#Jerry Antes
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probably-des · 3 months ago
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from cartoon network comic special #11
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marvelousmrm · 4 months ago
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Marvel Team-Up #103 (Michelinie/Bingham, Mar 1981). Pete and Scott bust Taskmaster’s new training academy. Pete’s interrogation technique here is a What If premise waiting to happen.
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funtasticworld · 1 year ago
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hanna-barbera Wild West panorama!
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Tom and Jerry peeking at their ripoffs, who are pretending to be Native Americans and making it rain. Jinks, you take that headband off, you’re making a mockery of native culture
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Quick Draw McGraw lassoing a Buffalo. Captain Caveman, wtf are you doing???
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Doggie Daddy telling stories by the campfire to Augie, Ricochet Rabbit, Crazy Legs, and some random animals. I also love how Blast-Off Buzzard is up there, perched on a cactus, looking salty.
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Dino being Dino.
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An animal jamboree (wtf? Atom Ant x Granny Sweet confirmed? That raises disturbing questions)
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Fred Flintstone serving soup. Top Cat looks so short here for no reason. Oh and Huck playing the triangle, love that for him
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strongerpotions · 10 months ago
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so, like, what's the deal with ants? they've got all their faculties condensed down into their tiny little ant bodies, and that's impressive in itself. then i start hearing that they can lift 100 times their body weight. can fall from any height. i start thinking, like, what do they know that we don't?
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iogems · 2 years ago
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GRETA SWEEP
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dastbatz · 2 years ago
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Gingerbread/ Cookie run style of Polkie, Abner Bubblegum Polka Dot Cat, Count Crowley, Lonny Crane, Dr. Fearless, and Kurt Goreshter
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antvnger · 11 months ago
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Hey Ant-Mun, you know that scene from Tom & Jerry where Tom slowly closes a door while giving an evil laugh? That’s how I feel sometimes when I mess with Scott.
-Meme Lord
((You mean like this?
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Yeah, that’s pretty fitting. 😂 ))
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witchpuppies · 1 year ago
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(via GIPHY)
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futurebird · 1 year ago
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Hey everyone! Jerry has been found! The little ant is so happy to have her pet back!
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txttletale · 1 year ago
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I know copyright and intellectual property is bullshit, but how do I tell that to someone who's convinced that it protects small artists?
tell them about bill mantlo, creator of rocket racoon, whose brother has to start gofundmes to pay his medical bills while marvel makes millions off that character's merch. or to gary friedrich, creator of ghost rider, who sued marvel for using the character at a point where it should have returned to him, lost, and was then counter-sued for selling merch including sketches for fans at conventions. or alan moore, who vowed to never work with DC again after he was screwed out of owning watchmen. or the archetypal examples of this phenomenon, jack kirby (co-creator of iron man, captain america, ant-man, the hulk, and a fuckton more characters) who of course was also screwed out of any ownership, or jerry siegel and joe shuster, who spent decades fighting over the copyright to superman, a character they created and sold for $130 as desperate struggling artists and who then went on to make millions for DC comics.
or if they're not a comics fan, why not talk to them about robert kurvitz, head writer of disco elysium, who through an extremely suspect purchase lost the rights to the world of elysium, representing his life's creative work. or to hideo kojima, who was forced out of konami, keeping absolutely no rights to his iconic metal gear franchise, and had his demo for Silent Hills made into fucking vaporware that nobody can download anymore!
or about the time that disney used threats of legal action to put a stop to such nefarious infringement of their copright as 'being painted on the walls of a daycare' or 'being put on a child's gravestone'.
the thing about copyright is that it has to be enforced in court. a 'small artist' -- even ones who are independently successful and considerably wealthy -- can simply not afford to fight a protracted legal battle while paying top legal talent. disney and marvel and any other big media company, however, can fight as many legal battles as they want for as long and have the legal fees be a drop in the bucket. companies that can afford lawyers and can afford to, if it really comes down to it, lose a lawsuit -- that is, companies with millions of dollars to spare -- are simply above copyright law. this is not a bug--this is a feature. this is the system working as designed.
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plutoswritingplanet · 4 months ago
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Vicarious (Homelander x Female!Reader) pt.1
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a/n: guys... you can't tell me y'all weren't expecting this. Title from the song "Vicarious" by Tool. Really wanted this to be a one shot, but as usual, I have shit to say. Will be Cross-Posted on AO3 as soon as they open the site back up.
Warnings: Nothing Explicit YET, some sexist remarks and creepy behavior from the man of the hour, Questionable Corporate Ethics, Set Before The Events Of The Show, Reader is written to be Plus Size.
Summary: Sidekick projects have been scraped completely after numerous accidents, but as a viral video of your hero work makes rounds through the public, you're forced to take part in a six moths program, that will forever change your life, as well as Homelander's
PT.2 Pt.3 Pt.4 Pt.5
It all started with a video. An insignificant, minute-long nothing posted to TikTok by an account, that up until then, made short edits specifically of A-Train and some B-list no-name hero. Quickly, it gained traction, making rounds throughout the app, bleeding over to other services, all the way to national television. First, an independent local station, soon picked up by a Vaught-affiliated one. Normally, that's where it would've stayed. Stillwell would extend an offer of a chance at an interview, alongside one of the Seven. But for some unknown reason, that small piece of nothing climbed all the way up to the floor eighty-two of Vaught Tower.
Well, to be quite honest, Stillwell knew exactly why she was in this situation. After a very messy graduation speech at a small college, Homelander lost almost twenty points with a young adult demographic. It would've been an easy fix, if not for the delicate nature of the breached subject, and Madelyn knew, this sudden interest in a nobody from nowhere, who, coincidentally, fit the demographic perfectly, was anything but a happy accident. It was a test, both for Homelander, and for her.
Which is why, Madelyn Stillwell and Homelander, the Homelander, the most American supe to ever exist, are cooped up in your living room, glancing about the modest decor, as you pour iced tea into three glasses with tacky fruit print all over them.
You've refused every single invitation, every single Vaught representative that knocked on your door. Your inbox was flooded with emails, your phone number was blowing up two, three times a day. And yet, your answer remained the same. You were not interested in a collaboration, thank you for the opportunity, please leave me alone.
That wouldn't fly, not with Madelyn, who, pushed by the constant nagging from the upper levels of the Tower, decided a more direct approach was the right one. So, she dragged herself into this… Well, to be quite honest, bum-fuck-nowhere, and brought her star pupil with her. No one would refuse working with Homelander himself, after all. At least that's what they both thought.
-I appreciate the effort - there's a practiced, borderline bored intonation in your voice, and Homelander's hands flex on his thighs - But I've already talked with, um, Jerry? From HR? The answer is still no.
Your house is small, but cozy, with sunshine pouring through the windows, reflecting onto the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to your kitchen. An artist's home, through and through. Homelander hates it, hates the ordinariness of it all. He was so much above all this, sitting on your worn down couch physically hurt him. And the smell. The smell was the worst part. Reheated lasagna, mixing with a lingering aftertaste of cigarette smoke, and an undercurrent of weed, that almost made him retch. If it weren't for that damned video, you would be nothing more, than another brainless ant under his boot.
-Well, we - Madelyn offers her best, brilliant smile, gesturing to herself and Homelander - are very passionate about discovering new talent.
Your mouth twitches into a knowing smile, and for just a second Homelander feels flames of intrigue rising in his chest. Not for long, though, because you recline back into an armchair, taking a sip of the iced tea, and his eyes flash to the way your throat moves as you swallow. You could be hot, he concludes. Young, and with a truly spectacular rack. But there was something off about you, like you were constantly on the verge of dying from boredom, some invisible weight always on your shoulders. No amount of fake smiles and high-end makeup could cover that up.
He'd fuck you. If you'd beg him.
-We want to offer you a new, revised contract - Stillwell extends her hand with a rather thick binder of papers, and you hesitate for a moment, before reaching over. - Hopefully, it will make you reconsider.
You don't even show them the decency of looking through it, placing it on the table instead, and Homelander feels an itch form itself in the corners of his eyes. Stillwell looks taken aback as well, her brilliant smile faltering for just a second. You on the other hand, take another sip of your drink, before placing it right in the middle of the contract, the moisture from the ice creating a wet circle in the paper.
Your heartbeat is even, it doesn't pick up even a smidgen, when you look between Stillwell and America's Greatest Hero, who is slowly but surely growing annoyed by your persistent indifference.
-Thank you, but I already said no - you repeat, and this time, Homelander shifts on the couch.
-And why not? - he asks, tension entering his voice in a way, that makes Madelyn squirm - Countless supes, with much more impressing powers than you, I might add, would kill to be in your place.
"To work with me" goes unsaid, but he can see in your eyes, you read it from thin air of superiority engulfing him. Annoyingly perceptive. You nod your head slowly, before turning away from them, looking out of the window of your living room. There's a small patch of grass, and a second house, so similar to yours, but at the same time, completely different. Your chin sticks out in its direction, and Homelander follows with his eyes.
There are paper butterflies stuck to the windows, cut out clumsily, most likely by children's hands.
-My neighbour, Missus Johnson - you explain - She lives there, with her three kids. Her husband died in a fire caused by your friend, Lamp Lighter.
Madelyn stills, Homelander raises an eyebrow.
-I can afford this house, only because my mother signed an NDA, after The Deep sank my father's fishing boat. - again, your heart stays completely unaffected - Accidentally, of course.
-I was not aware… - Madelyn starts, and it's hard to decipher whether she's talking to you, or Homelander.
Someone at the research department is going to have a very unpleasant evening.
-That's alright - you interrupt her with a raised hand and a small smile - This whole neighborhood is filled with similar cases. And I'm very, very attached to this place.
Why, Homelander couldn't tell. For all he knew, this was some shit hole, right in the suburbs outside New York. Not even the half decent ones. A forgotten by everyone, dying piece of land, that housed insignificant humans, who would never amount to anything, you included. He lived in a lavish apartment, inside a miracle of modern architecture. Who wouldn't want the same?
-And - there's something new entering your tone of voice - If I'm going to betray everything I stand for, I need to give something back to those people. Does your contract reflect that?
Madelyn bites the inside of her cheek, her scrutinizing gaze making your skin itch. Still, she sighs after a moment, excusing herself with that same, practiced expression she uses on every shareholder. Homelander follows her out, nodding his goodbye to you, but before he can leave this dump, Madelyn stops him with a hand pressed against his chest. She gives him one look, makes him aware that his job isn't over, and he can feel the muscles of his face twitch.
So, obediently, he lingers in your doorway, taking a few calming breaths, before facing you once more.
You've changed positions, your armchair abandoned in favor of sitting by the window, one leg bent in a way, that shows quite a nice view of your calf, your long skirt pooling around you. Homelander's eyes trail up with mild interest, and he indulges in his X-ray vision. He's just being curious, nothing more.
Your underwear is, well, for the lack of a better word, plain. The bra seems to be slightly ill fitted, digging into the sides of your breasts, making them almost spill from under your pits, and Homelander swallows thickly at the sight. There are little, pink hearts on your panties. The colors are dull and washed out from frequent use, and the once frilly lace is starting to fray at the edges.
Apparently Vaught's compensation was not sufficient for you to buy some decent undergarments.
-Do you want something to eat? Drink? - you ask from your place by the window, and Homelander is snatched back to reality - Do you even need food?
The bluntness of the question startles him, makes him feel defensive, but Madelyn wanted results, so he puts on a mask of his trained smile, and crosses the room. Back straight like an arrow, he looks wildly out of place between all the linens and cushions. He doesn't look at you, trapping your smaller form in the confinement of the window, as he watches over the neighboring house.
-I'm not hungry - he shoots down your offer with a wave of his hand - I've already eaten.
A lie, but he'd never stoop low enough to take any leftovers, especially from you. Still, the offer seems nice. He does like being pampered, even if it's with lackluster things. Your eyes linger on his boyish smile, another practiced thing, and Homelander shifts focus to your heartbeat once again.
-Alright then - your voice sounds indifferent as ever - Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to make some dinner for myself.
He offers a small nod, and watches you from his position by the window, as you slip past him. It does require quite a lot of manoeuvering, but you manage to stand without touching him. He has to admit, watching you balance, as you try to avoid him, was amusing. Still, your heart beats calmly, and, not wanting to be left on his own, Homelander follows you to your kitchen. The beads of the courtain drum delicately over the bronze eagles on his shoulders.
The fridge is buzzing something awful. He can see just how run down the inside mechanism is, the hinges squeaking unbearably, as you reach for a box of reheatable spaghetti. There's cheep beer inside, a moldy lemon, a carton of milk pretty close to expiring, and a half-used bottle of spicy ketchup. Homelander doesn't even recognize these brands, they're not sponsored by Vaught, that's for sure.
Cheap, tasteless, basically offering no nutritional value.
-Would you step back for a second? - he asks, already wrenching himself between you and that pathetic excuse of a meal.
Again, your body sways to avoid touching him, and for some unknown reason, he finds it very amusing.
Then, you watch with a raised eyebrow, as he turns towards your spaghetti, a red sheen overtaking his eyes. An unbearably hot beam shoots out, making the insides of the plastic packaging sizzle. Finally, that gets him a reaction, as you gasp and reel back, colliding with the barely functional fridge. Your heart does a flip inside your chest, and Homelander soaks up your shock like a man starved.
Only when the red fizzles out of his gaze do you dare to move, approaching him slowly, your eyes bearing into him in a way that is frankly uncomfortable.
He turns to you with another one of his charming smiles, trying to handle this sudden scrutiny in as flippant a way as possible.
-I had no idea you can control the intensity of your lazer - you admit, voice slightly breathless.
-Pretty neat, huh? - perhaps he's fishing for more attention, but he doesn't care, because your eyes light up for just a moment in sheer wonder.
-Super cool, actually.
Yeah. Yeah, that's fucking right, he is super cool. And your heart is beating so much faster, and finally you're looking at him as if he's more than just some guy, some living advertisement you're determined to ignore.
And then your eyes shift, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, as you zero in on his shoulder. Something akin to a wave of amusement flickers across your expression, and to his general surprise, Homelander wants to know what's the cause of this shift. Your lips pull back into a smile, teeth peaking at him in all their glory. He can almost imagine them running down his skin, before he pushes the thought back all together, as the lower portion of his suit becomes slightly too tight for comfort.
-Well, thank you for saving the spaghetti - your eyes hold a spark of amusement - My hero.
Okay, alright, he's hard. There's no point denying it. However annoying and insignificant you were moments before, your quip goes straight to his loins, burning enough, for him to consider just how mad Stillwell would be, if he'd have a taste of this newly discovered talent.
If he stands any closer to you, he might find out, because this special little moment you two have shared, is crudely interrupted by Madelyn clearing her throat. Homelander nearly jumps back, you however barely turn your head, reaching for your spaghetti and arming yourself with a fork.
-I've spoken to my supervisor - Stillwell announces, clearly peeved by the way you start chewing on the noodles - A new version of the contract will be emailed to you as soon as possible. Hopefully it will be satisfactory.
-Thank you, Miss Stillwell - you answer with an inclination of your head.
With that, Madelyn nods her goodbye at you, refusing to shake your hand, which does amuse you, you're not going to lie. Homelander however, goes all out, capturing your fork-weilding arm, his fingers sneaking around your wrist like a bracelet. Or a shackle. Then, you watch with a confused arch to your eyebrows, as he brings you closer, until his lips press onto the protruding knuckles. Now that, admittedly, gets your heart going. You were not an easily embarrassed person, not by a long shot, but you could feel blood rushing towards your face all the same.
He has to hold his breath, as he kisses your hand in that charming, gentleman way he's seen in old movies. The smell of pasteurized tomato sauce blows in his direction, like a direct assault on his senses. Still, he needed something that would make you swoon. If everything failed, he knew how to be intimidating, but for now, perhaps he wanted to try something different. Something that would yield much more pleasant results, for the both of you. Mostly for him, let's be honest.
Madelyn asks him to stay back, spy on you throughout the night, and he begrudgingly agrees, if only to mask the fact, that he would do so of his own volition, had she not brought it up. And as such, he floats into the rapidly cooling air, disappearing into the darkening sky, where you wouldn't be able to see him even if you tried. He could see you however, and hear you, and he was about to make the most of the situation.
He spends the whole evening just watching you exist within your space. Normally, it would piss him off beyond belief. You weren't doing anything scandalous, anything that could warrant his attention. And yet, as he floats on, in time lowering himself just slightly, to get a better view, he just can't seem to look away. The spaghetti is gone in approximately fifteen minutes, as you inhale the supermarket food, walking around the living room, the kitchen, getting a few bites on the porch even. You seem so utterly unfazed by the events of the past hour, like you haven't just had America's Greatest Superhero try to convince you to work with him. It's honestly insulting, this lack of reaction.
Then, finally, he can hear a distinct ping of a new email come from your laptop, and you sit down on the couch with a small huff. Your eyes move, your lips twitch, and then he hears your heart stop in your chest. As if working on autopilot, your hand travels up, covers your mouth in shock, and you lean back against the worn-down sofa, eyes glued to the screen illuminating your face in a blue-ish light.
-...fuck… - you whisper, and despite himself Homelander floats even closer to your window.
Finally, he has the chance to peak over the curtain. To sneak into the backstage of the award winning production of your defenses, and see what goes on in those bored eyes of yours, when they're not guarded. And what he sees makes his suit feel much too tight, his body too warm. Quite an unusual thing to get so worked up about, but he's the goddamned Homelander, he can get hard whenever he fucking wants. And so, as saliva gathers on his tongue, he presses himself against the tiles on your roof, all the warmth of the day soaking into his skin through the thick material of his suit.
With a shaky hand you reach over towards your phone, putting in a number and pressing the call button, before standing straight from the couch, almost knocking the laptop over.
-Hey, what's up? - someone says on the other end of the line, and Homelander tries to focus more on the words flowing from the receiver.
-Oh, you gotta sit down for that one - you warn with an anxious chuckle, taking the familiar place by the window.
With your free hand you reach up to open the window all the way. Then, Homelander sees your fingers slip between the pillows and pull out a rather beaten up pack of cigarettes.
Naughty, naughty, he thinks, watching you produce a lighter from that same hiding place.
-Alright, I'm sat like never before.
The voice sounds vaguely female, although the shitty quality of your phone makes it hard to decipher. Your lips pull back into a toothy grin, and you blow out the smoke through the window. It curls upwards and dissipates into the air, right above the roof, where Homelander swallows thickly around a coughing fit.
-You will not believe who visited me today…
-The ICE - the voice deadpans, and you snort around another huff of smoke.
-Pretty fucking close, let me tell you - he doesn't appreciate the joke, not at all - Fucking Homelander.
The line goes completely quiet for a moment, and with every second your grin seems to be growing.
-Deadass?
-Yup - your lips purse, and Homelander zeroes in on the expression - Flew in all Star's Spangled Glory with some Vaught big fish. They tried to convince me to join the Seven.
-And obviously you said yes, because what the fuck else do you do in that situation?
Your grin slowly fades away, and you lean your forehead on the window frame.
-You didn't?
-I didn't.
Again, it's quiet.
Homelander shifts a bit in his position, adjusting against the warmed up tiles of the roof, his X-ray vision bearing into you. Out of curiosity, he looks deeper, eyes floating over your insides. You're relatively healthy. Some vitamin deficiencies, but nothing too serious. And despite that nasty habit lodged between your fingers, your lungs are clear, at least for now. There's a softness to your body, your muscles barely visible, as if you're just another gray human. Oh, and there's a bit of an eyesight problem forming, not enough to warrant glasses, but that shouldn't take long, considering your lifestyle.
-The contract they gave me was really good, you know - you muse to the phone, your leg dangling from the windowsill - Six months of working under Homelander, a Sidekick kinda situation.
-I thought they scraped the Sidekick program - the person on the other side wonders - Too many casualties or something.
-Yeah, well I guess they want to bring it back.
-Why did you say no then? I'm sure they pay is gigantic.
Again, you smile. This one much more reserved, bordering on sad. There's that strange kind of exhaustion settling into your bones again, same one Homelander noticed when he first saw you. Your shoulders slump forward, and you curl into yourself between the cushions.
-It was, it was… - you mutter - But I needed something more, for the neighborhood, ya know?
Your caller hums softly in understanding, and Homelander feels like something is passing him by. Some unspoken fact, that you and your friend find obvious.
-And - you hesitate, eyes flickering towards the laptop, your heart beat picking up ever so slightly - They sent me a revised contract. And it's fucking good. Really fucking good. It could help this entire place get back on its feet.
-But you still don't want to - the voice says for you, without judgement.
-No - you sigh - I really, really don't.
-Say no then - your friend supplies, and once again Homelander feels a flame of annoyance start to burn within him - No one else knows about the contract, there will be no expectations.
Slowly, you nod your head, clearly relieved by the way your friend reacted to the news. Homelander however, caught you right where he needed you. That's your lever. Not seduction, not intimidation, just plain, stupidly human guilt.
-Thank you - you whisper into your phone, finally smiling again - Oh, wanna know one more thing?
-Obviously.
-Homelander's wearing a padded suit.
Something's stuck in his throat, as he reels back from his position. Before he can stop himself, his eyes begin to glow red, because how the fuck did you know?
-Okay, that's bullshit.
-Unless his shoulder dislocated in the middle of talking, then no, it's definitely not bullshit.
Your friend gives out a choked laugh, one which you mirror with your own. If Homelander wasn't so utterly flabbergasted by your (correct) observation, he would've stopped to appreciate the sound. As it stands, however, he pushes himself off your roof, a couple of broken pieces falling off of the tiles. And then he's up in the air, cutting through the winds, headed straight for the Tower, leaving you in the comfort of your insignificant, smelly home.
The contract is leaked before the sun is up.
You're awoken to thousands of news articles flooding your timeline, all listing the truly wonderful and selfless points in the fated email. With a white face, you read them all, the speculations, the theories, the angry comments about you being chosen without an actual casting, while all those up and coming supes are busting their asses in auditions.
Soon enough, you're visited by every neighbour possible, congratulating, thanking you. A barbecue is set in the street, as a way of celebration, and you want to throw your phone, and subsequently yourself into the nearest river.
Madelyn Stillwell sends you an email, scheduling a meeting at the Vaught Tower. No need for pleasantries at this point, you stare at the bare bones invitation. "We eagerly await the start of our partnership" looks back at you, mocking your resolve. And thus, the end of your life as you know it begins.
"Project Delinquent"
The words are printed in an ugly, corporate font, and they stare back at you, outlining the mold you're supposed to fit in, in such a perfect way, it actually, almost makes you retch. True, during high school you were quite the little rebel, but people grown and learn, and seeing your character be watered down to that simple word, does send a wave of nausea through your insides. Even if this is hell of your own making, even if you're ready to swallow it all down with a smile, there's a pang of humiliation stinging your heart.
The armchair in Stillwell's office is uncomfortably narrow. It barely has enough room to accommodate your hips, and you wonder if this design is intentional. There is a growing ache in your calves, as you sit so close to the edge, you can't fully relax into your position, balancing on your feet instead. The armrests dig into your sides, and the way the sun is shining through the gigantic windows of the office, is shaping this charade of a meeting into an overstimulating nightmare. Still, you endure. For all the wonderful benefits enclosed in your contract, the charity work Vaught is going to supply.
Or at least, that's what you keep telling yourself, stuck between the marketing department representatives and a literal Devil of a woman.
Madelyn Stillwell doesn't know what to make out of you. Your files were filled with all sorts of questionable activity, especially around the college area. It's honestly a miracle you've managed to get your degree, and attend all those silly little demonstrations at the same time. Your criminal record has been wiped clean, weeks before you even agreed to sign the contract, just in case any leaks would find their way into the media. Leaks that were not orchestrated by Madelyn, of course.
High school rebellion was almost too easily marketable, Madelyn decided to focus on that part of your life as much as possible, her vision slowly coming to fruition. All she needed, really, was cooperation. And while you seemed to be mostly receptive to her ideas, she needed to make sure Homelander was on his best behavior. Which, well… Could go sideways in the worst way imaginable, but Stillwell tried to have some faith in her best superhero.
The idea of releasing details of your contract to the public, was a stroke of genius, she did not expect from Homelander, and she made sure he was thoroughly rewarded. With him, it was always better to choose the hands-on approach, unfortunately. With you, however, ideals were the key. Whatever feeling of solidarity you harbored towards your neighborhood, provided a leverage relatively easy to control. Still, as Stillwell looked you over, crammed into her office in your, frankly, lousy attire, she couldn't help but be just a tad worried about your compliance.
-…And then - the marketer continues with a dramatic gasp - Homelander comes in. America's Greatest Hero, offers you a mentorship. And you…
You look up at the representative with a rather sour expression. They have to work on that too. Media training was crucial. You won't be able to sell anything, if you keep grimacing like that all the damned day.
-… Are starstruck - your mouth twitches - You strike up a deal, selfless. A rebel with a heart of gold. Finally, you can make some real change happen, so you push aside your anti-corporate values, to discover, that Vaught is so much more, than you could possibly imagine.
It's hard not to laugh, and you swallow thickly, biting your lip, as a middle-aged woman you don't recognize gets up from the couch, and makes her way to the wall opposite of your torture chair. There, tucked in a corner and hidden under a black cloth, stands a mannequin, roughly your size. With a flourish you find utterly out of place, the woman tugs at the cape, and as it falls to the floor, so does your stomach. You can't hold it in any longer. A rough snort of laughter rips out of your nose, and you cover your mouth instantly.
-That better be a laugh of delight - Ashley, a ginger menace, mutters under her breath, and Stillwell turns to you with a tight expression on her face.
-Something the matter?
-I mean - you take a deep, grounding breath, tying your amusement in the back of your throat - I knew it's going to be skimpy, but this is…
You look around the room, seeing various stages of corporate outrage, and then you lock eyes with Homelander. Stillwell insisted on his participation in the meeting, as the both of you are supposed to work closely together, and throughout the whole ordeal, he looked borderline ready to die of boredom. Now, however, his eyebrows lift in a curious manner, as he takes in the, to be completely honest, horrendous costume, and your full figure. Something dangerously close to disgust twists your features, as he shamelessly drags his eyes all over your body.
Who would've thought America's Sweetheart was a fucking creep?
Rolling your eyes, you get up from the cursed armchair, your knees cracking loudly. Crossing the room, you take a closer look at the clothing, or rather, lack there of. Torn fishnets, plaid tennis skirt, and a corset top, made out of some leather-like material. Truly, a fetishists wet dream. Your fingers sample the fabric of the skirt. Surprisingly stiff, it seems to beg for a wardrobe malfunction. With a frown pulling down your lips, you lift the material up, and as expected, find no safety shorts underneath.
Homelander watches you intently, as you inspect the costume. Just the thought of your soft body in this skimpy, corporate bastardization of a rock star, makes heat rise in the lower part of his stomach. With every disapproving pull of your, and don't quote him on that, perfect lips, he's more and more convinced this whole charade is just an early birthday present. He'll have to thank Stillwell. Or better not, because as soon as he throws her a sidelong glance, he discovers, she's already looking at him. With a rather tense expression at that.
He feigns innocence, almost raises his hands in mock defeat, but decides against it at the last second. You're still watching him, torn between inspecting the costume, and shooting disgruntled looks in his direction.
Then, as if pulled by some invisible force, your hand sneaks to the front of the corset, fingers closing over the full cup, where your breast will soon reside. You give the mock leather two squeezes, and a high-pitched laugh wheezes out of your lips. Homelander's head nearly snaps with how fast he turns to look at Stillwell, confusion clear on his face.
She's looking at you cautiously. He knows that expression all too well, he's seen it multiple times during their partnership. She's calculating, with bated breath, just how much of a problem you'll inevitably become. How to turn it around in the company's favor, how to steer you in the right direction, should the need arise.
But then, you clap your hands, still giggling quietly, and turn to the designer, who's been watching your reaction with a growing distaste.
-That's one hell of a push-up bra - you comment with a raised eyebrow - My tits will fly straight out of this, if I even think about moving my arms.
Now, that's something Homelander would love to see, and you note his leering face with an uncomfortable shift in your posture.
-Your physique has to be god-like. There's no shame in a little padding - the designer answers simply, and your eyes glimmer with amusement.
-Oh, I bet - your eyes float for just a second in Homelander's direction, and he wonders if lasering you down right now would be too harsh of a reaction.
The image had to be kept up, however, and he deflects your blatant provocation with a bright smile. Or rather, it would've been a bright smile, if his cheek didn't twitch in a way, that portrayed exactly how forced his pleasantries are.
-There will be a press conference, seven PM sharp, where you'll be introduced to the public - Ashley informs you, her eyes glued to her tablet - Homelander will give a welcoming speech, explain that you're a temporary member of The Seven. Then, you'll need to say a couple of words. We'll send you the talking points ASAP.
-Right… - you mutter, not particularly thrilled by the idea of public speaking.
Stillwell looks over her shoulder towards Homelander, giving him an expectant, raised eyebrow. Slowly, he moves from his spot by the window, hand extended in a greeting, teeth flashing in a smile. Your eyes involuntarily shift towards his rather sharp canines, and for the first time, since you've signed the contract, you truly feel uneasy. His eyes are almost unnaturally blue, a perfect, American shade, that glimmers just a tad too dangerously. There's no need for super senses, he can feel your nerves in the very air you breathe.
-Welcome to The Seven - his voice is smoother than you've ever heard before - Fireball.
Wait a god-damned minute.
Confusion covers all previous feelings, and to Homelander's growing annoyance, you leave him with his hand extended, in favor of turning towards Stillwell.
-That's not my name - you point out, and Madelyn nods her head in a practiced expression of understanding.
-Due to some copyright intricacies, we can't let you use Smirnoff - she explains.
You suck in a deep breath through your teeth, looking back towards the costume. A moment's hesitation, you close your eyes as you breathe out, and once again Homelander feels as if he's able to peak under a carnival mask you carefully placed upon yourself. He lifts it just enough, sees the way muscles on your neck twitch. Your jaw sets in a way, that is slowly becoming intoxicating, and then you turn back to him.
-I'm honored - your voice is hollow, locked far away in the column of your throat, and you don't have enough strength to even attempt a smile.
That's alright, he has enough charm for the both of you, his imposing stature pushing towards you, as his arm sneaks around your shoulders.
Fuck, you're warm. He can feel the heat of your skin seeping into his costume. There's a vaguely familiar smell clinging to your form, mixing with the scent of cigarette smoke. Jasmine flowers, he concludes, and absent-mindedly remembers a rather large bush growing in your backyard. He wonders, if you'd let him fuck you, if he showed up with a bouquet at your door. Women seemed to like those, and although you didn't strike him as the most romantic person, he's positive he could charm his way into your pants.
-I'll show you to your room, sweetheart - perhaps he's laying it on a bit heavy with the nickname.
He can hear Stillwell's heart jump, and he immediately knows, he's going to have to sit through a stern talk later today. You, on the other hand, wrench your head to the side, disgruntled with this new form of familiarity. Your entire body goes tense, and you try to wriggle yourself further away from him. On instinct, his fingers dig into your shoulder, a mockery of a friendly expression, and with just a small fragment of his true strength, he pushes you forward, out of Stillwell's office.
He can do whatever he wants, and Madelyn is getting awfully pushy with guarding you from him. You're just a temporary toy to satisfy the higher-ups. A six months worth of an experiment, that he's forced to be a part of. After your contract is up, Vaught won't care whether you live or die, and you bet your rather ample ass, he's going to exploit that to the fullest. Not only is it borderline insulting, to deny him life's simple pleasures, it's pathetic.
-Nervous about the press? - he asks in a light tone, his jaw clicking softly, when your slide out of his grasp as soon as the doors close.
The casualness of this question throws you in a bit of a loop, but with a couple of rapid blinks, you're back to normal, letting him lead you towards the elevator.
-Public speaking isn't my best asset - you mumble.
Homelander presses the call button of the elevator, then leans against the wall, watching you with a strange twinkle in his eye.
-Sounds like someone's not a people person - he notes, wiggling his finger at you in a manner that is confusingly playful.
-I am a people person - you defend yourself, albeit a bit awkwardly - Just… Not when there's a lot of people.
He laughs at that, a practiced, almost theatrical bark that's as fake as his hairdo. All you have the strength to do, is flash him half of a smile. Thankfully the elevator pings before any more small-talk is required, and you slip into the confined space, standing in the corner. His eyes roam freely all over your body, a shameless act that makes your guts twist, makes the already small space of the elevator even more stuffy. And then, he enters after you, pressing a button to the right floor, and taking a spot much too close to you, than what's necessary.
You suppose it's one of the things you'll have to get used to. This constant invasion of your personal space. Perhaps, if it were someone else, someone that wasn't as empty as you, those actions would've been more intimidating than annoying. Alas, as you watch his chest rise and fall in steady rythm, out of the corner of your eye, his actions remind you of a petulant, spoiled child, rather than America's Greatest Hero. "I can't play with this toy? And what if I do this?" For just a second you entertain the idea of gentle parenting Homelander, and the thought makes the corner of your mouth twitch.
-Something the matter? - he asks, tension sneaking into his friendly tone.
-Just happy to be here, sir - you answer, and he knows it's a blatant lie, another one of your snarky provocations.
Doesn't matter for now, there will be a time to teach you some manners.
The elevator arrives at the right floor, and you bolt out of your place as soon as the doors slip open. Homelander follows closely behind, before closing the distance in a couple of long steps. Then, he's in front of you, and you nearly collide with his form, as he suddenly comes to a stop, in front of a pair of large doors. "Fireball" is etched into a small plack, and you throw the offending piece of metal a withering glance.
-That's your stop, sweetheart - he comments, and once again, you grimace at the nickname - Take a look inside, I'm sure it will blow your socks right off.
Why is he talking to you like you're a fucking child all of a sudden, you'll never understand. The door clicks softly, as you open it, revealing your living space for the next six months. The sight chokes a laugh out of you, because truly, the ammount of "punk" memorabilia is staggering.
-Does cocaine addiction come with the package, or…?
He doesn't even react to your joke, and you don't blame him. For all his creepiness and fake interest, he doesn't strike you as the funniest person on earth. There are guitars hanging over a rather large bed, there's a pristine stop sign next to them, which you suppose is meant to look rebellious. The usage of leopard print is tacky at best, and you truly start to wonder if they even consulted someone out of the corporation to design the space. Most likely no, wouldn't want to waste resources on such a small project.
-Fireball - Homelander's voice is barely above a whisper, but it makes your heart jump all the same.
He's standing so closely behind you, you can feel the warmth of his breath at the back of your neck, but for some unnknown reason, you can't force yourself to move. Instead, you feel him take a deep breath trough his nose, his chest brushing against your back. Your eyes stay glued to a drum set, pushed against a gigantic window. Light reflects off of the cymbals, in your mind you're already playing it, far away from this nightmare of a superhero.
-I'll see you at the press conference - Homelander's hand clasps itself over your shoulder, squeezing a couple of times, as if testing the softness of your body - Don't even think about being late, young lady.
You don't know when he dissapears, as you stand there, frozen. One foot over the threshold of your room, breathing shallow and borderline panicked. It could've been seconds, could've been hours, until your head finally snaps to the side. He's not there anymore, you're alone in the corridor, and as you slam the door closed behind you, something you've only suspected before becomes abundantly clear.
There is something deeply wrong with Homelander.
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darkbluekies · 2 years ago
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Blue, do you have any facts about any of your characters that you'd like to share. Habits, thoughts, info, etc. Basically anything. This is your opportunity to info dump lol (if ya wanna ;3)
(I'm new here btw, love your work)
🥀anon~
Warnings: murder, suggestive indications,
Silas:
— gets clingy/horny/vulnerable when drunk
— is a good cook
— barely has ant contact with his parents
— likes children (not in a creepy way smh)
— he can't keep his hands off of you normally (imagine when he's drunk) and loves to hold you close to him
— he gets jealous really, really easily and can't control himself when he does get jealous
— loves to mark you up, because ... jealousy and possessiveness
— a bit of a husky voice, a bit deeper, a bit of a Greek accent, crisp voice.
— nationality: greek
— age: Around 35-38, birthday season: late fall
— has to work out a lot to keep his muscles (googled the different types and he resembles a ripped/athletic build) so he drinks more protein shakes than he'd admit
— height: around 189 cm
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Dr Kry
— secretly wants to become an author
— he's an only child
— grew up in a very strict household
— he's amazing at turning on/off his feelings and act professional unless it's you
— frowns often
— a honey smooth voice, not very light, not very deep. Clear pronounciation
— was the smartest kid in his class
— age: 33-36, birthday season: winter
— never cries
— nationality: swedish
— he doesn't eat much, mostly chicken in all forms, but drinks a lot of coffee (he has a caffein addiction)
— has a habit of finishing your sentences when you don't want to talk
— height: around 187 cm
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King Edmund
— his parents were murdered when he was around 16 which made him the youngest king in their history
— gets someone to taste test the food the two of you eat to make sure no one has poisoned it
— has a sword with your name ingraved in it
— powerful, dominating voice, when he speaks it sends shivers down everyone's spines. He almost always sounds "angry", but he can force it down to a sweet mumble when he's with you.
— age: around 19-22, birthday season: early summer
— nationality: his own kingdom BUT if he had a real nationality, it would be most likely German
— you're the only one he's nice to, but he's a big fan of discipline and will correct you if you do something he isn't liking
— he doesn't feel much regret or empathy when doing something bad, since he's the king and gotten to do everything he wants, he hasn't developed a lot of those kind of emotions
— height: around 184 cm
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Jerry:
— likes tattooes, probably has one inspired by you
— trains boxing
— she likes night views, for an example sitting on a roof top to watch the city lights or sitting on a dock to hear the waves late at night
— quite a strong, clear voice, not very raspy, but a little husky every now and then
— age: 24, birthday season: late spring
— she wishes that she could let her guard down with you, but thanks to everything she's been through during the years, she can't let herself
— nationality: korean
— she's the type to go: "you're great sweetie" without looking at what you're doing.
—jerry loves alcohol and melts inside when you get her favorite beer for her
— she watches over you when you sleep and doesn't let anyone come close to you when you're that vulnerable
— will mock you if you say you like something, but then it'll mysteriously appear in your bedroom in large amounts
— height: around 167 cm
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Hedwig:
— her voice is sweet like honey, very feminine and delicate!!
— age: around 18-19, birthday season: late summer
— BIGGEST sweettooth, she loves everyhting sweet
— wants an idyllic family life
— nationality: british
— dream job: model
— a big fan of photographing ... you
— hedwig loves to spoil you, you'll always have new clothes, perfumes, jewelry, books, etc etc
— clingiest motherfucker you'll ever meet
— LOVES to show you off
— doesn't like horror movies and if you force her to watch one she'll hide under your shirt every time she gets scared
— always smiles when you talk to her
— height: around 173 cm
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marvelousmrm · 9 months ago
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Iron Man #133 (Michelinie & Layton/Bingham, Apr 1980). Scott shrinks to free Tony from his disabled armor!
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the-hottest-band-tournament · 5 months ago
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Round Four of The Hottest 80s Band Tournament
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Warrant
Defeated opponents: Yes, Spadau Ballet, Sepultura
Formed in: 1984
Genres: Hard Rock, Hair Metal 
Lineup: Jani Lane- vocals and acoustic guitar
Joey Allen- guitar
Erik Turner- guitar
Steven Sweet- drums
Jerry Dixon- bass
Albums from the 80s: 
Dirty Rotten Filthy Stinking Rich (1989)
Propaganda: The Cherry Pie music video. That’s it, that’s my answer
youtube
Metallica 
Defeated opponents: W.A.S.P., Stray Cats, Adam and the Ants
Formed in: 1981
Genres: heavy metal, thrash metal 
Lineup: James Hetfield- vocals, guitar
Kirk Hammett- guitar
Cliff Burton- bass
Lars Ulrich- drums
Albums from the 80s: 
Kill 'Em All (1983)
Ride the Lightning (1984)
Master of Puppets (1986)
...And Justice for All (1988)
Propaganda: 
Visual propaganda for Warrant:
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Visual propaganda for MetaIIica:
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mooodyblue · 1 year ago
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Could you write something about caregiver Elvis and his self-conscious little?
Like when it's time for their bottle they refuse to drink, and they stop sitting on his lap and start to play quietly by themselves instead of playing energetically with Elvis or Jerry because they think that they have gained weight.
thank you for the request ^^
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pairing: cg!elvis x gn!little!reader
wc: 855
warnings: body image issues
➸ masterlist
there was a saying that you gain weight when you're in a happy relationship. you tried to make that not the case for your current relationship, despite your love for elvis.
elvis noticed how hesitant you were about being little today. he just wasn't sure why. it was always the two of you playing, him bouncing you on his lap and sometimes picking you up to twirl you around in the sparkly new dress or outfit that you bought. but not today. something felt off.
no pretty clothes, none of the clothes you wore that made you feel little….not even a bottle. you were wrapped up in a blanket, staring at the tv blankly. he wandered into the living room, looking over at you, “baby,” he cooed, “you want your bottle?”
“no.” you muttered back.
what? no bottle? “a-are ya sure, honey?” he asked curiously. it was so unlike you to not want a bottle, you always wanted milk or a sippy cup full of apple juice. “how ‘bout a snack?”
“no.” you said again.
“well, sheesh darlin’, at least have some manners n’ say no, thank you.” he put his hands on his hips, raising an eyebrow. “what’s got ya all grouchy today?” he walked over to you, sitting on the sofa.
“‘m fine.” you kept your eyes glued to the tv, only speaking in short sentences.
he shook his head and picked you up gently to set you on his lap, a soft whine escaping your lips. this was the problem. elvis grunted when he picked you up, he used to never grunt. the only reasoning in your brain was that you’d gained a bit of weight. you wanted to climb off his lap, hide yourself away, but you knew he’d just get mad. “ah, i know what ya need. a nice nap, huh?” he suggested, grinning.
you couldn’t say no to a nap. except that nap only made you feel worse.
elvis did his best to cheer you up. eventually, you were in your own other world, on the floor playing with blocks as you proudly spelled out words that he said to you. it was a good distraction from the vile thoughts inside your brain.
he got down on the floor beside you, pulling you into his lap as he began to help you stack letters together. you let a tiny whine out, trying to wiggle out of his hold. “you got ants in your pants?” elvis teased. you escaped from his hold, crawling away and moving to play with something else by yourself.
“alright…” he sighed, crawling over to you and sitting beside you. “what’s gotten into you today, baby? what’s the matter, huh?” he rubbed his hand in circles on your back gently.
you shook your head, hiding away from him.
“honey…” he frowned.
the look on elvis’s face was enough to make you cave in. “‘m not little enough.” you muttered, picking at the plush carpet underneath you.
he turned to you confused, “not lil’ enough?” he repeated back. “what do you mean? you’re my baby, aren’t ya? my little one?”
“‘too….big.” you didn't look at him, keeping your head down.
“big?” he repeated, confused.
“fat.”
elvis widened his eyes, “woah! now, hold on.” he tilted your face up with his fingers underneath your chin, forcing you to look at him. “where the hell did that come from? we don't use those words in that way in this house.” he said sternly.
“y-you make noises when y-you pick me up ‘n you're always like…’oh you've had enough’ when ‘m havin’ a bottle o-or a snack and—”
“baby…baby, my god” he quickly interrupted, putting his hands on your cheeks. “don't go talkin' like that. it hurts my feelings.” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, taking your hands in his. “you know why i tell ya when you've had enough? cause if i don't—you’ll go ‘n eat or drink too much ‘n get yourself an upset tummy. then you'll be cryin' ‘bout how icky you feel, we don't want that, do we?”
“w-well…no….”
he interrupted you again, “and baby, i’m an old man. my body ain't what it used to be. them nosies i’m makin’ when i pick you up or sit you in my lap? they're old man noises, honey.” he chuckled. “give your old man a break.”
“daddy’s not old….” you pouted.
elvis let out a small laugh, “well, thank you. but i’m serious, baby. i love you. i don't care how much ya weigh and it ain't none of my business. you're beautiful, lil’ one. i love all of ya.”
you hated when you let your insecurities get to you when you were little, especially when it was when you felt the safest. but elvis’s sweet words and reminders made you feel a little better. you gave him a small smile, nodding. “i love you too, daddy. ‘m sorry.”
“can daddy hold ya in his lap again? we gotta finish this lil’ tower you got goin’ on here.” he ushered you over, lifting you up and setting you in his lap—now without the grunts.
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kryptonbabe · 3 months ago
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An advertisement for the Superman comic strip, published on January 21, 1940 in The Plain Dealer newspaper, drawn by Joe Shuster and scripted by Jerry Siegel. The strip ran continuously from January 16, 1939 until May 1966.
The 5th panel was always my favorite:
--Incredible? No.
The lowly ant can support weights hundreds of times its own.
I like how disrespectful it is to both Superman and the ant.
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