If you act as god be prepared to answer to those who came before you. JJBA X SMR

Chapter 12

(Catboy reader doodle because I love him, likely to bite you if you try touching his ears or tail, and definitely an alley cat that got adopted by House Joestar. Think I made that in thirty minutes...I just like the concept. Thank you to DragonsSlayed on A03 for giving me the idea.)

Title: In his derisory glory, the abject monster insults the heavens.

-

There's a part of me that is always thinking about the so-called 'masterpieces' of a creator. What does it even mean? Michaelangelo looked at the Sistine Chapel and saw...absolutely nothing to preserve. Virgil wanted his Aeneid burned and forgotten; all his hard work was only saved at the behest of an emperor who thought it flattery. Kafka instructed his friend to burn everything he'd ever written, too personal, too unfinished.

They were ignored.

Instead, their work was taken and held and published and thrown to be gawked at. Instead, an emperor, a pope, a friend, took from within the cavities of them their choices; their art.

I sat in the kitchen after school and showed my poems to my mother, who, not unkindly, asked if I ever wanted to publish them. The first thing she asked. Emily Dickinson instructed her sister to burn her poetry.

Her sister didn't listen.

Kafka's friend took barely finished work and hammered it into structure. Into a fleshed out creation. He is the only reason we know of him.

A friend of my mother's once wrote a book and play when I was at most four or five. When I tried to talk to her about writing, she merely shrugged.

No one wanted to publish it, she says. So I don't write anymore.

I am filled with poems that will not be published or added to. Books I haven't and won't write.

Asked capitalism of the artist: what is art, if not for consumption? Who does the art benefit if it is not consumed? Why create at all if you do not market it? Who then are you, frothing at the mouth about someone publishing all of your poems? Who are you to hate your so-called 'masterpiece'? What is art, if not in relation to the many reactions it can bring? If no one but you looks at it, how is it art?

So, said the artist, baring their teeth: it's mine.

-

"You know, I assumed you wouldn't come back after our last talk." Like last time, the strange version of M/n doesn't respond with anything other than a slow hum that fills the room. Joseph watches how it sits on the bed, crossing its legs, as the hum softens to a faint tune. "You like being around me, Not-M/n?"

It nods. Joseph can't help but blink in shock, not having expected any positive reaction from the thing.

"Okay then...so what do you want exactly?" It tilts its head to the side at that. Seems to consider it for a moment, and then Joseph is pinned beneath the thing which hums as the muzzle of the skull traces against the side of his neck. Pink smoke fills his lungs and Joseph feels how his pants tighten. "Well...this wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've thought about doing."

At that it moves and Joseph finds them shifted. His muzzle now lying unharmed by the pillows. So he's left on his knees at the foot of the bed with his face pressed against the space between the shadow's shorts and tights. Feeling the distinct bulge there, Joseph shivered. While this was distinctly not M/n in attributes, it still was his god form and his pulse was pounding. It lightly gave a roll of the hips while he worked on getting the shorts off. Already feeling the two heads brush against his lips, a roll of the hips again as if it was trying to force itself inside of Joseph's mouth. He willingly opened his mouth after a second, only getting about halfway down the pair before he gagged, unfamiliar with the rough treatment. Joseph could feel both of the thing's cocks strain, trying to go deeper in his throat as he groaned around them. Obviously growing irritated by his inability, Joseph could feel a scaled hand reach out and thread through his locks. Now moving to take a rough handful of the hair. Seeming to think about it, the thing pulled his locks towards him, forcing the hamon user to take the rest of its cocks. His eyes watering as drool ran down his chin and onto the floor as he struggled to catch his breath with his throat and mouth full. The ring makes the experience borderline painful, yet not completely unwelcomed. Nose rubbing against unmarred skin and hints of scales. It doesn't wait for him to get used to any of it before it moves. Fast rolling of the hips that made him whine around the constant thrusting motion. Joseph could feel his own cock get even harder in his shorts, hear how the steady humming broke for a low growl. He was getting lightheaded, feeling how his throat was bulging at the motions, face turning red, mouth stretched and getting sore.