[ Given the option of sporting a star-spangled speedo, Homelander forgoes his suit for the pool party — and forgoes a bracelet as well, having spent a little too long at the table upon which they're set out, unsure of how to categorize himself, or perhaps unwilling to contemplate the question too deeply.

The body painting station, being significantly less demanding in terms of personal assignation, is where he ends up, rolling back his shoulders as he fixes his posture and draws himself up to his full height. It's peacocking, really, but it's what he's confident in — washboard abs, cartoonishly well-defined muscles, ready and willing to serve as a canvas for anyone looking. Or, to be more honest about it, any pretty woman looking.

It's all entertaining enough that he stays out until the fireworks, though anyone watching him and not the show will notice that his expression is curiously empty. His eyes flicker to and fro as colors light up different parts of the sky, but his expression is totally neutral — almost a little melancholy — otherwise, as impassive as though he were watching paint dry. ]

[ The pumpkin spice festival unfolding on the grounds is a little pollyanna for Homelander's tastes, but after year after year of Homelander's Annual Birthday Spectacular, he's more inured to this kind of thing than he'd admit to. Maybe it's the thought of that particular celebration that has him lingering near the tables, perking up slightly when he sees someone claim a birthday cake. ]

It's your birthday, huh?

[ The words escape him before he can help it, pushed out by the size of the intrusive thought that makes its way into his head: that he doesn't know when his own birthday is.

It's only once he's shaken off that malaise that he tries out the discus/shotput setup, sending a shotput soaring neatly into the sky and out of any field of vision with what looks like an easy toss. It takes more effort than he'd admit to, and he's doing his utmost to keep his breath even as he watches the shotput disappear into the sky. The cold comfort is that he is still capable of such feats of strength, even if they require a significantly larger amount of effort than they used to.

On the other hand, no amount of effort gets the handfasting ribbon off of him and his unlucky partner. The smile he'd worn when they'd been called up — practiced for the cameras at Vought, easy and charming — doesn't totally dissipate, but any warmth in his eyes does, replaced by an iciness that will read as dangerous for anyone looking. ]

What the fuck is this?

[ He waves his connected hand, fingers gathered into a fist. ]

—Did they say we're fucking married?

[ But as long as the ribbon lasts, it's gone by the time the feast begins. The thought occurs to him that he should be more upset, by the time that bodies on the table begin to twist and warp in his vision, the pools of fruit and vegetable juice on the table looking like sticky puddles of blood, but—

—no, he thinks, this is the natural order of things. It's his right, to be able to devour those lesser than him. It makes him laugh before he can help himself, lips pulling back over predatory teeth, tipping his head back in sheer relief before his attention snaps back to the table. In an instant, he plunges his hand into the chest of the body nearest to him, his fingers neatly sinking into an already-open chest cavity. He doesn't hesitate to bring the mass of blood, food, flesh that he pulls out in his hand to his mouth, his eyes closing as he partakes of what the feast has to offer. ]

[ hit me with whatever you want! if you wanna hash anything out further, hit me up at marlinspike or thejuicyfruits on discord. c: ]