#litany-makes-art

[litany-writes]

doodle from the margins of my um. confessions (by augustine) notes from today

[aorticsingularity]

When it when the when she when when

[chellodello]

I am not immune to Zim in Dib’s old shirt.

[rawliverandgoronspice]

officially getting lost in the animatic sauce u_u

[joelletwo]

glancing at mercari why do i feel like all the matoba merch shot up in price. noooooooo his meow meow era makes him more popular and coveted the consequences of my wishes fuck.

[badolmen]

The hardest thing about trying something new is trying something new. Thankfully i am perfect at everything always even when I try new things.

[tobiasdrake]

Which DBZ antagonist do you like the most?

Boring opinion, I know, but I gotta give it up for the Obvious Choice.

And I'm not just saying that because I haven't had a chance to talk about him yet.

Frieza runs a real estate empire that carries out genocidal acts of gentrification, purging tracts of land of their native inhabitants so he can sell their land for profit. Commenting on this choice for his ultimate villain, Akira Toriyama stated that he made this decision because real estate speculators are the worst people there are.

Fucking based.

From the moment we meet Frieza, he is a monster. Toriyama likes this Big Guy Little Guy dynamic where the Little Guy is the one you really need to watch out for. Frieza is the Littlest Guy ever.

He's so tiny. And yet you know exactly who the most dangerous person in this group is. Zero question.

By the end of this altercation, Frieza reveals one of his signature attacks, giving us our first glimpse of the kind of person and the kind of fighter he is. This is such an important moment for his character and I'm kinda mad that the anime had Dodoria do it instead.

Muri destroys the Scouters and blinds Frieza. I've talked before at length about the devastating impact that this move and the Namekian warriors' attack has on Frieza's campaign.

But once it's done, he has to face the music. He's not getting out of this alive.

In one last desperation play, Muri tells Cargo and Dende to run while blocking them with his body. And that's when it happens.

This is Frieza.

Specifically, this is Frieza's Death Beam. It's never actually given a name, but is generally referred to as Death Beam. We've seen a move like this only once before.

The Dodonpa, signature technique of Tsuru-senryu, first introduced by the assassin Taopaipai, was built for extreme lethality. This is not a technique for fighting; It's a technique for killing.

What makes Frieza's Death Beam stand out from the Dodonpa, however, is its accuracy and its speed. He threads the needle around Muri to hit Cargo before anyone even has a chance to react.

We see its accuracy and speed again six days later, when it finally catches up to the other child fleeing from him here.

The panelwork here calling attention to everyone's reactions as Frieza's ki bullet shoots past them, as his shot threads the needle between all obstacles in his path to strike his target far behind them. Dende is dead before anyone can even process that Frieza fired.

This is the difference between the two techniques. The Dodonpa is a gun. The Death Beam is a sniper rifle. Faced with the physical hurdle of bodies impeding his path, Frieza point-clicked Cargo and Dende to death.

He later executes Vegeta this same way.

Done with you.

All of this context for Frieza's sniping shot serves to set up the stunning subversion when Goku arrives to fight.

Frieza's never seen this before. Goku shouldn't even be able to see the shots coming until they've perforated his lungs. That's how Death Beam works. It's this moment that lays it out: Frieza's about to be tested like he's never been tested before.

Speaking of cool techniques, I've always been partial to this move from his Third Form.

The anime gives Frieza little ki bullets coming out of his fingers but I want to note that we never see a physical projectile when he's doing this. Frieza jams his fingers back and forth in the air while something pulverizes Piccolo.

I've always imagined he's poking the air so fast that it's hitting Piccolo with pressurized air currents. Similar to Goku's Mazoku air current punch from the 23rd Tenkaichi Budokai.

But that's just me.

In any case, Frieza's got some fun moves. He's something of a hobbyist martial artist. Which is to say, Frieza has an interest in martial arts. In addition to his Death Beam, Frieza's concocted a litany of other interesting techniques.

He even invented the Kienzan, independently of Krillin.

Though he can remote operate his Kienzan so it's strictly better than Krillin's. Frieza, in his spare time, has come up with a bunch of cool moves. Too bad he has no idea how to use them.

Frieza's greatest weakness is his inexperience. He practices martial arts the way a business CEO who bought a log splitter so he can cut some wood and feel woodsy practices agriculture. Frieza has never had a proper chance to truly experience martial arts, because he was born too powerful.

The only partner who's ever even dirtied his skin was his dad.

And even that isn't much. Frieza's too strong. He wants to pursue martial arts. He wants to hone his technique. But when you win every fight by blinking too hard in the opponent's direction, what even is there to practice?

Frieza created a transformation to seal away his immeasurable ki because he was born with so much ki flowing from him that he can't even contain it. At his peak, Frieza's ki bleeds out of him. He simply can't contain it.

Goku wonders aloud why Frieza took so long, even after the fight turned against him, to go to 100%. Frieza's been all "Oh I'm only using 10% power this is my 50% you made me go to 75%" and Goku's like, "Okay. My dude. What's this about, for real?

This, incidentally, is not a great translation. What Goku's saying here is supposed to be basically, "Perhaps when you use your full power, your body can't handle it."

He is correct.

Frieza's Full Power has a lot in common with Super Saiyan 3. His theoretical maximum ability is wildly different from the reality of what he's capable of, because he bleeds ki like it's going out of style.

So, while other characters wound up earning transformations that make them more powerful, Frieza created a transformation to seal away some of his incomprehensible ki.

Then he created a couple more because even though he could now control his strength and even manipulate the amount of ki he's releasing at a time, he was still too powerful for anyone to ever compete with and needed even more ki sealed away.

Again, not a fantastic translation from the people who brought us "bottom-tier boy", as Frieza's statement here could be interpreted as saying that he gets taken by a berserker rage or something.

What he's saying is more like, "My power is so great that I can't properly contain it."

Point is, Frieza transformed to lock down his ki and seal parts of it away, so he could control the rest better. Then he kept going, locking away more and more and more of his ki. And even at his most nerfed, he's still five times more powerful than the Second Strongest Guy in the Universe.

Frieza has never in his life had the opportunity to be pushed. That's what makes Goku so enthralling to him.

Frieza plays with Goku because he's genuinely having the time of his life. This guy can fight him in his Final Form. Nobody can fight him in his Final Form. He's so happy, he straight-up forgets that he's trying to complete a genocide against Goku's entire race.

He said that five minutes ago. Gohan's hidden power freaked Frieza the fuck out. Saiyans are too strong now. They've gotten too strong. Frieza cannot permit them to keep existing because they're getting strong. Every last Saiyan, every last one, must die. Every single one. Scorched earth, no survivors.

But then he meets a Saiyan martial artist who's a technical master and pushes him more than he ever thought possible and suddenly:

He goes from "Saiyans are TOO STRONG and they all must die because they might threaten me" to "OH MY GOD I'M HAVING SO MUCH FUN CAN I KEEP YOU!?"

It's this desire for a true rival, this opportunity to satisfy his amateur's curiosity about martial arts, that ultimately unravels him. Frieza has one ruthless and pragmatic option for ending this fight once it starts to be too much for him. He can technically stop the fight any time he wants.

But he can't bring himself to do it. He wants to fight. He wants to compete. Frieza's been on the outside looking in at martial arts for his entire life and even when his greatest fears are fulfilled and the Super Saiyan is in front of him, he wants to try.

So when he does attempt to pull his Lethal Ragequit, he pulls back at the last second. He can't bring himself to do it. Goku initially assesses that Frieza held back out of fear of hurting himself.

But later, as Frieza begins unlocking the final chains on his ki, Goku changes his assessment. Noting that if Frieza really held back simply out of a mistake, he could have shot the planet again at any point to finish the job. He's been letting this play out because he can't bring himself to end the greatest fight of his life that way.

This fight is still happening because Frieza wants to compete. I mean, he wants to win, of course, but he wants to win as a martial artist. He's never truly gotten to be a martial artist before.

He is not the guy winning the gold medal at the Tenkaichi Budokai. He has never been that guy. He's the guy who buys up the land the Tenkaichi Budokai is held on and then bulldozes all the people off of it. But in his heart of hearts, he wants to be that guy. That guy is so cool. Frieza wants to play too.

In a sense, by hosting the Cell Games, Cell got to live Frieza's greatest fantasy.

This is who Frieza is. He's the cruel and wicked heir to Genocide Realtors Inc., who is in love with the idea of being Tenshinhan - A desire that exists at odds with - and undermines - his pragmatic business sense, so to speak.

He is the most vile character in the history of Dragon Ball. The worst kind of person. He is also an overeager child whose wealth and privilege prevents him from ever truly enjoying his hobbies, to an extent that he'd be almost pitiable but for all the genocides.

And he is Dragon Ball's greatest villain.

[lambilegs]

art by susan ryder

SEVIKA | PROTECTOR OF ZAUN | FIERCE FIGHTER | UNBREAKABLE STONE LOYALTY

headcanons/messy litany of thoughts:

sevika x feisty!reader headcanons

sevika x feisty!reader headcanons pt. 2

best friend's older sister!sevika headcanons

best friend's older sister!sevika headcanons pt. 2

sevika going crazy over little gestures reader does

gf!sevika who is your college rival

roommate!sevika who's trying to make you jealous

how sevika would celebrate your birthday

sevika shopping in miniso with you

grouchy but simpy husbutch!sevika

blurbs:

best friend's older sister!sevika getting jealous

sevika being the first woman to fuck you <3

soft and sleepy dry humping

having shower sex with best friend's older sister!sevika

sneaking with best friend's older sister!sevika

shotgunning with best friend's older sister!sevika

longer fics:

a secret surprise

striking a deal

getting acquainted with the dildo: attempt #1

1K drabbles: the crease of your elbow, felt against my mouth

1K drabbles: whelve, sweven, incandescence

royalty!au wedding night with sevika

drench through my chest, the image of you imprinted in my brain.

an amorous kiss with the once enemy

[dailyrothko]

No, the Popularity of Abstract Art is Not the Result of a CIA PsyOp

If you are unlucky enough to move around the internet these days and talk about art, you’ll find that many “First commenters” will hit you with what they see as some hard truth about your taste in art. Comments usually start with how modern art is “money laundering” always comically misunderstanding what that means. What they are saying is that, of course, rich people use investments as tax shelters and things like expensive antiques and art appraised at high prices to increase their net worth. Oh my god, I’ve been red-pilled. The rich getting richer? I have never heard of such a thing.

What is conveniently left out of this type of comment is that the same valuation and financial shenanigans occur with baseball cards, wine, vacation homes, guitars, and dozens of other things. It does indeed happen with art, but even the kind that the most conservative internet curator can appreciate. After all, Rembrandts are worth money too, you just don’t see many because he’s not making any more of them. The only appropriate response to these people who are, almost inevitably themselves, the worst artists you have ever seen, is silence. It would cruel to ask about their own art because there’s a danger they might actually enjoy such a truly novel experience.

When you are done shaking your head that you just subjected yourself to an argument about the venality of poor artists plotting to make their work valuable after they died, you can certainly then enjoy the accompanying felicity of the revelation they have saved to knock you off your feet: “Abstract art is a CIA PsyOp”

Here one must get ready either to type a lot or to simply say “Except factually” and go along your merry, abstract-art-loving way. But what are the facts? Unsurprisingly with things involving US government covert operations, the facts are not so clear.

Like everything on the internet, you are unlikely to find factual roots to the arguments about government conspiracies and modern art. The mere idea of it is enough to bring blossom for the “I’m not a sheep” crowd, some of whom believe that a gold toilet owning former president is a morally good, honest hard-working man of the people.

The roots of this contention come from a 1973 article in Artforum magazine, where art critic Max Kozloff wrote about post-war American painting in the context of the Cold War, centering around Irving Sandler’s book, The Triumph of American Painting (1970). Kozloff takes on more than just abstract expressionism in his article but condemns the “Self-congratulatory mood”of Sandler’s book and goes on to suggest the rise of abstract expressionism was a “Benevolent form of propaganda”. Kozoloff treads a difficult line here, asserting that abstraction was genuinely important to American art but that its luminaries, “have acquired their present blue-chip status partly through elements in their work that affirm our most recognizable norms and mores.”

While there were rumblings of agreements around Kozloff’s article of broad concerns, it did not give birth to an actual conspiracy theory at the time. The real public apprehension of this idea seems to mostly come from articles written by historian Frances Stonor Saunders in support of her book, “The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters” (New York, New Press, 2000). (I have not read this 525 page book, only excerpts).

The gist of Ms. Saunders argument is a tantalizing, but mostly unsupported, labyrinthine maze of back door funding and novelistic cloak and dagger deals. According to Saunders, the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist cultural organization founded in 1950, was behind the promotion of Abstract art as part of their effort to be opinion makers in the war against communism. In 1966 it was revealed that the CCF was funded by the CIA. Saunders says that the CCF financed a litany of art exhibitions including “The New American Painting” which toured Europe in the late 1950s. Some of this is true, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to know the specifics.

Noted expert in abstract-expressionism, David Anfam said CIA presence was real. It was “a well-documented fact” that the CIA co-opted Abstract Expressionism in their propaganda war against Russia. “Even The New American Painting [exhibition] had some CIA funding behind it,” he says. But the reasons for this are not quite what the abstract art detractors might be looking for. After all, the CCF also funded the travel expenses for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promoted Fodor’s travel guides. More than trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, it was meant to showcase the freedom artists in the US. enjoyed. Or as Anfam goes on to say, “It’s a very shrewd and cynical strategy, because it showed that you could do whatever you liked in America.”

For what it’s worth, Saunders’s book was eviscerated in the Summer 2000 issue of Art Forum at the time of its publication. Robert Simon wrote:

“Saunders draws extensively on primary and secondary sources, focusing on the convoluted money trail as it twists through dummy corporations, front men, anonymous donors, and phony fund-raising events aimed at filling the CCF’s coffers. She makes lengthy forays into such topics as McCarthyism, the formation and operation of the CIA, the propaganda work of the Hollywood film industry, and New York cultural politics—from Partisan Review to MoMA to Abstract Expressionism. Yet what seems strangely absent from Saunders’s panoramic history, as if it were a minor detail or something too obvious to require discussion, is the cultural object itself: The complex specifics of the texts, exhibitions, intellectual gatherings, paintings, and performances of the culture war are largely left out of the story.”

Another problem with the book seems to be that Saunders is an historian but not an art historian. For me, I sensed an overtone of superiority in the tale she’s spinning and most assuredly from those that repeat its conclusion. The thinly veiled message of some is that if it were “Real art” it would not have had be part of this government subterfuge. The reality is very different. For one thing, most of us know it is simply not true that you can make people devoted to a type of art for 100 years that they would sensibly hate otherwise. Another issue is that it’s quite obvious none of the artists actually knew about any government interference if there was any. Pollock, Rothko, Gottlieb and Newmann were all either communists or anarchists. Hardly the group one would recruit the help the US government free the world of communism. Additionally, this narrow cold war timeline ignores a huge amount of abstract art that Jackson Pollock haters also revile and consider part of the same hijacking of high (Frankly, Greek, Roman, or Renaissance) culture. If you look at the highly abstract signature work of Piet Mondrian and observe the dates they were painted, you’ll see 1908, 1914, 1916. This is some of the art denigrated as a CIA PsyOP, 35 years before the CIA even thought about it. Modern art didn’t come from nowhere as many would have you believe to discredit its rise. There was Surrealism, Dada, Bauhaus, Russian futurism and a host of other movements that fueled it.

Generally, people like to argue. On the internet, “I don’t like this” is a weak statement that always must be replaced by “This is garbage” or my favorite, “This is fake.”

It’s hardly surprising that the more conservative factions of our society look for any government involvement in our lives to explain why things are not exactly as they wish them to be, given the (highly ironic) conservative government-blaming that blew up after Reagan. In addition, modern fascists have always had a love affair with the classical fantasy of Greece and Rome. Both Mussolini and Hitler used Greece and Rome as “Distant models” to address their uncertain national identity. The Nazis confiscated more than 5,000 works in German museums, presenting 650 of them in the Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art, 1937) show to demonstrate the perverted nature of modern art. It featured artists including Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wassily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee, among others. The fear of art was real. It was the fear of ideas.

To a lot of people on the internet just the mentioning a “CIA program” is enough to get the cogs turning, but as with many things, the reality of CIA programs and government plots is often less than evidence of well planned coup.

The CIA reportedly spent 20 millions dollars on Operation Acoustic Kitty which intended to use cats to spy on the Kremlin and Soviet embassies. Microphones were planted on cats and plans were set in motion to get the cats to surreptitiously record important conversations. However, the CIA soon discovered that they were cats and not agreeable to any kind of regulation of their behavior.

As part of Operation Mongoose the CIA planned to undermine Castro's public image by putting thallium salts in his shoes, which would cause his beard to fall out, while he was on a trip outside Cuba. He was expected to leave his shoes outside his hotel room to be polished, at which point the salts would be administered. The plan was abandoned because Castro canceled the trip.

Regardless of your feelings on this subject or how much you believe abstract art benefited from government dollars, Saunders herself quotes in her book a CIA officer apparently involved in these “Long leash” influence operations. He says, “We wanted to unite all the people who were writers, who were musicians, who were artists, to demonstrate that the West and the United States was devoted to freedom of expression and to intellectual achievement, without any rigid barriers as to what you must write, and what you must say, and what you must do.” Hardly the Illuminati plot we were promised.

In 2016, Irving Sandler, author of the book that started Kozloff tirading in 1973, told Alastair Sooke of The Daily Telegraph, “There was absolutely no involvement of any government agency. I haven’t seen a single fact that indicates there was this kind of collusion. Surely, by now, something – anything – would have emerged. And isn’t it interesting that the federal government at the time considered Abstract Expressionism a Communist plot to undermine American society?”

This blog post contains information and quotes sourced from The Piper Played to Us All: Orchestrating the Cultural Cold War in the USA, Europe, and Latin America, Russell H. Bartley International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Spring, 2001), pp. 571-619 (49 pages) https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20161004-was-modern-art-a-weapon-of-the-cia https://brill.com/view/journals/fasc/8/2/article-p127_127.xml?language=en https://www.guggenheim-bilbao.eus/en/learn/schools/teachers-guides/the-dark-side-of-classicism https://www.artforum.com/features/american-painting-during-the-cold-war-212902/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html https://www.artforum.com/columns/frances-stonor-saunders-162391/ https://www.artforum.com/features/abstract-expressionism-weapon-of-the-cold-war-214234/ Mark Rothko and the Development of American Modernism 1938-1948 Jonathan Harris, Oxford Art Journal, Vol. 11, No. 1 (1988), pp. 40-50 (11 pages)

[occamstfs]

Sticky Fingers

Junpei finds himself drawn to sneak an early peak at Arcadio Carvajal's new exhibition. When the chance to take a piece home presents itslef, he'll find himself a little more than changed from the experience.

My first sequel! Arcadio from Marichismo decides to take the chance to find a new assistant and lover! In other don't forget to vote on my Viral Transformation poll, ends Sunday! Otherwise enjoy this tale of muscle growth and otherwise masculine changes! -Occam

Junpei can’t believe that he somehow hadn’t heard about this art exhibition until just now. Like many a young thirsty gay across the country he does well to keep a tab on the illustrious (Read: Hot) work of Arcadio Carvajal. Many institutions are a little hesitant to host an artist whose name may well be synonymous with sexual provocateur but, with attendance numbers down across the board, even more museums are thrilled at the chance to host a man who almost magically draws in hordes of adoring patrons.

His latest exhibition on homoeroticism in popular culture is setting attendance records at just about every museum it stops at. Junpei was beyond thrilled when his friend Corey leaked that the gallery he works at was going to be hosting an exhibition of Arcadio’s starting tomorrow! Ignoring any concerns as to how odd it is that he’s not heard anything about the opening until the night before, Junpei grabs his backpack and makes for the gallery immediately, almost as if possessed. Something in his chest flutters with anticipation as he wanders the few blocks down to the hall where he’ll hopefully be able to sneak an early peek of some of the works on display. 

Making the trip down a few blocks with haste he finds  there’s surprisingly little activity at all in or around the gallery. Sure it’s after hours but the night before an opening, let alone an opening by an artist as impressive as Arcadio Carvajal? You’d think there would be some last minute prep work to be done. Skulking up to nonchalantly look through the front door, he puts his weight on it just as a little test. Just to see if it's locked, no overt plans as to what he would do with the information, he just wanted to know. Just wanted to see.

When the door gives, he can’t suppress the grin rising on his lips. In for a penny, he decides. Fighting to keep his expression guiltless he surreptitiously looks around to make sure no one’s watching the entrance before he sneaks into the dark hall. He tries to scheme up an alibi as he digs out his phone to use as a flashlight. Probably wouldn’t buy that he thought they were open. Could just say he was supposed to meet his friend here, though he’d hate for Corey to catch blowback. Junpei then rolls his eyes as he figures he could come up with something on the spot, if he’s even caught that is! Adrenaline keeps his conspiratorial mind from noticing he of course already has been, as the gallery’s cameras follow the young student into the exhibition hall holding Arcadio’s exciting exhibit.

The amateur intruder almost has a heart attack as he steps into the gallery proper and the lights flash on. Stumbling into a wall in shock, he ducks behind a display case and nervously scopes out the new space he finds himself in. After quietly ensuring that no one is actively here, Junpei chalks the lights up to be automatic and hastens his pace. Switching off his now unneeded flashlight, he starts scoping out the litany of artwork dedicated to the male form surrounding him.

His excitement eclipses whatever paltry dregs of anxiety or fear remain as he sees the works of incredibly influential artists gathered here. Junpei knew Arcadio was a titan but he could never have expected the prolific art that fills this place. First things first, as he enters he sees a diptych of the artist himself, under his breath he murmurs, “god he’s so fucking hot.” Somewhere out of sight surveillance footage shines onto a man watching him explore the gallery as he mischievously smirks.

On the student’s left are a wall of nudes and more softcore fare from artists across the ages. Mizers and Mapplethorpes hang floor to ceiling alongside more modern work by Arcadio and his own gay contemporaries. Near the far side there seems to be a whole section dedicated to portraiture of St. Sebastian but Junpei is less eager to explore the thorough history of homoerotic photography. Certainly a medium that has brought him endless pleasure, as it were, but they may as well just be prints to him. No, he wants to see the real stuff.

Wandering past some dozen miniature recreations of Michaelangelo’s David made of shining plasticine latex, some clad in leather, others in the buff as the artist intended, Junpei finds what he snuck in for. Spotlights shine down unto the wall opposite the photography, teeming with works from gay trailblazers of the art world. Namely the ones whose primary focus was on nothing but bulging fetishistic muscle and strong-jawed pretty boys. Those who crafted overt unapologetic pornography and others who snuck homoeroticism covertly to the masses. This is to say there is more work by Tom of Finland and Leyendecker than he could possibly appreciate in this brief time alone. 

He spends as long as he thinks he can just staring at the work. Drinking in the graphite scraped bulges and tight leather uniforms of the massive men drawn by the Finn. Reverberations from his work still echo into the art and lusty imaginations of countless gay men today. Indeed upon gracing dear Junpei’s eyes they immediately cause some mobility issues to arise. He struggles with his pants as he struggles to walk forward with a package that only surges harder with each fervent tug of his pants. His rising issue stops not as he moves on to observe the bright colors and hungry eyes of the men in Leyendecker’s advertisements. Masculine forms idealized and gleaming opposed with the raw heightened sex found in the work nearby. Junpei can barely control the desire coursing through him, but knowing he can’t stay forever the young man continues onward, biting his lip as he tries to will his boner away. 

Going through a curtain into a still darkened room, it takes a second for Junpei’s eyes to adjust before he sees a room dedicated to non-western homoeroticism. Finding aged Chinese scrolls of gay eroticism he snaps pictures, quite thankful that they are less visceral arousing than the work he just left behind, though he’s decidedly happy to see some shred of himself in the gallery. Turning around he gasps as he sees something he wasn’t quite expecting. Next to a wall of more deliberately pornographic bara men he sees panels from his favorite mangaka depicting bulging muscled men in provocative poses. But more thrilling than that, it seems the main sketch isn’t in a display case. It’s just sitting there, loose, free.

Junpei doesn’t know what came over him, he wasn’t even planning on coming in illicitly, but staring at the crisp art in front of him he cannot stop himself as he pulls a folder from his backpack. Before he can even issue a command to his body, the sketch is already in his bag and he’s sprinting away. The smirk of the man watching his every move grows wider as he watches Junpei clumsily flee the scene. Fleeing out the door into the dark streets, Junpei pushes past other students thoughtlessly as he races home, delirium setting in as struggles to understand and realize what he just did. Slamming his apartment door behind him he yoinks out the swiped art. He isn’t sure if it’s the image itself or the exhilaration from his crime but his only recently stilled cock begins to harden once more. 

Mind barely present what can he do but obey his rising erection. Junpei begins to masturbate, staring at his stolen artwork, panting as he quickly comes close; free hand moving thoughtlessly he feels it scrape against something taped to the back of the sketch. Eyebrows furrowing as he continues to beat his meat, Junpei turns the picture around and he instantly stops as his blood grows cold. “Evening Junpei. I know what you did. See you Soon. Yours, Arcadio Carvajal.” Junpei drops the drawing and it flutters to the floor, lying face down, leaving the note facing up at him. His mind escapes from whatever haze compelled him to commit larceny as his thoughts race faster than could possibly be productive. 

What do I do? I need to bring it back now. How did that note get there!? It certainly has my name on it, and it’s signed by Arcadio. Fear seizes him as he backs away from the stolen piece, tripping over the pants that had fallen around his ankles. In his scrambling he falls back and hits his head. Before he completely loses himself to unconsciousness he sees the picture purloined face up once more. Groaning as his vision begins to fade, his eyes latch onto his legs as searing pain slowly burns through him. Cresting into a trancelike state he mumbles incoherently as it almost seems like veins are bulging onto his thighs?

Perhaps unsurprising given the prominence of Arcadio in what lead him into this stupor, but as he’s truly overtaken Junpei sees the massive artist himself. The man’s arms are crossed but the expression on his face is not one of judgment or disdain at Junpei’s actions. Rather, to the best of the young man’s judgment, it looks like one of anticipation. Junpei tries to speak but finds his mouth dry up as the man across from him waves a finger, “Ah ah ah mi ladrónito. I believe you have something of mine.” The eponymous little thief pats himself down trying to dream his plunder into existence but produces naught. Arcadio pouts his lips but there is a sparkle of mischief in his eyes.

“Well perrito. For your little transgression I think you owe me, si? Think I could use some more hands on deck to watch out for petty thieves, don’t you?” Arcadio’s expression loses all the performative animosity that remains as he looks at Junpei with glee and his intentions begin to suffuse the young man. Feeling his ability to speak return, Junpei opens his mouth but before he can produce a word he is wracked with burning pain from the artist's stare.

Beginning from his feet, clad in the cheap tennis shoes that he wore to his haphazard heist, heat sears the soles of his feet. At first it’s as if he’s standing on coals before simmering down to the pain of sprinting across a hot beach; finally it shifts to the pleasant warmth of a warm footbath. Pain swiftly gives way to pleasure as Junpei flexes his feet just to ensure he feels every sensation he can, only then does he feel his toes bump against the front of the small shoe, just as the bridge of his foot strains against the tongue. Junpei grunts as he hears stitches begin to give way, toes blasting through the cheap fabric while his soles rear through the sides and spill onto the floor as his feet totally eclipse the remains of his shoe.

Looking down at feet that may as well need clown shoes compared to the petit ones he’s always had, Junpei feels some new instinct in his mind. Almost like an intrusive thought, he feels a need to be brash, to spar with the man he so respects more than anything. Ignoring his usual nature he follows this instinct, it’s just a dream right? Fighting through the pain and pleasure still coursing through him, Junpei speaks up, “Grgh- What are you- Are you giving me a foot fetish or what?” Arcadio’s face lights with a smile as he hears the young man speak up with the slightest amount of acid on his tongue. With no words to betray his emotion at the seed of Junpei’s changing psyche he moves his eyes up to Junpei’s legs.

“Oh what the fu-” he’s unable to even finish the thought as his whole body convulses with the sensation of his legs lengthening before they start to pack on muscle. Shooting almost a foot higher, Junpei falls back on his ass as he clenches at his calves and thighs. His gaze follows Arcadio’s as the man stares at his tight calves, expanding with each pulse of the heart. Just like every other inch of Junpei’s body there’s initially little at all impressive, and then they flex larger, and then there's a bulge that will never leave, and then there is a calf that would inspire jealousy by any lesser men who glimpses it. More than baseballs, muscle bulges enough for even socks large enough for his massive feet would struggle to contain them. This is nothing however compared to the transformation moving upwards into his thighs. 

Veins bulge thick as power seeps upwards, burning warmth sears his hands as they clutch at the hocks of meat that now constitute his thighs. Junpei blushes as he sees new distinct masses bulge out of his once bony thighs. Staring down at his increasingly powerful lower body he is filled with determination to get them even larger. The need for power begins to wash over whatever ideals or needs the young man had before this dream. Seeing the thick veins clearly pump and bulge larger with each beat of his heart, Junpei traces them with his finger and bites his lip as Arcadio can’t help but stare at the growing package that demands attention from the both of them.

Arcadio is more than pleased to stare, each second spent lingering on the cock sends waves of pleasure through Junpei as his mind struggles to parse that his cock and balls are stretching larger by the second. Quickly surging higher and thicker, his dick eclipses the size its been at its most turgid erection before now and it still pushes further with each groping grasp and sweaty breath. Similarly, beneath it his balls hang lower and the few dark hairs that shade his groin grow thicker and curl longer as his heavy balls rapidly increase production of the hormones this increasingly massive body demands. He cannot help but thrust into the air, his thin arms struggling to support the power his thighs summon. Landing back on his ass it too bulges larger with every flexing movement, quickly regaining its position as the largest muscle on the body as it becomes a bubble butt that would entice even the least male-interested eyes.

Moving on, lest Junpei blow his load all over himself, Arcadio's eyes continue upward to begin the most impressive work yet. Junpei groans as he desperately needs a break from the overwhelming pleasure burning in his lower body. He drags his hands across his inner thigh,  feeling callouses scratch his sensitive sweaty skin before palming his cock to a spurt of pre before moving on. His fingers trace towards his torso as veins begin to trail upwards, crossing his abs as they bulge into existence.

His body involuntarily goes into a crunch as every powerful ab cramps, sending stabbing pain and searing pleasure through his mind. Drool flings out of his mouth as he launches forward moaning. Junpei’s rougher hands grab his beefy thighs to prevent himself from falling backwards once again. His eyes almost cross as he seemingly loses control of any unengaged motor function. Across from him Arcadio just smirks and watches as Junpei’s sweat soaked hair changes from the same unintentional look he’s had all his life into something far more deliberate and fashionable. Exactly what he would want in a body man.

Hearing the strained groans and hungrily looking to the ephemeral expression dancing across Junpei’s face, Arcadio hesitates before continuing. Feeling the briefest of pauses from otherworldly bliss, Junpei cries out, his voice rumbling deeper as he finds his neck has thickened, “Mrgh- Don’t stop boss. I want, more.” The artist’s lips twitch as he is more than happy to obey the thief’s desires. After all, it's about time to get to his favorite part. At the same time Junpei’s mind flickers to the massive pecs that he so enjoyed observing at the museum as he begins to feel building pressure, increasing potential, on his chest.

Summoning a laser focus, Arcadio stares at Junpei’s arms and currently non existent pecs. He has trouble ignoring the bulge dawning in his own pants as he sees Junpei’s stick thin arms begin to bulk up. Immediately his arms fly behind him as he rapidly alternates between stretching them and flexing. With each thrust away from his body into the air they lengthen, fingertips shoot longer as his palms widen. With every bulging flex veins are forced to protrude even further through his faultless skin. His biceps may as well be forged of cast iron as they become impossible to ignore, power courses through them as from now on even the smallest movement causes a medley of muscle to dance across his beastly arms.

In between his bulging biceps, above the cobblestone abs, underneath shoulders still widening and taps pushing against a shirt that barely holds on, his pecs finally begin to receive the attention they have always lacked. Junpei’s nipples increase from the dimesize they’ve ever held into half-dollar protrusions that will be impossible to hide under a shirt. Similarly, the measly pecs they stand strong on begin to grow at a rate more prominent than any change so far. 

The sound of Junpei’s shirt giving way to muscle he couldn’t truly fathom before now burgeoning onto his chest overwhelms him more than he could ever know. In the moment of them bursting larger than life, he feels himself let loose of whatever restraining fragments of his past self remain. He wasn’t sure what caused him to take the sketch from the gallery, but Arcadio knew he would. Arcadio Carvajal, his boss, clearly had more planned for him than Junpei ever could imagine. As his pecs bloat beyond reason and he feels his chest pulse with power does he give himself totally over to become the perfect, powerful man that not for a moment in his life he thought he could become. 

His body shines with sweat as he finally loses control, loosing load after load into the white dreamscape around him. He opens his mouth to cry Arcadio’s name but before a sound could release he finds his godly body pressing up against one of the few men he considers an equal. His new burning muscled form grinds against that of Arcadio. Getting his sweat all over his boss, his lover, his best friend, Junpei smirks in between labored breaths and slobbered kisses. Somehow feeling the scratch of Arcadio’s chest through his shirt the new body man can’t help but frot against the artist’s torso.

Shoving his bearded face into Junpei’s neck, which certainly doesn’t help matters, Arcadio moves his scratchy mouth to his lover’s ear and whispers, “Me esperas… See you soon mi amor.” Seeding desire more potent than anything, every bulging muscle clenches and forces itself larger one last time. Every inch of his impossibly large, inhumanly powerful new form sizzles with the capacity for more pleasure than could ever be bestowed upon him before. Junpei will evermore dominate any room he decides to grace. He will do so physically and intangibly with an aura that exudes strength and entices the appetites of all, though perhaps that due to constantly sweating through any clothing or deodorant he throws on within an hour. 

Feeling emptiness fill him as Arcadio disappears from his dream after whispering in his ear, the now massive man has no recourse besides willing himself to wake up. And so he does.

Junpei wakes up on the floor of the apartment he’s been renting with Arcadio in the leadup to their new exhibition, for some reason the back of his head is sore as if he hit it. Though that’s nothing compared to the soreness that absolutely fills every last inch of his body. The giant groans as he wills his titanic upper body to sit up and smirks as he sees the sweat he must have just worked up. Scratching his pits and struggling not to sniff his hand after, his head briefly filled with countless memories of Arcadio chiding his poor hygiene, he hesitates before noticing some expensive paper lying on the ground. 

Tilting his head and grabbing a nearby towel to wipe the sweat almost dripping from his hand, he takes great care to grab whatever this is without getting too much of himself on it. Turning it around he’s floored to see a sketch that’s supposed to be on the museum wall right now, worse than that it’s from an area that Arcadio has left to him! Taking no time at all to question how this possibly ended up here, Junpei puts it in one of Arcadio’s artsafe folders and sprints down the street to the gallery. 

For being the assistant of such a fastidious man, Junpei has a habit of letting things slip through the cracks, but Arcadio never minds. He knows in the end Junpei will always more than make up for it, always aiming to go above and beyond and, somehow, more often than not exceeding what Arcadio even thought was possible. Entering the gallery the behemoth switches into the closest thing to a sneak that he can muster, unfortunately his massive clumsy feet would always betray his presence. His lover smiles as he hears Junpei’s failed covert operation.

Standing in front of the frame that is supposed to hold the piece that Junpei is now overtly returning, he turns with a sly smirk to see the man doing his best impression of a cat burglar. Arcadio rolls his eyes and goes to grab the folder, lest his lover get his streaming sweat onto it and create an awkward situation with the mangaka. After depositing in where it belongs and shutting it into a plastic case that was conspicuously absent earlier Arcadio returns his attention to Junpei who now looks around the gallery in wonder at what they have crafted together.

Arcadio’s grin grows wider with every step towards Junpei, nearing close enough to kiss, he stands tall and the two enjoy each other’s passion for the first time in reality. Though as Junpei’s deific form clearly demonstrates, what is real doesn’t matter all too much at all. Arcadio doesn’t quite understand the whims of the world he exists in and he’s pretty confident given enough time he won’t even remember being the impetus for his lover’s changes. In fact, as he stands in the arms of Junpei, memories already begin filling his mind of their years together that are as real as anything. Looking around he sees a room full of decisions they made together, body man he may be but the two of them are more than equals. Breaking away from the kiss, he sniffs the air and steps back from Junpei.

Arcadio looks at Junpei’s puppy dog eyes and ruffles his short hair, “Now go take a shower, perrito. Opening is in two hours and you stink, mi amor.” Junpei looks down at himself in shock, somehow forgetting the cold sweat covering his clothes and nods fervently before sprinting back out the door. The two lovers remain on each other's minds as they go about preparing for opening day. Ever but a thought away and always eager for the next moment that they will have alone together. 

[chemicalarospec]

Scary Christmas

okay scary christmas. i wanna get on this early because I'll be disappointed if Scary Christmas happens but it's just Christmas But Make It Children's Horror Game and/or The Nightmare Before Christmas. Warning: I'm literally making up all of this as I go along.

I respect the scary but as a scaredy-cat, I would rather not go full horror. Oh yeah, and I forgot to mention, we're throwing the Christmas part out the door. Vintage goth might be a good starting place for the aesthetic? Blood accents encouraged. Potential Scary Christmas colors:

idk i'm not an artist...

I'm imaging making old-web style "happy scary christmas" glitter graphics...

Scary Christmas iconography: spiderwebs are a good place to start. But more cobweb-y than spider-y. A line with a moon on top and a sun on the bottom, to represent the respective seasons of the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. The painting The Scream. Snowflakes? (Sorry Southern Hemisphere) My first concept art looks too much like Halloween.

Scary Christmas concept art:

Scary Christmas greetings: "Happy Scary Christmas!" "We're almost through January!" "May you face February unafraid." just "Face February unafraid!" in the cadence of an NPC. "Boo!"

Scary Christmas activities:

watching horror movies (with friends)

but if, like me, you are afraid of horror movies, then watching comedic kid's Halloween movies (The Nightmare Before Christmas included! I just want this to be MORE than that) or black and white films, particularly Alfred Hitchcock films, are encouraged substitutes.

gather around and sing SCARY songs or recite SCARY chants

or the Dune litany against fear

set a goal of doing something that makes you scared.

almost all holidays have traditional food so uh... okay apparently January is National Soup Month?? idk for which nation but soup it is. tumblr users love soup.

if there is no soup, there still should be a main dish in a bowl.

Scary Christmas goals are often (sorry my brain thinks it'd be really fun to write this like it's real but I don't want to confuse people) to live more authentically. Traditional Scary Christmas stories remind the listener that as scary as opening up as your true self is, the joy it brings is worth it. (transition. Scary Christmas is pro-trans.)

The meaning of Scary Christmas: Scary Christmas is a holiday that recognizes how scary life is. It is a day to acknowledge fear so we don't let it control the rest of our year. Celebrants are encouraged to share their seemingly-silly fears and realize they're not alone in them.

Scary Christmas recognizes that facing our fears helps us grow. On Scary Christmas, everyone is encouraged to take one step out of their comfort zone, whether it's trying a scary new food, watching a scary movie, or talking to a person (scary) -- but no one is forced to, because the Scary Christmas ideology also acknowledges that growth best happens under support.

Scary Christmas celebrates uniqueness and deviance. Catchphrase: stay scary, not scared!

Looking forward to celebrating Scary Christmas with you all on January 25th!

[rawliverandgoronspice]

I drew girls from my zelda stories.....

[effietrinket1619]

On the subject of Jess having a TikTok account dedicated to content produced by dint of her having the weirdest family anyone on the internet has ever seen (this is the true reason they are beating the Waynes for popularity), and Kyle finding that makeup is way more fun than expected:

-Simon being into cars and Hal being into planes. Does this cause conflicts? Who knows but they definitely both have multiple 'infodump about special interest' segments

-Kyle with makeup strikes again, multiple times (they even get John to sit for it, with a face of exasperated indulgence) which then devolves into 'everyone walks in heels challenge' and listen it's been a while since Hal was young enough to steal Carol's shoes for the hell of it but the muscle memory is still there so he's rusty but he's not Guy (cannot go five steps without tripping but he plays it off nicely). This is how everyone learns that Kyle can already walk in heels. He refuses to tell them how or why he knows this.

-also on the Kyle with makeup: does Jess get him into stage makeup and does he then try to make someone look like Kilowog.

-I want Hal to wear a dress at some point (with a good twirly skirt), possibly as another challenge Jess talks everyone into, because I think he'd enjoy it a lot more than he expected to. Guy spends the whole thing exaggeratedly emulating one of the PTA moms he knew back in the day and it's all fun and games until Kyle says 'yknow with dramatics like that you wouldn't be a half bad drag queen' and then Guy gets that specific demonic glint in his eye that means 'I have discovered a new way to cause chaos' and Kyle realizes immediately that he's all but signed himself up as the makeup artist for this. Hal is completely ignoring them in favor of looking at himself in the mirror and twirling in the twirly skirt and periodically hyping Kyle's makeup skills and the shopping skills of whoever picked the dress because "I was honestly expecting a repeat of that time I dressed in drag and sang ABBA at midnight on the tarmac because I lost a bet but you actually made me look nice!"

(Hal will drop anecdotes like that and then never elaborate or bring them up again. He does it specifically to drive Jess insane. She is aware of this.)

-at least one FMK of the Justice League, which about half the actual League watches, chaos ensues as a good quarter of the senior Leaguers pointedly flirt with Hal in Batman's line of sight specifically to make Bruce's eye twitch.

-vlog saga of a trip to an air and space museum, Hal geeks out the whole time, it's adorable.

-one video that's just Jess silently recording the dumpster fire of a trip that is Hal and Guy trying to buy groceries. It is captioned 'this is why John won't let us shop without him'.

-the One Time Jess got John to pop off about architecture

-Simon's litany of extremely helpful car advice.

-Kyle complaining about having art block because he gets so creative when he bitches about it.

-Jess replaces the sugar with salt and half the video is just her fucking booking it away from the rest of the Lanterns.

-yknow those prank videos where one party goes 'I trapped a mouse under the dish I'm too scared to touch it' and it's a computer mouse but you don't find out until the other party has moved it outside? Those fail absolutely in the Lantern house but they fail in such absolutely batshit ways she posts them anyway. Everyone's reactions to 'help there's a mouse/huge bug/etc under it' are just... so fucking weird. Jess tells John there's a big tarantula under that paper cup and he leaves and comes back with a mallet and that's the most normal reaction out of all of them.

-moves all the furniture three inches to the left. Compilation of creative swearing as toes are stubbed.

-rearranges the dishes while everyone's asleep, ensuing '....why are the plates in the bowl cabinet?????' Except Jess obviously can't stop there so one morning everyone wakes up and every cabinet and drawer in their kitchen has been emptied and filled with Legos. John turns the house upside down and he cannot find ANY of their dishes or cooking utensils and the only appliance left is the microwave which has been unplugged and filled with Legos. Kyle, Guy, and Hal immediately sit on the kitchen floor to start playing with the Legos, which is periodically interrupted by John's increasingly furious search for a SINGLE ONE of their dishes or utensils. He'll take finding a single chopstick at this point.

-compilation of having the family try weird foods except all of these people are so used to alien cuisine or the godawful space rations that they just... don't... react... she has Hal eat a carolina reaper the day after he gets back from a several month long mission in space and he's so used to space rations that he's just like 'oh thank god. Flavor.' And that's his only reaction. Like how all food is the best food ever when breakfast was ten hours ago and you've been hiking for eight of them.

-shdhgbsbd Jess does one of those horror movie prank challenges but it's the Lanterns so their reactions are.... not the expected. (Hal wakes up to see some horrific Halloween decoration staring him in the face. He gives it a once over, rolls over, and goes back to sleep).

these are absolutely FRYING me so i'll add on wherever i can

i'd like to make it so clear that jess never, at any given point, actually states the nature of her relationship to these people. they're all from different states, they all have wildly different cultural, religious and employment backgrounds. every time someone's brave enough to ask if [insert lantern] is her partner or parent, jess flat out ignores it and goes on with her day.

there's also the fact that guy and john, who crucially do not have secret identities, appear regularly and seem to live in this house with her? this is equally perplexing as jess apparently just casually knows two whole green lanterns. one person asks if the entire family is made up of green lanterns and jess makes a minute long response video that's just her laughing her ass off. no words at all. that puts the theories to rest for a while.

kyle's dabbled mildly in face painting but make up is a whole different game entirely. there's so much more. like, a lot of creative expression and more products and powders and paints he gets to figure out how to use as well as a whole new array of brushes. he cannot believe it took him this long to try.

john being the next victim is entirely fitting. he's silent and visibly fighting a smile so he looks as stoic as possible while kyle goes to town on him and gives him the cleanest cut crease anyone's ever seen. does this end up boosting john stewarts popularity publicly? yes. jess would tell you she had very little to do with it.

hal and his anecdotes give jess genuine aneurysms. as she films and helps kyle stencil in butterflies over his cheeks and forehead, he drops that he kinda wishes he went all out like this on his wedding day. kyle drops his brush and jess chokes audibly as they talk over each other to ask hal if he's actually married?? hal's response? a grin, a wink and a, "You never asked." horrifying.

kyle does end up getting really good with the state makeup and this spirals into a video where jess walks around looking like she got half of her face torn off (it's surprisingly realistic for makeup) and it scares the shit out of simon and guy.

the way hal is able to sashay in a dress and high heels has everyone deeply suspicious. jess also feels like john in particular is hiding something from them as they watch hal check himself out in a full length mirror. keli's, hidden behind the camera, is the one who asks hal if he's done this before. hal shrugs and says his airforce days were kinda wild. this will be keeping jess and her audience up at night.

anyway, john rocks an evening gown, guy is absolutely thrilled in a vintage, tea length dress that's very reminiscent of the forties housewife style, kyle gets a nice sundress with sunflowers printed all over it and simon has found a wedding dress (no one knows where he got it) and is twirling around in it. truly the video ever. jess has them do a whole catwalk and everything and hal in his heels and makeup really does steal the show.

no one knowing hal is a green lantern makes the FMK so much funnier. when asked for a reason as to why he'd kill batman in literally every single one of these, he has to come up with an answer that doesn't give away his history with bruce. what does he come up with instead? the first and only time he went to gotham, batman knocked his hotdog out of his hands and hal never went back. this gets #justiceforhaljordan and #batmanvshaljordan trending for a week straight. bruce is livid.

hal and guy at the supermarket goes viral because they get into an argument over the flavour of yoghurt keli likes best. it's banana vs chocolate when jess knows keli likes neither of these flavours. she says nothing. the argument lasts for thirty minutes and they end up not buying any yoghurt at all. hal and guy go to the next aisle over and start bickering again over chip flavours. jess's sigh rattles through her very bones.

jess purposefully strides up to simon and tells him that hal's considering getting a cybertruck (he isn't) and the audience gets to see simon's face go from shock to horror to disgust to pure and unadulterated rage. he then storms into hal's room (jess is still filming) and goes on this massive and impassioned rant about why cybertrucks are the single worst investment he could make and if hal bought one, simon would be ripping it apart immediately. hal is. so confused.

john is tipsy when jess brings up architecture and then everyone present, audience included, get an extended house tour where he proudly and deliberately points out every single design feature he included and the reasons for it (ofc john designed the house they're in, what the hell did you expect from me?). it's sweet, it's impassioned and it's clear it was all a labour of love.

the salt prank gets jo first. the others are either too exhausted or jaded to even really notice when they starts stirring salt into their coffee. but jo? she dumps a whole two teaspoons in and jess manages to keep a straight face until jo literally chokes on it and nearly starts drowning right then and there as tea goes everywhere. jess barely makes it out of there with her life preserved.

the mouse prank? yeah hal produces a fuckoff huge flamethrower from nowhere and jess is forced to reveal the prank before he actually burns the house down. jess takes her eyes off kyle for about five minutes and he's already rigged a very elaborate trap that absolutely will not work. jo takes one look at upturned dish and grabs a machete. about a billion viewers fall in love with her almost immediately. guy goes and finds a mouse cage so he can keep it and is devastated to see that it's a computer mouse. jess almost feels bad for him.

keli gets to participate in moving all of the furniture. kyle, eternally stuck in his own head, stubs his toes a million times and looks like he's on the verge of tears by the time he manages to navigate his way into his own room. when the door slams shut, jess and keli do hear another muffled yelp and they consider this a job well done. john eventually asks them to please move the furniture back before guy trips and gives himself more brain damage.

where did jess put the utensils and plates? she's not saying shit. but she does keep coming out with a bowl full of food and it's driving john genuinely nuts as he tries to figure out where the hell she's keeping this stuff. hal, kyle, guy and simon are entirely useless. they've been useless since the legos came out. jo absolutely knows something john doesn't and keli is thrilled that they get to have takeout the entire day. john is rethinking every decision that got him here as he combs through the house for the umpteenth time.

a lot of people find it incredibly attractive that hal, one of two white men in this fuckass family, can handle the heat of a carolina reaper. hal, of course, has been aided by oliver queen's chili recipe which he's consumed over the course of years. most of them have a pretty decent spice tolerance actually, so the challenge is less them feeling pain and more them being relieved that they're back on earth and they can actually eat food with flavour.

as a side note, i wanna make it so clear that the reason hal gets popular originally is because he's hot but after that point? he's just so fucking weird but also kind??? like he's possibly the weirdest guy anyone's ever seen cos he'll read hate comments and huff and go, "I watched my dad burn to death in front of me so this is not my biggest problem right now" and then never elaborate?? an enigma. he is also super cute when he geeks out. that helps.

hal's best friend is kilowog so there's virtually nothing that actually shakes him. jess positions a skeleton on the ceiling over hal's bed (supernatural style) and he doesn't even blink at it when he wakes up. no one does. not even with those enormous spiders that jump off the wall. jess's little pranks here are less about the comedy of her family getting scared and more about just showcasing how fucking weird they all are. it's infuriating and incredibly endearing all at once.

anyway this is so fun thank you for the ask <3

[slowd1ving]

Kim Dokja with a Sung Jinwoo!Reader and their supporting constellation is Six-Eared Macaque

BAKHT ⁺ ✦ KIM DOKJA

"An existence as lonely as yours... chance has not been kind to you, it seems." It was neither choice nor good fortune that flung you into the rift that divided worlds: suspended in a limbo not of your own making, in a world with no dungeons like yours but 'scenarios' instead. Only the Story reaching its [◼◼◼] and you protecting the protagonist would guarantee your return, but how were you supposed to do that when the 'protagonist' you were meant to protect kept dying? honestly it's been a while since I read both solo levelling and orv so the plot is a bit hazy. I told myself to focus more on the actual interaction so it wouldn't snowball into storybuilding like the rest of my works... but alas... honestly this ask was extremely interesting like I've never read journey to the west but a sung jinwoo/six eared macaque collab??? damn me when I focus on tense first encounters rather than the lovey dovey aspect of relationships.. jokes aside it does get somewhat soft at the very end fun fact bakht refers to fortune in arabic, or rather finding luck in 'chance'; which unfortunately our reader doesn't seem to have a lot of... art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x! pairing: kim dokja + sung jinwoo gn reader warnings: canon typical danger, mentions of death, also they're not really on the best of terms initially?? quite graphic depictions of blood wc: 2.7k

ORV MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Tonight, the wind carried only premonition in its whispers. It started like all the stories did—the ones that reached your ears, at least. Beginning as a gentle breeze, the songs twining past and future turned coarse as a gale once they encountered the pixelated appendages that seemed to have a life of their own: six downy auricles that were unable to decide whether to stay in the virtual realm or materialise themselves. 

Most of the time, they hid in the umbrous kingdom—much like the rest of your shadows. When you donned the façade of the humans from Planetary System 8612, the tales you could eavesdrop on were mere gossip slinking in from the future and the bygone past—tidbits of paltry information that were perhaps divine retribution for not proudly donning the Six-Eared Macaque’s ‘crown’, as he seemed to put it. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, the mellifluous litany of your flute was sharper than usual as you idled the time away. Tonight, with only the vast night shielding you and the countless shadows skulking on the rooftop, their dance appeared wilder. There was frenzy in the air, and prophecy tainting the cold, canorous wind. 

It tasted acerbic. 

‘Danger… horizon…. Dokja….’

The frequency soured the melody that brushed past the fur of your six-ears, and they flicked, irritably. 

[The Fake Monkey King warns of something afoot.]

“I know,” you bitterly commented. Something was always afoot when it came to this world in which you did not belong. Falling past the veil separating a dungeon from nothingness wasn’t meant to happen. Your system subsequently trapping you in this limbo until you reached [◼◼◼◼◼], too, wasn’t meant to happen either. Let the Story run its course and protect its ‘protagonist’, and this dimension will naturally collapse just enough that you’ll fall through back into yours. 

Kim Dokja, you’d repeated like a mantra while you lost your mind—over and over while your system glitched and protested in this limbo. Over and over, while he died and died and died some more. You’d bought and earned and fought for various potions, weapons and clothes to help him with his scenarios—leaving them in his vicinity where you knew he’d stumble across them—but it was all so fucking futile. 

Each time, he returned past the veil; each time, you sank into a deeper mire of restriction. You hadn’t spoken to another soul in months: imprisoned in the very shadows you controlled. It wasn’t as bad, initially: you could still talk to people uninvolved in the ‘Story’, the poor souls dubbed as extras—so long as you didn’t cause any ripples with your actions. If Dokja was accounted for through both the soldiers in his shadow, and the whispers that reached the six ears that fanned out behind your head, it would be fine. 

‘Hazard… kilometre north of Dokja’s camp….’

A kilometre. You’d be quiet. You always were. 

Dokja. Dokja. Dokja. Your face soured as you exchanged places with Beru: ready to silently act as his guardian shadow, though if he was determined to sacrifice himself… Both of you would pay a price.

The silence in the city was razor-sharp and just as deadly, to the point you could hear the ionic buzz of your summoned demonic knives. Their ozonic scent bitterly filled your mouth, which only amplified the acerbic profanities mingling on your tongue as you glanced around for the danger. What danger? You’d be damned before you were sent back to that empty desert to reflect your wrongdoings. There was no chance to gain anything there—just endless time, chipping your sanity away and stirring up derision for the one who couldn’t solve anything without dying. 

Because in the end, both of you would pay the price, and he didn’t even know it. He became a constellation, while you were shackled to a prison that was never of your own making. 

Examining the wreck of this urban landscape that felt too much like the Seoul you knew, you came to the abrupt conclusion that there was nothing. Even when your six-ears flicked this way and that, it was too silent. Not a whisper, nor any trace of danger lingered in this space; such an occurrence was nigh-impossible in the scenario-laden dome of this city. 

[The Prisoner of the G◼◼◼en Headband expres◼◼◼◼ his mistrust.] 

Sun Wukong. A flash of hatred that was not your own wracked your body, complete with a burning envy and something far more insidious than anything you’d ever experienced, 

Crackling messages began interfering with your system screen. You’d only seen this once—when you accidentally intruded on the fringes of the ‘Star Stream’ as an ‘unauthorised one’. An anomaly if you ever saw one. 

“There’s nothing,” you muttered callously, scraping the tip of your blade against concrete ruins. If it had been a false alarm, then it was time to leave before you risked paying the penalty. Your job was simple—keep watch of the ‘protagonist’ from the shadows, and make his life somewhat easier. 

[A nameless constellation argues that advertisements are simply a part of life, and that it’s not a big deal to build suspense.]

That’s weird. The messages were getting clearer, but the warning signs that typically appeared in the system windows weren’t there. 

Your own supporting constellation was far too quiet as you sheathed your knife in the shadow dimension—the darkness cradled the weapon softly before it vanished, though the familiar whish could not soothe the unease that distorted your mind. Never had the six-ears failed to pinpoint hazards, as close to omniscient that they were.

“Got you,” something—someone—whispered from afar, the moment you stepped on the next broken slab of pavement and triggered a tripwire. A paltry toy, golden string that was incandescent in this darkened city, wrapped tightly around your body; right before you were shoved against a concrete wall. “You’re not the only one to see the ‘outcome’.”

Stand down, Igris, you commanded as the stranger continued to press into you; you could sense the turbulent shadows growing even more agitated at your position, though all of them could feel the ease with which you could’ve snapped out of the rope that was no more than a thread. The stream was eerily silent, while the glassy window only you could see kept its cold azure colour—nothing like the glaring scarlet that informed you of your penalty. 

Who is this? 

In the darkness, you made out the shape of a mouth pressed into a thin line. Dark hair partially swept over the stranger’s eyes, while a long white coat draped itself over his shoulders. But it wasn’t the garb, nor was it the features that alerted you of just who this was. 

It was the umbrous cloud of his soul, the very one you’d been tracking all these weeks. 

“Kim Dokja,” you greeted, half-placidly, half in intrigue. If he could bend the rules of life and death to suit him, you supposed that bending some more rules wouldn’t hurt. The interest was quickly replaced by irritation—for this was the very charge that had continuously shackled you to the in-betweens of the Seoul dome. Not quite a human from this planet, nor a monster—just an abominable anomaly that didn’t belong in this ‘Story’ at all. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

There was a polite smile on your face, but he only scoffed in disbelief. “What the hell are you playing at? Who are you? You think leaving all those materials for me to find will somehow increase your chances to survive? Why are you doing this?”

Incredulity laced each syllable. The Ugliest King stared hard at the face of the Shadow Monarch, though he didn’t know it. 

You sympathised, you really did. Having someone trail after you (though he hadn’t mentioned your shadows—did he even notice them?) and leave you useful items might have been convenient to some, but chronic overthinkers (as Beru had reported to you from his shade) wouldn’t see it as such. 

But it wasn’t like you had a choice not to, either. 

“I just want to get back home.” For the first time, there was a hint of the welling annoyance that seeped through the cracks in your courteous expression: in your grinding molars, in the slight squint of your eyes. Babysitting this guy should have never been part of your job.

Don’t affect the story.

You pressed your lips together to avoid the tide of complaints that swept in. Why do you keep dying? Do you know how much it sucks whenever you do? Why the fuck was I put on babysitting duty?

“Just take the things,” you gritted out instead; to which a sharp blade stung the side of your neck. Quick, but not quick enough to pose a true threat to you. “They were annoying to farm, you know that?”

“I never asked for them, nor do I need them to reach where I want to be. You were never in the original— I can’t exactly trust you now, can I?” he scowled—more ill-tempered than Beru had included in his periodic reports. In a mere second, you surged: as fluid and fast as quicksilver, slamming the guy you’d grown to abhor into the cold, harsh asphalt. There was no apology dripping from your lips this time, only a snarling, bloodied grit of teeth when the penalty began etching into your skin as a direct consequence of laying hands on the ‘untouchable’ protagonist. 

Sensing your distress, the six-ears materialised around your face—like they were countering the drip-drip of sanguine that slinked from your nose and onto the shirt of the man beneath you. You watched as you sullied the protagonist you were forced to stay away from—tainted in a way that was sure to finally end you. His dark eyes, too, traced the motion of each crimson rivulet: chest rising and falling desperately as he felt the very real, razor-sharp edge of his own knife lightly against his jugular. 

“Listen, I never asked for this either,” you hissed. “Believe it or not, I too want you to reach the conclusion of this shitshow so I can get back home. You need to stay alive for that. I’ll wait.”

The pressure in your head intensified. 

“I don’t know how you got past the restrictions on me—” Your grip on his shirt loosened as carmine began seeping into the system window. “—but I can’t stay here any longer without repercussions. Neither can I interfere with the story nor escape this hell—” Dark spots began floating in your vision, and the blade sliced into the concrete a hair's breadth away from his neck with a low-resonating chime. Maybe this was your only chance to make your job easier, without the loss of sanity that came with rule-breaking. “—but if you can’t trust me, trust that your accomplishment of your goal will allow me to get back to my own world as a result.”

“Wait–” Your body swayed as you stood, feeling the familiar frequency of the Stream boot up against the fine down of the six-ears. I don’t have time, you wanted to say, but iron was beginning to leave your lips too. 

[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband complains loudly that fraternising with the enemy is a horribly stupid move, pulling out his hair.]

[The Demon-like Judge of Fire is unsure of this development, and would like to be filled in on this stranger’s connection with the Prisoner of the Golden Headband..]

The Star Stream was… clear. Not filled with static like it had been before, but cogent enough that you could observe each message coherently. 

[The Star Stream has its eyes on you.]

A terrible foreboding surfaced, while your chest constricted with the sudden onslaught of red that assaulted your eyes—a cacophony of warning signs, all targeted at you. 

“What is that?” A hand that wasn’t yours reached for the crimson glow, and you jolted as the cerise shattered: reverting back to the familiar blue interface. The ache in your head, too, vanished—yet the buildup of fatigue was still present in your hazy mind. Though, the only thing you could register was the change in his voice as he observed the screen, an inkling of understanding as he watched the characters fade from existence:

Protect the ‘protagonist’ Kim Dokja. Let the Story run its course, and you will be able to return to your home world. 

{The Fourth Wall quietly observes the remnants of its meal.}

Gone, in a wave of his hand. That same hand, now held out to you as if it hadn’t just erased weeks’ worth of strain from your body: long, deft fingers reaching out to you. You could only stare as the world grew dim around you, as a faint voice brushed past the soft fur of your six-ears. 

‘Error… error… due to unprecedented actions ◼◼◼◼ taken by the protagonist, the system has now… updated to provide for a deuteragonist model… consi◼◼der standby… updating… updating… ◼◼◼◼◼◼   ◼◼◼◼ objective updated… reach the [◼◼◼◼] alongside deuteragonist Kim Dokja to catalyse homecoming.’

“What the hell… did you do?” you slurred. The misguided loathing towards him had dissipated into a tumultuous state of frenzy; you could feel the shadows within stir with the agitation of your mind, though you fought to keep your cards at bay. Rather than the hilt of your familiar sword, you thumbed the worn edge of your flute in a last bid to stay calm. 

“‘Reach the [◼◼◼◼] alongside deuteragonist Kim Dokja to catalyse homecoming’, huh?” The incredulity you felt at him repeating the words that only you ever heard was overshadowed by the bone-deep exhaustion you felt. 

“Was… being honest,” you mumbled for the last time, fully expecting to feel the frigid asphalt as you collapsed and your eyes came to a close. The lingering penalties had finally taken effect, yet you didn’t quite hit the hard concrete like you anticipated. Rather, you collided against a wiry frame that, despite its initial gauntness, was far warmer than anything you’d felt in these apocalyptic weeks. “I might’ve died if I continued interfering.”

“You won’t die.” The words ghosted over your ear as he stared down at the person in his arms who’d been tracking him for weeks. They’d been a constant pain and irritated him to no end, especially with all the gifts he received that he’d never read about in TWSA; and there was nothing he hadn’t read about in TWSA save for the epilogue. “I won’t let you.”

His very headache was now slumbering in his arms, with only the ambition of going home on their mind. 

What a lonely existence. 

Maybe you heard him. Maybe you didn’t. All he knew was that he was crafting an epilogue that would shake this very world to its roots, and perhaps there was a small, you-sized shape cut out just for the person snoozing their little heart out. He had a feeling he had only breached the outermost layer of you; peeling back only the very dermis to reveal someone far too overpowered to compete with most of the dome. 

Dokja’s thumb traced the bloody lines staining your face. You could faintly feel them; then, abruptly, the citrus smell that lingered on him grew sharper. Closer. A soft pressure applied itself to the crown of your head: fleeting, silvery. What was that?

It was everything that had been forcibly taken from you after you were brought past the void. 

With something that was suspiciously close to a smile, your mind drifted away in the arms of someone who both damned you and saved you. 

　⁺ ✦

“If Igris and Yoo Joonghyuk fought, who would win?” 

“Igris,” you answered without missing a beat. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in your face as you opened your mouth, and it was so strong that he almost believed that your Commander could beat the true ‘protagonist’ of this world. “And if he lost, I’d win for him.”

This! This was his chance to get back at that squid bastard! 

“...Want to test your hypothesis?”

[pilot-boi]

Got commissioned to draw the most fucked up alternate fusion of the failwives, and also to write a little fic! (Hint hint nudge nudge, I can write for commission now)

The basic premise is that these two fall into the Ever After and are flying around destroying stuff and the Tree merges them into one person to help them understand each other. It doesn't go well at first, but it turns out okay!

Want some art of your own? [Buy Me A Ko-Fi]

(Fic under the cut or on AO3) :]

“Balance is not two forces locked in never-ending battle. True balance finds its own equilibrium. It only requires love, and the patience to see things through to the end.”

-The Blacksmith

Winter remembers flying. And falling. Fire and ice and screaming at someone until her throat went hoarse. She remembers a Tree, for some reason. One significant enough to need emphasis, even in her murky thoughts.

Where is she? Gods her head is swimming. It’s so hot. Why is it so hot?

Someone groans. Someone nearby.

Winter’s military training instantly has her on high alert. She forces her thoughts into order, pulling clarity into her mind by her fingernails. It’s difficult, more difficult than it should be. A burning like frostbite and hunger thrums under her skin, and she wraps mental fingers around the feeling without conscious thought. It’s a familiar sensation, but also not. Like holding hands with a very dear friend.

Holding very still, she listens for any other sign of the nearby person. She can’t be sure if they’re a threat, although with her foggy memories she highly doubts anyone friendly brought her to this situation. So Winter listens, trying to discern the location of the adversary.

Someone is breathing. Soft and shallow, just like her. They’re waiting for her to make the first move, the same as she’s waiting for them.

She doesn’t have to wait long.

There’s a roar of anger and in an instant her body is lurched upwards by her right arm without any input from her. Winter’s eyes fly open and her fingers clench instinctively around the hunger-frostbite feeling. Light flickers past her eyes and ice gathers at her fingertips. She gets a glimpse of fire, a glimpse of dark hair-

-And Winter collapses unceremoniously back onto the ground, her right arm not responding to her movements and very much not supporting her weight. The person yelps, and there’s a coinciding thud when they appear to collapse in tandem.

They both lay there for another moment, clearly weighing their options. The element of surprise is gone, for both of them. There’s no more pretending she’s unconscious, and the other is clearly lamenting the same, based on the litany of curses Winter can hear muttered nearby. 

Female, maybe slightly younger than she is. Quick to act, rash, although not stupid. The other woman waited and listened the same as she did. Smart, but impulsive. With a fire-related Semblance, based on the flames she glimpsed before her limbs gave out.

Winter takes closer stock of her faculties, paying particular attention to her physical aptitude rather than mental. She’s felt the effects of a concussion before, and while the pounding in her head and murky thoughts are leading to that conclusion, in everything she knows about that injury there is never any mention of nerve damage severe enough that it would lead to a loss of limb control.

Starting with her left hand, she tests every finger. Sore, but not broken. She bends it at the wrist, rolling it. All in working order, if incredibly sore, which is good as that’s her dominant arm. Winter does the same with her left hand, the one that failed to catch her, and finds it similarly functional.

Then why did it not respond before? The person beside her has stopped cursing.

Winter opens her eyes slowly, and promptly slams them back shut with a wince as bright sunlight stabs her retinas like a pair of knives. More cautiously she tries again, squinting into the blurry surroundings until they focus into something recognizable.

Palm trees, and clear blue sky beyond them. The sun is nearly directly overhead, and when she curls her fingers she can feel grains of hot sand beneath her fingers.

Strange. She should be wearing gloves. 

Suddenly Winter feels her right hand clench, grabbing a fistful of sand. 

It’s incredibly jarring, she can feel her arm moving, like she’s moving it. She was able to move it before, but once again simple bodily control seems beyond her. It’s like some unseen entity has slipped into her body and is puppeting her like a doll. 

The hand and arm lift into the air, and Winter can feel gravity tugging at them both, can feel the muscles strain with disuse. She can feel every grain of sand trickle from between clenched fingers. Each finger uncurls methodically, not unlike how she tested her hands before, but now the disconnect between movement and conscious thought is so jarring that Winter’s teeth grit together.

It’s like nails on a chalkboard, offensive and nauseating. Without conscious thought, Winter puts all of her willpower into wrenching control of her body back from her unseen puppeteer.

Her arm thumps back into the sand, limp. Hers again, for the moment.

“What did you do to me?” a voice half-craks half-snarls beside her. Fully audible, unlike the muttered curses earlier. Deliberate. Full of choked back rage, but in control. 

It’s a familiar voice, but also not. Poised but terrified, trying to hide its fear, but failing. 

It sounds like her own.

Not trusting her limbs, Winter tilts her head to finally look at the speaker, her adversary.

And Cinder Fall stares back.

A flicker of satisfaction lights in Cinder’s stomach at the look of bewildered rage that crosses Schnee’s face before her mask slams back down. But that satisfaction is nothing compared to the anger and fear roiling in her mind like a firestorm. 

Cinder is no stranger to her own limbs not listening to her. Ruby Rose all but burned away her left arm, and Salem’s offered alternative only obeyed if she made the Grimm flesh fear her. And even then, it would always heed the orders of her Mistress over herself, seizing in pain and flailing out of her control at a thought.

Not that Cinder isn’t grateful. The arm grants her power, and the ability to steal the Maiden powers. Salem gave that to her. It’s because of Salem that she has it. Without her, Cinder is nothing.

But this… this is a step beyond.

“What are you…” Schnee starts to snap back, and then clearly she sees what Cinder noticed as soon as she woke up.

Her body isn’t only her body anymore. She has a passenger, a parasite. Two arms, and two legs, blotchy skin running up the middle like paint smeared together. Two heads on one set of shoulders, and one is very much not her own.

Cinder sees the moment Schnee puts it together. “That place! The Tree, and that woman and-” Her eyes narrow sharp and cold as icicles. “What did you do?”

Cinder scoffs. “So like a Schnee, taking no responsibility, always assuming it must be someone else’s fault.”

“Well forgive me for blaming you, but only one of us is working for a woman hellbent on destroying the world.”

“Oh did the dear General have a sex change? I didn’t know.”

“Don’t play games with me, Fall! ” Schnee pushes herself up on one arm, leaving their shared body awkwardly tilted as she looms over Cinder. Her blues eyes blaze to life, and Cinder subtly melts the sand beside her into a blade. “I understand punishing you, but why that woman decided to drag me into this I have no idea. So what did you do?”

 Cinder scoffs. “Don’t act like you’re so innocent, so blameless, you can’t hide behind your shining Atlas exterior. We all saw what Atlas stands for, what you’re complicit in. You can thank your dear General for that.”

“I’m not hiding, I know my crimes,” Schnee responds, cold as a glacier. “But what I’ve done is nothing compared to you. If this is some sort of divine punishment, then I certainly am not the one to blame.”

“And I am?!” Cinder lurches upright as well, her temper boiling to the surface as she feels the fire-hunger swell. This woman, the nerve, the audacity. Ordered to kill an entire Kingdom, and would’ve followed through while hiding behind her precious orders. And she dares to claim she has a moral high ground? “What have I done that’s so horrible?!”

“You killed my sister!!” Schnee roars, the air turning noticeably colder around them.

Cinder rolls her eyes. “She’s alive, you moron. If we’re alive after falling then your precious sister is.”

“Penny, not Weiss! And it’s only by sheer luck that her blood isn’t also on your hands.”

“Penny?” Cinder barks out a laugh, and tightens her grip on the glass blade beside her. “You mean the General’s synthetic brat? How could she be your sister she wasn’t even-”

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare say that Penny wasn’t alive!” A cutlass of ice is at Cinder’s throat before she can blink. Cinder wonders if Schnee even realizes the sword she’s wielding is at her own throat as well. “She was more alive, more human than you could ever hope to be!”

 “Look who’s talking!” The blade at her throat begins to melt. “Perfect prodigal Winter Schnee!” Cinder snarls, spitting the woman’s name like it’s the worst swear she can think of. “Up in your Academy with everything handed to you on a silver platter.” The fire-hunger swells in her stomach, and flames spit from between her teeth. “Your perfect life, your perfect city. You can’t even fathom how rotten Atlas really is.”

And it’s just for a moment, a fraction of a moment, but Schnee’s mask falters. “I know better than most the corruption hiding behind the facade,” she admits, the sword lowering just barely. “You don’t know anything about my life.”

“Neither do you!” Cinder’s eyes narrow. “You call me a monster, but you don’t know the first thing about what I’ve had to suffer.”

“I know enough.”

“Jumping to conclusions about perceived enemies, how very Atlesian of you! The General would be proud,” Cinder spits, and again the woman’s mask slips. Cinder glances down at the sword still hovering by her throat. “Now drop your weapon before I do it myself.”

Winter’s eyes narrow. “Fine, but only if you relinquish the blade that you’ve been hiding behind your back this whole time.” Cinder bares her teeth, but in a distant part of her mind Winter can feel her hand loosen “her” grip on the glass weapon.

With a thought, Winter dissipates her ice cutlass. Anything to avoid that unnatural puppeting sensation of her limbs following someone else’s orders. How could Penny experience that and remain so cheerful afterwards?

No. She can’t think about Penny. It hurts too much. 

Winter sighs and lets her half of their shared body flop back onto the sand. With the adrenaline fading, all the aches and pains are catching up to her. She groans softly as the hot sand eases just a little bit of the pain. Cinder doesn’t relax, even though she lays down, pulled by Winter’s half of the body. The Fall Maiden is still tense, like Winter might strike her at any moment. 

“I’m not going to attack you,” Winter says.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Not exactly fair, since Cinder was the first to strike. “Do you have any idea where we are?” Winter asks.

“No, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

“What am I going to do with the information?! If you haven’t noticed, I can’t exactly go anywhere without dragging you along.”

“Whatever.”

The sun is starting to set overhead, and in the branches above them Winter spots the animals coming to life now that the heat of the desert is fading. It’s peaceful, or it would be if her sister’s murderer wasn’t parasitically attached to her body.

No. Still can’t think about Penny.

“If you could shut up, that would be fantastic,” Cinder says.

“I wasn’t even saying anything.”

“I can hear you thinking.”

Winter grits her teeth and resists the urge to strangle Cinder. “Well I can’t exactly stop doing that, can I?” She can feel Cinder roll her eyes, and wonders if the other woman was telling the truth about hearing her thoughts or was just trying to get under her skin. How merged are they?

“Look,” Winter says eventually, staring up at the color streaked sky. “I don’t like you, and you don’t like me.”

“Finally, something we can agree on.”

“But unless you know some way back to the Tree dimension, we’re stuck like this for the foreseeable future. So we’re going to have to work together.”

“We need to get out of the open,” Cinder says by way of a response, moving to sit up. Winter reluctantly does the same, and they awkwardly get themselves upright. “Whether we’re in that Tree place or Remnant, I don’t want to be around here when it gets dark.”

Winter raises an eyebrow. “We’re both Maidens. What could the local wildlife possibly do?”

“We can’t just be strong, we have to be smart,” Cinder snaps. “We don’t even know if we can stand up let alone fly, this is not the time to try our chances in a fight.” 

Winter can’t stop the look of surprise. Cinder Fall, impulsive and brash as fire itself, recommending caution and thinking through before acting? Maybe Winter does know less about her than she thought. Cinder didn’t answer her proposal, but the suggestion of shelter implies protection for both of them. A truce of sorts, in the face of adversity.

Glancing around, Winter sees nothing but palm trees, sandblasted stones, and waves of desert beyond, nothing that could be used as a shelter. A patch of shadow catches her eye. “Past that clump of palms, there’s an outcropping or an alcove maybe.”

Cinder turns to where she’s looking, without her needing to point, and again Winter wonders just how connected they are. The other woman is silent for a moment, appraising. “We’d at least have our backs against something solid.” She nods. “I don’t see anything better, it’ll do.”

From Cinder Fall, this might as well be a cry of jubilation. Despite their agreement to work together, moving in tandem proves to be more of a struggle than Winter would like. After several failed attempts at standing that all ended with them landing flat back on their faces, the merged Maidens resort to half-crawling half-dragging themselves to the outcropping.

It’s not much of a shelter, nothing more than a nook in a pile of boulders, but it’s better than nothing. They lean gingerly back against the stone, even that short journey wearing them out more than it should have. Winter’s mouth is dry, and her stomach aches. How long has it been since she ate or drank? Will she need to eat and drink more or less now that she’s sharing a stomach?

“We should look for potable water,” Winter suggests, rubbing a crick out of her neck. “It wouldn't be wise to go another day in that heat without hydration. Or food, judging by how rapidly our body is using energy.” 

“I’ve gone longer, it will be fine.”

Winter frowns. “You’ve gone longer than a day without water?”

Cinder shrugs, running fire-warmed hands over the aching muscles in their legs. “And food. It wasn’t fun, but I lived.”

Winter knows what it sounds like to speak from behind a mask of your own making. Cinder may sound casual, but its a facade. There’s a story there. One Winter isn’t sure she wants to poke into. You don’t know the first thing about what I’ve had to suffer, Cinder had said.

“Did you live in Atlas?” Winter asks. Cinder’s motions still, and then she continues more slowly. “The way you talk about it, it seems like you’re more familiar with the city than the average visitor.”

“I am,” Cinder says shortly. A bedroom on the floor in a storeroom, sisters more like torturers, a mother more like a slaver. And Rhodes, the biggest hypocrite of them all. “I lived there a long time ago, I hated it. Then I left and never looked back.” She’ll never have to. The city must have crashed by now, the Glass Unicorn a crumbled mess in the ruins of a destroyed city.

“I did the same,” Schnee admits, and Cinder looks at her in surprise. Amber eyes meet blue, and Schnee holds her gaze calmly. “My father, Jacques Schnee, was a father in blood alone. I joined the military to get away from him, to become strong enough that he could never hurt me again.” She laughs ruefully, her expression darkening. “I can’t believe I actually thought James was better than him.”

Cinder drops her gaze, moving back to mechanically easing the aches out of their shared muscles. Running away to become strong enough to never be hurt again. She hates how it sounds so familiar. She hates that she almost empathizes with Winter, that she understands.

It’s not the same, it’s not the same. Winter is a Schnee, born into privilege and promise. She got to become a Huntress, ran away into the open arms of the Atlas military on a whim. She didn’t have to claw and bite her way out. Run into the open arms of Salem, who used her and lifted her up and hurt her worse than the Madame ever could.

“Did you make him pay?” Cinder asks quietly, “For hurting you?” 

“Did you make them pay?” Winter answers with a question. “Whoever hurt you?”

Cinder’s hands still. The blood on the storeroom floor, the Madame’s neck crunching under her fingers all while her veins sing with electricity. The first betrayal she’s ever experienced, and the one that hurt the most. Born again at the stroke of midnight.

“I killed them,” she says, once again meeting Winter’s eyes. She expects to find hated pity there, expects to scream at her for perceived weakness, but she finds only cool understanding. “My sisters, the Madame, and the Huntsman who trained me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cinder’s eyes narrow. “I’m not weak.”

“I never said you are,” Winter responds. “Were they the ones who kept you from food and water?”

“Yes. I was their servant, if I didn’t work, I didn’t eat.”

There’s a flare of anger in Winter’s cold eyes, and it takes Cinder a moment to realize the emotion is pointed at the Madame. Winter Schnee is angry on her behalf, at a woman she never met, just because she hurt Cinder. Where’s that Atlesian delight in putting down her inferiors?

“Can you make other things out of glass?” Winter asks suddenly. “Other than weapons?

Cinder blinks. “Probably. I’ve never really tried.”

“Can you make a bowl?”

“Why?”

“Just humor me.”

A bit dumbfounded, Cinder scoops a handful of sand from beside her and melts it into glass, slowly shaping the liquid into something resembling a bowl. It’s difficult to keep the edges smooth, different from the obsidian blades she’s so fond of, but eventually she’s left with a lopsided bowl in the palm of her hand.

“That’s perfect, thank you,” Winter says, taking Cinder’s hand and moving it closer to herself. It doesn’t feel as unnatural as before, the autonomous movement mitigated by the added visual of someone physically moving her hand. Or possibly by the simple act of human companionship as Winter holds her hand.

Winter’s eyes flare to life, and Cinder’s hackles immediately raise. This was all a trick, an act to lull her into complacency. Winter is going to attack her now, in her moment of weakness-

“Calm down,” Winter murmurs, running a thumb over the back of Cinder’s hand. Cinder hates how the action does actually calm her. “Just watch.” The Winter Maiden inhales and blows a white cloud into the bowl, and when the mist clears it’s full of clean white snow.

Without even needing to be prompted, Cinder knows what to do. Fire flickers past her eyes as she slowly heats up the palm of her hand, not enough to melt the glass, just enough to melt the snow. In just a few moments, all the flakes are gone and clear water sits in the bowl.

“Drink it,” Winter prompts. “It’s for you.”

“You mean it’s for us,” Cinder counters. “My body is your body, don’t pretend this is an act of charity when it’s benefiting you as well.”

Winter rolls her eyes, almost fondly. “Just drink the damn water.”

Cinder stares at it for a moment. Water created from nothing. Ice and fire, both death in their own regards. Diametrically opposed, but combined to create the bringer of life itself. 

Eventually she looks up, meeting Winter’s gaze. Why did you do this? Why are you helping me, after I hurt you? Why do you even care? Why are you aiding your enemy? Why you, why me? 

Cinder’s mind roils with all of the questions and more, but can’t vocalize more than a single word. “Why?” 

Winter is still holding her hand, and the ghost of a smile crosses her lips. The ice queen’s hand is strangely warm. “Because the people who hurt us are gone. So why should we continue to torture ourselves for them?”

There’s no reason Winter should care. Winter doesn’t even know her. And yet she does, a runaway in her own right, running to power out of fear and falling into the same horror she was fleeing from. Cinder and the Madame and Salem. Winter and her father and the General. 

She created water from her very soul, just so Cinder wouldn’t have to be thirsty. 

Cinder raises the bowl to her lips, with Winter’s hand still steadying hers, and drinks. It’s the cleanest water she’s ever tasted, cooling and refreshing on her parched throat. She doesn’t have to look to feel that Winter is smiling.

Fire and Ice. Dark and light. Maybe they’re not meant to destroy each other, not meant to be locked in a battle forever. Water in a glass bowl, two opposed forces combined to create something beautiful.

Maybe even they can find their own balance.

[minarisplaything]

Gala Gal ft. Blackpink Rosé

pairing: Rosé x male reader rating: Explicit wordcount: 2.8k prompt: a young journalist gets a chance of a lifetime with Rosé at a recent event.

Being a writer for a celebrity magazine has its advantages, such as getting to attend grand events like the Cannes Film Festival, or in this case, the MET Gala. Now you might think, where's the fun or excitement in that? A bunch of rich people dressed in overpriced clothing and posing on the red carpet while you have to ask them redundant questions that no one truly cares about outside a small niche of fans.

That is a reasonable question to ask, and a fair point to make. Hell, there are times when you wonder to yourself just how legitimate of a job this is. You certainly hear that question from your parents enough. But the answer to all of those questions comes from the woman currently walking towards you.

"Thank you for your time," you say to the current girl in front of you.

You have been interviewing some girl who is apparently 'the next Olivia Rodrigo,' which is a wild title to have, but you digress. As you bid her good-bye, a sudden chorus of "Rosé! Rosé over here!" erupts from the group of photographers, followed by a series of flashing light bulbs.

Your eyes flick over to the red carpet area near you to see none other than the 26-year-old starlet, Roseanne Park. Otherwise known as Rosé from Blackpink.

You have never crossed paths with her at any events you have covered; which you just toss up to bad luck or god punishing you for some crime you can’t remember. Either way, it seems like you will finally be getting your chance. Judging from this distance, she is just as beautiful as she appears in all her photos.

Her blonde hair is flowing down her back while loose bangs frame her face as she smiles for the camera. She is wearing a black dress that is form-fitting at the top, held together by two thin straps, and flares outwards at the waist. Frankly, she looks stunning. It is a classy dress that still manages to spark arousal in you. Though, you will keep that last part to yourself.

It is only a few moments later that you have to compose yourself as the press woman directs Rosé towards your vicinity. Adjusting your stance, and growing erection, you cough and put on a friendly smile as she walks over.

"Hi, I'm with Eros Magazine," you introduce yourself, managing to remain composed.

"Rosie, it’s nice to meet you," she says sweetly. She is even more beautiful up close, and that smile is practically paralyzing. Given that you don't trust your tongue at the moment, you decide to keep it simple.

"So how are you tonight?" you question, knowing how many times she must have answered it already.

"I'm great! It's a little cold tonight, but I'm excited to be here," she starts in her accented voice. "I love the Museum of Arts and supporting a good cause is always great. There are so many beautiful dresses and people here. So it's all feeling great right now!" she says, remaining smiling and bubbly throughout her answer.

For your part, you merely nod your head and smile, holding the recorder up to get every word. You go through the litany of typical red carpet questions: what projects are you working on, how's the music coming; all the typical things you could hand in to your editor when a story is due. You can see the press woman getting antsy though. Typical. Figuring you only have one or two questions left, you decide to venture out a bit.

"So, you're going to be going on tour again soon, that must be exciting..."

"It is! You're actually the first one to bring that up all night," she says, a hint of surprise in her voice.

"I do like to do my homework beforehand," you joke with a grin before continuing, "That being said, how do you manage to have fun and unwind? Even at these events, you have to keep a certain image, right?"

Rosé is quiet at first, and for a moment, she glances around as if to check that the coast is clear before she answers, "Oh, you know the girls and I find out ways to have fun. And this is actually my third year at the Gala, so I’ve found the little tricks and ways to have some fun."

There is something about the way she looks at you as she speaks that screams there is more than meets the eye to her words. Maybe it is the coy tone to her voice or the glint in her eye as she smiles. Whatever it is, you suddenly find yourself wondering exactly what ‘some fun' entails.

"By the way," Rosé says, interrupting your thoughts, "Eros Magazine...as in the Greek word for erotic love?"

Again she fixes you with that mischievous grin.

"Uh — yeah. Nice catch," you stammer, causing her to giggle.

"I like it" she says, a look you can’t read in her eye. Before you can ask anything further, the press woman begins to nudge her on to the next reporter. "It was nice meeting you."

"You too, have a good one," you reply, watching her intently as she walks away.

If that is your first and last interaction with the K-pop star, then you can say it has been interesting if nothing else. You get the feeling there is more to that little minx than meets the eye, you are only disappointed that you’d likely never get the chance to delve a bit further.

Covering the event means that you gain access to the party but hardly anyone does any real reporting. After all, these kinds of events are meant for the rich and famous.  To cement their status as celebrities, they then sneak off inside to where they can have their fun. For the most part, you reporters stay together, talk, and drink the free liquor that is available.

You expect your night will be spent at the bar, winding your time down until it reaches an acceptable time to call it a night. But first things first, if you are going to be here on the company dime, you might as well get your money's worth.

"I've been looking for you all night!"

You are in the middle of ordering yet another drink when a familiar accented voice reaches your ears. Turning in your stool, you lay your eyes on Roseanne Park for the second time tonight, only this time there is something a little more...loose to her demeanor. You get an explanation when you spot the glass in her hands and briefly wonder how many she had at this point.

"Me? You must be confused," you say, both amused, curious, and a bit confused, "I don't think anyone at this party has said I’m wanted."

"Well, you are!" she says, smiling as she moves towards you, "And now that I've found you, I have something to show you."

"Don't you have famous friends to entertain?" you question more than protest as she places her drink on the bar and takes your hand.

You catch a glimpse of a hint of a pout on her features, "Don’t worry, they’re occupied." Again, there is that suggestion that something more is going on. Of course, there is the very realistic possibility that your mind is just running away with crazy, erotic theories. But that potential doesn’t stop you from being any more turned on by the thought. Coupled with the fact that Rosé is dragging you through a gala to god-knows-where and you are practically dreaming. In that moment, she could take you to hell for all you care.

"You're going to love it, trust me," she assures, looking back at you as she continues leading.

"Oh, I’m sure," you reply. Your mind is racing with things from a blow job to taking her from behind, so needless to say, you are a bit disappointed when she stops at your destination.

"A photo booth?" you ask, a bit amused at how silly it seems.

Rosé is either undeterred or doesn’t register your lack of enthusiasm as she simply nods, still smiling and pulling you into the booth.

“It's fun! Come on," the blonde insists, pulling you by the hand into the photo booth. Judging by the size of it, the booth is clearly an afterthought to the gala planners, or maybe it just isn’t meant for two people at the same time to occupy it. You do your best to squeeze yourself in so she can close the curtain behind you. To your surprise, Rosé neatly slides onto your lap, her perfect, tight ass sitting right on top of where your hard-on has been growing for the last couple of minutes.

"Alright, so it takes six photos then prints them out there," she points to the deposit box under the screen. She either doesn't feel the bulge pressing firmly against her ass, or she is very good at playing naive.

"Okay," you nod, as if you are bothering to pay any attention to the pictures. 

As she shimmies on your lap to get into a better position, you decide to be bold and snake your arm around her slim waist, only to receive no complaints from the pop star. A countdown shows up on the screen, and when it says CHEESE, Rosé throws her arms around you, smiling openly as you try and fail not to look too bewildered. The screen replays your photo, and you can’t help but laugh at your own expense.

"Not bad," you grin, as the counter starts for the second photo.

"Not bad, but I think we can do better!" she says with a determined look on her face. When the screen says CHEESE again, Rosé suddenly leans over and licks the side of your face. You are so surprised you don't know how you react until the photo replays.

"Oh my god! That's great!" Rosé laughs.

You take the next few photos in the same fashion, going for ridiculous and silly in each one. After every photo, Rosé would shift her weight on your lap, rubbing against your erection each time. You are certain that she has to be well aware of what she is doing, and by the time the countdown for the last photo appears, you have made up your mind.

When the screen flashes, you turn Rosé's head to you and push your lips flush against hers. To your surprise, it takes less than half a second for her to respond, her hands moving up to cup your face. You kiss passionately like that until the simple need for air breaks you apart.

"I was starting to think all my work was for nothing," she says, a devilish grin on her face.

You raise an eyebrow at her; apparently, all your theories have just been confirmed. "You planned all this then?"

"I told you we know how to have our fun at these things," she comments, twirling a strand of hair in her finger.

"We?"

Mischief gleams in her gaze for a moment, “Maybe later. I know you’re a reporter, but you shouldn’t ask too many questions.”

She places a delicate finger to your lips as she gets up off your lap. The low ceiling of the booth doesn't allow her to stand up fully, but she doesn't have to as she crouches and reaches under her dress and begins pulling down her panties. "Fuck...these things are definitely ruined. I practically soaked them."

Her comment is more to herself than you, but your cock only grows harder at the revelation. You watch as she slides her thong down past her ankles, and her eyes fall to your crotch. With nimble fingers, she works on your button and zipper, springing free your aching cock.

 "Oh wow..." she mutters, eyeing it with an animalistic hunger. "I would love to wrap my lips around that..."

"You're more than welcomed to," you groan, starting to get that sense of teasing with the amount of anticipation that is building. You are tempted to just force her head onto your cock, but you stop short when she speaks.

"Later. We don't have a lot of time."

Your disappointment at that statement is short-lived as she stands again and turns around. Rosé lifts her skirt and hovers over your lap. Grabbing hold of your member, you let out a groan as she positions it at her entrance, rubbing it for a second in her dripping juices. Unable to hold out, you thrust your hips slightly upward, causing your tip to pierce her folds.

"Mmm, somebody's anxious," she purrs, her accent coming out thick.

"Can you fucking blame me?" you say through gritted teeth, reaching out to grab her waist. Before you can yank her down, she beats you to it and spears herself on your rod. "Oh fuck," you let out, feeling how tight her petite body is.

"God, you feel fucking amazing," you mutter into her shoulder.

"Ah~...and you're...much bigger than you look," she says, clearly trying to adjust to the size she just filled herself with in one go. Apparently, the discomfort isn't so bad as she soon begins lifting and dropping herself on your cock slowly. "Try not—ooh— to get too loud," she moans out, her ass rocking against you.

"Speak for yourself," you grunt, your hands gripping her waist firmly as you start to move your hips to match the movement of hers.

You can't wrap your head around the fact that you're fucking a member of one of the most famous girl groups in the world in a photobooth at a gala with hundreds of celebrities. Thankfully, you don't need to wrap your head around it, as long as you keep fucking her. With that in mind, you take control of the pace, gripping her waist and forcing yourself up into her. Each time you spear her pussy, it's like another piece of heaven. Her pussy is squeezing you like there's no tomorrow, only increasing the pleasure you get with each thrust.

"Shit, yes, yes! Fuck me," Rosé chants in a loud whisper as she puts her hand on the console to steady herself as you thrust up into her.

"God, you're fucking tight," you moan, continuing to pound her Australian pussy. "Someone could look in here at any second."

"Oooh, I know," she lets out a shuddering breath.

"You're getting off on that, aren't you?" you continue the dirty talk, sliding a strap off her shoulder so you can push her top down to fondle her pert breast.

"Yes, yes! It fucking turns me on," Rosé pants.

For a moment, you fear she has given you away, but you're too far gone to truly care at this point. Her hands slide down the console, and you're only aware of what happens when the shutter of the camera makes you look up. Looking over Rosé's shoulder as she bounces up and down, you see your photo displayed, Rosé's mouth opened in pleasure.

Grinning to yourself, you increase the speed of your thrusts, determined to get her orgasm face by the last photo.

"OH!" she squeals, surprised by your sudden turn of action. "Oh fuck, right there. Keep going," she pants, her hand covering yours and holding it firmly against her breast.

You squeeze firmly, shoving every inch of your meat deep into her snatch. Her lithe body arches back into you. She's panting heavily, each thrust causing her to take a sharp breath. You turn her head towards you and kiss her, her hand gripping the back of your head. It's sloppy and passionate, perfectly fitting the current heated moment that is occurring.

"I'm close. I'm so fucking close," Rosé chants, continuing to grip your head as she moves her hips to yours.

A few moments later, you have to cover her mouth with your hand as she shrieks her orgasm. Her walls clench around you as she comes, her juices flooding your cock.

"I'm going to cum," you warn, knowing you aren't going to last through her orgasm.

"Mmmph," Rosé says, until you remove your hand, "In me! Cum inside me!"

You don't take a second to question it, instead thrusting your hips upward, your cock pushing into her one last time as you empty rope after rope of your seed into her womb. You continue unloading into the star for what seems like eternity until you both finally collapse in the booth. Her body heaves on top of yours as she tries to catch her breath.

"I don't think I've ever cum that hard before," you pant, causing the Blackpink singer to giggle.

"Don't speak too soon," she says, leaning back and kissing you softly on the lips. Thinking of what she could have planned only causes your cock to twitch inside her with anticipation.

One thing is for certain: this girl certainly knows how to have fun.

BUY ME A COFFEE - if you enjoy my stories considering buying me a coffee! always appreciated, never required.