#paintted-writes

[paintedhyenadogs]

Err, snippet of chapter 2 of my fic (a Homelander/Self Insert OC/ Soldier Boy fic)

Warnings for: Misgendering, casual use of the F-slur (by Soldier Boy), internalised homophobia, Homelanders god complex reaching the peak of all peaks, Milk fixation completely unrelated to Homelander.

(tell me if there are any warnings I should have added but have missed here)

It had been about 5 hours since their interaction amd Half-Hound hasn't come down again. If he didn't choose the room beside the stairs, he probably wouldn't have noticed as easily as he did. Everything that was left out during their earlier "discussion" hadn't been put back into the freezer or pantry. "He hasn't eaten yet?" He thinks, as he begins to take the items on the counter to their respective places, glancing at the clock all the while. As he opens the fridge, he finds himself amused by the sheer amount of dairy in it. The amount of milk in the damn thing was insane, with cheese coming in second to it. He grabs a carton of milk, full cream, as he drinks straight from the box.

He wipes the residue from his mouth, now with the cockiness his self grew to know. If he didn't want to eat it wasn't his issue, he's not the one starving. He could care less about that sensitive wuss! What, couldn't take a compliment? I mean what kind of a guy-

He doesn't care! Oh course he doesn't , it's absurd to think he would, but he still goes to check on Half-Hound, cracking open the door and peering through the small crevice. Soldier Boy rolls his eyes, shutting the door quietly as he turns to leave. Half-Hound was asleep, back turned to the door, tail tucked between his legs and hugging a long pillow as his animal like legs kicked it periodically. He was fine! Of course he- she would be. Why wouldn't she be? She can handle herself just fine! Not like he doubted that or was worried. He just wanted to make sure. It's good to check if your coworker was alive, you never know.

He spends the rest of his time navigating the television. Modern times were very obviously different, for one, it doesn't seem like this one had cable and if it did, he didn't know how to access it. He fiddled awhile with the remote, ending up on something called Youtube. He leaned back into the couch, and sighed. It would have to do. It looked like a bunch of pictures, with their titles right beside them.

"I only eat pink food for a day!"

"Supes bad? It's a bit complex."

"Takoyaki party! Spicy Cheese Garlic Mayo Takoyaki Mukbang asmr"

What the fuck was he even reading? He pressed the arrow button pointing downward, leading him down to more pictures and titles. All of which were either confusing, absurd, intelligible, or boring, like one with a singular image of an outhouse, and some weird title referencing something called "shrek". Some of them looked downright gross, like cartoon characters shown with needles and lumps, with nonsensical titles. Every time he moves downward to more content, he's hit with the same confusion, disgust and boredom. Then he sees it.

"The Soldier Boy Story (1951) full movie free"

Full movie? He can watch that thing? How? It was just a picture of a scene in the movie from what he could see. "Need help?" Soldier Boy turned towards the kitchen. Half-Hound was standing in the kitchen, readying a pan and some ingredients. "Thanks for putting all my shit back by the way, I forgot," his voice was flat, Soldier Boy couldn't gleen much emotion from it. "So, do you need help?" Half-Hound asked once more. He took a second to study his face, which just like his voice, was a flat, stoic thing that he couldn't gleen much information from. "Sure,"

Half-Hound walked to where he sat, taking the remote and showing him the buttons. "So you've figured out up and down, so you use the left and right arrow keys to get to the video you want,". He talked to him like he was a child. Explaining things carefully and not to fast. It felt like he was being mocked. "Then just press ok, and bam, you can watch the video, again, just use the back button to go back to the front page, or exit the thing entirely," "Are you mocking me?" Half-Hound didn't even look at Soldier Boy. "No, not on purpose," he says, getting up and walking back to the kitchen. The way he walked back when he was apathetic was different than when he was mad, or whenever he felt some other emotion. To be honest, he's never seen his tail be so idle. No soft wagging sway, no bristled straightness, no soft curl on his leg. It bothered him, more so than he'd like to admit.

After that, other than the sound of the television playing his movie, Half-Hound and Soldier Boy didn't speak a word to eachother. He didn't enjoy the silence. back when he was no. 1, there was always talk, save for when he was dozing off of course, but the silence now just crept under his skin, it annoyed him. When he hears the door click open, only then did he see the first regular movement Half-Hound did, his right ear flicking as his head turned to look at the door.

"You two look swell," Butcher exclaimed sarcastically as he entered. Hughie could feel the tension as soon as he walked in. He knew something happened. "Also, you don't mind havin a few extra guests, ere, right?" Butcher asked, well not asked, more like stated, because as soon as Half-Hound turns to look at the door, he sees Kimiko, Frenchie and Annie, walk through the door. "Some of you have to share a room, and to clarify not a bed, because one of the guest rooms has a loft," Half-Hound rolled his eyes. He didn't care, really, but it would've been nice to be given a damn heads up atleast an hour earlier, he looked like shit, it was embarrassing.

"You've got a nice house," he heard Annie say. He could feel his ears perk up a little and his tail start to wag. "Thanks, uh, Hughie's staying in the room upstairs by the way, first door, right across mine," Half-Hound adds, turning his head to her and gesturing upstairs. "You know, I gotta ask, why get such a big house with so many rooms, if it's just-" she gestures at him with her hands "-you?". Half-Hound takes s few seconds to reply. "It's like my house back in Malaysia, 2 stories, 4 rooms. That's the only similarity they share though,". Annie smiled. "Do you miss it?" "Sometimes, but I left when I was around 16 to 17 to be a hero, so I can't really complain, hah," it's a fake chuckle he lets out. Annie picks up on it easily. "Well at least you're not caught up with Homelander directly," she groans, attempting to change the subject. "True, Im not. It's gotta be exhausting, right, how do you deal?" He smirks. Annie rolls her eyes, making an annoyed expression. "Ugh, like you won't fucking believe,"

It's been only a nearly two days, but hearing him laugh again felt like rain after a draught. The laughing was never with him, nor were the amused and exaggerated looks or strange over the top gestures. He wishes it was though, in some deep hidden part inside him, not like he'd ever admit it. He watches the sway of his wagging tail as he laughs and chats away with Annie. How his canines show when he laughs, and the subtle but more obvious expansion of his pupils while talking about something he particularly likes.

It's those same things he noticed when they first met. Though the first thing he heard him say was-

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

One of them exclaims, seeing the, known dead, Soldier Boy, in the flesh, in front of him. Soldier Boy watches as the boy turns to the man, Butcher. He saw his tail straighten and the stripe of fur on part of his neck stand upright. "You didn't tell me he was fuckin alive?! Nor that he was our WEAPON!" He barks, his teeth out on full display, an instinctual move to show, aggression, in this situation. When he turns back to look at him, Soldier Boy sees his ears drop slightly, looking embarrassed and skittish at the sight of him, his eyes looking him up and down for a fraction of a second. "Sorry, I forgot to mention it to ya, mate," Butcher says, patting the other on the shoulder. Half-Hound turns away, rolling his eyes. "You-you go deal with whatever you have to deal with, I will be a safe distance away,". He later recalls thinking how good of an idea that was, considering what happened later.

He would later come to know the boy, as Half-Hound. A D-list hero some how caught up with killing this Homelander guy. His first impressions of him were simple. He was a skittish, sometimes brash, guy. Though really only brash and rude with Butcher, he got along well with Hughie.

"You know, I thought fags were all girly and shit," he stated, causing Half-Hound to give him a look of disgust. "What the fuck man, how'd you even figure out I liked men?" Soldier Boy laughed. "I saw you eyein' me up the first time we met,". He saw his ear twitch for the first time then. "Don't call me a fag, you can't just say that shit, it's not the olden times no more," he growls. "Easy there, doggy," He puts his hands up in a mocking gesture of submission. He liked this one.

[More Soldier Boy having gay ass thoughts abt Half-Hound]

[Insert random outing they have to go for before the Herogasm happens]

-

Meanwhile, Homelander sits in his house. There's this feeling in his gut, it's an annoying feeling. People say that love feels like nervousness, butterflies in your stomach! If that's true, he's either been hit with some mutated love bug or some sick supe only illness. All over some skittish, and some what brash, low tier, no name hero who spends all his time searching for people. No one has ever declined the offer to join The Seven! No one! Except that stupid fucking mutt! Does he think he's better than them? Hah! Better than the best? He must be delusional!

Remembering the wild animal like eyes of his flash when he started arguing about the violence stuff, Homelander felt his heart skip a beat. He liked it, how though Half-Hound was afraid, and cautious, he could see the slight shine of his canines. He had big teeth, he remembers. Not like dog teeth, like wolf teeth, or some crazy big wolf thing. His heart leaped again. He wants to see those teeth put to work, covered in blood on gore of some poor sad sap in the woods. Why choose to just run around playing hide and seek with humans, when he could be better? When he could show them what it means to piss off a rabid dog who has the teeth to put them into a torturous mutilated state? He definitely was like no other, truly, he felt like he just needed a push. A push to his true potential! He just doesn't realise it yet.

It's not love he's feeling, no. It's foresight, or something of the sort... Prophecy! It's a prophecy! Half-Hound simply needs a bit of prodding before he reaches his true destiny! After all, he's the perfect mad dog to use to keep people in line in case anything happens to Noir! It's great, it's wonderful! It's perfect! It makes sense after all, those stories with mythical gods always had some sort of prophecy in its tales right? It made sense he'd get one too, he's a god! America's homegrown god!

[ezekiel13]

Edit: I am fully aware it is spelt “sewing” and that “sowing” is related to crops and the grim reaper. I’m bad at homophones and you can’t edit polls.

[lesbianjudasiscariot]

[crimeronan]

god i wish i wouldn't have to explain the intricacies of the neopets economy to you guys to give the full context for this but. the new neopets team that took over from jumpstart pledged that they were going to curb the inflation of rare items, which is great because a lot of rare items are worth literally hundreds of millions of neopoints, they are unbuyable unless you've been playing actively for 20 years. they did this earlier with a site festival that included random loot boxes, some of which had Unbelievably Fucking Rare And Precious items worth 200 million neopoints apiece.

well.

today they have gone a step further. by releasing this year's trick-or-treat bags. and having the trick-or-treat bags be stuffed to the brim with unbelievably fucking rare stamps, weapons, paint brushes, defense magic, and other unbuyables. (all prohibitively expensive and in-high-demand types of items.)

jellyneo, the premier neopets website, has recorded prices of some items plummeting from 2,000,000 neopoints to 4,000 neopoints IN THE LAST THREE HOURS. this is when most people haven't even heard about the event or OPENED THEIR BAGS YET.

and of course. cherry on top. 20-year-old account holders are crytyping on the site events neoboard about how mean and cruel it is to make rare stamps part of the prize pool, because their entire identity hinges on being part of the neopian bourgeoisie, and they are having MELTDOWNS over their assets being devalued until they're part of the lowly proletariat.

this is a children's game for children btw.

none of the money is real.

i'm having such a good time.

[bebs-art-gallery]

Dear Desolation by Eliran Kantor † Love of the Wolf by Hélène Cixous

[hinamie]

unconditionally

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

Charles van den Eycken (1859-1923) "The Little Writer" (1913) Oil on panel

[lucidloving]

Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence // Ada Limón, "Lies About Sea Creatures" // Sherita Walker // @itsbaditsgood // Richard Siken, "I Had a Dream About You" // Richard Siken, "You Are Jeff" (8) // Richard Siken, "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out" // @_demarmol on Instagram // Anne Sexton, "The Touch"

[probablytame]

don't play around with feral dogboys. don't chain one up to the bedpost and tease it from afar, making it sit on a vibrator while you touch yourself. good lord do not make the most pretty little whimpers and noises as you do it. sooner or later that thing is going to burst out from its chains and tackle you to the ground as it sinks its teeth into your neck. snarling as it tears open your legs and rams its knot into your hole. and god forbid it's strap knot, because the only thing that's gonna stop it is exhaustion. that thing only sees you as a toy, and it's going to fuck you until you break

[slumpsnail]

The Reluctant True Soul

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[flowersandfashion]

hot twink is tied up and penetrated

A Collection of Homoerotic Paintings of Saint Sebastian

Carlo Saraceni, c. 1610 /// Nicolas Régnier, c. 1620 /// Guido Reni, c. 1625 /// Nicolas Régnier, c. 1625 /// Louis Finson, c. 1613 /// François-Guillaume Ménageot, c. 1760 /// Guido Reni, c. 1615 /// Nicolas Régnier, c. 1620

[tealviscaria]

My "old art" series: Kendrick Lamar.

This one really isn't that old at all, it's from June 2023.

More under the cut:

[malacandrax]

Enchanted...

I adore Halsin with the other companions, but the depth of feeling for Quarter/Tav with how much he's done for him is unmatched. Mans had the world on his back for a hundred years and someone comes in and takes the weight for him without question.

[tioraidh-tux]

an ageless, plastic poem

[unreachedgalaxy]

sorry but modern AUs which depict harrowhark as incredibly goth or punk-looking just completely misunderstand harrow as a character. like, yes, aesthetically in the TLT context harrow has goth-like attributes. skull facepaint, bone earrings, etc, etc, i get it. but that's not counterculture for her! in fact, she dresses exactly how the revered daughter of the ninth house is expected to dress - down to the sacramentally shorn haircut.

which brings me to my main point. harrow's not a goth! she's a nun! she wouldn't be wearing chains and spikes, she would be wearing a full habit and a headscarf! she's a religious nun and she accidentally fell in love with lucifer. that's her aesthetic. she was raised in some deeply catholic cult somewhere in buttfuck nowhere and she carries a rosary everywhere she goes. there's your modern AU.