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They tell him getting a dog would be good for his image. People love dogs, and they love seeing powerful men with dogs, and it would give a momentous boost to his approval ratings if he were to parade around with some stupid, ugly mutt on TV. Even better if it's some diseased, elderly creature, the kind that would never have found a home if it weren't with him.
They show him the profiles of dogs that he could use to bolster his image, and one of them is uglier than the next. A shaking Chihuahua called Bijou, to be carried around in a little handbag, which should make him more approachable to WASP soccer moms and female teenagers everywhere. A geriatric pitbull called, for some reason, Eggplant, whose only defining characteristic seems to be that he really loves eating the official Vought brand Homelander salami. A mutt called Douglas, who's blind in one eye, almost entirely deaf, but can apparently bark the jingle for Homelander's doggie bites. A Labradoodle called, strangely enough, the Doglander, and he passes on that one without even reading the rest of the text. Next, Next, Next.
He doesn't need a dog. He doesn't want a dog. A dog is obnoxious and clingy; a dog won't leave you alone. A dog is always at your beck and call, waiting for its next order, begging for approval with a desperation that seems almost terminal. A dog is stupid and will slobber all over you, hump your leg if you let it.
He already has a dog, Homelander realizes. He's had a dog all along.
Homelander is reading. Or at least he should be reading. Kevin hasn't heard him turn a page in quite a while now, but his sense of time is all messed up, so maybe he's mistaken. Maybe Homelander reads like that; maybe he stares through every page at once with his awesome x-ray vision eyes, and even though it looks like he's hovering around page 5, he already knows why that guy wants to kill the whale so badly—that's what the book is about, he's pretty sure. The Great Gatsby. There's a whale named Gatsby, and it's great, and also white, which, if you think about it, kinda makes it surprising the woke left hasn't canceled this whale yet.
Kevin wants to ask about the whale, if it's doing alright, or if the evil fisherdude has caught him yet, but dogs aren't supposed to talk, and they're definitely not supposed to care about literature, so he keeps his eyes on the floor and stays silent. Rooting for Gatsby internally. Maybe he should read it too, but books are kinda scary, with all the words and stuff. Also kinda woke, except for if Homelander reads them, of course. Then books are awesome, and alpha, and every man should be reading all the time. Yes, he's going to read The Great Gatsby, maybe Homelander will even let him borrow his copy, and maybe the book will smell like him, and it wouldn't even be obvious he's sniffing it because he can always say he's just leaning in to read a word.
Yes, Kevin thinks, I'm a genius. In the next episode of Manhandled, we will talk about how books are no longer woke. Maybe he could ask Homelander about a list of alpha books. Maybe when Homelander leaves to take a piss, Kevin can take a quick look at the bookshelf—though of course, he secretly hopes Homelander won't be leaving for that.
Homelander makes a noise, a kind of huh, mildly interested, and again, Kevin wants nothing more than to ask him what's so interesting in his book, what just happened, if the whale is okay, but he can't, he can't. It's torture. But it's also what Homelander wants, and for Homelander's sake, Kevin would do just about anything. He would drag his balls across burning hot concrete. When he tells Homelander this, he's always all What the fuck are you talking about and How did you even come up with that, but he would, he really would. Without hesitation. Just suit off and frying up an omelet. Homelander's omelet. The thought makes his heart beat a little faster.
For now, though, he's trying to stay perfectly still, so as not to distract Homelander from reading. After he's finished, Kevin hopes he'll finally touch him. Really, he was hoping there'd be a lot more touching in general, with Homelander making him strip, making him put on the collar. Making him kneel, naked, on the floor next to the couch as he reads. It's some sort of game, and Kevin wants to play it well, wants Homelander to be proud of him, so, even as everything in his body screams at him to climb up on Homelander's lap, rub against his boot at least, do something to get those sky-blue eyes on him, he holds his breath and counts to ten and does whatever he needs to stay in position.
At least there's a carpet here, to make things a little more comfortable, though Kevin hopes Homelander knows he would just as easily kneel on the hard floor for him, that he wouldn't have hesitated. And then he thinks about Homelander pressing his face down into the carpet as he fucks him from behind, and that makes it even harder to stay still. He thinks of gross, unsexy things: chemical spills, the algae gathering in the tanks in Sea World, feminists. A feminist causing a chemical spill in the algae-green tanks at Sea World. And the feminist isn't even hot.
It's not easy, with Homelander ignoring him like this, but Kevin knows that he should be grateful, that it's wonderful that Homelander even lets him sit at his feet, his special privilege. The collar is snug around his neck, dark leather that still smells new, still carries the same magic as that moment when he first saw it, when Homelander first made him put it on. One day, maybe, he'll even be the one to raise it to Kevin's neck and close the buckle, but for now, it's enough to know that Homelander got this for him, a special, handpicked gift.
Kevin likes to daydream about Homelander in a collar store, or wherever you buy those, going through the racks, searching for the perfect one, the most expensive, the most alpha, the one fit for his precious pet.
In some wilder variations of the daydream, Homelander is crafting the collar himself, butchering the cow and everything, looking so badass covered in mammalian blood, then working away with his tools. Kevin isn't entirely sure how collars are made, so he watches some videos about it, but still, he doesn't quite understand, so the Homelander in the daydreams always ends up just kind of whacking a strip of leather with a hammer, but he looks alpha as hell as he does it, all sweaty with effort, strands of hair pasted sexily to his forehead. So alpha, bro. Like, whoah.
And God, that image makes it hard to stay still, and he really is trying to be good, but the carpet looks so inviting, Homelander's boot looks so inviting, and really, he'd take about anything as long as he could hump against it right now. Homelander hasn't allowed him to move, but Kevin hopes it's alright for him to put his hands behind his back, clasping his own wrist to keep from reaching down for some relief.
The movement does not go unnoticed. Homelander glances up from his book, and the second his eyes meet Kevin's, there's that full-bodied warmth again, that squeeze in his chest, as if a fist has wrapped itself around his heart and is now bearing down. It's a physical thing. Makes him sit up a little straighter, shoulders back underneath the weight of Homelander's gaze. Really, it just as often does the opposite, makes him hunch down and look to the floor and make himself a smaller target for any possible ire to be directed towards, but right now, anything would be good, even anger. As long as Homelander keeps looking at him, he'll take even that.
"What's the matter, little guppy? You seem a bit restless."
That nickname, it never fails to make him weak in the knees, so it's really quite fortunate he's already down on the floor. And the way Homelander is saying it, so sweetly, and sure, Kevin's never entirely clear whether he's being genuine about that or not, but he can pretend, and that's almost as good as the real thing.
Something flits across Homelander's features, too fast to catch, and maybe he senses Kevin's desperation to understand what's going on between them, how Homelander sees him, because those noble brows lift in bemusement.
"You want so desperately to be a good boy for me, don't you?"
Kevin nods, a small whine escaping him. He does, he really does. He wants, more than anything, for Homelander to be happy with him, to like him, to care for him. Needs it more than air. And Homelander, of course, knows this.
"It's pathetic," he says, with the smallest shake of his head. "I'd respect you more if you weren't such a bitch."
And the irony of that, as if he wasn't the one to put the collar on him—or he wasn't, not really. Homelander handed him the collar, and Kevin put it on himself.
"Sir, please," he whines, forgetting himself, and the look Homelander shoots him hurts more than any slap, more than taking those lasers straight to the face would. And then, even worse: after that iciness, the fake smile, the one that's worse than pure anger, signals terrible things to come if he doesn't tread lightly now.
"Shush. Dogs don't talk. You don't want me to rip your tongue out, do you? I could, if that'd make things easier."
Kevin shakes his head frantically, hoping, somehow, that a sufficient amount of submissiveness will make Homelander forgive him, though of course, that's not how it works, and deep down, he might even know it. But there's no other way, when faced with Homelander's disappointment, when the most beautiful, the strongest, the most powerful man in all of America is right there in front of him, and Kevin has let him down. Not America, the world. The universe. If that would make Homelander forgive him, Kevin would bite off his own tongue, and maybe Homelander knows this, can somehow read his thoughts, because that fake smile drops off his face, then, expression thawing into something not exactly soft but at the very least softer.
"I figured. So, remember your place," Homelander says. "Don't give me a reason to punish you." There's a strange sort of affection in his eyes as he says it, though, which makes Kevin perk up even as he shrivels under Homelander's gaze, something he knows doesn't make any sense, but looking at Homelander, it's easy to forget yourself. His pupils are so incredibly blue, a postcard sort of color, as if someone had poured the sky into his eye sockets. The glorious shine of Compound V; the pinnacle of Vought engineering. A God amongst men.
He's so beautiful, Kevin thinks. So, so beautiful.
"Imagine if someone walked in now. If they saw you like this. Do you think they'd even be surprised?"
They would, wouldn't they? They have to be. He's still an alpha, right? Being submissive to Homelander, that's different from being submissive to anyone else. It's Homelander. Anyone would do this for him, though he wouldn't ask anybody, because only Kevin has earned the right to wear this collar. He's worked hard for his place at Homelander's feet.
Homelander spreads his legs a little bit wider; he has to know what he's doing here. Kevin tries not to stare, because he doesn't think he's allowed to, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see spandex growing taut, and that's satisfying, too, to know he's not the only person into this. Proof that yes, this is a weird sex thing, which always makes Kevin a bit more comfortable about where he's situated within these games of theirs. Weird sex things he's good at. Everything makes more sense once boners are involved.
"Should we test it?" Homelander asks. "I could call someone in right now. How about…Sage. You two have gotten frisky before, haven't you? Maybe she'd like to see you like this."
And the thought of that, horrible. Their private games laid out for all to see, and suddenly, there'd be nothing special about it at all, suddenly it would no longer be this thing between them, and Kevin isn't sure he'd survive that. And Sage, too. The woman who had to lobotomize herself to fuck him, though if she's so smart, she'd have to understand why he is doing this, right? If she's so smart, she'd be dreaming of being in this very position herself. But still, the thought of her seeing him like this sends a chill down his spine.
He shakes his head with a whimper, though he knows by now a sound like that only ever has the opposite effect.
"No? What about Ashley? She seemed so excited when you were about to suck A-Train off. Don't you think this could be a nice treat for her?"
Kevin looks down at the carpet, trying to get lost in the twists of fiber, anything to get his mind off this terrifying prospect. She's not even a supe. She works for them, and already she's seen far too much of their dynamic bleed through the cracks, and it makes him a little sick how much she seemed to enjoy it. Homelander is just rubbing it in, the humiliation of that memory—not even being asked to suck A-Train's dick, he's done that before, but being asked to do so in front of Ashley. And, of course, the more personal, intimate sting, the one that cuts even deeper: that somehow, he thought what they had was finally special, and Homelander no longer wanted to see his mouth on another man. He didn't make him go through with it, thankfully, but how easily he had taken what they had and brought it to the light still upsets him to think about.
Which is, of course, exactly why Homelander has brought it up. Why he leans forward, reaches out to grab Kevin's cheeks, and forces him to meet his eye again. Yes, he likes to see his jabs register, to know how much he can get to Kevin with only his words. Kevin loves him for it, almost as much as he hates himself for that fact.
"Eyes up here, guppy."
It's such a special, intimate thing. This kind of cruelty. In order to hate someone this much, you have to care for them deeply. Kevin will take this over disinterest every day of the week. It doesn't matter if Homelander looks at him in disgust, as long as he looks at him.
A twinkle in bright blue eyes. A squeeze of Kevin's cheek.
"Maybe…you don't want a woman at all. Maybe you want me to call Black Noir."
A sick lurch in Kevin's stomach, gills trembling. Not his bro. Anyone but his bro. He'd go on live television, let Homelander drag him through Times Square on a leash, as long as his bro wouldn't find out about it.
How cruel can Homelander get? It's a question Kevin doesn't want to know the answer to. He hopes he'll never have to find out.
"Wouldn't that be something?" Homelander coos. "Your little friend watching you degrade yourself for me. He'd never be able to look you in the eyes again. There'd be no chance of you fooling him, pretending to be more than you are. Pretending to be a man." He narrows his eyes. "He'd see those disgusting gills of yours, too. Find out what a freak you are."
Kevin lets out a low, mournful moan. Terrified yet still turned on, fear and excitement melting into a strange mixture within his chest.
"You want that, Kevin?"
Kevin shakes his head, Homelander's grip slackening enough to let him, tears welling up in his eyes. It's exactly the kind of weakness you don't want to show in front of Homelander, but he can't help it, it's all too much. The threat and the promise of ownership, of claiming him in public, the thought of how everyone would look at him. His gills, filaments fluttering in shame as they're finally laid bare for the world.
And then, thank God, the thaw. The point where Homelander's cruelty tips back over into mercy, where he's had, for the moment at least, enough of Kevin's fear.
"Is it because this view is only for me?" Homelander asks, and Kevin nods frantically, leaping at the chance to make amends. Hoping he's not walking into some trap here, mind too muddled for any alternative. Right now, Homelander could say just about anything, and Kevin would agree, as long as it doesn't involve anyone seeing his gills, least of all Noir. His balls on burning cement and everything.
"Yeah, I thought so." The smile on Homelander's face is almost fond. It is, at least, the closest Kevin ever seems to see it get, and that's enough to give him that proud little flutter in his chest again.
A gloved thumb slides into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and Kevin finds himself grateful for the permission to stay silent, stay still. Like this, Homelander's grip on his jaw once more so tight he couldn't even move his head if he wanted to, Kevin doesn't need to worry about what the right answer is. He no longer needs to think at all. And it's such a nice thing, the not thinking. When Homelander talks to him, but really, he's only talking to himself. All Kevin has to do is sit there and listen, and that's something it's harder to fail at than most things.
"You sycophantic little piece of shit. You disgust me," Homelander says, but the way he says it is almost affectionate. "I could show you off to everyone. Make you walk behind me through the halls on your hands and knees. Letting everyone see what a pathetic, submissive little bitch you are. Would you do that? Right now, if I clipped on your leash and walked out that door, would you follow me?"
And Oh God, he would. He would. He doesn't want to, is nauseous at the thought, the humiliation of it, but if Homelander…if Homelander asks this of him, Kevin realizes, he'll do it. Get down on his knees in front of everyone, raise his ass into the air. And fuck, there's something exciting about it, too, the thought of Homelander claiming him like this, publicly. Letting everyone know just who he belongs to.
This is probably why people buy wedding rings. He gets it now, sort of. There's something so nice about being owned, about letting everyone know at a glance just how badly someone has wanted you.
He doesn't even need to nod; Homelander sees the answer in his eyes, hears it in the muffled moan he lets out. Knew it, probably, before he even asked.
The corners of Homelander's mouth twitch; not quite a smile yet, but wonderfully close. "Of course. Good guppy."
And he wants to be a good guppy so, so badly, so he stays still as Homelander—his owner, because isn't this the dynamic between them right now, part of the game they're playing—slides gloved fingers down his throat until Kevin coughs and sputters, gagging, fabric turning damp as his mouth floods with saliva. He's trying to be good, though, so he stays upright, shivering, glad for the attention, no matter which kind. Always glad for the attention.
Homelander, for his part, looks almost a little amused, though Kevin's vision is blurred by tears. "You'll really let me do anything, huh? Do you have any dignity?" he asks, and if Kevin could speak, he'd say, no. Not when it comes to you, Sir. And if he could smile, he would be smiling.
Homelander scoffs, but it's his fond scoff, which means he likes this, likes Kevin's willingness to do anything for him, let him do anything to him, or else he wouldn't be here, would he? Even if Homelander puts his fingers down your throat, you're still being chosen, and being chosen is all Kevin has wanted for most of his life. Now, he's been chosen by a God.
And his God is merciful and releases him, dizzy and drooling like the mutt that he is. He's hunched over, reeling, blinking through the tears—hoping, desperately, that he did good, that Homelander is happy with him. A dog does not need much to be happy. A dog, indeed, only needs a smile. And that, Homelander grants him, although only for a flicker of a second, but it's enough, it's enough. Kevin grins back, stupidly, wiping the drool off his chin with the back of his paw.
Homelander only shakes his head, taking his soaked gloves off and tossing them aside.
"You really are messy. Getting your slobber everywhere," he says, which does seem kind of unfair, considering it was Homelander who put his fingers in Kevin's mouth, but even if he were able to voice his thoughts, he wouldn't dare to.
Something wonderful happens, then. Homelander tilts his head to the side, and, in an act of infinite generosity, says, "You want me to put something else in your mouth, don't you?"
The rapid thumping of Kevin's heart is answer enough, furious clatter against his ribs, and Homelander can hear it, always hear it, but Kevin nods nonetheless, excitement turning his muscles to putty. Homelander truly is the kindest, the most generous, and he has to love Kevin at least a little bit, or he wouldn't be doing all this, wouldn't reward him in such a manner. And he'll do his very best, do such a good job that nobody else will ever get to put their lips to his owner's cock without coming up short, and the thought makes him giddy; Homelander, needing him, even if it's only for this. If Homelander were to miss him only for his mouth, well, then at least he'd still miss him. Between them, it doesn't need to be this heart-wrenching, show-stopping romance—Kevin has learned to settle for the simpler things.
When Homelander spreads his legs a little wider, the movements come on their own: undoing the belt buckle, pulling that perfect cock free from patriotic underwear. Opening his mouth and swallowing God to the hilt.
It's big, and it fills his mouth perfectly, sword to sheath—as if, indeed, he were made for this—and he struggles to lick along the length of it, salty taste of precum at the back of his throat. Thank God for having long since killed off most of his gag reflex and for the ability to breathe through his nose. Thank God that when his eyes tear up from the strain, Homelander only moans, a beautiful sound that makes Kevin redouble his effort. "Fuck. At least there's something you're good at, my little guppy."
And, nose buried in golden locks, dizzy with endorphins, Homelander's little guppy tries to smile.
There's a hand in his hair, almost petting him, as above him, Homelander groans; Kevin thrilling with the knowledge he's the one drawing such noises from his owner, he's doing such a good job. And indeed: Homelander's grip on his hair is tightening, pulling him further in. His words, breathy and low, "Your mouth, guppy. So fucking good at this."
Bolstered by the praise, Kevin laps, sucks, hollows his cheeks, pulling out all the stops. All his carefully honed tricks. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.
With a long, hungry moan, God cums down his throat, ripping a few hairs from his scalp as he clings to him, but Kevin doesn't mind, does not mind one bit; dutifully, he swallows all that he's given, not a single drop wasted of this precious gift. Because this is Homelander, and he has chosen him, has taken him into his arms on that very first day, has let him back into the Seven. Again and again, Homelander has chosen him, and Kevin will spend the rest of his life doing his best to prove to him he has chosen right. Nobody else could be there for him like this. Nobody could suck him off so well.
And Homelander, he agrees. Hand still in Kevin's hair, he murmurs, "You really were meant to do this. This is why I keep you around." His voice softens. Almost imperceptible, but it's there. "Well done, guppy."
As always, when Homelander pulls out, Kevin misses him—the taste, the fullness, the sense of purpose it gives him—but the praise makes his heart flutter nonetheless. He did well. He has, at least for now, made Homelander proud.
And while there are good days between them and bad ones, today is a good day, or a good evening, rather, and it turns out Homelander is not yet done bestowing his gifts.
"You're lucky I'm feeling generous tonight," he says, as, in a gesture of infinite generosity, one boot slides forward. Worn leather he's fantasized about running his tongue over, that Homelander made him kiss once, before realizing he was a little too into that and withdrawing the offer. Saving it, maybe, for another day. Finally, that day might have come.
"Alright, then. Indulge yourself."
Still, Kevin sits there, unmoving, struggling to comprehend the situation. His brain doesn't seem to work quite right, or maybe it's his ears that are the problem. Maybe he's dreaming. Oh God, what if he's dreaming?
"Go ahead, guppy, hump it," Homelander says, an edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "Just this once, I'll allow it."
And Kevin's body seems to move on its own, then. Because it's an order. And no matter how muddled his brain is, an order he can still obey. The worn leather of Homelander's boot is cool against his bare skin, and he moans as his neglected cock finally finds some friction. Usually, Homelander makes him get off by himself; often, he doesn't even watch. But he's watching now, eyes fixed on Kevin as he rubs himself against his boot, first slow and tentative, then faster, unable to control his own pace. It feels too good, that spot where the top of Homelander's foot curves into his ankle, and he must be getting the material all dirty with the fluid already leaking from him, but Homelander has allowed him to, so Kevin clings to his owner's leg and humps himself out of his mind.
It's overwhelming, the sensation of the leather against his cock after so much denial, the sheer fact of Homelander letting him do this, watching him as he does, and Kevin truly feels all dog now, moaning, whining, drooling, head buried in Homelander's thigh to muffle the sound.
Until Homelander's hand is on his cheek, tilting his head up, something so tender in the act it makes Kevin sob, and he's full on crying then, a pathetic mess, but God, if Homelander wants to see him like this, then he can have it, all of it. All of him. His ribcage, torn wide open, guts on display: look, touch, do whatever you want. Anything at all, as long as it'd make you happy. Make you proud.
And Homelander, maybe, knows this. Because within his gaze, there's a kind of softness, of the impossibly rare kind. Kevin would give anything to understand what Homelander is thinking in moments like these, when he's just looking at him in this way. When it seems as if something special and tender is in the air, a spell that could be broken by the slightest of missteps, but for now, still holds firm.
"You're so simple, guppy," Homelander murmurs, voice low, fascinated. "It's cute how simple you are. Sometimes I want to scrape the last remnants of coherence from your brain and just keep you in my bed all day. Warm and needy, just waiting for me to return. Would you like that? Just belonging to me?"
A low whine that spells yes, yes, please. Please. The world has gone soft and fuzzy around the edges. Kevin is vaguely aware he must look ridiculous, but he can't bring himself to mind.
"Cum", John orders, then, and with a whimper, Kevin does. It shakes his entire body, sends him rocking against his owner's legs, rubbing himself through it in a frenzy. Hand still warm on his face, catching tears that roll down his cheeks because it feels too good, because he's too happy; because for now, he belongs to someone, for now, he's being held.
"Sir," he whimpers, forgetting himself, forgetting all the rules, "I love you, Sir…you're so generous to me…I'm so happy…"
And Homelander sighs, but he doesn't hurt him, doesn't punish him, doesn't even seem mad. The world is still golden and beautiful. As if bathing in sun-warmed water.
"You're still a dog, Kevin."
"Yeah, of course," Kevin mumbles, blearily. "Sorry, Sir. Woof." And it's ridiculous, maybe, but right now, he can't bring himself to worry about that. Still too blissed out to be careful, Kevin nuzzles into Homelander's warm, soft palm.
"Woof, Woof."
Homelander is just watching him, and though something in his expression has shifted, Kevin can't begin to decipher it. So, he tells himself it's something nice. Homelander is thinking about what a good puppy—guppy—he has.
And there, slowly coming back down to earth—Homelander, still, just looking at him—Kevin realizes something, though he can't fully grasp the importance of it quite yet. That carpet, he suddenly understands, hasn't always been there. He can't remember seeing this carpet before.
And, almost as if the intimacy of this moment is too much to bear—and, indeed, maybe it is—Homelander rips his hand away, tossing a blanket at Kevin.
"Go clean yourself. It's disgusting."
Kevin, dazed, just nods. Hoping Homelander won't suddenly decide to be mad about this blanket, later. It's a nice blanket, all soft, probably pretty expensive. There's a giant American flag printed on it, which is, in Kevin's opinion, a little bit tacky, but whatever. Patriotism is good, he's pretty sure. Though he's not entirely certain if wiping off cum with the American flag might be breaking flag code or something. That's a thing, he's pretty sure, something about going to jail if you step on a flag. Something like that. It's a nice blanket, though. Maybe he can ask Ashley where it's from. It's her job to know stuff like that, right? And then Kevin can cuddle up with it and pretend Homelander gifted it to him. Yeah. That'd be nice.
Homelander clears his throat, and at once, Kevin's head swivels back towards him. Homelander pats the cushion next to him.
"Alright, get up."
Kevin, of course, does not move. Unsure if he's heard correctly, unwilling to take the chance.
"Go on, up," Homelander says. "But if you get cum on my couch, I'll fucking kill you, okay?"
Kevin nods dazedly, still not quite able to believe this is happening, to grasp the enormity of what he's being offered here. Maybe there's something freaky going on with the planets, anus in gatorade or whatever it's called.
He wants to say Thank you, but he's a dog, so instead, all he says is, "Woof." Suppressing the urge to smile, because dogs don't do that either.
What dogs do, though, is obey, which is something he's always been good at, so he climbs on the couch, a little awkward about it since he didn't exactly study for this. Well, he might have studied a little, just about a dog's general behavior, a few tricks just in case—he's really good at giving paw and playing dead in particular—but in none of those videos did a dog climb onto a couch. And how does a dog lie on a couch? He knows how a dog lies down, of course, he's not stupid, but they have entirely different legs, which makes things pretty complicated, but before he can worry too much, Homelander's hand is on his head again, guiding it downwards, onto his thighs.
This is how dogs do it, then, at least Homelanders' dog. Head on his owner's lap, curled up sideways on the couch, the brush of fabric against his bare skin electrifying. It smells good, down there. Smells like Homelander. It's a scent he could bathe in.
And then yet another special thing happens, because Homelander's hand threads itself into Kevin's hair. Not pulling this time, just sort of lingering, which is both terrifying and exhilarating at once. The sex is done now, which means Homelander should send him away, except that he hasn't; except that he's asked Kevin to join him on the couch, and now he's scratching him behind the ear, looking pointedly towards the blank television as if he can see something hidden within the dark screen. And it does feel nice to be scratched there. This is why dogs always like it so much. Though Kevin supposes he's a dog now, too. For Homelander, he can be a dog. For Homelander, he can be whatever he wants.
And yet, despite the kindness his owner has shown him today, Kevin can't seem to shake the tension in his body entirely. In Homelander's vicinity, nobody is ever truly relaxed. No matter how calm he seems, no matter if you've seemingly given him no cause for anger, any second, something could explode out of him, and Kevin is used to that by now, yes, but in the quieter moments, with no task for him to do, it haunts him a bit. He doesn't like how small it makes him feel, and how helpless. As if, no matter how far he goes, it'll never be enough. He'll never be enough.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Homelander says, voice low. "Why do you always think I'm going to hurt you?"
And maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe it's Kevin just making stuff up, but Homelander sounds, almost, a little bit sad. And he wonders whether he should say anything, since he's still a dog and everything, unsure what is expected here, but his owner takes the decision out of his paws.
"Don't answer. Just sleep. And never breathe a word of this to anyone."
He'd never. This is something special between only the two of them. This is one of those moments he'll remember forever, the kind almost too precious to reminisce about often; already, Kevin knows he'll safely store this in the far reaches of his memory, take it out only on the most special of occasions, making sure he won't rub the wonder away.
And at first it doesn't seem possible to sleep in a situation such as this—with his heart racing the way it still is; the thrill of this position they've found themselves in; Homelander's scent rich and heady, musk and milk and something indefinable—but somehow, he manages. The adrenaline, maybe, now ebbing from his body, or it might be the fact he spent the night before watching Shark Week reruns, torn between cheering on the predator and mourning the prey at every meal. Either way, Kevin drifts off, the scent of Homelander wafting all around him, a soft smile on his lips. Dogs may not smile, but in this situation, hopefully, he'll be forgiven.
In his dream, Kevin races over a sun-drenched beach, chasing a ball arcing high through a cloudless blue sky. He wades into the ocean, surf soaking his fur, and cuts through the waves as if he'd been born to swim, catching the ball between powerful jaws. When he turns around, treading water, John is there, little more than a dot on the Horizon, but his arms are in the air, and he's waving. And Kevin knows, with absolute certainty, that the second he'll get close enough to catch the expression on John's face, he'll see that he's grinning, bright as the sun. John will be grinning.
Having a dog is not so bad after all, it turns out. It certainly does have its benefits.
Watching Kevin sleep, John thinks about how easy it would be to kill him. He could grab his head and just squeeze. Pop it like a balloon. He could choke him, gouge out his eyes. He could rip his head straight off his body. He could do this, and this, and this, and it'd be so easy, and nobody would even cause much of a fuss over it, really, because nobody cares about him, and still he sleeps undisturbed, drawing breath after undeserved breath. John sometimes thinks that every second he lets Kevin live, he's doing the world a disservice. Still, that head remains firmly attached to his body, those pretty eyes ungouged. He wishes that word would not keep creeping in, but to say John keeps him around because he's pretty is easier to explain than the alternative, with far less unsettling implications.
It's not as if no one else would do this for him. He'd only need to snap his fingers, and they'd all line up, probably fighting each other for the privilege. It's that nobody else would do it with such earnest, sickening enthusiasm. Even when he's scared, it's still there, the stench of his desperation, that urge to please no matter what's being asked of him. When asked to be a dog, he gets down on all fours, and he barks. When asked to suck John's cock, he's trembly with joy over getting the opportunity.
It's pathetic. It's incredibly pathetic.
And yet, watching him sleep, the even rise and fall of his chest, the gentle flutter of his gills, John finds something strange within himself, a sensation he can't quite identify. Like this, Kevin looks almost innocent. He turns this thought over in his head, observing it from every angle. What a strange word to connote with a disgusting, pathetic fish fucker. But like this, he doesn't seem so disgusting. Lips parted in sleep, lashes prettily fanning down over his cheeks. A slight flush still lingering.
Homelander could touch him. It'd be so easy to touch him. Even if he were to wake, he most likely wouldn't mind, and even if he did, he couldn't stop him. Homelander could take his fingers and brush them along the delicate filaments of his gills, feel them twitch at the touch, plunge into the warm, tight depths of them. Feel them contract as his guppy startles awake, thrown from safety into horror. It's what he deserves for being so trusting. He should know better by now.
A small shiver comes over Kevin's body. He's cold, John realizes. What a ridiculous thing that is, that some supes still struggle with something as simple as temperature. They're all superior beings, yes, but some more than others. He can swim in the Mariana Trench, supposedly, but he starts shivering from a little cold air.
It's ridiculous, and John doesn't care for him in the least, but the shivering is getting on his nerves, the soft whines Kevin lets out. So, when he pulls the stained blanket over his guppy's shoulders, it should not be mistaken for any sort of affection on his part. And if anyone were to ever imply such a thing, they'd swiftly get reduced to a pile of smoldering ashes.
Kevin blinks awake to darkness. Night outside the windows, a clouded, starless sky, all the lights off in the penthouse—that energy-saving feature, he vaguely remembers. Something about everyone forgetting to turn the lights off when they leave, so now they blink out on their own when no motion is detected over a long enough interval. This thing went out on him during the Shark Week marathon, but he didn't think it would be active in Homelander's place, too. If someone should be able to use up as much electricity as they want, it's him.
Not even the glimmer of the city is visible from his position, only the vague blur of light pollution reminding him there's other people out there at all. It makes things more intimate. Like this, they could almost be a couple. Homelander's breathing is even, which lets Kevin assume that he's sleeping, or at the very least deeply relaxed, which makes thoughts like these seem safe to have, at least for the moment. The two of them, a couple. Gods may be lonely, but doesn't every ruler need someone to stand by his side? To kneel at his feet, even—Kevin will settle for that. If he gets moments like this, too, then he'll gladly settle for that.
There's still that hand on his head, resting there. Now limp in sleep. As if trying to make sure Kevin won't leave, though he would never, and Homelander knows this, doesn't he? How could he not know?
Already, his nudity has become normal, comfortable even. It's not even that cold, surprisingly, even though Homelander always keeps the temperature rather chilly. He briefly wonders why it's not cold. Then, and only then, does he become aware of the blanket draped over his shoulders, the blanket that was definitely not there when he nodded off.
Homelander is cruel, and he is incomprehensible, and he's as close to a God as someone could come while still drawing breath. There is also, at times, a strange, almost disconcerting sort of kindness in him, one only seen in glimpses, the human within him peeking through the cracks of that superior, ruthless facade.
It makes him much harder to understand and impossible to walk away from. If Homelander were only cruel, then it'd be different, Kevin tells himself. But there's this, too, sometimes, only small crumbs, but still it's everything, and it's yet another memory Kevin will cling to, one he'll think of whenever he needs a reason to keep going. Trying to keep it whole and unblemished, yes, but knowing he'll dig it up again and again, turning it over in his palm like a pebble. Sanding, in his mind, all the edges off their relationship, until only softness remains.
After all, Homelander hasn't yet killed him, no matter how much he's fucked up, though even Kevin himself knows, in his heart, nobody would miss him, except maybe the fish. When it comes to Homelander, being spared might be the greatest kindness possible. Or maybe, and he tries not to think about this one too much, the greatest punishment. But even that means he's important. After all, aren't hatred and love equally strong emotions?
Kevin is too scared to move, afraid he'll startle his owner awake, but out of the corner of his eyes, tilting his head and glancing upwards just so, he can catch a small slice of that familiar face turned unfamiliar in the darkness. It's strange what sleep can do to someone's expression. For some people, it can render them unrecognizable, take off a mask you didn't know they were wearing. Homelander is one such person.
While awake, he's never at rest. Jaw always set, brows always furrowed. In sleep, however, all that seems to simply melt off his face, leaving in its wake someone younger, someone who seems almost a little out of place here, in this penthouse, wearing this costume, playing at God. He seems, Kevin thinks, lost. John seems lost.
Later, he knows, this thought will seem impossibly far away, ridiculous. John will be Homelander again, and Kevin will be the Deep, and Homelander will hurt and degrade him, and he will like it, and any affection between them will seem unbelievable.
Still, for now, it's safe to think like this, and it's safe to be gentle, and looking at this man who could kill him so easily, Kevin feels, for once, no fear, is startled a little by the sudden absence of it.
If they were other people, if theirs was a different relationship, he'd be able to reach out and pull John close to him, press him against his chest, pet his hair the way he petted Kevin's. Giving him all the affirmation they both seem to need.
It feels, sometimes, as if ever since Stillwell died, John has been drifting, treading water, trying to find something to cling to in order to stay afloat, and Kevin could be that for him, could be his life buoy, if only he'd let him. This lost boy, the corners of his mouth drooping down as if not even in his dreams he's at peace, might need more than a dog. But in this world, with these lives they're leading, it seems a dog is all he can bear. But a dog can help too, Kevin thinks. Therapy animals are a thing, after all. Maybe a dog can make all the difference.
When Homelander shifts, Kevin's heart leaps into his throat—some habits are hard to break—though he doesn't seem to be waking anytime soon. So, because it's not as if he could simply leave, and it's not as if he'd want to, Kevin settles on making the most of this opportunity and tries to doze again. Burying his face just a little farther in John's lap, nicely cushioned by the padding in his suit.
How strange that nobody has come for them, as if time is standing still for their benefit, all responsibilities temporarily suspended, nobody alive on this planet but them. But even if someone were to interrupt, who'd dare wake the Homelander? Surely, they'd simply turn around and leave, and never breathe a word of this for fear of their life. But what a strange sight it must be, Kevin curled up on Homelander's lap like this, and maybe something has shifted without him even being aware of it, because now, that thought makes him feel more proud than anything else. Now, in this strange, dreamlike space they're in, things are different, and though it might only last until Homelander wakes, though soon Kevin will stand on two legs again and Homelander will once more be cruel, at least for now, they both have this.
In his dream, he's kneeling at Homelander's feet in front of the world, people wherever he looks, thousands of them, eyes wide with wonder. Nobody laughing, not ever again; what they have is special, and it is good, and everybody knows this. Homelanders head in his hair, petting him, eternally proud.
When Kevin reaches up to touch his neck, he finds the collar still sitting there, a perfect fit. A pendant dangling off the front, brand new and shiny, the shape of a fish. Kevin. And then, when he turns it, there on the backside, another inscription: my little guppy.
It was a mistake, and they can never repeat it. It's always a mistake. It's always the last time.
John is frustrated, and he can't be around the one person he usually takes his frustrations out on right now, so it's all just boiling inside him, making him sick. He breaks something, and that does not make him feel better. He thinks about killing him, and that does make him feel better for a second, but then it makes him feel worse. He makes Ashley cancel all meetings, and the blank terror in her eyes as she looks at him, the way she hurries away while trying not to be obvious about it, is mildly satisfying at least, but when he turns the couch is there, and the sick flood of it all comes over him again.
He always smells as if he's come straight from the sea. It's not a good scent, not necessarily, but there's something compelling about it, if only in how different it is from the way most people smell. A strange mix of salty and sweet, like something beached, tangles of seaweed left behind by the tide, the green carpet of them, though not quite as noxious.
There was a time when he used to douse himself in terrible cologne, though John has long since made certain to put a stop to that.
He tells him he reeks of fish, and he's not lying, though it's not one left rotting in the sun; rather, it's one he once plucked, still squirming, from the ocean, just to see if he'd feel an odd sting of familiarity, which indeed he did, at the twitching, wide eyed panic of it, mouth open in dumb surprise. More than anything, it just smelled like the sea. This is what he smells like, too, with a familiar, musky twist to it, and this is what the blanket smells like, though salted with dry droplets of his cum.
It's not a scent John should like, and yet he buries his face in it regardless, inhales deep, letting the smell overwhelm him. It's like he's still here. It's like he's still here, and if he reached out his hand, he could touch him, and why didn't he, and when will he get the chance again? Except he could do it whenever he wanted to, would only need to snap his fingers, and Kevin would be grateful for the opportunity, needy mess that he is. Except that's not the same, and he himself isn't entirely sure why that is the case.
It seems he's forever tormented by this, by wanting something but never being able to get it in just the way that he wants it. A long time ago, they promised him the sun and the moon and the stars, and still he chafes against his own desires—a child, dreaming about the world outside of the laboratory, only to find out that world wasn't any kinder to him; an adult, dreaming about being adored, only to find out it's too much and it sickens him, that someone loving you also means giving up something he's not willing to surrender.
A dog's affection, though, is simple and sweet and unwavering. As a dog, John wonders if maybe he could love Kevin back, but then the thought of that becomes nauseating, becomes, somehow terrifying, though Gods are not supposed to be afraid, so he buries his face in the blanket and inhales, and everything afterward still lies in the future, and the future still lies mercifully away. For now, the scent of him, and the memory of how he looked as he smiled up at his face, utterly guileless, a dog's simple devotion. The collar he put around his neck without any question, and in his face, a vulnerability that's achingly familiar.
Good boy, John thinks, reaching between his legs, face pressed to the blanket. Kevin's hand in his hair, his voice a soft murmur: Good boy.
Ashley isn't stupid. She knows there are things she'll need to take to her grave, no matter how delicious the gossip may be. And yet, as she shuffles through the stack of documents, her mind keeps returning to the two men she hates more than anyone else in the world.
They looked happy. They looked, somehow, genuinely happy.