#so rip to whatever my brain assumed she would look like nowadays

[thatlesbiancrow]

i had a dream last night that basically boiled down to an aged up version of my first crush telling me im sexy and honestly? i feel better about myself!

[katnissmellarkkk]

Chapter Three

Hiiii, all you cool cats and kittens 😂😂😂😂. Okay but seriously, imma just word vomit all the things I need to cover in this author’s note — that I can remember.

I’ve been writing this chapter for like a week, I’m super nervous about it, I’m really sorry if this angst is upsetting you, I am gonna do my best to make it all right in the end, the angst is gonna continue though for a bit longer, yes this fic is only 10 chapters, yes I still want your comments even if you’re upset, my eye is still having trouble so I can’t look at a computer screen for too long because it physically hurts so I’m editing on my phone and there is a high chance I’ll re-edit these chapters after my eye isn’t all Heltor Skeltor anymore.

Okay I think that’s everything, I very much am gratefully for all the feedback I’ve received and I hope you all continue to read this fic.

Peeta stayed for hours after that. He smiled and laughed and, for a while, made me forget all about my unbearable loneliness, how empty this home feels, how uncomfortable I am with the prospect of my mother moving on with her life, how much I really miss my sister right now.

How I miss my sister more than anything.

He still makes me feel safe, I realized, as we sat on the couch and ate our third helping of the chocolate cake he’d baked for me. He knows how much I love chocolate from all the meals we shared on the train.

“Actually, from the time you decided to just eat the chocolate fountain by itself,” he had corrected. Off my quizzical look, he added, “At Snow mansion? We were there for a party?”

“Our engagement party?” I amended, teasing him a little.

My attempt at levity works as I watch his mouth contort into smirk in response. “Sorry, I guess I forgot what party it was.”

“They did drag us to a lot of them,” I agreed, not foreseeing the jab he was about to throw.

“And you pigged out at every one of them.”

I pretended to be offended for a moment but his proud laughter made me lose the facade far sooner than I should have. The joyful glint to his gaze, the way his body language was relaxed and open, the way he seemed to remember small details of our shared past now, I just couldn’t hold even a false grudge against him. I just couldn’t help giggling alongside him.

But he had to leave around dinner time, having an appointment to get the construction for the new rebuilt bakery approved and in motion.

As soon as he departs, and I’m left once again inside a void, hallow house that only emphasizes the greatest loss of my life—the one I’ll probably never go a single day without feeling the ache of—I decide I need to leave too. I decide as soon as I glance around the empty place that it’d be in my best interest to get out as well, to prolong the inevitable despair the deserted home brings come nightfall.

My first thought is to drop off the liquor I picked up for Haymitch a few days ago at the train station. He was passed out drunk and I was already there and it seemed at the time like a good bargaining chip when he was feeling particularly caustic towards me. Which lately had been often.

Now it just poses a good excuse to go talk to the sour man, to perhaps pick his brain about Bailey Robyn. To perhaps see what he knows that I don’t about the mysterious girl who blew into both our lives.

And only evidently disturbed one of them.

He has clearly has gotten to know her better than I have, and he’s quite transparently taken quite a liking to her. If I want to know this girl, or even begin to understand what Peeta sees in her, it only makes sense to get Haymitch to share some details in exchange for his favorite liquor.

After all, our entire relationship has always been a series of bargains, one way or another.

Throughout mine and Peeta’s entire time together—which amounted to the whole afternoon—he had never once mentioned Bailey. He hadn’t said she was waiting for him or what she thought about the cake or if she even knew he would be at my house today.

And for some reason that led me to assume she was busy in town somewhere. That she was working on the salon she mentioned wanting to start up, that she was out doing things herself, that she wasn’t even concerned with Peeta celebrating my birthday today.

That she wasn’t sitting on Haymitch’s counter, talking to him about that very subject.

“It just doesn’t make me feel great, you know?” Her clear and high voice rings out from the window right as I’m gearing up to barge my way inside the pig sty. “I want to go with him, in case he has an episode or something, and he tells me no. Like flat out, full stop, no.”

I slip in through the unlocked front door, quiet as a mouse, eavesdropping like I know I shouldn’t. Like I know is a complete violation of privacy, both for Bailey and for Haymitch. And maybe even Peeta, since he’s the one they’re conferring about.

“He’s stubborn,” Haymitch agrees, sounding more sober than I’ve heard him in months. Sounding more sober than I’ve seen since we were in Thirteen. “Try mentoring him in the games.”

Bailey scoffs at that. “No. You couldn’t pay me enough.”

They share a laugh and I feel my hands tighten around the bottle, as an extremely uncomfortable sensation settles into the pit of my stomach.

They sound like old friends. They sound happy and pleased to be hanging out and conversing. And if I’m being honest, it gives me one more reason to instinctively dislike Bailey, despite the fact that I’m trying hard not to.

Because in the short time she’s been in Twelve, she’s slid into my place in both Peeta and Haymitch’s lives with complete and utter ease. Even beyond taking my place, she’s outrankedme in both men’s lives and entirely knocked me out of the saddle.

That’s what disturbs me above all else. Because—even though I’d never admit it about Haymitch—they were mine. They were my family. They were all I had. They were my haven from the darkness surrounding my entire life. The three of us were a team once.

And now it feels like she didn’t join the group, she kicked me out of it entirely. Haymitch has never had me sit on the counter of his kitchen—not that I really wanted to, the place is absolutely filthy—and talk about my problems. He’s always mocked my feelings and troubles, when they didn’t pertain to the war or rebellion.

I don’t get what is so special about this girl that the two most important people in my life are willing to just let her in. Are just willing to let her take me out without a second thought.

“I mean, is it odd that I wanted to be included?” She inquires genuinely and to my surprise, once again, my old mentor gives her a pretty thoughtful answer. For Haymitch Abernathy, at least.

“They’re both a little weird. War messes with people. Especially kids,” he murmurs and then grunts uncomfortably. “Don’t get worked up over nothing. Just let whatever happened go and try to be happy.”

For some reason, even without hearing my name mention specifically, I’m fully convinced that they’re conversing about me as well as Peeta. About our afternoon together, void from Bailey’s presence. Without hearing my own name, I still know in my bones I walked in on a talk about me.

Bailey wanted to come today and Peeta told her no? Peeta told her an unequivocal no? Because he wanted to spend time with just me?

That satisfies me beyond measure. That makes me even happier than the carefully handcrafted birthday cake did.

Suddenly, for the first time since she’s arrived in Twelve, I don’t feel like Peeta put me on the back burner to make her more comfortable. I don’t feel like I’m being slided so she can be accommodated to her liking. And that’s a better present to me than anything else I could have asked for.

“But I’m his girlfriend,” she states quietly, before sighing deeply and setting down a glass that she must have been drinking from. Risk-taker, she is. “And I just feel like every day all he thinks about is Katniss. He’s either worried about her or afraid of her.”

Now that catches me completely off-guard. Peeta’s afraid of me? Is he telling Bailey something I don’t know? What did I do that he’s so afraid of?

Please, I internally beg to no one. Please tell me he doesn’t still think of me as a mutt. Please tell me he doesn’t feel the same way about as he did in Thirteen.

No, I venomously refute. That wouldn’t make sense. If he still thought of me that way—the way Snow tried to brainwash him into—he would surely not be baking me a cake and spending an afternoon alone with me.

At least, I don’t think so.

But I’m always wrong nowadays and I long ago learned to stop trusting my instincts because they don’t any good for me in the end anyway and I just end up more jumbled and confused and stressed than I started out.

I take a deep breath to calm myself down just as Haymitch mutters, “That description isn’t a far cry from the kid I met two years ago on the tribute train.”

Evidently, I breathed out too loudly almost immediately, Haymitch barks out, “Is that you, girl?”

Realizing I’m caught, I rip off the bandaid and step out of the corner of the entryway, where I was hiding. “Sorry, I just got here,” I quickly explain. And then, despite my atrocious acting ability, I throw out for good measure, “I didn’t hear anything you guys said, I just didn’t want to interrupt.”

Neither of them believe me. In fact, they both appear pretty disgusted with me now. But when I pass Haymitch the bottle of liquor, his features shift and I feel him lightly pat me on the head as he passes me to grab a bottle opener.

“Haymitch,” Bailey murmurs unceremoniously, as she hops off the counter with a grace I have no dream of ever possessing. “I’m going to head on home.”

Her eyes meet mine for a split second before flirting away, and all I see there is irritation.

I hope she doesn’t try again to make nice in a day or so. Quite frankly, there’s a reason I never made many friends. Social interactions aren’t my thing and they just wear me out unnecessarily. Especially girls, who only want to gossip about other people or share clothes or irrelevant life tips. I’d much rather be left alone in solitude than have to yo-yo with Bailey’s mood swings.

Haymitch has always empathized with this trait of mine. More than empathized. He embodied it to the fullest, in a way I never even have. That’s what makes it so startling to me that he’s found such a friend with Peeta’s new girlfriend. It’s downright shocking how pleasant he is towards her.

When he returns now, she’s already gone and he’s right back to his surly self.

“No one clears a room like you do, sweetheart.”

But I’m not interested in swiping back and forth with one another. “Why are you hanging out with Bailey Robyn?”

Haymitch rolls his eyes as he takes a seat at his still unwashed kitchen table.

I mean, if Bailey wanted to help clean in here, that’s where I would have suggested to start.

“The better question, Katniss, is why are youhanging out with Peeta alone? How do you think that makes his girlfriend feel?”

“He’s my friend,” I argue, infuriated by the implication that I have to go through a random stranger to be around Peeta now. Infuriated that it’s Haymitch making the implication nonetheless.

“But he isn’t!” The old man snaps back. “Peeta isn’t your friend, Katniss. You look at him like he hung the moon and you do it right in front of his new girl.”

“No, I don’t,” I retort sharply, because I definitely don’tand I repel the accusation.

“Anyone with eyes can see your stupid little crush,” he exclaims and it stings. The words sting for some reason and I feel the ache in my chest come back once again, because apparently I’m stepping over a line I didn’t even know was there and I’m once again the root of every problem and it’s all becoming too much.

Evidently, Haymitch just doesn’t care if he hurts me today. “Just back off of the boy. Let him be happy for once.”

I uncharacteristically spit an unkind name at Haymitch as I slam his door in my furious wake.

Through his still open kitchen window though, I hear him chuckle. “Well, that’s one I haven’t heard before, sweetheart.”

Read More On AO3 Where The Italics Actually Work

[taendrils]

industrial (m.)

― ❝there are lines you shouldn’t cross, things you shouldn’t touch and skin you shouldn’t mark when your hands are missing your gloves.❞ 

• genre: fluff, smut • tags: piercer!reader, client!jungkook, smitten!jungkook, mentions of needles, inappropriate things you shouldn’t do with your piercer LMAO, koko is subby AND needy AND a sweetheart, also a bit of a brat, teasing, sexual tension, praise kink, dirty talk, messy handjob, grinding, aftercare • pairing: jungkook/female reader • wordcount: 8.1k words

PIERCER AU.

It’s human nature. Not having a care in the world for picture sceneries in favour of the mundane you’ve grown to adore—fixating on a sight, a scent, a story so much that is unnatural to go a day without it. Missing a sensation to the point it buries so deep behind your chest you can’t reach through your ribs anymore to prod at it. No, no, no. You have to be indulgent. Bad human nature. You have to relieve it.

Guilt about indulgence doesn’t pack the same punch when it comes to you. It’s easy to sink when you get to relieve it every day—ripping the seal to get your hands on the metal, taking your time presenting the needles, inhaling more of the isopropyl that lingers in the air when you pop open the disinfectant. Even from down low, the vapors float in tendril motions, enter deep only to sting right after. They are consistent—they move the same when you’re close to someone and you get to inhale again before piercing.

It’s pleasant, it makes you focus. It also should say something about you—whatever it might, you don’t blame yourself too much. Rubber feels good on your hand. It’s human nature.

People like things they shouldn’t. People like things that hurt.

The act itself reaches in a place that’s personal, and so does the background. It’s perfect, and it’s silent, and yet it keeps going. There’s music you don’t mind when the place fills out too much—you get restless when there’s a heavy break between people, like it is now. You love calming them down since the act mirrors the effect on you. It has been so long you assume it would create a crack in your persona if you voiced the restlessness out, if your tone reached any frequency other than that of relaxed. The tattoo place, along with your platinum piercer on the other side would eat you dare you break your composure—Yoongi would give the process the same attention he gives to his skin in ink. His tattoos speak for him more than the metal on his tongue dares, touching up to his neck and disappearing under his sleeves, and so does the dove under his ear.

You’re less marked, so people find fascination in other parts of you. Jungkook thinks he doesn’t have to dig deep, he sees their surface as soon as he walks into the parlour. He notices how each element of the hall is in harmony with another, the designs on the walls modern enough to light up innovation, the wood they’re framed by sculpted so they pay tribute to old school. The details hit him all at once, and a beat too late he realises he would have got lost in them, delayed his appointment in favour of marvelling, weren’t it for you waiting at the reception.

You’re leaning against the wall fit between two pictures in asymmetry, watching Yoongi who sits near the said desk with a girl. The piercer gestures towards the jewelry displayed, and Jungkook can make out a few bits of their conversation before his eyes drift towards you again. Soft classics play on the speakers, supported by the tap of your fingers on your thigh. A passive action, and then another.

The bell tingling doesn’t steal your attention from the focal point, instead walking up to join the pair at the desk, but Jungkook catches the black-haired man behind the counter turning in his direction and offering a warm smile.

“This yours?” you tilt your head towards the tattooed man.

Yoongi doesn’t take his eyes off the jewelry, just makes a noncommittal noise from the back of his throat.

“What’s she getting?”

“Two flats, opals.”

“Mm. Pretty stones for pretty girls,” you acknowledge with a smile the girl mirrors. “He has a lot of opinions, but don’t listen to him. If he’s one hair away from the place you suggest, tell me after and I’ll file a complaint, ok?”

The tension in her body eases, and you don’t miss the hints of the grin Yoongi suppresses as he shakes his head. “You need to stop before all my clients leave.”

“Rich from the guy who keeps telling them he’s a master of stabbing with pointy objects,” the same guy who noticed Jungkook tuts as he fixes Yoongi with an eyebrow.

“Jimin has a point. No one else at this hour for him to scare?”

“None for him. None for you either until one hour before closing–you have three then.” He fidgets a bit before the calm smile he’s been sporting turns devious. “Well, none except for him.”

Your eyes settle on him at last, and funny fact it is, how the brain gives so many commands to the muscles faster than the hundredth part of a millisecond, yet Jungkook’s body cannot form a single reaction.

“So you’re mine then, aren’t you?” You nod in appraisal before Jungkook can even stutter, bottom lip jutting out. He’s rendered speechless at the exchange since words weigh heavier on Jungkook’s tongue, and the process takes longer to finish. With strangers he’s careful, he pauses and drags out the sound long enough to avoid mistakes, similar to what you’re doing now when you are analysing him. He’s confident enough to guess how for you they seem easier–you speak as each sound floats on water, weightless before it drifts away.

The heaviness lies buried in how you watch, the same way an audience would as a play begins, attentive and searching for meaning in the deeper crevices of him. He regains access to his breath the moment you step away, hands working behind your back and words neutering some of the acid burning his loins.

“Unless you’re here for a tattoo. None of our artists can talk to you at the moment, they’re all caught up with appointments.”

You’re the only one to come closer to him, and that triggers Jungkook’s sense of self to search for an answer. He fights with it at the tip of his tongue, and he sees the way you’re waiting, staring. He pictures you hanging onto the silence, waiting for his words to continue the thread.

“Uh, no, I–I’m here for you. For the piercing.”

And his words, supposed to be picked with care, crumble under power that’s passive, getting Jungkook tangled in their meaning. 

You’re dressed casually, the clothes loose enough for the fit not to disturb you. He focuses on the smooth curve of your shoulder that has yet to be marked, the smallest trace of a collarbone hidden in the depths of your dark turtleneck. He’s gliding up without meaning to, so lost in details he doesn’t know where to look anymore.

“Alright. And you know what you want?” You don’t react until he nods and satisfaction seeps through the corners of the smile you’ve been fighting, his gaze the same level as the lifted corners that lead his gaze to your ears.

Maybe to the three hoops decorating your lobes, complemented by the little heart on the inside of your ear, or higher, where he sees the object of his desire in your right ear, a long silver bar that sits high on your ear, length pressed diagonally and ends adorned with metal spikes.

“Industrial,” he breathes out.

It’s hard to say what defines the pause taken. 

“Great. Please take your time and complete the form, okay?” Your hair is pulled up, revealing more hoops stacked on top of the other ear he gets to look better at as you turn around. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

Jungkook finds said form on Jimin’s desk. Less flustered, he listens to Jimin filling in the blanks. “We have a machine for sterilising jewelry. Takes around fifteen minutes, long enough for you to read through this and ask questions.”

Now that he has nothing to dote on, despite the sight Jimin is, Jungkook feels weirdly self-conscious as he waits, the reminder that you would have started by now if he made a move when he should have a constant in his mind. He fidgets, thighs squeezing together to distract his mind before the thought spills out, “Did I keep you guys for too long?”

“The appointment’s yours.” Jimin shrugs as he passes the papers. “First time at a studio?”

Jungkook thinks in retrospect at the lobes he did by himself when he was younger and still wearing his emo bangs–half rebellion, half need to appear cooler to his peers. He nods with his lips pursed tightly enough so they contain his embarrassment.

“There are lots to come by nowadays. You shouldn’t be worried, she’s very lithe and quick. Patient too.”

His heartbeat finds its steady rhythm and doesn’t suffocate him like it did before. It calms before it takes the leap into his stomach, when Jimin, whose gestures lack the innocence his face suggests, forgets to add:

“Talks like that to cute little things.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Good, he swallows. You’re patient. He’ll keep that in mind.

A boy true to his word, a boy that keeps to his promises, Jungkook’s mind wraps up on the idea after signing the ink into the paper and as soon as he is near you.

“All done?” you ask with no hurry, and Jungkook hums as he sits on the piercing table, careful so he does not move the sheets of paper. “Good. Let me look at you?”

The coil in his stomach tightens so easily, he’s so easy to rile up and you’re not even doing anything. You’re not trying to. And that drives him a little crazy. Fantasies Jungkook has never dared to imagine with anyone he kept a professional relationship with stretch his mind open, and he’s open to them when more enter through the cracks he created.

“I need to see your ear, see if the fold’s right.”

He swallows as you come close, hands already gloved. Without missing a beat, he tilts his head to give you better access and doesn’t quite realise how long his hair got until you brush it away from his ear, fingers holding the strands in place. His lungs are still from the proximity, inhaling as much as they can take after you voice your approval. And the more he tries to detach from the situation, the more he dives headfirst into the fantasy. Jungkook feels you twist the ends and pin his hair aside.

The mind is a strange place.

“Don’t want you to get scared, alright?” you coo and this careful treading around him makes him dizzy, stirs in his loins, and the feeling presses deeper there, deeper and hotter than it should from the heat brought by Jimin’s words. “I’ll explain everything to you as we work, hmm?”

“Yeah, sure,” he speaks and is reminded this is his first attempt at conversation in a while. “I’d like that.”

It dawns upon him how to you he sounds willing, much too willing, and he blames it on eagerness. Besides willing, he’s much too aware of everything surrounding him, of every little sound in the quiet room. The tick of the clock is a nice diffused background noise as you check the form to the last detail. “Who did those then, Jungkook?”

Your prying is gentle, a puzzle piece taken from a waiting game that coaxes him out until his answer rises naturally. Of course you’d feel better if he talked. That much is obvious, and he is a fool, but that obvious matters less to him when he sees how pleased you are with your question. A look which he aspires to cause, which pulls his want deeper–a look he needs to see again.

“Uh, another studio. But I didn’t like it.” The explanation that follows comes out of his mouth at once.

“I had a friend, Namjoon,” he begins and takes note how your eyebrows raise and your gaze turns playful at his word choice. “I mean, have. He had his tongue pierced here, and I bugged him about it until he told me.”

The first truth.

“Was it recent?” you ask as you change the pair of gloves, tossing the used pair away.

“He got it done after his girlfriend, but he refused to tell me. I asked for a while.” His shame drifts away in tone with his ramble and he is bold enough to let his gaze fall down the curve of your waist.

“Namjoon, you said? Doesn’t ring a bell. Wish it did by your reaction though.” You turn back to him and his gaze snaps back up.

“Ah, he’s kinda hard to miss though.” His lips remain sealed, but the corners of his mouth rise as high as they can go. Jungkook doesn’t know how or why he’s still talking, but he can distinguish a tender amusement. “Tall, huge dimples and smiles like this.” He keeps the same smile until you acknowledge it, cheeks puffed up and lash lines surrounded by endearing creases.

You shake your head in endearment. “Stubborn, are you?”

“Texted him about it for weeks. Pestered him to tell me. Threatened to do them myself.” Half a truth. Sure, he did that too, but for the most part he whined about it, rattled him to Seokjin and sent messages with questionable emojis. Seeing his friends take the leap for an interest Jungkook spent days looking up, it flickered light back into Jungkook–a passion for something he thought he buried long ago. “I even unmuted the groupchat.”

He sees the effect of those texts in real time. All those ‘joonie hyungg 😊😊~’s were worth it because he earns a laugh from you.

“Glad you let me do my job. I will mark you now, okay?” There’s so much comfort in your conversation he almost forgets what he came here for. As the realisation comes, a sigh threatens to leave his lips. He’s not as worried about the pain as he is worried he’ll embarrass himself somehow. Jungkook is strong now, can handle pain better than the bunch of his hyungs combined, but it doesn’t make him any less self-conscious.

“You have to lie down for it.” You guide him through it, Jungkook lowering his body slowly after the lead of your palm. Maybe he did it wrong?

One dot, two dots. The time to obsess over it passes. On his left, the paper crumples under his fist and he hates the way it sounds, yet he grips the sheet like it is a lever holding him to reality.

“Everything okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, breathing out his bravery and focus. You mention something about titanium and how good it is for piercings in passing, or maybe you linger on it more. He retains nothing, just breathes in the alcohol. Your hands are delicate, and no matter how light your grip is, it seems assured.

Rubber feels good, so does your touch.

“Breathe in for me.” Eyes glossy and mind hazy, he tries his best to listen– “One, two, three, and out. You’re doing well.”

The sting is a lot more than he expected, and he feels the blood rushing to his ear, warm and muted. Everything is more. Its pain lingers, but so does the ghost of your touch, balancing the pleasure. Your voice is breathier, and it sounds closer than comfortable, so close that the warmth of your breath spreads across his skin and a tremor follows it along his spine. When his ear reddens, he hopes you assume it’s because of the piercing.

“There we go,” you whisper. “Halfway done. How’s that?”

“It’s good.” The lump in his throat doesn’t budge. If you notice how his voice trembles, you don’t mention it, and neither do you give him space to think. Your thumb and index massage circles over hard tissue, and he braces for what’s coming next. The fact that your movements do not change pushes against his wish to stay composed, and Jungkook barely suppresses the soft sighs tickling the roof of his mouth.

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

Jungkook sinks into it and nods in rhythm complimentary to your touch. “Read–oh.”

The sound he lets out you take in with a sharp inhale. Despite it, your next steps are smooth, bar settling in cozy in the tight space, but there’s a pause that extends past a few heartbeats where he grows more aware, more sensitive to the tips of your fingers. He feels them tremble as they screw in the ball–feels it tingle on his skin and past his gut.

“Don’t get up so fast,” Jungkook tries to listen, but he’s also impatient. It never dawns on him how close you might be until he’s half-up, propped on his elbows and overwhelmed by the clarity of your features. He is hung on the line that defines your cupid’s bow, and how foul his cravings are. He could run his finger across it–has a feeling you wouldn’t stop him. Driven by his boldness, he’s thinking of dropping his gaze lower. When he does, his heart pummels and a surge of anxiety has his eyes dart back to yours. The effect is cathartic, bits of his rationality falling down in chains.

His mouth drops open at what he finds, the pair of pupils dark and blown out. Less professional. More like you want to cross a line.

The reaction for when you break away is much slower, and your intention misses the mark as Jungkook teeth lightly scrape his lip. “Have you thought about more places?” you blurt out.

Jungkook’s mind goes to the place you’re staring. “My mouth.”

And he swears by anything he has you leave a shard of your composure right there and cut him open with it, reach into his flesh and tug. It’s bad, he shouldn’t let you, but he is good at observing. He has the experience, sees his own behaviours as patterns he’s picked from others. He is right about this. He is sure.

Yet he never expects you to confirm it, reaching out to drag your thumb across his bottom lip, moving in circles to trace the top as well before you come down again and press.

“It’s soft. Gentle.” you breathe out. “I like it.”

It’s gentle and it’s pliant cause his mouth opens more under the weight, and you’re reaching a tint deeper, nail getting dangerously close to his tongue.

“Makes–makes a good fit.”

Rubber feels good there too. He doesn’t mind the taste either.

“But your piercing–” you stutter and his eyebrows shoot up at how you get up all of a sudden only to return with a mirror, grip tight around its rim. Less relaxed. “Here. You should see it.”

You end up passing him the mirror and he gasps at the image, at the bar that’s sitting on his ear. Even with your previous position, excitement is impossible to contain. “I love it.” 

“Please tell your groupchat too,” you tease, part of the tension eased from your shoulders, obvious in the delight that surges through you at his words. He’s still peeking in the mirror, yet the reflection that steals his attention is the one of satisfaction in your smile. His satisfaction.

“I will. It’s amazing, really. I like it a lot,” he adds as if he hasn’t said enough.

“I’m glad. Can’t wait till Yoongi hears about this.” You’re busy with a Q-Tip he braces for a second too late, yet does nothing but obey when you ask him to stay still, then clean the piercing for the last time. The story continues. “He missed the angle last time. He’s gonna be so threatened.”

“Why did he miss?” Jungkook says, curiosity making him lean closer. His height was not something you cared for when he walked in, you note, but he’s hard to ignore now that he’s standing up. You give up trying to organise the items scattered on your table and wipe a hand across your forehead.

“Ah, well. He’s a bit... unorthodox, but gets the job done.”

“And what about you?”

You purse your lips as you muster the answer, unsure of the letters pouring out. “I... I like to play it safe.”

And safe you played, a bitter part of Jungkook would retort. But now that he’s opened the can, the curiosity about you reigns beyond his pettiness. His mind, an ocean on the road to regaining tranquility, has its waters disrupted when he poses questions about parts of you that interested him.

“Is it like that with the tattoos?”

“I do keep them safe.” By the speed of your reply, this is a frequent topic of conversation. Your words, however, match two puzzle pieces that share the same colour, but they don’t fit near the other. They’re jumbled together, corners forced and unnatural. His stomach burns regardless. So they’re hidden from display, bordering on personal.

Like him, you’re responding to questions reserved for people you have some sort of a relation with. The one with Jungkook is supposed to be inexistent. He’s a client, you’re a piercer, he remembers, as he fears to call you his piercer yet. Places where you might have ink pop up in his mind and replace the guidance of his conscience: neck, chest, stomach, thighs.

“Didn’t do the same for this one.” You point to the ear with the bar matching his. “Toughest to heal. Got it when I barely knew anything.”

The angle is not perfect like his, he can now see after the first glance.

“You like it a lot though.” He pouts, and it’s a statement he tests under his confusion.

“It’s one of my weaknesses. A fun memory.”

“So you didn’t do that always?”

Jungkook is a boy true to himself, but much too proud to admit things often. He has a goal, has found more means to the end he chases. Out of the possibilities, there are fairer choices, but all of those lead towards a path with chances and time he doesn’t have. Guilt eats at him about pressing, but his heart speaks over his brain.

“Didn’t do what?”

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do things in halves–does his best and sweats hard for his aspiration. Thus, he’ll find time later to appeal to his conscience. The distance between you clears the fog out of his mind, his need clear. He cannot leave it like that, not with knowing you never attempted to shut him out.

“Play it safe?”

“No. But you… you shouldn’t.” You’re frowning, deep in thought, every second spent waiting pressing layers into both his hope and uncertainty–fighting a battle that your hesitation wins over whatever desire he thought you may have.“Here’s my number. Call me if you’re experiencing any troubles during the healing process and we’ll see what we can do.”

Distracted, you pass him a card he puts in his pocket. You continue on about the cleaning process and offer him options for where to buy them from as the part of him full of hope deflates, hates the reversion to nothing, hates it more than is considered normal. Whatever this was, he doesn’t want to lose it, but he respects you, sits and accepts. “Of course. Will I have to answer as many questions?”

“Ah–no, not really. I wanted you to be comfortable. I just saw...” There’s breath caught in your throat, lodged between the cracks in your calamity and assurance. You pant to let it out. “You’ve been looking at me.”

Hope is fragile yet devious. A parasitic entity that leads and bites off however much it likes from whoever it pleases. Even as he meant to give up, its last particle was left to grow.

“Yeah?” Jungkook is scared yet bold, the step he takes placing his boot on the line you’ve never dared to cross before. His eyes are big and there’s a glint that’s pleading to be noticed. “And if I call… you’ll take care of it?” He fears your answer, he fears how rushed he is, how much it means.

“I will. We’ll look at it once you come back to downsize the bar.” You try to soothe him, reaching to squeeze his shoulder. His shirt gets pulled a tint, and what you meant to do renders forgotten. The tips of your fingers are lured towards warm skin. Weak and indulgent, they dip under the cotton.

A brief contact and the intent changes. Your touch borders everywhere–a slow drag up the nape of his neck and down his front, fingers splaying out to cover more surface.

“Anything else?” he gulps, lost in the sight of your mouth.

“Don’t touch it. Don’t sleep on it.” Your hand rests over his throat, thumb brushing up and down his pulse point. “Promise you’ll listen?”

“Yeah, I’ll listen.” The admission is quiet, not risking to tear apart at the tension. With close he is to you, the words are breathy with his whisper. “I’ll listen to you.”

The mind is a very strange place. Curls around the impossible and tortures until you do something about it. It’s human nature.

Jungkook’s voice breaks with the last bit of bravery he has.

“I’ll do how you ask.”

“Fuck, Jungkook–” You leave your sentence unfinished because you’re way too busy with your lips on his, you’re kissing him, tongue licking into his mouth before you turn aggressive. There’s no second to wait, no moment to take for breath, his senses are overwhelmed from you gripping his jaw to bring him to your level. Jungkook can’t think, he just touches, makes it clear how much he likes it, nails digging into your sides. He brings you closer, tattooed hand fitting how you like it over your waist, needy and hurting your ribs from how tight you’re pressed against him, while the other slots over the nape of your neck, big enough to cover it whole.  

He clutches you as if you’re a silver lining in an open space, and there’s so much Jungkook all at once and everywhere around you. There’s electricity buzzing under your skin at the way he moans into the kiss when you bite his lip, pulling you back with him as leans against the drawer, thighs spreading for you to fit until you’re pressed flush against him. Your skin is so hot and you’re so drunk on need you’d peel the layers off and fit yourself into a piece of him, feel his moan reverberate through your being. You would, and you do.

When you break away, you don’t care, that’s what Jungkook registers. You’re nosing his neck, lips closing around a sweet spot under his ear. He winces from the sting, though it is short-lived. Another wave of arousal hits you exhale over the raw skin like the breath has been fucked out of you. He’s so sensitive there, and you don’t care to be gentle, don’t care to soothe the ache—you’re taking for yourself. It’s you being selfish.

His head spins so hard around the idea he has to hold onto you to stay on his feet.

Jungkook wants that, wants you to take. To ask. It thrills him how dangerous that notion is, what he would do.

There’s a soft sound you make right after you bite, a sigh that drips into his blood and travels straight to his dick. Faint cries of his name echo in an empty head, shake him to a blurry reality, paired with kisses under his jaw, on the mole that’s so close to his lip. “Jungkook, we can’t.”

With his inner voice gone, his head is empty and a beat too late he registers you’re speaking to him. He nods into your hair, chest rising and falling shallowly, again and again until he’s able to speak. He swears. Swears he understands but no part of him can do so, if you tell him to stop and yet coax him into giving in.

His neck is wet with traces of your lip balm. “Okay, okay, just—give me a second,”

“No, no—” Frantic, you cup his cheek and without thinking he leans into it, expression softening. Your thumb rubs circles onto the bone, caress it until you pry his eyes open, until he can look at you. “Not here.”

Before he can act, you lace his fingers with yours and lead him towards your bathroom, pull hard on the handle, and in your rush, you use the same force to press him into the door as it closes. Jungkook whines, shameless, hips bucking into you. In his high pitch you can capture the exact moment his last thread of sanity bids its goodbye, leaving him with putrid needs that shudder out of him like they do whenever he is close.

“God, look at you,” you whisper in wonder, latching to his mouth.

Cold runs up his arm and to his sides when you pin his wrist away, knuckles brushing against the tiles. The room’s dense, its width a fraction of the main hall. Its monochrome walls are closing in on the both of you, two specks of colour squeezed together in the tight space.

All at once, he’s hit with how good you smell, tinges of his cologne having rubbed off on you. A different aroma, one that’s sweet and masculine, pierces his senses with the same strength of an alcohol, but instead of focusing, it makes him hazy—hazy and restless. Even in his current state, he can more or less see the same effect on you.

Jungkook looks at you through strands of hair and dropped eyelids, head thrown against the door. “You like it?”

You grin, fingers hooking in the belt loops on his sides and use them to move his hips so his cock drags right into the space between your thighs. “Should I show you or let you guess?”

His hips work with more vigour, coil in his belly pulled too tight while you take your time reciprocating. The softest friction you give back is enough to have him gasping, dick hardening against you.

“You’re the one who seems to like this quite a lot,” You reach under his shirt to stress your point, molding your palms in the deep lines that define his abdomen. They explore, trailing higher until they brush against a nipple, the image of how a bar would fit there a dangerous addition in your head.

“Yeah,” He bites his lip, no point in not being honest now that you have him like this. “I do.”

Once you hear him, you grow more determined, hand closing high around his side and on his ribs. Next thing he knows you're back to his nipple, rolling your thumb over it, the stimulation too much too soon. Jungkook seeks to take your focus from it, but you don't relent.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he pouts before biting back a moan, “I wouldn't want to keep you.”

The moment you hear him, you laugh, fond and delirious—and press harder when you touch. “Yes, Jungkook, I do.”

If he had any walls left, he's sure you would have them crumble when you ask with your other hand hovering on the elastic of his boxers, “Do you?”

He nods, speaks from under his breath, “You have no idea.”

Mischief and anticipation dance in your irises, and when you smile, you do it with full teeth, every bit the bad wolf who's waiting to eat him up. You've chosen to prolong the said wait because instead of gripping, your finger branches out to trace the underside of his dick.

“You can’t do that to me,” he whines, soft voice murmuring pleas.

Jungkook’s torso, yet to be marked, is a pleasant path, one you’d cross again and again, warm and smooth and addicting—it takes most of your willpower to stop, staring him right in the eye with an eyebrow raised. “Can’t do what?”

“You shouldn’t touch me,” Meek and sincere, he lifts your chin and you freeze with your chest pressed against his. “Not if you want to tease.”

It’s a silent beg, because even if he missed being teased, he needs you. He’s so wound up he doesn’t think he can stand it, but he's still proud. Somewhat.

Your expression remains unreadable, but your actions speak loudest when you touch him skin on skin, hand sneaking under his boxers, and—oh.

He restrained himself the best he could when he had close to nothing, but now, with his head fallen back, he moans for you like he’s singing. The more you tighten your grip, the more his octave jumps over the classics you’d been so fond of.

“Careful, baby,” you tut as you spread the precum over his tip and use your body weight to still his shaking thighs. “You could hurt yourself.”

“S-sorry, ah—” he stutters, hand caught between the both of you, squeezing yours over the cotton of his sweatpants. “Feels good.”

He's not used to it, being the centre of attention, people putting lights too bright on him. Can't decide if he likes it or not, though it has him weak. His mind is on you, your time, your pleasure. On how he craves for you to feel him, needs you to feel good. On how he is going to make use of the semblance of control he hasn't given up yet to show you what you're doing to him.

So he does. He walks you back until your hips knock against the sink, pins you the side that is closest to him. Eagerness overcomes him at the impact, pulling at the hem of your shirt, and you cater to his wishes, letting him remove your top. With the layer peeled off, the scene is rougher and more intimate, secrets shared by the two of you tangled in this background, he sees them, lets them drive him crazy.

“How about this?”

It's such a delicate thing, how your bare shoulder connects with its reflection in the mirror. His gaze explores your body, landing on the upper parts covered in ink. Beginning at your sternum, a young lotus connects to a larger piece spread on the top of your torso, adorned with leaves and petals that bloom from its center. The thread between the flower and the full piece is so thin, his tongue would cover it whole.

It's the swell of your breasts that has him distracted and split between choices. But there’s something so primal about the object of his desire in front of him, and his made-up mind can't wait for encouragement, cupping them in wonder under your bra. Your gasp when he brushes against a nipple is so delicious he's the one who can't help himself, dipping his head to get a taste. He sucks like he's expecting praise, grinds more into you and he can't decide if the action is for you or himself.

“Jungkook, ah—” you groan, and the reaction stirs him up further. That mind of his which has been empty is quick to fill out with more than he can handle.

He'd drop down to his knees and crawl as long as you moaned and waited for him like that. He'd kiss and lick up the thigh that's pushing against his dick, hold it as he spread you open with his tongue. By nature, he's a pleaser, and thoughts like these are natural—as natural as those that keep coming, those about himself. They retell how easy it was for him to lose himself, far to the point of no return. A sweetheart in the face of sin.

It's almost laughable how gone he is and what it might say about him, about how down below he really belongs. Well, it's comfortable. He likes it down there.

Lower places are for those who lose, and Jungkook wouldn't mind losing to you, as long as he has a place down and a fighting chance.

He drops to his knees slowly, tongue dragging through the middle of your tattoo and down, kissing his way to the button of your jeans. In a snap, he pops them open, considers letting go, all doe eyes and messy waves that cover folded cartilage and stop right before a lobe marked by matching silver hoops, and now an industrial. Without thought, he catches the flimsy zipper in his mouth then drags it down where he said he belonged, holding onto the metal until the end. His arms flex under your thighs, gripping you tighter as he drops the zipper but not the eye contact. He has to be sure your eyes are on him when that playful glint takes over and his tongue flattens against the front of your jeans.

He's not bad for wanting it, is he?

Your fingers in his hair yank his head back, and oh, this one's different from the sting before—it spreads tingles across his scalp. “But I liked you this way…” He sulks, soft hair putty in your hand.

And he did, still does. Thighs on either side of his head, your face, breathless and grinning above, there's nothing wrong with this angle. “And here I was trying to take it slow.”

On his knees for you, it seems that now he finds the time to be a brat. “Your hands down my pants is slow now?”

You arch an eyebrow. “Lots of things you want to do, hm?”

Equal parts eager and shy, Jungkook nods, moving to lean on your thigh. You're fast to react, hand in his hair coming in between to protect his piercing. He nods with his head in your palm, noses along the inseam of your jeans.

“You just need to...let me.” His hand slithers under the soft flesh and splay on your ass to make his point. For the final dot, he feels for your back pockets, uses them as support to drag down the material until he can see your underwear.

“What about what I want?” you scoff when he's midway through pulling your pants down. “Aren't you being a little selfish?”

He's taken aback by your pout, your always-tender touch. “Uh—”

“You didn't sit to think about it, did you baby?” Wide eyes look up at you, a pang of strange guilt overcoming him. “Whether I want you like this?”

Jungkook wonders about the game you're playing. “I'm sorry—”

Habits force him to be polite, guide you to be patient.

“Poor little heart.” You caress his jaw, his mouth, and this time, his lips close around your finger. “Get up.”

He obeys but not without a fight inside him. Body to body, you soothe the frown off his face with kisses up his neck, paying attention to the noises he makes when you tug at his hair again.

“You looked so good before. Right here,” you whisper when he drops into the touch.

Praise relaxes him, opens up his every pore, pours heat straight to his gut. He knows. Yet part of him has yet to get over how you denied him, occurrence too rare for him to get used to it.

“It's less fun like that.” Jungkook's aware of how he sounds: like a little brat, petulant. As good as he is, it thrills him when he gets to act this way.

“Is it? Baby got a taste and now he can't get enough?” You're mocking but gentle, how he likes to be teased.

He did miss it: missed being teased, missed tearing up a bit.

“I didn't even have to ask to bring you to your knees.” You grip his hair tighter and he moves to the direction your reins are pulling. Ah, missed having his senses tortured. “So willing. So easy.”

“Yes—” he babbles, doesn't care for much when you handle him like that. Neither can he speak much, yet he is aware of everything, is sensitive to everything—shivers as your heel nudges his calf.

“I think it's more fun when you work for it, don't you agree,” You motion at his pants, and he scrambles to drop them to his knees for you stroke his cock, “there's thrill in the chase.”

How true that is. Jungkook aches for a chance to show to you how he is when there's chase involved.

“For you,” he says, tone flat and tired.

“Then it's not the case?”

He shakes his head, now bordering on a dangerous edge. Competition never hurt him. Neither did playing it safe, but he doesn't care to play it safe now that it's about you.

“For you, all for you—” he grabs your wrists and brings them down until you cup him with both hands, rocks his hips into the loose space. “Please let me do something.”

Or make me, is the sentence he leaves buried. More important for him is to hang tight onto your permission, yet hatred over not feeling needed threatens to swallow down his arousal and purge back anger. It's a twisted game he often plays, how long he can deny himself, how much he can hold before he snaps.

He's been close to snapping from the beginning, so out of his mind, he'd do anything you asked. Why weren't you asking? Jungkook would love for you to tell him how to make you a mess, say the word and he would be on his feet, down on his knees. He’s aware it paints a pretty picture when he does it.

Taking pity on him, you bring his hands down to your underwear and remove it together. It flies right past his ego—the immediate reaction is to reach for his own, but you stop him by shaking your head.

You peek down, shudder when you see how hard he is. “Leave them on. It's not safe.”

“Like this then?” Jungkook holds you spread for him as he drags his clothed cock over your clit. He's moving so slow he's shaking. There's so much desire which had to be buried down for him to keep to his word, to respect the promise that he'd listen. “Good?”

“Mm, good.” His chest swells with pride, and he gasps when he feels how wet you are, staining the material. Tentatively, he slides a finger in, then another, scissoring them inside. He goes deeper until he's sure they're coated, gathers the strings of arousal and brings them back to your clit. “That's it—”

The pressure is built with his thumb over your clit, careful and decisive the more you pick the volume. He'd muffle those noises with his mouth or make them louder with his tongue, yet he doesn't have the courage, thus he settles for your neck. It's a welcome distraction, a purpose that's holding him to earth when you're rocking back against him, the sight of you so desperate doing things to him.

“Fuck, you're leaving marks,” you whisper to yourself. It sounds holier, more like a revelation you have bare for him, with your hair messy and neck bit.

“I just. Need something to do, with—with my mouth.” He hurts through the seconds he takes to explain. Exists through his need. “Don't like it empty.”

A call of his name breaks the hold he had.

“If you want to be rough, you can.”

“What?” His head shoots up, confusion written across unfocused eyes. “W-Why?”

“I see you.” You swipe at hair matted over his forehead, mold your print in the drops of sweat laid over the veins in his neck. “And I want you to have it.”

Best case, Jungkook would need a few moments to process this, but you don't give him the pleasure. Every word is a shot fired on his self-control.

“I need you to feel good.” your voice is saccharine, its echo dripping in pleas through his bones. “That's what will make it better.”

“But then...” You're wrapping your thighs around his waist, letting him in. He has no idea what he's protesting.

That urge to suppress, that need, their noise is not yet muted—he hates how he's not done enough. Almost feels useless. But you need him for something else. Proof to his statement is the conviction attached to your request.

“You said you'll listen.” Although you don't mention his behaviour until now, implications hang heavy. “Why aren't you doing that when I tell you to do as you please?”

He's still lost, but now a new desire creeps up, whispering to him how nice it would be to obey. To stomp on his previous effort.

Too many sounds ring in his head, like radio static that shuts off when you press your forehead against his. “Be good, baby. Let go on me.”

Nice and sweet.

Jungkook listens and unravels before you. With rough drags of his cock against your pussy, you can't differentiate whether the mess on his boxers comes from you or him. He's messy yet mindful, angling up his thrusts, making the hit land right onto your clit, deep like he wants to fuck into you.

“Yes, yes—ngh—” This time it comes from him, but you're not far, with how you dig your nails into his muscles. Memories he'll feel for days, along with the strain it takes to keep the both of you upright. He speeds up as soon as you urge him to go faster, a toy on arches, flared up because of your request. Drifting away with the sensation, he almost loses footing when you whisper you're close.

Instead of hazy, the words are electric—he's more awake than he's ever been. Puts in so much work his bones rattle and lids screw shut when you cum, sounds so pretty and long they stretch out to rip his orgasm out of him.

Solemnly, his world quiets.

“You good, baby?” Serene, you massage the nape of his neck and let him cling to you until he can breathe again, “Gave me plenty to clean.”

Jungkook stares at the mess between your bodies before he's puffing out a laugh, “I could be better.”

You sit with him until he parts from you, then put your clothes back on. “Wait here, there's stuff in the cabinet that can help.”

“Hey...” you turn to him in question and he kisses you again. “Thank you.”

You return with the necessary supplies, handing him some wipes as you bend down to disinfect the sink. “It's not much, but it's not like I expected guys throwing themselves at me in my own shop.”

“I did not!” he puffs as he cleans himself up, winces from the sensitivity. “You just... well. Did that!”

“My job?” His eyes are wide and accusing, full of indignation. When you look back, he stares back as if challenged, ready to debate you. “I won't repeat the offense.”

Jungkook steps in front of you, confident and looming. “I'm not leaving until you admit.”

“I'll admit.” You nod, face brightening up as you tease him. “I was too good at my job and made you starstruck.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I'll be here all day.”

“There's security.”

“I'm strong.” His arms wrap around your waist for emphasis. You relax in his hold.

“I saw, big boy.” He's about to say something else but you're quick to cup his face and steal the words off his lips, tap at his pocket. “Hold onto this, okay? And call me if there's any trouble.”

Minutes after exiting, he has the gall to unmute his phone and sees the notifications pop; the top being a text from Namjoon in the groupchat sent over 20 minutes ago. 

that guy [4:16 p.m]: jsyk i respect your opinion but i'm putting this shit on mute if you mention anything about the PC version being better again

joonie hyung [4:50 p.m]: Jungkook?  joonie hyung [4:50 p.m]: Well? How did it go? 

Jungkook chuckles to himself, sitting on a nearby bench, mindful to the saline solution he bought from the front desk that’s now in his lap. Further contemplates the message as his fingers brush over the bobby pin still in his hair as a distraction from the piercing.

There is a bunch of nonsense that follows in the chat from Taehyung and Hoseok, but that's always easy to ignore–he blames it on the force of habit. The parlour's sign is a clear view diagonal from his position, background he sees fit for him at the moment. Jungkook angles his body so he's facing the opposite direction and snaps a picture of his reddened ear, careless to the rosy marks blooming right under. Your contact details are secure in his pocket, printed over the card you gave him, and despite how light they are, they bear the force to keep him grounded.  

Tapping the screen to quote Namjoon's reply, Jungkook keeps to his fashion: he's not the one for many words when it isn't needed.

He breaks into giggles. Thumbs up and peace sign emojis suffice.  

a/n: namjoon getting his tongue pierced is actually a reference to emma @.personawife’s fic piercings and piercer!yoongi is available over at @.yuengi in bad boys bring it to you which you should totally check out if u want more pierceverse! major thanks to lo for listening to me ramble about this cutie and helping me with the last bits of his character! • remember don’t get pierced with a gun OR a hoop and if you enjoyed please consider leaving a comment i’m starving and koko is not showing sleeve 

[dakotacrisis]

Deal’s End

Marinette is working on an occult design for Juleka when a stray dodgeball hits her in the face. She bleeds all over her design and through this accidentally summons the demon whose sigil she had been sketching. The demon now cannot leave until a deal has been struck. Unfortunately for both of them Marinette isn’t ready to give up her soul that easily.

I have no self control! Got this idea after seeing a one-time-i-dreamt post about accidentally summoning a demon by drawing pentagrams. There are going to be more chapters of this. Nothing too long, right now I have it plotted out at about twelve so it should go by pretty quickly. Also there are no kwamis or powers in this Felinette AU. Happy reading!

(Read on AO3)

---

There are some deals that should never be struck. No matter how tempting they sound. It can only end up hurting you. There was a saying, if it sounds too good to be true then it is. It was this frame of mind that Marinette held. She would admit she was an optimist but she never once pretended that her dreams could come true with a single wish. Anything in this life, she would have to work for and earn.

Marinette’s dream was to one day grow up to be a famous fashion designer. At fifteen though it was still only a dream but she worked to build her skills and name as much as she could. Taking on commissions and such were just one way hone her abilities. And hopefully one day she would see the fruits of her labor.

At the moment Marinette sat off to the side of the open courtyard where her classmates were playing dodgeball. She was sitting out due to a twisted ankle she incurred running to get to class on time after sleeping in. While she did like a good game she was more than content to sit off to the side and work on a commission for her friend Juleka.

Juleka had always been a more gothic personality and Marinette had known it was only a matter of time until she came to her for something occult-ish. The design was nothing major. A couple patches that Juleka could put on her bag with satanic looking sigils and pentagrams and stuff on them. Personally Marinette steered clear of occult stuff. She liked the aesthetic but the actual practice gave her the heebie jeebies. Oh you’re going to this abandoned asylum and where a bunch of people died and playing with a ouija board? Hard pass!

Right now Marinette was trying to sketch the sigil Juleka gave her in her notebook. Different demons had different sigils and Juleka wanted one that wasn’t hugely known like Lucifer or Leviathan. It was either smart thinking or ‘I liked this demon before you’ flexing.

And done! The sigil kinda looked like an abstract butterfly now that Marinette finalized it. Now she just had to work this design onto a patch and--

“Marinette!” Someone shouted.

Marinette looked up just in time to see that bright red rubber ball flying straight at her. She can only blink before it smacks her right in the face with a resounding P’TANG! Or maybe that’s what the noise was. All Marinette could hear was the ringing in her ears as her brain tried to catch up with the hit it just took.

“Holy crap! Marinette, are you alright?” Her friend Alya ran over to check on her. “Kim! What the hell was that?”

“Sorry! I was aiming at Alix but it missed and...oh shit, your nose is bleeding.”

“It is?” Marinette touched her nose and winced. A little smear of blood rubbed off on her hand. She stared down at her notebook and groaned when she saw the splattering of blood on the page. “Perfect.” She ripped the ruined page out and used it stunt the flow of blood.

“Do you need to go to the nurse?” Alya asked, helping Marinette to her feet.

“No, I think I just need to clean up.” Marinette started limping towards the bathroom. “If I see it bruising I’ll head to the nurse.”

The bell for the next class rung and Marinette told Alya to let Ms. Bustier know she was going to be late.

With that Marinette walked into the bathroom and dropped the paper in the trash. She grabbed a couple paper towels to wipe the blood off. The bleeding had been short lived but god did her face hurt. She would probably end up down at the nurse for an ice pack if nothing else. First her ankle now her nose, what else could she hurt before fourth period?

She bent closer to the sink to wash the last of the blood away. When she came back up to dry her face she noticed someone in the mirror behind her. She gave a started yelp and turned around to see who was there.

At first her brain tried to say it was Adrien but the boy standing behind her but the sharp red suit told her different. “Uh hi?” Marinette grabbed a paper towel to wipe her face, “You’re in the girl’s restroom.”

“So it seems.” the boy nodded. The guy was the definition of well-groomed. Perfectly styled blonde hair, not a crease in his clothes, clear skin, and polished shoes. He looked around her age, maybe a little older it was hard to tell. He had one of those faces. And currently is was fixed in a bored expression as he calmly regarded the alarmed girl in front of him.

“What are you doing here?” Marinette asked.

“You summoned me.” Red suit boy replied.

“No. I didn’t ask for anyone.” Marinette started to inch towards the door. “And if I was going to ask for help I would have gotten one of my friends, not...whoever you are.”

“Let me be more clear.” Red suit boy pulled out a wad of paper that Marinette hadn’t seen him holding before. He unfurled it to show the paper Marinette had ripped out of her sketch book and now covered in her blood. “You see this mark you drew here? That’s my mark. See the blood washed all over it? That’s your blood. Ergo, you summoned me.”

The pieces started to fit together but Marinette wasn’t liking the picture. “Are you trying to tell me that you are some kind of demon that I summoned by having a nosebleed on my sketch book?”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

“Nope.” She shook her head, “I think I have a concussion. Yes. That blow to the head created you and I should be getting to the nurse.”

Marinette quickly rushed out of the restroom and started making her way to the nurse. She was down the hall towards the nurse’s station when she saw red suit demon boy in front of her again. “But--” she pointed back towards the restroom, “But you were--how did--?”

“I would really like if you would stop trying to rationalize me away and accept what you have done.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Obviously,” he gestured to himself, “you did. Or else I wouldn’t be here.”

“I am in too much pain to be dealing with this.” Marinette turned to go back to class. She needed an ice pack but she didn’t want to get closer to the literal demon at the other end of the hall. “Go away and leave me alone!”

He spawned right in front of her again causing her to quickly back up to avoid running into him. That same bored expression lingered on his face. “I’m not leaving.”

“Why not? I didn’t mean to summon you. I cannot believe that something like this is even happening. So please, go back to whatever hellhole you crawled out of and leave me alone.”

“Would if I could but I unfortunately cannot.” Demon boy started walking next to her as she ascended the stairs back to class. “You summoned me and so I am bound to you until I have fulfilled my duty.”

“And what duty is that?”

“To strike a deal.”

“Too bad I’m not in the habit of making deals with demons.”

“Not many people are. You’d be surprised how little demons are called upon nowadays. Back in the olden times there wasn’t a single weekend where I could--”

“That all sounds like a lovely history lesson but I have literature class to get back to. Bye.” Marinette strolled into the classroom and firmly closed the door behind her. She sat down at her desk and let out a sigh of relief.

“You alright? Did you go to the nurse?” Alya whispered.

“I’m fine.” Marinette pulled out her notes. “I’m having a long day is all.”

She looked up to see where they were in the lesson and nearly fell out of her chair when she saw demon boy sitting on the teacher’s desk. He was staring directly at her. Marinette gazed around the room but no one else seemed to notice he was there.

“Are you sure you don’t need to go home early? You seem really spaced.” Alya asked, worried.

“It’s going to be a long day.” Marinette muttered, glaring at the unbothered demon.

Marinette’s gaze never left the demon during the entire class. She tried to focus on Ms. Bustier but her attention kept being drawn back to him. He would walk around the room peering at the other students and messing with the lights so they flickered incessantly. She shot him a dirty look which made him stop and he instead started pestering her by talking over Ms. Bustier’s lesson. When class was finally over Marinette told her friends to head on to lunch without her. She needed to have a word with her unwanted guest.

“That was so boring.” The demon boy sighed, “How can you cope with that every day?”

“Why won’t you leave?” Marinette snapped.

“I told you before. I can’t leave until we make a deal. All of which I would have explained from the beginning if you hadn’t insisted on trying to get away from me.”

“You’re a demon! Of course I was trying to get away from you!” Marinette seethed, “Also, am I correct in assuming that no one else can see you but me?”

“Yes. Why? Didn’t like me attending class with you?”

“No. Oddly enough I didn’t.” Marinette sat back down at her desk. It was a good thing no one was here or else she would look insane talking to thin air. “Okay, you’re a demon and you’re bound to me to make a deal. What exactly does that mean?”

“Oh, you’re actually going to let me explain are you?”

“Talk now or else I’ll get a spray bottle full of holy water to spritz you with.”

“Someone’s touchy.” The demon boy shrugged. “I’ll forego all the theatrics and pretty words since I would like to get out of here myself. I am bound to strike a deal with you and I cannot leave until one has been made. Think of it as a wish. Whatever your heart desires I will provide in return for a certain price.”

“Am I right in assuming this price is my eternal soul?”

“I mean depending on what you ask for, yes. Not all deals are equivalent to your soul. Most are but those are usually just the popular ones. Fame, wealth, revenge, etcetera. So tell me, what is it you want most...Magdalene?”

“Marinette.”

“Right. What would you like?”

“I’m not going to make a deal with you.”

“Yes you are. Or else I’ll never leave. So tell me, what do you want?”

“I told you I am not going to make a deal with you! I am not giving up my soul or anything else for what you’re offering.”

“Can we please skip this bit?” He rolled his eyes, “I’ve seen enough people try to hold out from making deals to know that you’re going to end up caving anyway. Now tell me what it is your selfish little heart desires.”

“No!”

“Come on!” he groaned, “I said please. Stop trying to think you can wiggle your way out of this by being stubborn.”

“I’m not making a deal!” Marinette huffed and strode out of the room. “And you can go back to hell!”

He fell into step beside her as she limped her way up to the cafeteria. “How many times do I have to say that I’m not leaving until you get it?”

“I really don’t like you.” She grumbled.

“And here I thought we were getting along so well.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear, “Come on love, there has to be something you want. An impossible dream you want to achieve? Revenge on someone who did you wrong? The love of someone far from your reach? Do you not have any goals in life?”

“I have dreams and goals and people I like that don’t like me back but I am not about to cheat to get any of them.” she pushed his arm off of her. “Whatever I get in this life I will earn honestly in my own way in my own time.”

“Satan give me strength, you’re one of those people?” The demon sighed loudly. “You know that all this hard work you’re putting in will most likely go nowhere right? Those dreams that you think are so easy to achieve if you just put in enough elbow grease and strive forward with a can do attitude will crash and burn. Then you end up in the position you are right now. Looking for an easy route to everything you want.”

He stopped her, tickling a finger under her chin. She hadn’t noticed it before but his eyes were grey. Unnaturally so. They almost looked like sparkling silver in the fluorescent light. He grinned with teeth that seemed a tad too sharp to be human. “All you have to do is ask for it and I can make it so.”

“Not today.” she spat, “Not ever.” She walked around him and continued on with her head held high.

The rest of the day her demon lurked in the corner. He wasn’t causing mischief but his eyes never left her the entire time. She could feel them on her and it sent a shiver up her spine to think about.

When the day finally ended she booked it back to her house and locked herself in her room. Her gaze swept the room but he was nowhere to be seen. Hours passed and still she had seen neither hide nor hair of the demon that had been plaguing her. Perhaps it was all just a stress induced hallucination. It seemed that the second she got home and took some medicine for her aching face he ceased to be. It felt safe to deem this whole thing a weird experience and lay it to rest.

Relieved that the ordeal was over she started getting ready for bed. After today she felt like she deserved a little pampering and ran a hot bubble bath complete with some scented candles and her favorite face mask.

She sunk down into the water with a happy sigh. Her eyes sliding closed as she relished in the warmth. Yeah, she needed this.

Then she felt it. A shiver down her spine. She opened her eyes and had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming. Her demon was sitting on her toilet staring at her with that same bored expression. “What the hell--!”

“Thought you got rid of me?” he smirked, “I wanted to see how you acted when you thought I wasn’t here. It’s a nice set up you got here, what are the candles? Honey blossom?”

“Get out!”

“Why?”

“Cause I’m in the bath!” she curled into herself thankful that the bubbles held cover her modesty.

“So?”

“What do you mean, so? I’m naked!”

“And what? You think it is anything special? Do you have any idea how old I am? You are certainly not the first naked body I’ve seen and I doubt you’ll be the last.”

“I don’t care! Get out!”

That little grin on his face grew wider and he slid off the toilet to sit at the edge of the tub. “You know, if you really want me to leave you could always make a deal with me. Then I would have to go.”

“I already told you my answer. I will not make a deal with a perverted demon like you!”

“Oh please, I’ve met Asmodeus. Trust me when I say I am nowhere near the most perverted demon out there. That being said,” He stared more closely at the bubbles around her and with a snap of his fingers they all popped, “Doesn’t mean I can’t still watch you squirm.”

Marinette quickly reached for her towel and wrapped it around herself. She didn’t care if she was sitting buck naked in tepid water with a glob of pink clay on her face. She was not going to give him the satisfaction. She’d wait until the water turned ice cold if that’s what it took.

She can only wait as the minutes tick by and the demon plays his jokes to try and annoy her into making a deal with him. Still she remains steadfast until he eventually gets bored and leaves. Quickly she rinses the mask off and crawls out of the bath and throws on her robe.

She peers around her room to make sure he isn’t lurking in the shadows before getting dressed. Even then she did as much as she could with her robe still on so he couldn’t pop in while she was putting on her panties.

The thought that the demon is still nearby waiting and possibly watching her kept her up late into the night until her eyes couldn’t stay open anymore and she drifted off to sleep. Whoever this demon was he did not have a single idea who he was dealing with. If he thought some juvenile pranks and an invasion of her privacy was enough to get her to bend then he was sorely mistaken. Marinette was nothing if not stubborn and this demon was about to learn exactly that.

---

(2)

[davidjjohnston3]

It appears as if my dream is coming true without me; racial understanding and unity are being achieved.  Madison, Wisconsin these days reminds me of Rutgers and China.  The sky seems almost unreal. In the past I didn't realize how big China is; I only thought about Chinese moms and girlfriends... or spies. * When I was 14 I seem to have been offered a happiness.  At 16 I had that happiness taken away and distrusted the people broke it up.  At 17 I liked or loved one of those people but was wary of her father whom I never met and didn't dare to ask a question. Instead of taking nothing, I took something else which was offered. I was offered a second or final chance recently but was unprepared or failed to follow through  / deliver the complete ready 'suitcase.'  Today I feel beyond sadness.  I have not felt guilt in a long time either but fear of the sky and the new day.  I also sense I taught the wrong things to the wrong people at the wrong time, and they became... I don't know why I tried to be so many things, or hold so many dreams.  I never followed through on one true thing.  I never awaited or sought God's confirmation. All I see is light and beauty.  The population of the United States is increasing / has increased.  I thought my life was over; I was satisfied with my 'museum.'   I wonder whether this is a new 'classical' age a la Yeats 'Leda and the Swan' but I hate things like that. I remember my Taiwanese aunt Jamie and I am thinking of Chairman Mao. Originally my aunt's name was 'Gloria.'  I do not know her Chinese name.  I know she lives in Redlands, CA, and last I checked had a long commute in LA traffic to a Buddhist college. I just want to disappear.  In all my life only two people trusted me, and I ripped them off - one I misunderstood; the other I miscarried or betrayed. I had all these dreams that were alive or lifelike, physical, fleshly - 'carnal' as Houellebecq says in 'Liquid Birth.'  But what's the point? I used to ride the bus around Korea thinking about an old war but now I don't know why.  It was one of those 'parallel' novels with small and large: here is the war, here is someting else, a relationship, as though to say, 'And while __ also __.' I was in Delafield which I visited first in 2009 and thought about the Iraq War.  I thought about General Mattis.  Before attacking a certain Iraqi city the Marine Corps played 'Hell's Bells.'  Why were they so eager to hurl souls into Hell instead of reaching out to them some other way?  Or am I misunderstanding? I was sitting by this river in 2009, wondering about renting an apartment - 'Do you like Asian art' said the person.  In the end I gave him like 500 dollars for the rent-deposit but didn't live there or something.  'Dirtbag!' I met Zola Jesus the same year and also gave her and her brother 500 or so. The Great Recession was cozy for me.   I was happy in a way with my downsized life, as if the pressure were off. I remember the McCain v. Obama election.  At first I was happy John McCain came from behind to win the Republican primary. It occurred to me again that I and McCain are 'Japanese' in some sense of accepting failure and wanting to go down as having had the right idea. I don't know why I lobbied for so long to get fair treatment from the world when I wasn't even asking either what I meant or ultimately wanted, or what God wanted for me, or what was going on or had been going on perhaps since the Lutheran Reformation and the Reformation Wars  - one long war, perhaps since the civil wars marking the Fall of Rome.  As if everywhere is 'Germany; the Holy Roman Empire.' * In the past I read Ecclesiastes a lot - 'and the ocean is not filled.'  I don't know why in some sense I thought I could fill the ocean, or wanted to keep sinking things in there. I remember in 2007 or so I ate buffet food with Taiwan-GF and her parents and they said, 'Why do white people eat Jell-O?'   We also ate some rice with raisins and nuts or something. I don't know why I was eating everything with everyone, trying to be cultured in small ways instead of 'made,' 'made for a purpose.' Nowadays everything seems like Rutgers with these modded cars and people 'expressing themselves.'  I don't want to critique others anymore 'cause I am not a teacher or social critic or columnist or whatever.  I wish I wrote a column for the Joongang but I don't understand their 'angle' or 'cropping' either.  I always just want to make giant arguments and if my organized argument doesn't work I tend to take a 'Red Army' approach as with pedagogy; cf. Kruschev in 'Enemy at the Gates,' saying 'Lose the other half [of your troops].'   People gave me all kinds of 'sign' advices and I don't know what I was thinking experimenting with their advice. I wish I were just working at a gas-station or something with my wife like my boss's Korean parents who became millionaires but the world is bigger now.  These country road I used to yearn to have one of to myself; my grandfather's house at the foot of the San Bernardino's, somehow reminding me of Belgium(?) or Alsace-Lorraine.  I guess in retrospect my happiness place was my apartment in Korea with its fire-door or suicide-door or whatever it was, feeling like a coffin of safe-deposit box; and 'office-tel.' I used to get mad at people for not doing what they talked about.  'My dream school; I'm offering you an idea...' No you're not.  'I want to start a kongbubang' - then he made a Smoothie King instead.   I don't know what anyone is trying anymore or what they dream.  Everyone seems to be trying everything; relationships are what they would have.   I thought of 'a small personal voice,' Chekhov, or something Nabokov said about Chekhov, about people confessing things in quiet voices.  I wanted to scream and yell at people when I was younger but I couldn't in my family and then the moment passed; I wanted to teach HS but was corrupt by then.  Nowadays people can't guess my height; they said I look 6'1 or somtehing but it's really like 5'10 5'11.  All kinds of failures and people I nuked and feeding toxic chemicals to people who love chemical-warfare. I remember in a way the person I wanted to be or the one person I tried to be was in 2002-2003 at the South Mountain Arena ice-skating with HK-ex-girlfriend.  I just liked that image of myself with my nose.  But why?   I keep trying to make a self.  There is this Korean poem, 'I made a self; like peeling an apple; like running off with a woman who was my social superior.'   I never ran away with anyone that I know of; I went to 'Taiwan and Its Contexts' Yale Conference with TW-1, ate some rice and shellfish and the guy said, 'Many of my white students become lawyers.'  I thought about IP and wrote some stuff about teaching HS civics after making money when in the back of my mind I thought, 'If a BigLaw associate makes 160K first year, in 10 years how much money can I have so I can retire and write.'  then at UW-Madison the average starting was like 90K, so... then I remmebreed S'hai's letter about not wasting your 20's and was like what if I just made a ittle deal with myself, my parents, a semi-noncomittall offering to S'hai-1?  What is the point of such gambits(?). I miss 'Maria.'  I like her sunny voice and wish I met her mom or knew more about her.  I taught 'process-writing' which in retrospect was a mistake b/c 'process-writing' is 'German, socialist, patching, bit-by-bit.'  It also mixes past and future, admits failure, and denies individuality or rather implies that individuality comes from other people or something.  Like if Chairman Mao kisses me here, KJU kisses me here, Rose-Apple kisses me here, overall, I'm the Blarney Stone of David Johnston, 'the glass man without external reference.'  Why?   The Bible says, 'God will establish you' or something... I remember all these Democrats saying stuff like, 'In my day we took our neighbors' kids aside and blah blah...'  Communists... My uncle 'Uncle Hammer' once told my dad, 'Discipline your kid.'  My dad walked out and never entered that house for years.  Years later he said, 'Actually Uncle Hammer is right DAvid is a terrible arrogant person etc...'  at the same time Dad was stealing my IP like, 'Let's figure out all DJJ's pornographic adventures, eat his brain and live vicariously...' Everyone was like, 'When everyone says something about you it's probably true...' I don't know if I have anything to say fairly about any of this.  People supposedly derive their impression of God from their parents / father but I've had more than enough time and spiritual 'invasions,' really, to have more direct knowledge of God.  I just had all other affections and dependencies and side-projects and assumed 'trying this would be good enough' without asking. I just wanted my 'little life' and later felt done.  I thought I was sincerely schizophrenic.  I was glad the pressure was off b/c everyone seemed to blow up in my face or doors closed; or I didn't know.  I looked all these Edu. programs but never determined in my heart or mind or prayed for the right to join. All these psychopaths... My dad studied Economics - my family are 'Chinese' - and now his dreams are coming true.  I wanted to be 'RCCP Mediator.'  I studied nuclear weapons but never wanted to drop them.  I was interested in 'nuclear sublime' an idea about Japanese cinema / anime.  'God gave us nuclear weapons to _ _ _.'  I wasn't there to hear His voice so I wouldn't know.  Truman said, 'The power of the sun, something something...'   Later I became intent on 'petite culture' and 'the feminine' and so on.  'I am not gonna think about this.'  I don't work for the Pentagon.  I should've applied to Cornell Hotel Management.  In the summer of 2003 I ate the hearts of burnt-outside oatmeal-cookies and thought / didn't think about Korean-Presbyterian.   * Xi Jinping is going to visit Korea after Covid.  'What's his angle?'  I didn't dislike Xi; I believed in 'Rule of Law,' questioned the Cultural Revolution.  My 'apologetics' for all this were / was flawed in that I argued about weapons-systems killing everyone and how that's why we should love each other, love / obey God.  'OMG weapons-systems?!'   I thought today of my Ukrainian old friend Stan.   I once wrote or started, 'Everything Is Spies.' I think it was about Jiheon Fromis_9(?).   Today I thought about, 'Brides.'  I wanted to say, 'You were like this, that, Korean, Black - just be someone's wife or rather you could be a bride, w/ covered hair.'  I admire the aesthetics of the Catholic Church and their talking about demons and stuff but what if... I feel like I was always reading to lose everything and I gave everything to the wrong people who just eat and eat and eat, then examine the excretions too.  I saw this picture of LOONA Yves and thought, 'My daughter, hold her.'  A beautiful hand, neither boneless nor bony like it has many purposes.  'A wifely smile.'  None of these people care what I say; they don't see what I see.   I remember being happy listening to Wonder Girls' 'Draw Me' and writing stuff.  Most of these people will never care.  Glee, glee, glee.  'Spend my life-savings!'   I wish I could offer myself as a resource to someone but no one's got questions for me anymore.   Everyone figured out what I had to say and what I was right about; those who didn't are determined to be wrong or evil anyway.  And I was evil in trying to make everyone 'right.'   I thought about 'character.'  I pretended to have good character but never stuck to it. I wasn't manly either and never studied manliness.  I didn't think about offering myself to a woman or loving a wife as Christ loved the Church; only 'making deals.'  Later I thought investing in the younger generation would be better; and I was happy to 'downsize' myself. I do not know either why I believed everything was suddenly going to change after Covid Alpha.  People still have secrets, holdings, ambitions, relationships, things which made them special, records, fellowship or lackthereof.  I thought the Millennium was upon us; foolishly as well 'engaged every target' in job-hunting and wasn't ready and I didn't understand journalism either or things like whether NK, TW is a legitimate government in terms of God ordaining a government.  I also didn't know how much of news was propaganda or not; I used to believe everything was lies or disblief was smart then believed everything in books.  I didn't understand 'the game.'  I loved Creation.  'Classic garden.'  Why not train people well?  All these well-made Koreans.  Before KR I hated others and in KR 2012 hated myself or felt alone or IDK.  It's a big country.  These AmKor Twitter ppl, Korea small blah blah.  IDK if they are even being sincere or just peddling cliches. I thought today, 'I am a failed Korean' - or 'failed to be a Korean.'  For a while I thought everybody in the future wanted to be a Korean but I guess they wanted to watch the Olympics. The Midwest is full of farmland more than ever. Man is continuing to subdue the Earth, to be fruitful and multiply. I have no excuse for myself.  What is the future? I didn't go to China so perhaps I do not know. I wonder whether people in the Midwest are still thinking, 'Sth's going to happen.' I have had too many options.   I always thought that I could 'parlay this in to that.'  I considered my CV as a series of changes or mutations.   'Seek thee first the Kingdom of God / and His righteousness'

[chariot313]

Western social media has no respect for Japanese online artists - and it’s killing online art

The visual arts have evolved to suit the most popular medium of each era. In nowadays’ case, the internet is the go-to method of sharing the fruits of one’s labour). However, as stated in that tweet thread of mine you can see if you scroll down a bit (assuming you’re viewing this post on chariot313.tumblr.com) different cultures have different attitudes towards how their customers react to their products. This include you know what fuck the formalities, I’ll just say it: The exclusively western concept of someone seeing something they like online and hitting the share button to stimulate the “Haha, upvotes go ‘brrr’!” dopamine in their smooth-ass lizard brain will be the death of online Japanese artists. Or rather, it has been already, and you would know that if you’ve ever seen an artist’s Twitter bio be in mostly Japanese save for one sentence in English; “Reprint is prohibited.”.

If you want to hear me rationalize the absurd claim I just made, feel free to click the “Keep reading” button. Otherwise, turn back now and save yourself from me possibly wasting your time.

Alright, you’ve chosen to stick with me. Just remember, you asked for this.

Introduction

Social media as a whole is based around sharing (posting, uploading, submitting, tweeting, blogging, streaming etc.) and other’s reactions to what one has shared (views, likes, subscribers, favorites, followers, upvotes, retweets, reblogs, crossposts, etc.).

However, miscommunication and culture shock due to language barriers and cultural differences is one of the many factors that can negatively affect one’s experience on social media. For example, the Japanese artist community, active on sites such as Twitter, Pixiv, NicoNico Seiga, FC2 blogs, etc.. Twitter is mostly inhabited by English-speaking users. Here in the west, our main motive for sharing something on social media (such as art) is for fame and recognition. However, over in the East, most online artists only upload their works to the internet for personal use. I’m not saying one cultural attitude towards sharing art is better than one another, but when these two worldviews collide, the culture shock can negatively affect the careers of artists who are unaware of the other culture’s differing views on sharing art.

So, I’ve listed numerous social media platforms below and I’m going to elaborate on how each of them contributes to the alienation and discouragement of Japanese artists.

DO NOT WITCH-HUNT OR HARASS THE CULPRITS I’VE LISTED AS EXAMPLES; THEY ONLY SERVE TO BACK UP MY ARGUMENT

Twitter

Go into the twitter search bar and type in the name of an anime character (usually female). What do you find? Most likely an account named after said character that does nothing but post unsourced fan art of said character with cheesy “in-character” captions on them.

Exhibit A [NSFW]

Exhibit B [NSFW]

Exhibit C [very NSFW]

Aside from that, Twitter isn’t that bad in this regard, as a lot of the art that gets stolen is originally uploaded to Twitter anyway. But I’m just getting started. 

Wattpad

Ah yes, Wattpad. One of the “trinity” of fan fiction communities (the others being fanfiction.net and AO³), featuring many different stories with varying degrees of readability. The problem is the option to add a picture to adorn your fanfiction, at which point most of the authors google “<fanfic subject> fan art” and use something from there without considering the repercussions. This causes Wattpad to be one of the top results when reverse image searching to find the source of some fan art, aside from another site I’ll mention later on...

Reddit

There’s a subreddit I often browse called r/ChurchOfJirou, a community for sharing anything relating to the character Kyouka from My Hero Academia (I mean come on, she’s like the cutest thing ever). A lot of the posts on that sub are sharing fan art of the aforementioned character. One of the rules in the sidebar is “always include the source in the title or the comments”. And most of the submissions make good on that rule. However, a lot of the posts are from Japanese artists on Twitter or Pixiv, and following the source link leads you to find the artist’s bio, which usually has something along the lines of “don’t repost my work”. And what’s more, the biggest offenders (of submitting art to the sub without OP’s permission) were the moderators of the subreddit. You know, the ones who are supposed to be enforcing the rules? I even got so fed up that I called it out, to which one of the mods replied,

“It doesn’t really make a difference, does it?”

Luckily, not all subreddits are like this. For example, other MHA-related subs like r/BokuNoShipAcademia or r/ChurchOfMinaAshido have moderators that are more considerate of artists’ wishes. Overall, Reddit is usually a hit-or-miss when it comes to this kind of thing. At best, you’ve got subs like the two I just mentioned which make sure to respect artists, and at worst you’ve got people trying (and failing) to edit out watermarks. Also, not to self-promote, but this tweet of mine represents this situation pretty well:

Imgur

Imgur isn’t that bad compared to the rest of these, but it’s a common one that people link to when asked for the source of whatever they’ve shared on Twitter or Reddit or whatever.

Amino Apps

Amino Apps is a strange case. I don’t know much about it since I’ve never used it, but from what I do know it seems similar to Reddit in that there are numerous communities for different niches. That said, judging from the way it clogs up Google image search results, I doubt OC art is posted there often.

YouTube

Now, you may be thinking, “How does a video site rip off others’ art?”. The answer is uploads of soundtracks. Look for any OST from a video game or anime on YouTube and the picture used for the video will likely be some fan art by a Japanese Pixiv artist, usually one that forbids reposts of their work. Not only that, but if the uploader did bother to add the source in the description, it’s usually not even a link to the actual source, more likely a link to Zerochan or Pinterest or something. Now take into account that some of these videos get millions of views. Imagine working hard on something, and some numbnuts takes it, slaps some music onto it, uploads it to YouTube, and gets millions of views while you get next to nothing in comparison.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B (re-upload; original had nearly 40 million views before it was copyright claimed)

Exhibit C

and many many others

Pinterest

Alright, this is the big one. When Pinterest isn’t giving recipes or wardrobe ideas to suburban white moms, it’s clogging up Google reverse image search, punishing anyone who just wanted to find the source of some cute fan art. I feel like this meme by ZebitasMartinexSi on Facebook sums it up:

For example, this piece of Legend of Zelda art by Twitter artist @_nomeri_ (I’ll just link to it, since it would be hypocritical of me to embed the image even though @_nomeri_’s bio warns people not to repost their art). Good art, right? Well, if you right-click and hit “Search Google for image”...

...yeah. Pinterest is a plague. It thrives on theft. Even worse is when someone will post fan art on Twitter/Tumblr/Reddit/etc. and have the nerve to say “IDK the source I found it on Pinterest ^_^”. Or worse yet, they link to Pinterest saying it’s the source.

Instagram

While many other sites rag on Instagram for its reposting of memes, it’s no better when it comes to reposting fan art, especially from Pixiv. I’ve seen lots of stolen pieces with fan fictions written in the description. Personally, if I were an artist, I’d rethink my career choice if I saw my art reposted on Instagram with a half-assed fanfic under it, so I don’t blame Japanese artists who close their Pixiv accounts after seeing that. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to prevent it from happening in the first place.

DeviantArt

DeviantArt is more “renowned” across the web for its niche circles of bizarre fetish art, but in its defence, there are some legitimately good pieces on there. If you do find a good one though, try checking to see if all of the uploader’s pieces have a similar overall art style, because if not, that’s a sure sign of someone passing off some Pixiv user’s art as their own, which is unfortunately fairly common on DeviantArt.

9Gag

Not a whole lot to say about 9Gag. I mean, it does contribute to reposting of art, but nothing really separates it from the others on this list, aside from its watermarks. At least the watermark gives away the fact that something was reposted.

Know Your Meme

You know that Zelda pic by @_nomeri_ I was talking about earlier? Well, to add insult to injury, it became an object-labelling meme.

Imagine putting hours into something and politely asking others not to repost it, only to find that some nincompoops on r/DankMemes made it into an object-labelling meme.

But this isn’t KYM’s fault, per se. Know Your Meme only documents memes; they do not create them. However, as someone who regularly browses the Know Your Meme image galleries, I can say that the image gallery has essentially become Know Your Fan Art (unlawfully reposted fan art, that is).

Redbubble

There’s an NSFW artist I follow on Twitter by the name of Nico-Mo. A while ago, his Pixiv account was suspended, and there were numerous pictures on there that he had not uploaded to his Twitter or DeviantArt, so I found a mirror of one of those pieces on Gelbooru and reverse-image searched in hopes of finding it on his Twitter. No such luck. What came up instead was a .png of the piece made into a sticker being sold on Redbubble. In fact, that’s one of the major reasons why artists disapprove of their art being reposted, as it may find its way onto a sticker or a T-shirt being sold as merch without the original artist giving consent nor the artist receiving so much as a single nickel.

Facebook

Surprisingly, I think Facebook is one of the least offending sites on this list. Still worth mentioning, though.

Funnyjunk

Like Imgur, Funnyjunk isn’t that bad compared to some of the rest of these, but this exchange in the comments of a repost of an MHA artist that deleted their account (not hard to see why considering people straight-up ignored the big-ass watermark at the bottom) is proof enough of western social media’s flippant attitude towards ruining online artists’ careers.

Aggregator imageboards such as Yande.re, Konachan, Danbooru, Gelbooru, Rule34, SankakuComplex, Zerochan, etc.

I don’t think I need to explain these. But like Imgur, these are what most people link to when asked for source instead of bothering to find the original post.

We Heart It

I don’t know much about “We Heart It”, but it seems to be a “Pinterest Lite” considering it clogs up image search almost as much as Pinterest does.

iFunny

Basically the same as 9Gag, in the sense that its watermarks are a dead giveaway.

4chan

I’m not sure if 4chan really “counts” among these, as it’s a chat board where nearly everything is impermanent anyway. However, I was once on an NSFW subreddit where one submitter used a 4chan thread to get Patreon-exclusive material from an artist to upload to the sub (even though one of the rules of the sub was “no paywall content”), so that alone earns 4chan its spot on this list.

Tumblr

Yes, not even Tumblr is innocent. Although I’m sure you knew that. Similar to what I said about Twitter, look up any blog named after a fictional character and it’ll likely be chock-full of unsourced fan art.

“Why is this even important?”

Because if an artist sees that their work is being reposted, depending on the artist, they may delete the original post when they wouldn’t have to if people had just respected their wishes. Now, if an artist wants their works gone from the internet for other personal reasons, that’s up to them and we should respect them for it. But artists taking down their works due to mass reposting is 100% preventable, which is why it’s sad. If you don’t respect an artist, they won’t create art. Simple as that.

“Why do you care so much?”

Eh, I’m just weird like that. It just ticks me off when anything online, whether it be art, or a video, or whatever, is lost. In my opinion, nothing hurts more than clicking a Pixiv link on an imageboard and being greeted with “The work was deleted or the ID does not exist.”.

“But lots of western artists forbid reposting of their art too!”

Indeed, that is correct. But while many artists of every nationality and culture frown upon reproduction of their work, it seems only western social media is responsible for reposting art in the first place. I mean, why else do you think Japanese artists are saying “Reprint is prohibited” in English when the rest of their bio is in Japanese? Because English-speakers are the ones reposting.

“But exposure can help an artist!”

Yeah, that’s true...

...but “exposure” doesn’t mean much if those “exposed” to one’s work don’t know or care who it came from.

And if you need even more reasons, look no further than these posts about the same topic by other blogs:

https://cranberrywitch.tumblr.com/post/143456002228/stop-reposting-art-from-japanese-artists

https://thegospelofnagisa.tumblr.com/post/143308182398

https://edendaphne.tumblr.com/post/163117317030/ive-been-wanting-to-make-this-educational-cheat

https://marklightgreatsword.tumblr.com/post/190056977650/discourage-art-theft-in-fandom-in-2020-dont

https://letusrespectpixivartistconsent.tumblr.com/post/92189994896/why-is-this-important

also, not to self-promote but I made a thread on Twitter on this topic about a month ago that you can check out here.

That’s all.

posted Jun 14; last edit Jun 21