all other sounds.  Worst of all, he felt no sign of protest from the other man.  No, this felt almost civilian.  Normal.  Like they’d kissed a hundred times.  Like their walls were already down.

And if that was true, what had been stopping them before?

Finally, Deep’s conscious crept back in and he backed away, assessing the situation.  Homelander looked almost sullen.  “I’m sorry,” Deep blurted out before anything else.  “I…didn’t know what else to do.”  The other man stayed put on his bed.  His brow furrowed, but not with his telltale, manic smile, but with a genuine expression of loss.  His eyes traced the form of the supe standing over him, not judging, just…taking it in.  Like it’s the last time, Deep thought to himself, and at that, a bead of sweat slid down his neck.  Fuck.  He’d made a mistake, overstepped, and now he was going to pay the price.   His eyes darted around his apartment, and he made pointed eye contact with many of the creatures swimming around his apartment’s built-in tanks.  Hide, he tried to communicate through raising his eyebrows alone, but, under Homelander’s watchful eyes, it rather looked like some worrisome neurological event and not the warning he wanted it to be.  His hand slid down to his sides, where his gills had turned from fleshy spots of weakness to calcified battle armor, and he wondered if this time, the other supe would have him sew them shut.  Make him gasp and writhe on the ground like a fish out of water.  Deep didn’t need his gills to breathe, he prided himself as being far too evolved for that, but it still felt like a part of him he couldn’t ignore.  Given Homelander’s fixations, he just as well could imagine those wandering fingers, ripping apart the seams, sneaking between each thread to pry his body open again, like he was oyster-diving for pearls.  But this time, the pearls would be his vital organs.  Fuck.  Again.

Deep was so lost in his own spiralling thoughts that he’d forgotten that Homelander actually hadn’t said anything.  Returning to reality, the aquatic supe grabbed his suit off the floor and bundled it against his chest.

“Wait.”  Homelander’s voice didn’t seem like it came from him.  It felt near-comical, like some kind of puppet act.  Yet there he was, shirtless in bed like some kind of homebody, his pouting expression revealing a little indent in his bottom lip from where Deep’s canines had bit down.  “Don’t go.”

“O-okay,” Deep was quick to agree, scrambling back into bed.  They were pressing against each other, side-by side, and Deep could feel parts of Homelander he’d never really felt or seen before.  His arm was lean but firm, and as Deep lay there, he could see faint wisps of off-blond hair at the base of his wrist and the smattering of pigmentation across his upper bicep.  “Did you want to maybe sleep here?”

No answer.  The glassy look was back on Homelander’s face again and he wouldn’t meet Deep’s gaze.  But he pulled the blanket over his bare body in what could only be interpreted as assent, and that was enough for him. 

Slowly, their bodies came together under the blankets, their breaths evening to match as the apartment’s lights clicked off automatically.  There was still a decidedly blue cast of light that filled the room from the fish tanks, and as Deep watched how the other man’s eyes were screwed tightly shut, he wondered if he was used to the total darkness of his own room or if he just didn’t know how to relax. 

They lay there in silence for a while, until Homelander turned his back to the Deep and the moment was gone.  But, as Deep felt restless yet trapped in by the other man’s presence in his bed, he slowly looped an arm over Homelander’s body.  Not possessive, just wanting, just there for him.  Because that’s all you can do, he reminded himself, a bitter taste steadily invading his mouth.  You’re there for him to toss around, like his personal ragdoll.  As Deep felt these nettling thoughts fill his mind, he thought he could hear feel Homelander’s body stirring again, and he heard the faintest of rasps, almost like the other man was talking in his sleep.  “Hurt me…” 

A hand came up to grip his tight, taut and sweaty with adrenaline.  But this time, Deep shook it off and took his hand away.  “No.  I can’t hurt you like that,” he said firmly.  His hand came to rest at the small of the other supe’s back to draw circles.  “I…I can’t let you ruin yourself by hurting me anymore.  You think th-that being alone at the top is the only solution.  You think that you have yourself all figured out.  But it doesn’t work like that anymore.  Because I know why you’ve been training me all this time.”

The sudden heat filled the room, a fiery red glare turning to meet his as Homelander dug his nails into their proper place on Deep’s back and pulled.  “Tell me why, Deep.  Tell me what you think you know,” he hissed. 

“I-you, you weren’t training me to be strong for myself.  I have self-respect.  I know that it wasn’t for that.  You were training me to be strong for your own selfishness,” he whispered.  “So you could know what it feels like to see someone as strong.  So you could see yourself the way other people see me.”  Homelander didn’t respond, but the glow in his eyes dimmed, so Deep continued, “Isn’t that right?  Isn’t it hard being the strongest in the world?”

“It’s not,” came the dull, uninspired reply.  “I…I enjoy that I can do whatever I want.  It’s all too easy for me.”

“But you don’t want it to be easy.  You want it to be earned, right?”  This time a small nod.  “But why me?” and here, Deep felt himself begin to get choked up again—stupid sentimentality, fuck— “Was it because you thought I was stupid?  Thought I wouldn’t catch on?  That I’d be so starved for your attention that I’d do anything you say?”

A pause, and Deep felt the blood rushing to his head, anger at Homelander, and anger at himself.  But the answer that came was one of pure honesty and not the dismissal he was used to.  “I suppose so.  And…I suppose I have a bit of a soft spot for you.”  Homelander rolled over to face the ceiling.  “As much as I hate it.”

I hate it too, Deep wanted to say, because God, if he hadn’t been living on an emotional rollercoaster for the past couple months, and what was this all for?  But he didn’t.  He didn’t say anything.  Because, after all of this time, after all these nights spent in passion, day after day of reshaping the inner workings of his body to make room, he’d become less scared of Homelander but more scared of himself. 

So instead, he leaned into the other man.  Allowed himself to exhale, take up space in his own body, and press small kisses into the crook of Homelander’s neck.  “Let me be strong,” he murmured into Homelander’s thundering pulse, into the scratch of stubble that cut across his Adam’s apple.  “Please, let me be strong.”

He could feel the warmth coming back into his body, but this time was different.  Deep felt a buzzing at his fingertips, growing into full-on tremors as he rolled both their bodies over so he was on top again.  Homelander shuddered underneath him, eyes going dark, and Deep let himself be lost in the black hole of each pupil.  Yes, this was it, his body sang, coming back to life.  Let me feed you, it cried out.  Let me breathe life back into you. 

And Homelander wasn’t stopping him.  His hands came up to cup at Deep’s waist and it felt blazing hot and cold all at once, like someone was stringing electrical wires throughout his lower half.  He could feel the transference of energy between their bodies with each touch, and the ache was becoming too great to ignore.  “G-God,” Homelander choked out underneath him as Deep sucked a particularly large hickey under the cut of his jawline, and Deep wasn’t sure who he was talking to anymore. 

“Please let me fuck you,” he choked out through the intermingled pleasure and pain.  He was sobbing now, unable to think of anything besides the fact that, after all this time, it would be this moment that would kill him, if he couldn’t get inside Homelander right now.  Homelander’s hands were wound tight into his sheets and had ripped straight through the first layer—they came up to press a little bottle from Deep’s dresser into his hand, to weave their way into his sweat-slicked hair, to be all over his body. 

Deep felt strength bursting at the seams that had tied him down for so long.  He didn’t know what to do with it, it was an overflowing treasure chest of adrenaline and hunger.  He poured some of the bottle onto his hands and spat on it for good measure, warming up the lube in a matter of seconds, before hastily pressing into where Homelander needed him most.  The supe let out a rumbling groan that echoed between their chests as Deep leaned forward even more, folding Homelander’s legs back over his head with each twist of his finger.  Within seconds, he added another one, fingers twisting back and forth in an unfamiliar dance he’d never done on someone else before.  Fuck, well, it sure felt new, the way Homelander bucked and howled beneath him like he was a wild creature, and even though the situation felt far out of his control, Deep’s body felt wound tight with newfound strength as he held him down.  “You ready?” he panted as the third and final finger found its way in. 

“Go,” was the only reply he got, and that was enough.  The aquatic supe began to press in.  Slowly at first, then greedily pushing inch by inch until he was fully sheated in the other man.  Without waiting, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in.  He could barely breathe at the hypnotic sight of his overslicked cock pistoning in and out of Homelander, smearing a mess of blood, saliva, sweat, and lube against their thighs and onto the sheets.  “Fuck, more, fuc-mphhh—“  Homelander’s primal cries were silenced by the insistent press of the Deep’s fingers, and all he could do was bite down with force.  Deep let out a gutteral scream and he could feel his knuckles scraping at the back of the other supe’s throat.  It wasn’t enough.  It wasn’t far enough.

His gills were fully open now, gasping to bring in all the air he could muster.  With each thrust, they dragged against Homelander’s thighs as the other man was pressed further and further into the bed.  Pounding into the bedframe, pushing the other man’s legs higher over his head, Deep felt like he was ripping him apart at the sides.  He was finally deconstructing the man from the myth, splitting him into two, into an ever-dividing multitude of people his image was built upon. 

With each snap of his hips, Deep grew angrier and angrier as he imagined how painful it must feel.  How painful it felt for him.  That anger boiled over and exploded at neither of them particular—perhaps it was the whole nature of the situation.  How he had to take an eye for an eye, every blow for every blow Homelander had given him, and how only then, he could be satisfied.  They could be satisfied.  “Fuck you,” he snapped at the man underneath him.  “And I am.  Fuck, you’ll never get rid of me.  I’ll be at your boots forever.”  And he meant it.

These words seemed to light a fire in the blond supe’s chest.  His hands clawed deep gouges into the rippling muscles of Deep’s back, finding any kind of purchase even if it came at a blood cost.  The pace was brutal now; at this point, all the breath had been fucked out of the both of them.  Deep was using his gills to keep himself upright, while Homelander simply took everything given to him.  Those slender fingers, the Deep’s cock, his spit falling from the corners of his mouth.  He took them all instead of air, like a beaten animal who just wouldn’t go down.  And with a few quick jerks to his thick, neglected cock, he was exploding like a firecracker, hissing and whining.  The sight of his cum mixing with the blood spots on his thighs and chest, fuck, that sent the aquatic supe over the edge.  Throwing his weight forward with so much force that the bedframe instantly shattered, Deep buried himself deep inside and came with a shout.

The waves of pleasure, of strength, lasted within him and stayed as he came down from his high.  Slowly, as the Deep’s hips began to stutter into deeper, longer thrusts, the fight left Homelander’s body.  He hadn’t accepted it up until the very end—not unusual of him, of course.  But when he did in that moment,  that’s when the mood changed.  Languidly, almost lazily, but with both arms pressing into the calloused ankles of the other man to further force him into a mating press, Deep continued to roll his hips back and forth.  As the light of the room finally began to reach his eyes (he’d been half-blacked out anyways), he admired his handiwork.  There were traces of Homelander everywhere—almost entire fistfuls of blond hair torn out over his pillow, an entirely shattered bedframe which had sheltered Ambrosius’ tank from harm, and, worst of all, blood all over his dick and sheets. 

“Bro, you’re gonna be anemic,” he remarked, pulling out.  “Damn.”  He gently let down Homelander’s legs onto the bed, which stayed locked in formation like he’d become paralyzed, and settled between them.  Slowly, because Deep couldn’t suppress his own desire to please, he lapped at the mingling fluids, blood and cum alike, at the juncture of Homelander’s thighs, and tasted iron.  Delicious, he thought, and so he generously fed it back into Homelander’s body with his mouth.  First between his legs, licking with a tongue almost as rough as sandpaper, then bringing it up into a bruising kiss.  He could taste more blood on his tongue, this time overwhelming, and it sent a jolt to his cock, the thought that Homelander had torn his mouth up on the inside just for him. 

Just for him.  Those were the hollow words he told himself.  That, after all this time, Homelander would hear his speech and understand what it meant for Deep to give this to him, and more importantly, that he take it.  He hadn’t seemed like a 100% willing subject, to be fair.  But was anything about their relationship willing or fair? 

It was an awful game to play.  But if this could happen just once, if Deep could feel like a winner for just this fleeting moment…he knew in his heart that he’d play it a thousand times over.

“Will you…will you stay?” he asked.  His heart raced as he pulled up his comforter over Homelander’s body.  “Stay,” he added firmly. 

“I will,” came the answer beside him.  Deep turned and found that, for the first time, Homelander was the one forced to meet his gaze.  When he did though, he didn’t look timid at all.  His eyes were round as saucers, like the cat who’d caught the mouse.  “I won’t be here in the morning.”  A sour expression came on his face. 

“I know.”  Of course he wouldn’t.  It’s not like the Deep was expecting love.  This was just…an amendment to the deal, let’s call it. 

Probably the best amendment ever.  Ever since the one that like brought back legal booze.  Or freed the slaves—was that an amendment?  Homelander frowned at him.  He knew the other supe was probably thinking something dumb.  You could fuck the stupid out of someone, he reasoned, but you couldn’t fuck the smart in.  He too saw this night as just a start.

The start of something new, Deep mused as he found his arm brushing up against Homelander’s under the covers.  Was it supposed to be like this?  Giggling like a little schoolgirl everytime their hands touched?  Was that love, or just part of the deal?

Those questions would have to wait.  The Deep, guardian of the Seven Seas, knew many things, but, as he cuddled with the greatest superhero in the world, he knew that he knew exactly three.

1.What was going on then and there wasn’t love.

2.Love was when you could wake up next to someone with no deals, no strings attached, and promise that you would make each other strong.

And 3.Love would come alongside the brand new day.