@hom3land3r (Starter)

“Currently at Vought International anyone special can live the dream of being a hero. Our biggest name around the United States is The Homelander. A rising star among the greatest powers in Vought. Progress in the making. A brighter future for the next generation.”

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//Those are all the old ones I did today. After dinner, I will post more but they will be the new ones because I’m hyperfixated what can I say?

sylus folded so quick over us asking about his birthday

our sons: when is dad-boss man birthday

sylus:

us: hey sy when-

sylus:

all we did is sit on his lap and the biggest loverboy folded immediately without us even finishing asking the question

A GIF collection of my favourite scenes of young Homie’s first mission from that episode of The Boys: Diabolical. Trying out subtitles to capture the inner turmoil going through his poor lil’ baby brain. 🥺

//I think i should go through old drafts and do the oldest ones, I’ve not done that in a while.

Sylus and mephisto 💀

The dive bar reeked of stale beer, unwashed desperation, and the faint sting of bleach that hadn’t quite done its job. A single flickering neon sign buzzed behind the counter, casting the bottles in sickly red light. Dust clung to the rim of the jukebox, long silent, and the floorboards creaked like they resented every step. His target sat slouched in a crooked vinyl booth, a half-empty glass of something brown sweating on the table in front of him. His coat smelled like gunpowder and wet dog. It was quiet—until it wasn’t.

The door didn’t slam. It didn’t even creak like it ought to have. Instead, it simply opened, like it had always meant to let the darkness in.

A whisper of wind curled into the room, curling around the beer-sour air like smoke. It brought with it a scent that didn’t belong—aged leather, cold night air, and something sharper beneath, like blood on old iron.

The man stepped through the threshold like he owned the place, though he looked like he belonged somewhere far richer. Tall, poised, and tailored within an inch of his undead life, his dark coat swept the ground behind him. His fine italian leather shoes clicked softly on the sticky floor.

He paused, gaze sweeping the room with slow, clinical disinterest, before settling on the hunched figure nursing his drink.

“So, you’re the blaggard,” he said at last, the words laced in a voice smooth and aristocratic—like velvet soaked in old wine, indulgent and faintly bored.

He didn’t sit. He didn’t need to. He merely stopped a few feet from the table, hands folded neatly behind his back, posture a masterclass in calm contempt.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Butcher” he snapped, voice dipping lower, silk pulled tight around steel. “I didn’t come here to kill you.” as if he was plucking thoughts out of his mind, or assuming much about the man he was chiding.

A flicker of something unreadable passed behind his eyes—centuries of it, maybe.

“My name is Norrington. James Norrington, and I am the most recent CEO of Vought International. If I’m curt, then I apologize. However, I came because he’s been ..off.. since you started skulking about again. He won’t say it, of course. But I can tell. You rattle around in that skull of his like a ghost with unfinished business. A cruel little itch he can’t quite scratch.”

“So let me be crystal clear,” he utters softly, every syllable razor-honed. “I don’t care what history you two share, or how badly you want to watch him spiral. Stay away from Homelander.” It was rare when the new CEO of a giant corporation goes out of his way to a crappy little bar like this, so it was clearly important to him. “That also goes for the rest of his team and Vought, by proxy. ”

@fckindiabolicxl