Chapter 1: Homelander's Eight-Year-Old Bastard
The morning sun spilled golden light over the manicured lawn of a picture-perfect suburban house, the kind you'd see in a Vought International commercial, wholesome, fake as hell.
Sprinklers hissed, spraying cool mist that shimmered in the air like a mirage. A gentle breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut grass, but beneath the surface, the scene was anything but serene. This was no ordinary neighborhood. It was a gilded cage, built to keep secrets buried.
"Ryan, come on, we're gonna be late for class!" Becca's voice floated from inside, warm but edged with the kind of exasperation only a mom could muster.
Under a sprawling oak tree, a small boy with wide, ocean-blue eyes sat on a swing, clutching his toy cars.
After a moment, he slid off the wooden seat and crouched in the dirt, zooming a red Hot Wheels Mustang across the ground while mimicking engine noises. His innocence was almost painful to watch, a stark contrast to the storm brewing around him
On the white-painted porch, Ron lounged in a wicker chair, boots kicked up on the railing, his posture screaming careless arrogance.
At eight years old, he looked like a damn college senior—tall, broad-shouldered, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and eyes that burned with a cold, calculating intensity. His blonde hair fell in a careless wave, and a smirk played on his lips as he scanned the street, like a predator sizing up its territory.
Becca's calls to Ryan didn't even register. To Ron, this house, this family, was just a temporary stage in a much bigger game.
"Ryan, you hear me? Grab your stuff, or you're walking to school!" Becca leaned out the door, her voice softening as she addressed her younger son.
In her thirties, she was striking—slim jeans hugging her curves, a crisp white shirt giving her a polished yet approachable vibe, like a mom from a 70s sitcom. Her auburn hair was pulled back, and her eyes held a warmth reserved for Ryan alone.
"Coming, Mom!" Ryan dropped his car, flashed a toothy grin, and bolted inside, brushing past Ron without a glance. His sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as he darted upstairs.
"Don't forget your pencils. Art class won't draw itself," Becca called after him, holding the door open. Her smile was pure maternal love, her gaze lingering on her sweet, obedient boy.
Then Ron's voice cut through the moment like a blade. "Why not just get a tutor? Dragging him to school every day's gotta be a pain in the ass." He tilted his head, his tone dripping with bored superiority, like he was above the mundane bullshit of their lives. His deep voice carried a magnetic edge, the kind that made people pause—part charm, part menace.
Becca's smile vanished as she turned to her other son—the one who shared Ryan's birthday but nothing else.
"Ron, a tutor costs money we don't have," she said, her voice tightening. A flicker of unease crossed her face, her eyes darting over his too-perfect features. He wasn't like Ryan. He was… wrong. Too tall, too sharp, too much like him.
Ron snorted, leaning back in his chair, one hand lazily tracing the armrest. "Money? C'mon, Becca. You could bat those pretty eyes at Vought, and they'd hand you a blank check. Perks of being Homelander's baby mama, right?" His grin was pure venom, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, almost carnal hunger. The words were a deliberate jab, testing her, pushing her buttons just to see her squirm.
"Enough, Ron!" Becca's voice cracked like a whip, her face a storm of anger and panic.
"Don't you dare say that kind of thing around Ryan!" Her hands clenched, her maternal instinct kicking into overdrive. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "You don't get to talk about him. Not ever."
Ron just shrugged, his expression screaming whatever, lady. "Sure thing, Becca. Wouldn't want to upset your precious golden boy." His tone was mocking, but his eyes never left hers, cold and unyielding, like he was peeling back her defenses layer by layer.
Becca's jaw tightened, and she stormed back inside, her steps quick and unsteady. She had two sons: Ryan, her sweet, innocent angel, and Ron, the anomaly. At six, he'd been as tall as her. Now, at eight, he towered over her, his body sculpted like a goddamn Greek god. He didn't cry, didn't laugh, didn't act like a kid. His cold, detached stare reminded her of him—Homelander, the man the world worshipped as a hero but she knew as a monster. Every time she looked at Ron, she saw those same piercing eyes, that same unsettling charisma. It made her skin crawl.
A black sedan screeched out of the driveway, Becca whisking Ryan off to school. Ron watched it go, his lips curling into a faint, wolfish smile.
"Becca, if you really loved your kid, you wouldn't raise him in a greenhouse," he muttered, his voice low and bitter.
His gaze swept the neighborhood—the manicured lawns, the nosy "neighbors" who were anything but, the high concrete wall a mile out, topped with electric wire and guarded by Vought's elite goons.
"This world's a fucking lie."
His eyes narrowed, sharper than a hawk's, piercing through the suburban veneer. He'd figured it out years ago. The superhero posters plastered everywhere—Homelander's smug grin, A-Train's cocky pose, Queen Maeve's fake-ass smile.
This wasn't just any world. This was The Boys. A cesspool of corruption, where "heroes" were corporate puppets, and the public were lab rats for Vought's experiments.
Ron wasn't new to this game. He'd been reincarnated before, in worlds just as brutal, where danger lurked around every corner. But this one? It was worse.
Hypocrisy oozed from every billboard, every TV ad, every fake smile. And at the top sat Homelander—a walking nuke with a god complex, a man who could burn the world down and smile for the cameras while doing it.
"With that kind of power, why play nice?" Ron murmured, licking his lips, a hungry edge in his voice.
"If you can do whatever the fuck you want, why be a boy scout like Clark Kent? Homelander's got it figured out."
He stood, stretching like a panther, his movements fluid and deliberate. Every muscle in his body screamed power, even without the super strength or laser eyes.
He headed inside, his boots thudding against the hardwood floor. In his room, he yanked the curtains shut, plunging the space into shadow. The room was sparse—bare walls, a single bed, a mirror reflecting his too-perfect face.
He packed a bag with calculated precision: dark jeans, a silver-gray and black leather jacket, a knife with a wicked edge, a few energy bars, and a few canisters of knockout gas.
This world was a powder keg, and as Homelander's bastard son, he was a target—Vought's dirty little secret, a loose end they'd never let walk free. He needed power. Real power.
"Time to hunt," he said, buttoning his jacket as he caught his reflection in the mirror.
His eyes burned with a dangerous, almost lascivious excitement, like a predator sizing up its prey. His smirk was pure Homelander—cold, cruel, and dripping with confidence.
He wasn't just a kid anymore. He was a force, and he'd make this world bend to his will.
In the original story, Homelander and Becca only had Ryan, the golden child. But somehow, Ron had been written into this mess—Ryan's twin, but not quite. Homelander's genes had twisted inside him, leaving him without the laser eyes or super strength. Instead, he got something better. Something infinite.
He summoned the Template System, a glowing interface flickering to life in his mind, its blue light casting eerie shadows across his face.
Ability Points: 51,000
Recorded Templates: Homelander's Physique (Ryan's teenage state) - Cost: 300,000 points
Worlds Discovered: X-Men
A few days ago, the system had kicked online, triggered by his "adult state." By screwing with the fates of people, especially heroes or villains—saving them, ruining them, or worse—he could rack up points to buy their powers.
He'd thought his mutation was a dud: no superpowers, a lifespan cut to a third (at eight, he looked eighteen; by twenty, he'd be collecting Social Security).
But the system revealed the truth. His body was a blank slate, built to absorb any power, no limits. A shitty start for a near-infinite ceiling. His shortened life was the price, but the payoff? Godhood.
For eight years, he'd played the part—Becca's weird kid, Ryan's shadow. Every move he made, every word, had ripples, earning him points. Subtle manipulations—planting doubts in a neighbor's mind, nudging a Vought guard to screw up—had netted him 51,000 points.
But it wasn't enough to buy Homelander's full power. And Vought's leash was tight. The "community" was a prison—cameras hidden in streetlights, fake neighbors packing heat, armed guards patrolling the electric fence. Breaking out with his current strength? A pipe dream.
But the system had an ace up its sleeve.
[Would you like to spend 500 ability points to travel to the X-Men world?]
Ron's smirk widened, his heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and hunger. "Hell fucking yeah," he said, his voice low and ravenous. The air around him shimmered, a portal flickering to life like something out of a sci-fi flick. The room vibrated, the mirror rattling against the wall as the portal's energy pulsed.
He slung his bag over his shoulder, his leather jacket creaking, and stepped toward the glowing rift. His reflection caught his eye one last time—those cold, predatory eyes, that Homelander smirk. He was his father's son, but he'd be so much more.
"This cage? It's history," he growled, his voice dripping with defiance.
"I'm Homelander's son, and I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I want." His laugh was dark, unhinged, echoing through the room as he stepped through the portal, leaving The Boys' world behind for the X-Men's mutant chaos.
----
Ron : [İmage]
Hey everyone! I'm here with a brand-new fanfic!
Right now, I'm currently working on a few projects, so this story won't be getting daily updates for now.
My main focus at the moment is finishing Naruto: Waking Up as Mahito.
I'll still be dropping at least three chapters a week — and if there's enough interest, we'll switch back to daily updates like always.
If you'd like to support me, read upcoming chapters early, and get access to exclusive NSFW content for this story, you can check out my Patreon: patrⓔon(.)com/DemonicFiction