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Homelander - Blog Posts
That Unwanted Animal
18+
Homelander x Soulmate!reader
You don’t love Homelander. Even when he looks like everything you’ve ever wanted.
Loosely based on this post from @blindmagdalena
His t-shirt is soft under your hands as you cling to him. The baseball cap shields his features from you as presses you against the alley wall. The blue fabric rubs against your cheek as he thrusts up into you. The both of you avoid eye contact and as you bury your face into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne nearly chokes you. You thought it would be easier like this. You’d believed that maybe without the suit you could pretend your “lover” was a normal man. Maybe the two of you had met at a bar, or a doctor’s office, or while walking dogs in the park. You could have been an ordinary couple with a soulmate story fit for a Hallmark movie.
But a change of clothes can’t distract you from the fact that this man, your soulmate, is the very man you’ve dedicated your life to bringing down. It’s a sick joke, isn’t it? You love your team. Hughie is always there with a shoulder to cry on. M.M. gives good advice. Frenchie and Kimiko have become almost like siblings to you. Even Butcher you hold fondness for, as infuriated as he often makes you. They’re your family and yet you’re here fucking enemy #1 in a filthy alley and he’s going to make you come.
You bite his shoulder to keep from crying out as he effortlessly holds you up. It would be easier if he was bad in bed. The soulmate bond would still suck ass, but at least you wouldn’t derive pleasure from it. He came so fast the first time you fucked him that you’d initially been relieved. It had been perfect until he’d spread your legs to lap his own come from you until you’d shuddered helplessly against his tongue. You’d gone home and cried after, despite the pleasure still pulsing warmly through your veins.
You can’t even say it isn’t consensual. Your bond causes you to ache for him viscerally. Hell, this time you sought him out. He didn’t even protest when you laid out your terms. He had seemed more amused than anything. When he showed up wearing civilian clothing like you demanded, you almost turned him away with tears pricking at your eyes.
He looks soft, human, like someone you could love, a real soulmate. Even as he pumps into you, the peek of blond sticking out from beneath the cap makes you ridiculously endeared against your will. If only he was anyone else…
Soulmates have always been romanticized to a ridiculous degree, despite everyone knowing a story of some person who is enslaved by their mark instead of liberated. There are many things that can tie two souls together besides love. Yet everyone still longs for the day they find their match, in hopes of the happiest of endings. You had been no different.
You whine and clench around him as he angles himself differently, his cock sliding even deeper into you until it feels like you're choking on it. Your mark burns and the empty pit in your stomach that lingers in his absence is washed away with each heated pulse. The nausea of being away from him finally subsides with each brush of your skin against his. He sighs happily into your hair, as the same sense of belonging envelopes him. This feels right and it makes you want to scream.
“Mine,” he growls against your temple.
“Yours,” your bond answers for you.
You only ever fuck him in comfortless places.
Your heels dig into his ass and you rock yourself into his thrusts. He nips at your ear gently…affectionately. He can’t distinguish between true love and the oppressive obsession that comes with a mate. You don’t love him. Things would be easier if you did.
Why couldn’t he be anybody else?
“Is this good?” He asks needily. He can sense your distraction. He wants to be good for you. He wants to please you. You flutter around him and one hand strokes the back of his neck tenderly despite the mental torment that you’re facing. No one has ever been so attentive during sex before. He makes you feel cherished. Even when you beg for him to make it hurt, he refuses. The same hands that have commited endless cruelties hold you like something rare and precious.
You don’t answer and you can feel his petulant frown against your skin as he waits for feedback.
He adjusts you effortlessly in his grip so he can stroke you exactly the way he’s learned you like it. You whine desperately as you leak all over his fingers and drip onto the ground below. He sighs at the feeling.
“I love you so much.” He whispers intimately into your ear. His sincerity makes you want to weep. “You’re everything I ever wanted.”
It doesn’t matter how many times you rebuke him or refuse his offer to take you home with him. He still believes that you feel the same. He believes that one day he’ll find you soaking wet at his penthouse door, having run across the city in the pouring rain to him, confessing how much it hurt to push him away. He wants the satisfaction of knowing that you abandoned your team from sheer want of him. He thinks of your situation as a romantic comedy that hasn’t hit the emotional climax yet.
It’s pathetic and delusional and you hate how close you know you are to fulfilling it. You don’t love him…but you know you could.
Despite how hard you try to resist, you come hard and you sob into his neck at the intensity of it. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear as he rubs you through it. You kiss him to shut him up and he groans into your mouth as he releases inside you. He kisses you back desperately, seeking whatever crumbs of affection you let yourself give him, using them as proof to fuel his delusional fantasies.
Once you’ve both ridden out your respective orgasms, he finally pulls back to look at you. The softness in his eyes belongs to a kinder man. Your stomach flips. His cap has been knocked slightly askew and he looks human. He frowns slightly and the hand he was using to bring you pleasure brushes something off your cheek.
“You’re crying.” He remarks, hand now cupping your cheek as his thumb strokes your skin in an attempt to comfort you. You want him to be rude to you the way he is to everyone else. You want him to mock you and make crass disrespectful remarks. You open your mouth to reply and a broken sob comes out. He hushes you softly and leans down to kiss the tears that roll down your cheeks
“I love you.” You confess finally, the truth is bitter and shameful in your mouth. You’ve finally stopped lying to yourself
“You say that every time. Are you actually going to follow through or are you going to deny yourself some more?” He asks dryly, cocking his head at you. His grip flexes as he continues to press you against the wall.
You both know the answer. Just like you both know that one day the answer will be different.
Your team better succeed before then.
have a bad day everyone
At First Sight (Homelander Drabble)
(aka: Knock em' off his feet) Homelander x F!Reader (18+)
+ His first time seeing you. Actually, he's seen you in his peripheral a handful of times. This? This is when he gets a good, long, look at you. He's a little stuck to say the least.
Words: 657 (Short & sweet, I just couldn't help making a point.)
A/N: Oh how I LOVE down bad man. You can't watch the show and not know that whoever has his affection HAS him. This is my first fic on this blog, I've written a lot before, deleted my blog, and came back, Maybe this will bring me back in, who knows. (Ask box open).
Warnings: Cursing, Homelander craving you, a little too wanting.
+ + +
Homelander likes you. No, listen, Homelander likes you. These days he’s so brazen with it, and you can hardly walk into the same room as him without buzzing under his stare. However, I wanna start it off a little slow at least. He started it off slow at least. Kind of.
It’s your third week in when he takes a good look at you. A rushed mission brief is called and Ashley, idiot, decides now is the time to try out a new presentation method. Handouts. She’s so fucking proud of herself when she steps to the front of the room and says, “I want to ensure everyone has a thorough analysis of the plan, as well as some facts about the landscape that I think—“
Oh please, he’s so close to asking her if she was shaken as an infant when he notices you. Supe by supe you walk around, placing a sheet of paper in front of everyone, & God the sight of you. You know how hard it is for someone to catch him off guard? You do it instantly, unknowingly, unabashedly. Honestly, it’s your eyes – wait – your lips. He can’t stop looking at your lips. Then you smile at The Deep and he has to sit back in his seat a little bit, scooch down, and lean over, chin in hand just to get a good look at you. You’re just about to reach Noir when Ashley musters up the gumption to ask, “Homelander, how would you feel about starlight leading this mission while you stay as backup?”
He’s almost too slow to take his eyes off you, but he does & laughs incredulously at Ashley. “Why would I do that?”
She actually quick steps towards him, hand extended holding a sheet of paper, & places it in front of him before you can make it. “We’re working to establish your image with our female audience, ages 25 through 45, as a softer protector.” She says softer with a wince, like she can hear how fucked it sounds. He’s annoyed, and has to deep breathe his way out of showing it. What the fuck is he reading? It's a mess of statistics and a – quite honestly –l ameass excuse for a game plan that he’s happy to pass on to StarLight. Ashley finishes with “Currently you’re doing amazing with our male audience, but we’d like to shift towards a team player, lover of women image.”
He’s a lover. Through and through, and sometimes hard to find. It’s there though, eventually you’ll get it.
You walk behind him, and reach beside him to place a sheet down in front of Queen Mauve. You smell good. He tilts his head just enough to catch a sight of you without being too honest about it. You’re a sight. You know that? It’s enough to make his eyes drag down your body, stopping at your ass and then making a slow track down your legs. He’s a dog about it, and internally says fuck it, because then his eyes are back up and locked on yours.
He hears your heart jump a little, but you’re a pro, because you just smile it off —fuck, you’re beautiful — and say “Good morning.” Before walking away.
Fuck off, ‘Good morning’ , he’s salivating.
“Good morning” he says kindly.
He hasn’t been this turned on, this quickly in a long time. For a human at that? You’re a new feeling, one he can’t even tell if he’s comfortable with. So he’s gotta lock his eyes back on Ashley and pretend like he isn’t gonna think about you later. “Yeah, absolutely –” He waves his hand, & smiles, “– let’s show some girl power, huh?”
One last glance at you, and you’re looking right at him. He doesn’t even hide his stares this time. His dick jumps a little at the fact that you don’t look away, and he makes a mental note to get your name after this.
+++
A/N: *Screams in wanting him*
The Fall
2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.
Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.
this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn. ♡
Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from.
With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it. However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel.
What the fuck?
His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.
With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.
When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.
You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.
"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.
He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed.
"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."
There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.
It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.
You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?
He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.
As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.
You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust.
"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.
I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."
"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.
If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?
"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.
Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent.
He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.
He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.
"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."
Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."
"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.
Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up.
"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.
You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.
"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"
"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."
"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.
He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.
Even a curtain is better than no door at all.
After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.
“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”
“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”
You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.
That’s just what you’ve told him.
From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.
"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.
"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.
His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.
You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.
Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.
Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.
Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.
Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.
To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.
Just full of surprises, little mouse.
Maybe you aren't so boring after all.
He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.
When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.
"What was that?" You ask, dazed.
"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.
You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you.
"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."
It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips.
The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them.
“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows.
You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.
“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.
He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.
“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”
Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.
“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.
“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.
Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.
He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.
homie doll seeing more action tbh >///<
height difference
Homelander in his yandere era
do you ever see scary blonde men and go feral? because I do
awww paneminem he’s totally innocent and didn’t go crazy
he just got messy with the red paint! he’s such a sweetheart 🥰
I’m counting tom as blonde fight me…he just has a little trauma with Valentine’s Day..
look he didn’t try to drown his sister he was teaching her how to swim 🙄 he’s just a proactive person🤷
he was also just another sassy victim of the games 😔
POWER
summary: Jade always knew something’s was off about herself,it wasn’t because she was a supe, it was something else… something…. powerful. Jade has suffered almost all her life, and now she finally has a chance to show people what’s she’s capable of, but….at what cost?
coming soon!!!!
i wonder if anyone has made a mlp x the boys au yet...like what if the mlp characters as the the boys characters
Requests are currently:
OPEN
The Boys Masterlist also includes The Boys Diabolical. It does NOT include Gen V NOR the comics.
Even though I might write for some characters more than others, the other characters are still available as well!
Do not be afraid to request anyone from the current open form of media of the Fandom!
Works:
COMING SOON
Disclaimer:
I do not own The Boys or any of its characters. The Boys is the property of Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson and Sony Interactive Entertainment This fanfiction is written purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended for profit. Please support the original work!
Anybody else was thinking about this song when this scene came on?
Behind every great man is a woman following way too closely behind named Ashley- isn't, Sage around?
Unfortunately I find his character sad and funny which means I will draw him, bastard that he is. also pathetic
me explaining my house of the dragon x the boys x supernatural crossover dream that keeps repeating
somebody: what do you like about men twice your age?
me: where do i start?
if i play with his hair and braid it maybe it will calm him down?
i'm a tiny little freak, with tiny little freaky thoughts about fictional psychopaths and freaks
i hate him but i'd fuck the shit out of him
a girl calls a man 'pretty boy' and then you look, and it's just some 40 y.o guy covered in blood
Okay so does Jeff Bezos personally green light Amazon originals or something? Because they’ve had three superhero shows now where the Superman reference character has turned out to be evil, and I’m pretty sure thats him trying to counteract any distrust of bald billionaires that Superman media has instilled in the population
This was supposed to only be a simple sketch…..
So Is anyone else a little worried about this?
Not even a few minutes of screentime and we are already seeing some extremely startling similarities between Homelander and Soldier boy
Lasering the person you loved/though you loved after finding out they had lied to you, Homelander with Madelyn and now SB with countess.
Both of these scenes in the exact same episode.
Either way, I'm very terrified about the implications and possibility that Butcher just released Homelander 1.0.
Analyzing The Abilities of Characters From The Boys
-Le Finale-
🇺🇸Homelander🇺🇸
Thank you to everyone who sat by and waited for this grand finale, it truly means a lot to me! You’re the heroes, truly! I added Superman by Ivory Layne because I associate it with America’s #1 Supe, plus I wanted to plug one of my all time favorite 2010s throwbacks.
I think Homelander’s “Evil Superman” pitch is definitely the main draw of the franchise, but I wish he wasn’t always shackled to that identity. He acts as an introspective analysis of the true evil of corruption on a radical/political level. I mean, the man was birthed in a lab and raised on straight looping American nationalist propaganda. He was essentially being hypnotized by Vought to be an All-American boy, and yet he turned out exactly like America itself; overpowered, inescapable, and caked in far too much makeup.
Homelander/John’s wide range of abilities stems directly from the versatile torture methods Vought used on him in infancy in order to rig the results of the V and produce the most amount of abilities. For example, my assumption is they would drop him, along with other flying Supes, from high places, and if they managed to float for survival they would grow up to be able to fly at dazzling speeds. This is based on the number of trials he endured, such as the oven he would be placed in for hours on end. He’s now invulnerable, but he had to quite literally be forged through flame to be so.
In addition to his range of abilities, the episode of Diabolical that depicts Black Noir feeding him his lesson on optics makes his inability to swiftly dispose of those who show no fear all the more reasonable. When he’s viewed as the monster he’s always been seen as (the whole “you ripped out of your mother and beamed through the bodies of the doctors in the room while flying like a scene from the exorcist” thing) he’s incentivized to be what they expect of him, almost like how he was taught to be what the masses wanted from him. The careful crafting and hardwiring of a monster stays, even though he’s subverting Vought’s benevolent persona.
When a character shows indifference or truly just a lack of terror, he spares them, deeply yearning for genuine human connection with an individual who doesn’t recoil from his advance. Whether it was Madeline, Stormfront, or Maeve, they all proved themselves to be fierce women who he had difficulty letting go of. Madeline in particular managed to survive up until the exact moment she admitted her fear of him, to which he incinerated through her skull with his laser vision.
Even when analyzing how he spares Hughie, Butcher, Annie, or the rest of The Boys, Homelander has ample opportunities to fly over and murder them all. He could kill them all in broad daylight and get away with it, but whether he’s consciously aware of it or not, he fully needs humans on this planet who know the truth about him and refuse to be afraid. The alternative would be too boring, and as I could imagine, horrifying. He doesn’t want to be a king, we see into his psyche too frequently to know he hates himself. He truly hates what he sees in the mirror, and masks it with a veneer of egotism until he eventually breaks down again. He wants people unafraid to challenge him, otherwise he would have used one of his several powers to slaughter The Boys ages ago. You may call it plot armor, but I think John needs someone to go blow for blow with. Butcherlander
John never had the chance to be human. He was directed how to be a god, and given the power to match. While every part of me sees him as the monster he is, rape and murder included, I almost feel like killing him wouldn’t be the karmic serve fans think it would be. I agree with the sentiment that he should be stripped of his power and condemned to live an average human life without access to Compound V (I like to imagine they’ll just blow up Vought tower in the finale, but we’ll see). His scenes with Ryan almost make me believe that he wants to be human, but he can never do that as the supervillain he is today. Maybe if he could try out being a human, he wouldn’t have to try and escape his humanity.