#dimple roomba……….

[beebmo]

you can eat it.

[stefaniayg]

⊹₊⟡⋆ Little Streamer — K. Kenma

TW: NONE, Excessive Cuteness, Domestic Stuff, Stream Chaos, etc!

`♡ Kozume Kenma x Fem!Reader (Y/N) `♡

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Summary: Kenma steps away mid-stream, and his 5-year-old daughter “Spawn” takes over—chat instantly falls in love. Y/N shows up, steals the scene (and a kiss), and chaos turns into cuteness overload.

•─────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅─────•⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅─────•⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅─────•

The soft glow from Kenma’s triple-monitor setup bathed the room in a dreamy hue of RGB as his fingers flew across the controller, his voice steady in conversation with chat.

“Okay, but if I actually land this shot, someone owes me boba,” he mumbled, eyes trained on the screen.

His stream had been going for nearly three hours, casual and cozy as usual. Kenma Kozume, once the quiet and analytical setter of Nekoma High, had since transformed into a famous gaming streamer with millions of followers. Despite the fame, not much had changed—except for one thing.

Two things, actually.

One: Y/N. His fiancé. The love of his life, and the reason he still had a regular sleep schedule.

Two: The small whirlwind of chaos and sweetness they both created five years ago—currently napping upstairs.

At least, she was supposed to be.

Kenma was mid-game, headphone halfway off one ear, when Y/N’s voice floated in from the hallway.

“Ken? Can you help me with something real quick?”

“Coming,” he answered, clicking pause and switching to the “BRB” screen.

He leaned into the mic. “Be right back. Don’t break anything while I’m gone.”

Chat immediately flooded with:

☆: BET

☆: Y/N supremacy

☆: He said “don’t break anything” like we’re the problem 😭

☆: Spawn jump scare when?

Kenma muted everything and padded out of the room.

A few seconds passed. The room was quiet.

Until it wasn’t.

There was a soft click, a shuffle, and then—

“Hi.”

Chat exploded.

The camera, still rolling, now captured a tiny girl with soft cheeks, a slightly crooked ponytail, and one of Kenma’s oversized hoodies nearly swallowing her whole. She blinked up at the screen, chewing the end of a pocky stick like it was a microphone.

“Are you… my daddy’s friends?” she asked seriously, leaning in close enough for her breath to fog up the webcam.

☆: SPAWN UNLOCKED

☆: OUR PRINCESS

☆: LOOK AT HER AAAAAAAAA

☆: protect at all costs

☆: KENMA WHO??

She sat down in Kenma’s chair, the height barely allowing her head to peek over the desk. Her little hands reached for the headset, almost tumbling it off the desk in the process.

“Oops. Sowie,” she whispered, then gently rested it around her neck like a pro.

“My name is…” she paused, thinking very hard. “Well. Daddy calls me Spawn.”

Cue even more chaos in the chat.

☆: CONFIRMED. IT’S CANON. SHE KNOWS.

☆: Spawn is self-aware. The prophecy is complete.

☆: She’s literally the chosen one.

“My mommy needed help with the big furniture,” she explained gravely, looking like she held the fate of the world in her tiny hands. “So daddy’s helping. I’m not ‘pposed to touch buttons but I didn’t touch buttons. I just wanted to say hi to Daddy’s people.”

She giggled, all dimples and sunshine.

“Oh! Wanna see something?” she leaned far out of frame and came back holding her favorite plush: a small blocky cat with mismatched button eyes. “This is Mr. Meow! He watches me sleep so monsters stay away. He’s super brave.”

She hugged the plush tightly, then leaned toward the camera and whispered, “He’s scared of the Roomba, though. But don’t tell him I told you.”

Chat was absolutely feral.

☆: ROOOOOOMBA FEAR LORE

☆: i would die for her

☆: STREAM JUST GOT 10000X BETTER

☆: Meow and Spawn collab when

Just as she reached for the actual controller on the desk, tiny fingers outstretched—

“Spawn.”

Kenma’s voice, gentle but firm, echoed from the doorway.

She turned around slowly, her guilty expression already blooming. “Hi, Daddy!”

He walked over, scooping her into his arms with a sigh that was more fond than frustrated.

“I told you not to touch the stream.”

“I didn’t touch buttons,” she defended quickly. “I just said hi to your friends!”

Kenma looked at the screen, where chat was now chanting:

☆: SHE’S A STAR

☆: LET HER STREAM

☆: GIVE HER A CHANNEL

☆: SPAWN SPIN-OFF

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling with a smile. “You guys are not helping.”

Y/N appeared in the doorway, laughing softly as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “She snuck past me when I turned my back. She’s quick.”

“She’s sneaky,” Kenma corrected, bouncing her gently in his arms.

“Do they like me?” their daughter asked, squinting at the screen.

Kenma stared directly into the camera.

“They’re obsessed with you. You’ve started a cult.”

“I’m the queen of the stream now!” she declared, throwing her arms up.

Y/N reached out to take her. “Okay, Your Majesty. Let’s go have your royal dinner.”

“Nooo,” she pouted, snuggling back into Kenma’s hoodie. “I wanna sit with Daddy!”

Kenma with a soft chuckle sat back at his chair, letting her perch in his lap while he rejoined the stream—her tiny hand waving occasionally at the chat while she held Mr. Meow.

☆: FINALLY. FATHER-DAUGHTER DUO.

☆: Let her pick the next game

☆: Give her the stream key. You’re just a guest

Kenma shifted slightly, trying to keep his posture steady so their daughter didn’t tumble off his lap. She was happily munching on the end of a pocky stick while hugging Mr. Meow like a teddy bear, her eyes still locked on the flashing lights of the paused screen.

“Say goodbye to chat now,” Kenma told her softly, tapping his mic back on.

“But I wanna stay,” she pouted, leaning her head against his chest.

“I know,” he whispered. “But dinner’s ready, remember? Mommy made your favorite.”

Just then, Y/N stepped into frame again, looking radiant in that effortless, domestic glow—loose sweater, soft smile, and a perfect messy hairstyle.

“Okay, little streamer,” she teased, walking over and reaching her arms out. “Time to come with me.”

“Nooooo,” their daughter whined softly, clinging to Kenma’s hoodie. “But I love Daddy’s friends!”

Chat exploded again.

☆: STOP SHE’S TOO CUTE

☆: SHE LOVES US 😭😭

☆: adopt me pls y/n i’ll be good

☆: Y/N LOOKS SO PRETTY HELLO????

☆: THE WAY SPAWN WON’T LET GO OF HIM 😭

☆: don’t take our queen

Y/N smiled at the camera as she gently peeled their daughter away. “She’s supposed to be in her pajamas, not stealing the stream.”

Then she glanced at chat, paused—and waved.

“Hi, everyone,” she said sweetly. “Thanks for being so nice to our little intruder.”

Chat was GONE.

☆: SHE SPOKE. ANGEL. CONFIRMED.

☆: HOW DID HE PULL HER BRO

☆: Y/N SUPREMACY‼️

☆: I ship them even though they’re ENGAGED

Kenma leaned forward just enough to smirk at the camera. “I told you she’s out of my league.”

“You say that,” Y/N called over her shoulder, already halfway down the hallway with their daughter in her arms, “but you’re the one who won me.”

Their daughter’s voice piped up just as they disappeared down the hall:

“I love you, Daddy!! And Daddy’s chat!!”

Kenma sat there, momentarily quiet, eyes soft as he turned back to the stream.

“She really said ‘I love Daddy’s chat,’ huh…” he murmured.

☆: WE’RE SOBBING BRO

☆: tell her we love her too 🫡

☆: best stream of my LIFE

☆: you’re never topping this. ever.

Kenma chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Guess she’s gonna need her own Twitch channel now,” he muttered. “SpawnTV.”

☆: TAKE MY MONEY

☆: i would mod for spawn

☆: she can have my house.

He shook his head, cheeks faintly pink.

“Alright. Back to the game now… I think. If she’ll let me.”

Y/N turned at the doorway with their daughter nestled against her shoulder, Mr. Meow dangling from one tiny hand.

“You sure you don’t want to come eat now, too? She asked Kenma with a knowing smile. We’ll save you the good slices.”

Kenma’s eyes softened as he took in the sight—his daughter clinging happily to her, Y/N glowing in the dim hallway light, the image of his everything.

“In a bit,” he said, voice low. “Stream’s still losing their minds over the queen’s appearance.”

Y/N laughed softly and took a few steps back toward him. “Well, their king should probably refuel soon too.”

Before he could respond, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Just a gentle, familiar peck—but it lingered a second longer, warm and comforting.

The kind of kiss that said: This is ours.

Chat absolutely exploded.

☆: HELLOOOOOOOO????

☆: THEY JUST— THEY DID THAT

☆: SOFTTTT

☆: KISS CLIP KISS CLIP KISS CLIP

☆: WE’RE NOT OKAY

☆: i felt that im my single soul

☆: goals. literal goals.

Kenma blinked once, then smiled—not for the camera, but just for her.

“Go on,” he said, brushing a finger against the back of their daughter’s head. “I’ll be there soon.”

Y/N gave him one last smile and slipped out, footsteps fading.

Kenma turned back to his mic, still dazed.

“…Yeah. I’m definitely the one who got lucky.”

☆: YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT YOU DID, SIR.

He let the silence hang for a second.

Then, with the driest voice possible:

“…Yeah. I’m definitely giving her another kid. You think one spawn is enough to stop me?”

The chat LOST it.

He cracked a tiny smile, rare and smug. Then sipped his drink and shrugged.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

A distant sound of Y/N’s voice came from the kitchen:

“Kozume Kenma, EXCUSE ME???—“

He coughed, muting his mic like he was under investigation.

•─────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅─────•⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅─────•⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅─────•

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 

tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc.  7.6k.

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 

You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 

“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 

He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 

“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  

“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  

“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 

Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 

(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  

He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 

You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”

“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 

“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 

“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  

“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath.  Two. 

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 

“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”

“This is it.  Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 

“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  

“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 

“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 

“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 

“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 

Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 

“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 

“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 

“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 

“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  

“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  

“You like?”  

“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”

That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  

“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  

“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  

“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”  

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  

“Gonna miss me?”  

Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  

“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”  

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 

“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  

Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  

“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 

Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  

(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 

“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  

“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  

Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  

“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 

(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 

“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  

“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​​​ @codeinebelle​ @xjoonchildx​

[wxlfstxrx]

i’ve asked you like way to many asks already but cAn U iMaGiNE Finn bringing flowers home for his boys because aaaAAAAA

OK i’m quite sure you meant flowers as in,,, bouquets of roses/sunflowers etc. but i had a slightly different idea. i’m honestly too tired to proofread this so i’m sorry if this is a mess LMAO. once again thank you @shinymooncolor for your ideas you have no idea how much i love them

one morning, a couple of days before their first anniversary, finn’s awake at the crack of dawn, long before leo and logan are due to wake up beside him. he’s subconsciously tracing over the small fleur-de-lis tattoo on logan’s hip, trying to decide what to get for them because he’s a complete hopeless romantic and he wants them to know how much they’ve given him over the past year, he wants them to know that they’re the best thing that has happened to him, alongside with joining the league, and he wants them to know he loves them more than anything

his eyes start scanning around the bedroom to get inspiration but his bedroom is honestly, a mess. there’s always clothes strewn all over the floor, and they haven’t really done much decorating over the past year because they never really stay in one fixed room anyway, they just hop around depending on mood, though finn’s room is a hot favourite because it’s the closest to the living room so whenever they’re in a *cough* hurry, they stumble into his room. basically, it is not a good place to search for inspiration in

he has absolutely no clue what to do, and he panics for a bit, until he figures he should ask kasey and sirius for help

the next day, after training, he drags kasey and sirius out for lunch, distractedly telling logan and leo something along the lines of natalie, kasey, birthday, and quickly rushing out of the rink, leaving the two boys completely baffled because natalie’s birthday was two months ago

they head to sid’s for lunch, and finn launches into a whole rant about not knowing what to get for logan and leo, and sirius and kasey, the Ultimate Bros, are throwing ideas at him, and then sirius suddenly goes why don’t you just get them flowers? and kasey retorts that flowers are so cliche THOUGH we already have better ideas on the table, but finn is nodding and his brain is running a hundred miles an hour as they eat. after lunch they head to the nearest garden centre a couple of miles away

he loves the idea of getting flowers, but he also doesn’t want to get them cliche rose bouquets. he, kasey and sirius walk around and kasey has his hands in his pockets, one of them closed around a small box that he’s been carrying around for a couple of days now. he’s looking around as well, and he and finn trade opinions on the different species of plants and flowers that they see as they stroll down the aisles

sirius stays silent, lost in his own thoughts, the image of light brown eyes and windswept golden curls burned into his mind. he smiles to himself, his silver eyes sweeping across the room as he waits for something to catch his eye

finn suddenly remembers the tattoo his fingers had been tracing over the day before, and he makes a beeline for the fragrant white species somewhere in the corner of the large room. kasey follows him, and takes an immediate interest in the yellow flowers, as big as his girlfriend’s heart and as bright as her personality, in the aisle opposite. sirius is wandering a little bit away from them, having stopped by a section of gorgeous blue flowers with yellow centers. forget-me-nots. his fingers brush over the petals of one of the blooms, and the corner of his lip lifts slightly

finn’s giving himself a pat on the back because he thinks he’s quite the genius for picking out lilies for logan, but then he thinks about leo and he’s stumped again. he turns around and casts a quick glance around the room. several pots of bright orange flowers catch his attention and he makes his way over

leonotis leonurus, the sign reads. lion’s tail. finn laughs to himself and picks one up before heading over to where kasey and sirius are standing around the sunflowers. kasey seems nervous, arms folded across his chest and leaning his weight on one foot, but sirius has a wide grin on his face, his eyes bright and dimples showing

finn quirks an eyebrow as he approaches the pair, and kasey shyly pulls the box out of his pocket. finn’s eyes widen and he steps in, throwing his arms around kasey, not needing any words to convey his congratulations and approval. the trio eventually make their purchases and finn drops them both at their places before driving back to the apartment

thankfully, leo and logan are still out so he tries to make quick work of carrying the flowers he’s gotten into the apartment and hiding them. unfortunately, finn o’hara is the kind of guy who’s capable of killing a cactus, so he naturally makes a huge mess. the plants are huge and he’s struggling to carry them safely in and no surprise there but he accidentally drops one of the plants and soil is getting everywhere and he’s trying to clean it up with the roomba they have in the apartment

but the roomba somehow hates him and he practically chases it around for awhile and on hindsight he thinks he should have just swept it up but he’s lazy as fuck and look where that got him. he’s sweaty as heck and he has soil all over him and he’s just a mess. the roomba lazily bumps into his foot at one point and he’s so close to screaming in frustration but then he realises how stupid he looks threatening a goddamn roomba

not ten seconds later the door opens and finn startles. he tries to clean up the mess as best as he can but logan and leo step out of the entryway into the living room and they just stop their convo about thanos and captain marvel halfway, their eyes widening at the sight of finn standing guiltily in the middle of the room with two practically uprooted plants in front of him and soil all over his hands, face, legs and even his… hair? on top of that, the blasted roomba is still going at it, making loud noises to signify that it needs to be cleaned

logan and leo can’t help but burst into laughter while finn just pouts, very petulantly. suddenly though, leo starts sneezing, a few times in succession, and he mentions that he’s allergic to pollen. finn gets very upset, feeling so bad for basically getting pollen around the whole house and quickly, logan and finn clear up the mess and move the flowers to the balcony, shutting the door tightly while leo has already retreated to the bathroom. they find him back in the living room after their shower, and he’s sitting on the now clean couch and smiling at the flowers on the other side of the glass door

finn awkwardly clears his throat and explains himself and leo and logan’s smiles just grow wider even if they’re laughing and shaking their heads in disbelief because finn is just that much of a disaster but they love him anyway. finn is halfway apologising for the pollen when leo just stands up and pulls him in by the waist, kissing him to shut him up and he mumbles against finn’s lips, telling him it’s okay, thank you for the flowers though, i’ll just admire them from in here and finn finally finally relaxes in leo’s arms. logan comes round to hug finn from the back, humming in agreement and he squeezes him tightly because he’s such an idiot but he’s their idiot. their idiot sweetheart

leo then bodily hauls finn up and he wraps his legs around leo’s waist as the three of them retreat to the bedroom and amidst their kisses of gratitude and love, leo and logan worship finn like he’s their god, because he is

[hcpefulmarshmallow]

Time for some long, unnecessary Meta. I’ve had this one in my brain for ages, but I haven’t really had an excuse to talk about it until recently. Identity isn’t a major theme in Nagito’s character (although it plays it’s part), and so, I’ve been putting this one off. Then, my good pal Ashi had to go be a literary genius and incorporate some really interesting things into their Gundham, and now I have all the excuse I need. So I’m going to be talking about him, too, to a marginally lesser extent, using aspects of the Best Gunny’s characterisation. (Seriously though, plug. I’m not even sure it’s possible to follow this blog and not know about Ashi’s Gundham, but on the off chance: @the-taboo-king.)

 Under a cut for length, philosophy, and shameless, shameless Roulette.

 This is the part where I say something that makes the reader’s eyes glaze over, but indulge me. No Exit is a 1944 existentialist French play by Jean-Paul Sartre. It’s about three people - Garcin, Inez and Estelle - who are all doomed to hell, except hell is just an ordinary room, and it’s really, really good. I’d highly recommend. 

 The characters spend much of the start of the play sitting around, waiting for Satan to show up with the hot pokers and the lube, but once the three of them are gathered in this room, nothing happens. All they can do is sit there, get to know one another, and watch the people they left behind on Earth live out the rest of their lives and move on. There’s nothing there except three chairs; nothing else for them to do. It’s explicitly mentioned that hell has no mirrors, so for instance, when Estelle wants to fix her makeup, she has to rely on Inez to tell her if it looks alright or not. The trouble is, Inez is really attracted to Estelle, so Estelle has no way of knowing if Inez is telling her the objective truth or not. Furthermore, Estelle is kind of grossed out at the thought of another woman being attracted to her, so she starts flirting with Garcin. Not because she’s especially interested in him, per se, but he is the only man there, and Estelle thrives on male attention. 

 Garcin doesn’t seem to want much to do with either Inez or Estelle at first, preferring to focus on watching his wife try and cope with the terrible reputation he left behind. However, eventually she, and everyone who knew him, dies or moves on. It becomes like he never existed, as it does for them all. 

 Garcin accepts Estelle’s advances, but it’s not her attention he wants. It’s Inez’s. She’s furious, jealous, and ready to throw some hands. Inez’s fixation remains on Estelle; Estelle’s on Garcin; and Garcin’s on Inez. Things become vicious between the three, until, at last, the door to hell opens. Garcin has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t. 

 The play is especially famous for the line “Hell is other people”, and directly opposes the old adage, “I think, therefore I am”. It posits that humans exist because we are seen, and therefore if we are unseen, we do not exist. At this point, Garcin has become dependent on his feud with Inez. He might be forgotten in the world, but as long as she hates him, there’s a him to hate. The absence of mirrors removes the characters’ abilities to reflect on themselves, so they can only experience themselves through one another. In that sense, their purpose here isn’t solely to be punished, but to punish one another for all eternity. 

 So, what does this have to do with Dangit Roomba 2, the game where everything’s made up and the deaths don’t matter? Like I said, this play has been in the back of my mind for a while when it comes to writing Komaeda, but it hasn’t been explicit enough for me to justify writing oodles about until recently. So before we talk about Nagito, let’s talk about the man, the myth, the hamster dad himself. 

 Identity is a major theme for Gundham. He cultivates his own very, very carefully, only breaking character here and there either to adjust himself (and comment on a “good line”), or when he’s flustered and his composure slips just a little bit. Given how much effort he puts into his words and appearance, you’d be probably correct in assuming he wants to be seen a certain way. He appears to thrive off the fear and intimidation he inspires, yet despite demanding “silence and solitude”, he seems to crave companionship, and find it best in those who can easily reconcile his demonic persona with the kind, nurturing person he is underneath, as opposed to people who try and see directly through it. He needs that persona, you see. He can’t cope with it being stripped away. I’ve spoken about Gundham’s tendency to play the bad guy even when he is, objectively, the hero, before, so I won’t belabor the point too much. But what I’m driving at here is, who he is, and how he’s seen, are too intricately linked to be separated.

 If you recall, the door to hell opens and Garcin has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t. 

 I can think of no better example than the ideas in No Exit, and the intricacies of Gundham’s character, falling into place better than Ashi’s future verse. Which is really, really good, and a masterful take on the philosophy of identity. When Gundham shatters the mirrors and covers the reflective surfaces in his living space, he is effectively robbing himself of the ability to see himself. He’s forced into the vulnerable position of his identity being placed in the hands of others. With no way to reflect on himself - literally and symbolically - he has to take what others say to him as is. Rely on other people to cultivate his appearance and judge what he can no longer see, and therefore, alter. Coupled with his persistent, subsequent self-aggrandizing and deprecation, and he’s submitting himself to the torment of being made into the villain of this story, no matter what he does from hereon out. 

 You see, the world isn’t in despair anymore. He’s been given a second chance. The door to hell is open, and Gundham has the chance to leave, but he doesn’t. 

 Like Garcin, he becomes reliant on the fight. The constant struggle against people who will see him in the worst light possible, no matter what he does. But unlike Garcin, Inez, Estelle, or even Nagito - and we will get to Nagito - he isn’t forced into this state, for survival or for punishment. At least, not by a third party. He’s condemning himself. He’s robbing himself of the ability to improve, or to see himself improve. He doesn’t think he deserves to. He relies on others to validate who he is, because others have always let him down. Always seen him as the villain.  The weird kid. The one not worth including. He’s waiting to be told, “Actually, you’re a bad person and I don’t want to be near you”. He’s waiting to be abandoned and left alone because, when there’s no one left to see him, he will, effectively, no longer exist. He’s given up on a meaningful, extraordinary death, opting to instead languish in the depths of oblivion. For someone who has grappled for years to forge an identity he can live with (again, that other meta I did on him a while back), this. This is hell. 

 Now that I’ve outed myself as a secret Gundham Tanaka stan blog, let’s talk about his boyfriend. Identity is less a key theme for Nagito, and more a background element to his character. So it hasn’t been something I could justify a thousand-odd words on so far. But now I have an excuse, I’m going to talk about the single most underrated ship in all of Dimple Raddish. Like I usually do. Look, there’s been a semi-recent semi-surge on popularity for Roulette in the fandom, just let me ride it out, okay? As someone who doesn’t shut up about these two, I have no idea how much of it I’m responsible for, but I am arrogant enough to take more credit than is due, so. You’re welcome, fandom. 

 For all the things Nagito is awkward and dumb at dealing with (see: All The Things), helping Gundham cope post-tragedy is one thing he does pretty effortlessly. Because what Gundham needs is what Nagito has in perpetuity: relentless, unyielding love. The only way Gundham will ever face himself again, is if he’s forced to believe there’s something worth facing. There is an opportunity in seeing himself as others do. He can see the good things he’s never let himself acknowledge before. 

Now’s as good a time as any to say: this is not a healthy way to be. And I’m not trying to imply that the love of the right person can cure years of trauma and abuse. But you know what can help? Being treated with some basic decency and respect. And heck, even love. Gundham is not a role model, and Nagito, less so. He’s a morally ambiguous, deeply damaged young man. He can’t really be fixed. But he can be given the support he needs to heal.

 This is the inevitable part in all my long metas where I lament that Nagito’s childhood was loveless, and robbed him of the ability the feel any kind of self-worth. That he’s rendered incapable of recognizing his own needs much less putting them first, as a result of them never being met. That he’s a good person who deserves a good life, and despite having been through insurmountable hell, it’s a wonder he came out the other side so, very capable of selflessness. And that it’s tragic his biggest wish in life is to just know how to feels to be loved in any way by anyone, just to have the most basic, fundamental human experience. F in chat. 

 Nagito has interests, and hobbies. He...reads, sometimes. He likes dogs. His luck ruins everything. But when he isn’t encouraging others to chase that One True Hope, what is he actually doing? What would he be doing if he never attended Hope’s Peak? Given how many times he’s been treated like a burden, can he ever truly feel like he’s worth something to anybody?

 There’s a sense of static around him, I feel. Like when the video quality suddenly drops, and it takes you a moment to realise. Who is he, exactly? The answer is simple and sad: whoever he’s told to be. He’s spent his life being treated like his feelings are a burden and he’s useless trash, therefore he is burdensome trash. In class he is often ignored and ridiculed, so he largely keeps to himself during group activities, and whenever he says something out loud, he often scolds himself for it before anyone else can. You know, that whole, “Haha sorry, that was a bit much, guess I’m just trash” thing he does. He has to be this way. For his own survival, for whatever sanity he has left. It’s easier to be treated like garbage if you believe you deserve it.

 It’s normal for people to be different around different people. But I find that to be especially true with Nagito as I play him through different relationships with different people. The more he is with Gundham, the more his nurturing, animal-loving side comes out. The more he is with Celeste, the more we see his intelligent, competitive, gentlemanly side. With Sonia, his ability to be princely and adventurous; with Chiaki, his gentle and relaxed nature, with Yuuki, or the WoH, or literally any child under his care, we experience a strong paternal side to him. He is by no means a different person, but different aspects of his personality are given more dominance over him as a whole, based on what somebody sees in him. He’s very capable of stepping up, but only when he feels someone expects him to. Otherwise he’s content to sit on his hands and watch, because he doesn’t think he deserves anything better. 

 Nagito will not see these things, or anything especially good, in himself until he is given permission. Until he is made to feel, by an authority higher than himself, that it’s okay. He exists as others see him. If someone he looks up to, whose opinions he values, recognises the - for lack of a better term - hope in him, he will eventually be forced to accept that it’s there himself. He might even. You know. Develop enough self-respect one day to forge a more self-actualised identity. Have the audacity to want things, and have dreams and stuff. He might even follow them. It’s a long, tiresome, non-linear process; but a worthwhile undertaking if I say so myself.

 I guess the tl;dr here is that: both boys validate themselves through the eyes of other people because it’s the only way they know how. It’s not a good or healthy thing to do, but with the right kind of support, and enough time and patience, maybe next time the door to hell opens, they’ll have the courage to leave. 

[astonjones]

HOLY SHIT IS THAT [ JESSE WILLIAMS ]?! Oh, wait it’s just [ ASTON JONES ]. Damn, [ HE/HIM ] looks good for [ 30 ], good thing that they’re [ PANSEXUAL/PANROMANTIC ], I might have a chance. I hear that they call them the [ PUBLIC DEFENDER ] of the [ NORTHSIDE ]. I guess that’s because they’re [ STRONG ] and [ COMPASSIONATE ]. But I don’t think a lot of people know that they’re also [ WORK AHOLIC ] and [ FOCUSED ]. I can’t wait to see what kind of trouble [ M ] will bring.

[[ trigger warning: childrens’ death.]]

00. Other Tidbits

Born and raised on the Northside.

Mother died in a car accident when he was three.

Father remarried when he was five to the woman he recognizes as his mother because she raised him.

(Step)Mom is mayor and used to practice corporate law and was a defense attorney. Dad is a moderately successful jazz musician who has rarely will come back to Riverdale from tour.

Went to Boston University for pre-law and U of M for law school, doing his clerkship with a judge in Boston and working with a non-profit for two years before coming back to Riverdale when the District Attorney, who was a family friend died. Took the DA job before realizing how the system was made to fail the Southsiders.

Was heavily involved in his mom’s campaign for Mayor and still runs a lot of her business for her and helps maintain family appearances in the trying times.

Reconnected Jackie St. James at one of his mother’s fundraisers and campaign parties as their families had been acquaintances prior to him leaving Riverdale.

While building his career in Riverdale, he continued to court, Jackie but because of the age gap between them, he never got in the way of her exploring and living a fun life.

After a few years of dancing around each other, the finally started dating and recently Aston asked Jackie to marry him.

Currently, they are living together at his place, while construction is being done on their future home, as a wedding gift from Jackie’s parents.

01.  basics

Full Name: Aston Martin Jones

Nickname: As, Ast, Ash, Ace

Sex/Gender: Cis-Male

Birthday: October 20, 1988

Age: 30

Astrological Sign: Libra

Occupation: Public Defender

Spoken Languages: English and Spanish

Sexual Orientation: pansexual / panromantic

Birthplace: Riverdale, MA

Relationship status: Engaged to Jackie St. James

02. physical traits

Hair Color/Style: Dark brown, black, kept short or often shaved completely especially in the summer.

Eye Color: Color changing. Green/Grey/Blue

Face Claim: Jesse Williams

Height: 6'2 / 188cm

Weight: 175lbs / 79kg

Tattoos: none.

Piercings: none.

Unique Attributes: freckles that cover the bridge of his nose and cheeks, more prominent in the summer. Slight dimples in his cheeks when he smiles.

Defining Gestures/Movements: Almost has a resting prick face. When he is lost in thought,

Posture: Straight, ridged and formal unless around someone he trusts or can be casual around.

03. personality traits

Pet Peeves: People who are rude for the sake of being rude. People who yell at customer service employees. Anyone who supports Trump or thinks BLM is a terrorist organization. Anyone who says “All Lives Matter”. People who talk for the sake of hearing their own voice. People who would rather remain ignorant and spread their ignorance around rather than ask questions or get the facts. Showboating, nepotism, narcissism, and elitism. Senseless violence and hotheads. People who talk with food in their mouth and general bad manners.

Hobbies/Interests: Plant hoarding/Plant care. Activism and fighting injustices. Volunteering at animal shelters. Cooking.

Special Skills/Abilities: Fairly decent cook. An artist, with a particular talent for drawing and painting.

Likes: good music, good food, good people and good company. Also really likes his new Roomba that doesn’t have a name yet.

Dislikes: See pet peeves. Also, pineapple on pizza. Food that is too spicy. The color orange. The smell of vanilla.

Insecurities: Not being good enough to help anyone. Not living up to his family expectations and pressure to help carry the load of the put on to their family. Recently, also his age or seeming like someone trying to obtain a young trophy wife in Jackie. Though he knows she is not a trophy, he can’t help but notice the way people will look at him at the club.

Quirks/Eccentricities: Can be a real diva and be a little much when it comes to house plants.

Strengths: Compassion and deep caring for everyone around him.

Weaknesses: He can be obsessive and overly consumed by things – especially when it comes to work matters or something that makes him happy. Aston has been described more than once as being like a dog with a bone. Unable to allow anyone to question or criticize his mom and her job as mayor.

Speaking Style: Articulate, and concise due to his job. Due to his job, he can’t afford to be careless with his words, or else it could cost someone their life.

Temperament: Calm and collected.

04. family & home

Immediate Family: Miles Jones (Father), Sierra Jones (Step-Mom), Mercedes Jones (half-sister)

How do they feel about their family? He absolutely loves his family.

How does their family feel about them? All good things, one would hope.

Pets: A lot of house plants and a Roomba as well as a dog that Jackie picked out at the animal shelter that she refused to stop pouting about until they could bring it home.

Where do they live? A custom house design and built by his architect grandfather.

Description of their home: [ HERE ] [ HERE ] [ HERE ] [ HERE ] 

Description of their bedroom: [ HERE ]

05. this or that

Introvert or Extrovert?

Optimist or Pessimist?

Leader or Follower?

Confident or Self-Conscious?

Cautious or Careless?

Religious or Secular?

Passionate or Apathetic?

Book Smarts or Street Smarts?

Compliments or Insults?

Pajamas or Lingerie? Naked

06. favorites

Favorite Color: black, brown, yellow.

Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: for work suits, after work sweats, hoodies and athletic wear.

Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: Hip-hop, jazz, R&B,

Favorite Movies: Remember the Titans, The Pursuit of Happiness

Favorite Books: The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration In The Age Of Colorblindness

Favorite Foods/Drinks: All foods and drinks.

Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: Celtics, Red Sox, Patriots

Favorite Time of Day: Sunrise

Favorite Weather/Season: Warm weather and Spring

Favorite Animal: All animals

07. miscellaneous

Fears/Superstitions: Normal ones that come with being a Christian and having a Mama who would put the fear of God into you if you didn’t go to church every Sunday or thank God every night for your many blessings.

Political Views: Liberal Democrat.

Addictions: Working on cases. Can never really let go of a case, especially ones that involve disadvantaged Southsiders of color and undocumented citizens.

Best School Subject: Art and History

Worst School Subject: Math.

School Clubs/Sports: Chess Club, AV Club, Basketball, Football, Baseball, Mock Trial, Model UN.

How does he get money? Works as a Public Defender in Riverdale. Also has family money.

How is he with technology? As decent as a man in his 30′s can be.

08. past & future

Fondest Memory: When his dad would come home from tours during the holidays and they would all go to see Mercedes and her group perform. Also, the day that he asked Jackie to marry him and she said yes.

Deepest, Darkest Secret: Feels a lot of guilt over his privilege and often thinks about just casting everything away, selling it all and giving it to the NAACP. Often also feels smothered by the pretenses his family has to keep up in order to save face in times of crisis.

Dream Vacation: Somewhere tropical.

Best thing that has ever happened to this character: Being able to become someone who could help.

Worst thing that has ever happened to this character: Losing an immigration case where two kids were involved. The parents were deported and the kids were put into the system. A few weeks later, Aston read in the paper that the kids had been killed by their foster parents.

What do they want to be when they grow up? An artist. Aston has always had a fondness for painting and drawing but as he grew older, he realized that it wasn’t a logical career choice and his father only really left room in their family for one artist.

Perfect Date: His wedding day.

[astonjones-archive]

HOLY SHIT IS THAT [ JESSE WILLIAMS ]?! Oh, wait it’s just [ ASTON JONES ]. Damn, [ HE/HIM ] looks good for [ 30 ], good thing that they’re [ PANSEXUAL/PANROMANTIC ], I might have a chance. I hear that they call them the [ DEFENDER ] of the [ NORTHSIDE ]. I guess that’s because they’re [ ACTIVIST ] and [ COMPASSIONATE ]. But I don’t think a lot of people know that they’re also [ DISTANT ] and [ CONTROLLING ]. Can’t wait to see what kind of trouble [ M ] will bring.

OTHER TIDBITS

Born and raised on the Northside.

Mother died in a car accident when he was three.

Father remarried when he was five to the woman he recognizes as his mother because she raised him.

(Step)Mom is mayor and used to practice corporate law and was a defense attorney. Dad is a moderately successful jazz musician who has rarely comes back to Riverdale from tour.

Went to Boston University for pre-law and U of M for law school, doing his clerkship with a judge in Boston and working with a non-profit for two years before coming back to Riverdale when the District Attorney, who was a family friend died. Took the DA job before realizing how the system was made to fail the Southsiders.

Was heavily involved in his mom’s campaign for Mayor and still runs a lot of her business for her and helps maintain family appearances in the trying times.

01.  BASICS

Full Name: Aston Martin Jones

Nickname: As, Ast, Ash, Ace

Sex/Gender: Cis-Male

Birthday: October 20, 1988

Age: 30

Astrological Sign: Libra

Occupation: Public Defender

Spoken Languages: English and Spanish

Sexual Orientation: pansexual / panromantic

Birthplace: Riverdale, MA

Relationship status: Single

02. PHYSICAL TRAITS

Hair Color/Style: Dark brown, black, kept short or often shaved completely especially in the summer.

Eye Color: Color changing. Green/Grey/Blue

Face Claim: Jesse Williams

Height: 6'2 / 188cm

Weight: 175lbs / 79kg

Tattoos: none.

Piercings: none.

Unique Attributes: freckles that cover the bridge of his nose and cheeks, more prominent in the summer. Slight dimples in his cheeks when he smiles.

Defining Gestures/Movements: Almost has a resting prick face. When he is lost in thought,

Posture: Straight, ridged and formal unless around someone he trusts or can be casual around.

03. PERSONALITY TRAITS

Pet Peeves: People who are rude for the sake of being rude. People who yell at customer service employees. Anyone who supports Trump or thinks BLM is a terrorist organization. Anyone who says “All Lives Matter”. People who talk for the sake of hearing their own voice. People who would rather remain ignorant and spread their ignorance around rather than ask questions or get the facts. Showboating, nepotism, narcissism, and elitism. Senseless violence and hotheads. People who talk with food in their mouth and general bad manners.

Hobbies/Interests: Plant hoarding/Plant care. Activism and fighting injustices. Volunteering at animal shelters. Cooking.

Special Skills/Abilities: Fairly decent cook. An artist, with a particular talent for drawing.

Likes: good music, good food, good people and good company. Also really likes his new Roomba that doesn’t have a name yet.

Dislikes: See pet peeves. Also, pineapple on pizza. Food that is too spicy. The color orange. The smell of vanilla. 

Insecurities: Not being good enough to help anyone. Not living up to his family expectations and pressure to help carry the load of the put on to their family.

Quirks/Eccentricities: 

Strengths: 

Weaknesses:

Speaking Style: Articulate, and concise due to his job. Due to his job, he can’t afford to be careless with his words, or else it could cost someone their life.

Temperament: Calm and collected.

04. FAMILY & HOME

Immediate Family: Miles Jones (Father), Sierra Jones (Step-Mom), Mercedes Jones (half-sister)

How do they feel about their family? Absolutely loves his family.

How does their family feel about them? All good things, one would hope.

Pets: Just a lot of house plants and a Roomba for now.

Where do they live? A custom house design and built by his architect grandfather.

Description of their home: 

Description of their bedroom:

05. THIS OR THAT

Introvert or Extrovert?

Optimist or Pessimist?

Leader or Follower?

Confident or Self-Conscious?

Cautious or Careless?

Religious or Secular?

Passionate or Apathetic?

Book Smarts or Street Smarts?

Compliments or Insults?

Pajamas or Lingerie? Naked

06. FAVORITES

Favorite Color: black, brown, yellow.

Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: for work suits, after work sweats, hoodies and athletic wear.

Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: Hip-hop, jazz, R&B, 

Favorite Movies: Remember the Titans, The Pursuit of Happiness

Favorite Books: The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration In The Age Of Colorblindness

Favorite Foods/Drinks: All foods and drinks.

Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: Celtics, Red Sox, Patriots

Favorite Time of Day: Sunrise

Favorite Weather/Season: Warm weather and Spring

Favorite Animal: All animals

07. MISCELLANEOUS

Fears/Superstitions: Normal ones that come with being a Christian and having a Mama who would put the fear of God into you if you didn’t go to church every Sunday or thank God every night for your many blessings.

Political Views: Liberal Democrat.

Addictions: Working on cases. Can never really let go of a case, especially ones that involve disadvantaged Southsiders of color and undocumented citizens.

Best School Subject: Art and History

Worst School Subject: 

School Clubs/Sports:

How does he get money? Works as a Public Defender in Riverdale. Also has family money.

How is he with technology? As decent as a man in his 30′s can be.

08. PAST & FUTURE

Fondest Memory: When his dad would come home from tours during the holidays and they would all go to see Mercedes and her group perform.

Deepest, Darkest Secret: Feels a lot of guilt over his privilege and often thinks about just casting everything away, selling it all and giving it to the NAACP. Often also feels smothered by the pretenses his family has to keep up in order to save face in times of crises.

Dream Vacation: Somewhere tropical.

Best thing that has ever happened to this character: Being able to become someone who could help.

Worst thing that has ever happened to this character: 

What do they want to be when they grow up? 

Perfect Date:

[sciencespies]

Sea urchins keep on trucking while other marine life languishes in the Florida Keys

https://sciencespies.com/nature/sea-urchins-keep-on-trucking-while-other-marine-life-languishes-in-the-florida-keys/

Sea urchins keep on trucking while other marine life languishes in the Florida Keys

In the summer of 2020, Florida Museum researchers Tobias Grun and Michal Kowalewski dove into the shallow waters off the coast of the Florida Keys and scoured the ocean floor for sea urchins. Telltale tracks and dimples in the sediment alerted them to the presence of sand dollars, sea biscuits and heart urchins concealed just beneath the surface.

Between August and April of the following year, Grun and Kowalewski visited 27 sites along a 20-mile stretch of coast near Long Key. By the time they finished, their sea urchin survey was among the most extensive conducted in the region for the last several decades, and their results offer a bit of good news.

The researchers published an analysis of their survey last week in the journal PeerJ, which shows the number and diversity of sand dollars, sea biscuits and heart urchins appears to have remained relatively stable since researchers began keeping tabs on their populations in the 1960s.

“It was a pleasant surprise to find that they’re still widespread and abundant,” said study co-author Kowalewski, the Florida Museum Thompson Chair of Invertebrate Paleontology. “The Florida Keys are heavily impacted by human activity, with fishing, tourism and diving all occurring on a massive scale. On top of that, coastal ecosystems are subject to climate change, increasingly strong hurricanes and escalating stressors resulting from continuous urban development.”

Sea urchins are essential for healthy marine ecosystems

Sea urchins are echinoderms, the name derived from a mix of Greek and Latin meaning “spiny skin.” They’re closely related to starfish, brittle stars, sea lilies and sea cucumbers, and they include two types: regular and irregular.

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Sea urchins of the first type are spherical in shape and covered in a formidable network of spines, giving them the appearance of medieval morning stars. Each spine can be pointed in the direction of a threat and provides a measure of protection as they graze on algae in open seagrass meadows, mangrove shoals and coral reefs.

Irregular echinoids, which include sand dollars, sea biscuits and heart urchins, are the unsung Roombas of the seafloor. Unlike their prickly surface-dwelling relatives, most sand dollars and sea biscuits are burrowers, with short, locomotive spines they use to crawl and deposit food in grooves along their skin, which run like conveyer belts directly to their mouths. Others, such as the cake urchin (Meoma ventricosa),simply scoop up anything in their path.

As they tunnel their way through sand, silt and mud in an endless quest for food, they clean, ventilate and enrich the sediment, making it more hospitable to other organisms.

By changing the landscape, they function as ecosystem engineers, explained lead author Grun, a postdoctoral researcher at the Florida Museum. “They’re essential for maintaining healthy environments. They feed on detritus and help oxygenate the sediment, which allows microorganisms to degrade waste,” he said.

There are also a lot of them. In certain areas, irregular urchins can be among the most abundant animals by volume on the seafloor. This is especially true in the Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean Sea, where dozens of species inhabit sprawling shelf platforms.

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Sand dollars and heart urchins stand the test of time in deteriorating environments

Despite their importance and abundance, sea urchins are often given short shrift when it comes to marine surveys. In the denuded Florida Keys, considerable effort has been extended to document the decline of coral, fish, seagrass and manatees, but only a handful of widescale sea urchin surveys have been carried out over the last 60 years.

According to a 2020 report by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, Florida’s coral reefs have become impaired in recent decades due to a combination of factors. Increased global temperatures have resulted in six mass coral bleaching events in South Florida since 1987, and in 2014, an outbreak of stony coral tissue loss disease was reported on reefs near Miami. The disease has spread every year since and now affects the entirety of Florida’s barrier reef, from Martin County in central Florida to the furthest tip of the Florida Keys.

Delicate seagrass meadows are additionally reeling from the combined effects of climate change, pollution and the reduced influx of freshwater from the Everglades; Florida’s mangrove forests are at risk from increasingly intense tropical weather events; and a 2022 study determined that, of 15 grouper and snapper species popular among recreational fisheries, 85% were being harvested past the point of sustainability in the Florida Keys.

Given the paucity of available data on sea urchins, it was unclear how their populations may have fared amid the degradation of the surrounding ecosystems.

“One of the reasons we conduct these surveys is to get a better numerical understanding of how important and abundant these organisms are because right now, that documentation is spotty,” Kowalewski said.

Grun and Kowalewski caution that this survey offers only a small snapshot of sea urchin diversity in the Florida Keys. But if their results are at all indicative of nearby benthic habitats, then sand dollars, sea biscuits and heart urchins seem to have mostly evaded the negative consequences of environmental change.

Irregular urchins were present at the majority (63%) of surveyed sites, from sheltered seagrass meadows along the coastline to deeper mudflats on the far side of the barrier reef. When they found living urchins, they often noted the waferlike discs of dead individuals disintegrating in the sediment, a sign that populations may have persisted in place for multiple generations.

According to Grun, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly why sea urchins have remained unaffected, but he suspects the relative disregard people have for them might play a role. “These sea urchins are neither of commercial nor of recreational interest, and their sandy habitats are not often visited by fishers or divers,” he said.

Whether sea urchins in the Florida Keys will carry on unscathed as temperatures continue to rise and oceans become increasingly acidic remains an open question.

“We’re planning on looking more into the environmental factors that affect sea urchins, such as sediment and water composition, over the next years,” he said, stressing that the amount known about sea urchins is dwarfed by what’s left to be discovered. “We’re entering a new arena of research in which we’d really like to drive home the importance of these organisms and highlight their role as ecosystem engineers.”

#Nature

[drhotwheels]

starter for @jcksonchar at a bar

SHE'S COMING! his sister texted in all caps.

He had both elbows on the table and kept pushing back and forth as he checked his phone for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Ben felt tired, like his night would have been be better enjoyed at home, watching his british shorthair ride the roomba, rather waiting for a date that might never show up. She was late already, after all. He didn't need any help with dating, thank you very much, but Iron River wasn't exactly a big; he feared checking the dating app here and seeing patients' faces, letting the world know that he was single and ready to mingle. There was no way he'd tinder his ass out of... well.

So there he was. Good ol' set up date. Mouth-to-mouth. Discreet, between him, Charlotte — that was apparently her name — and his sister only. Charlotte was a teacher, and she too had moved from New York, which was supposedly a bonding point. And she's really, really cute. Not that he'd seen pictures. But judging by how vague his sister's descriptions had been, he wouldn't be surprised if she'd done him the same favor. He's a doctor, she would have said. He was a swimmer. With no explanation as to why he wasn't anymore. He's lived in NYC and he's decent looking. Which was true, but not entirely honest. She was late, and maybe she wasn't coming at all. Maybe she'd taken a look across the room and decided not to go through with it once she noticed his most endearing feature — the dimple, of course.

Or maybe she was really just late.

He made eye contact with the waiter, signaled that he wanted a beer, and waited.

[nakadoo]

bec im a garbage can i wrote about aroace jake and dirk overcoming his broken heart

Your name is Dirk Strider and it's been three months since your already jaded heart got broken by a boy with the greenest eyes you've ever gazed in to. It's been hard, that's much is true, and the only reason you haven't broken down and cried for a week is because you've already done that. You did it the moment you broke up with him, via text no less, then shattered your phone against the wall in your heartbroken frustration.

A whole week spent laying in bed, urging yourself to sleep instead of dealing with the ache of your heart and the buzz of your mind telling you that it was your fault, your fault, your fault, and you didn't do anything to fix it, that you ending it and cutting him out of your life was the most cowardly abscond in history ever. You hate yourself, for a whole week and then some, but even then you've been nothing but pragmatic. A week after tears and forced sleep and your brother walking on eggshells to keep you company to the best of his ability, you suck it up and put on your mask and your shades and try to pretend that you were okay. Things will probably get better, and it's never been a good idea to dwell on things anyway.

If Jake didn't want you in his life then that was fine. You kind of understood where he was coming from. Sometimes, you can't even handle yourself. The only reason Dave puts up with your shit is because you've known each other since you were babies, you grew up together, the two of you understand each other without needing to communicate it much. You tell him you're sorry for the week of tears and the random lashing out. He tells you you owe him one. At least things at home are fine, at least home can still stay a safe place.

You delve into your work, you create with your hands, and try to be happy. You try to imagine your life before Jake stepped in and stole your heart and broke it. It's easy because Dave is there and he acts like everything is fine, that you'll be fine, and sometimes  you believe it because the only other option is to acknowledge your sadness and grief and less than savory thoughts.

Roxy talks to you. Not about Jake, thankfully, but about everything else. She's always been good at that, avoiding the topic but letting you know that she was aware of it and that if you were ready to talk she'd be there all ears and no judgment at all. Sometimes you wish you fell in love with her instead. The two of you already got a lot of chemistry, she understands you like no other and when she doesn't she makes the effort to. She makes you talk about the things you don't like talking to, but she never forces you. She always makes you feel that you're worth something, she always makes you feel that there is someone out there who loves you despite all your faults.

Two months in and you're getting better. Honestly you're dealing with it much better than you thought you would. Though you don't get to talk to Jane as often as you used to, she still sends you little snippets of her life through pictures and little stories when she has the time.

Dave, thank god for Dave, the biggest constant in your life. Always punctual and always on time— he always sets time aside for you especially when you ask for it. He's honestly the only person you'd ever ask for help without the shame knife twisting in your gut. Because you know the sacrifices he makes for you, you would do the same.

You meet a guy named Equius. The best friend of Dave's weird cat friend. He likes horses. He likes building robots. He would like to maybe hang out one time to build robots and afternoons later you're constantly over at his place tinkering with metalwork and wires and talking robotics with someone who understands. It's good, it's nice, and the first robot you complete together is a little metallic horse the size of a cat. It doesn't do much, honestly its more like a noisy roomba where the vacuum is in it's hooves, but its kinda cute in a weird way and you two make several more. Equius' apartment turns into a little robot horse rodeo, and you're amused by this and the awkward way Equius tries to explain to his neighbors that nothing illegal is going on.

The cat girl, Nepeta, you thought that maybe she was dating Dave but she's not. She's so different from the type of people Dave usually surrounds himself with so you're a little bit surprise to know that they're honest to god good friends who go on friend dates to the movies or at the mall or just playing with Nepeta's many many cats. You're... Happy that your little brother has someone like her, someone who's emotional baggage wasn't as terrible as yours. He's always all smiles after their friend dates, and he's always so much happier too.

It's weird when you start to feel happiness again. It's also pretty weird to realize that, though you've been enjoying your time with Equius, you kind of forgot what it was like to feel happy. Well, either way, you're glad that emotion is back in your system because you've missed the way a smile feels on your own face.

You and Dave clash swords that night. You sweat up a storm, but when you're both panting for breath at the end of the afternoon you can't help but bust out a wide grin full of teeth and dimples— even as Dave cuts a considerably big chunk of hair when you're caught off guard.

Three months, three months, three months. You feel fine. You're starting to wonder if you ever liked Jake to begin with. You start to wonder that maybe you liked him because he was your closest friend. Maybe you liked him because when you suggested the relationship he had said yes. You're not sure; maybe it was a spur of the moment, maybe you were just so desperate for a relationship that you threw everything into the one you had with Jake. You're not sure, and you're not sure of a lot of things, and it keeps you awake at night.

Three months is when you see Jake again. It's late at night and you were just going down to the 7/11 for a soda when you see him leaning against the door of a relatively expensive looking car.

You want to escape when your eyes lock. You really do. But his eyes are so fucking green even under the poor lights of the moon and the gross yellow street lights, and the awkward smile he gives you accompanied by a wave of his hand is enough to get you to stop. You're frozen even as he approaches you and before you can even begin to convince yourself to run he's in front of you.

"Hey..." he says quietly, nervous like you've never seen him before.

You bite your tongue, but you mange an even quieter "hey" in response.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, kicks the dirt under his shoe, as his mind whirs for the words he wants to say. Jake has always been a man of action with a foot in his mouth. "I suppose a 7/11 parking lot isn't really the best place to be having the conversation that I've been meaning to have with you."

You want to feel angry, but you're not. Okay, maybe you are a little angry, but you're civil enough to keep that in check. You don't say anything in reply.

"Was quite a shock to see you here," he says, filling in the silence as he awkwardly fumbles in his attempt to remain casual. "But I guess I'm glad to see you, else I woulda put this off longer than I already have." It's not that you're giving him the silent treatment, you just don't know what to say. But he takes your silence as consent to continue. He looks around, rubs at the back of his neck. "But this really isn't the nicest place to talk about... things... So if it's alright with you could we catch some lunch tomorrow? The usual place."

You bite your lip. You should say no. Your head nods and you hate yourself a little bit.

"Alright," he says with a relieved sigh. He grabs your arm, scribbles his number on your skin. "I figured you might've deleted me from your contacts," he says and he doesn't sound like he's upset by that at all.

"Oi, English!" a voice calls. You both turn just as Jake writes the last digit. "Let's go already, geeze!" A stranger who looks too snooty to be coming out of a 7/11 walks up to the car, glaring at Jake expectantly.

"It was nice to see you again," Jake grins at you, capping the marker before shoving it in his pocket. "I'll see you tomorrow," he waves as he leaves but turns around once and considers his words before blurting them out. "But, uh, I guess if you get cold feet that's alright too. Just shoot me a text." He gets into the car and it drives away.

You stare at the digits, knowing deep in your heart, that he didn't have to write them down. You still have it memorized anyway.

The next day, at the usual place. You didn't tell Dave. The whole cool kid routine you both have going on is easily disturbed when it comes to each other. Dave's protective of you, you're protective of him. If he knew who you were meeting he would have offered to come along.

You see Jake before he comes in. He's with that guy from yesterday, and another dude you don't know. He exchanges words with them, a little argument with no heat, before the other two leave and he walks up to your table and sits down. He looks out the window, where the other two are looking back, and waves them off like a kid urging his embarrassing parents away. Thankfully they leave but not without giving you a significant look first. You try not to think about what it could mean.

"So uh listen, Dirk," Jake pulls your attention back to him. His dimples are so attractive. "I know that things between us didn't exactly..." he does a weird gesture with his hands. "Go as we had thought."

"Understatement of the year," you tell him, your first words to him in months.

He smiles apologetic. It sates the simmering anger in you for a moment. "I guess," he agrees. "Well, I'm not trying to make excuses, and I really hope you don't take this as one..."

You nod. You'll let him talk all he wants. You deserve to hear what he has to say, and right now you're in control enough of your emotions and you know that you wont take him back instantly if that's what he wants.

"Don't take this the wrong way," he says and twiddles his thumbs. "I was kind of... relieved when you said it was over."

You try not to take it the wrong way. It kind of stings.

He tells you how suffocated he felt and how uncertain of everything too. He tells you that, after the time you've spent apart, he got to know himself better and started to understand why he was feeling the way he was while you two were dating. "I don't have romantic feelings for you," he tells you. "I don't think I ever did."

Internally, you are floundering. "Then why—"

He holds his hand up. You shut your mouth. "I don't think I have a single romantic bone in my body," he tells you. He looks down, as if he could really see his bones, then back up at you with a little wry grin. "Not a sexual one either."

You press your lips together. You're not sure what to say.

"And I guess that's what bothered me. I liked you but it never felt like it was enough considering we were boyfriends," he explains. "It felt like you were giving me so much, and I wasn't really giving anything back."

You nod fiercely. It felt exactly like that.

"It made me feel... Awful. I thought that maybe I should take the next step, that being letting you bed me," he doesn't turn red like you expect him to. You thought that maybe he was shy about the whole sex bit of the relationship, or not ready for it, but that's not his reaction at all. "But then... I didn't think I could do that. I didn't... Uhm, no offence again chum, but the idea of sleeping with anyone sent goosebumbs all over."

Things are starting to make sense. "You're asexual." Its a statement not a question.

"Yeah. I didn't know that was a thing until recently. I am also, apparently, aromantic as well," he tells you and he looks like he's proud for remembering that word.

You want to forgive him. He's genuine, always is and always will be. But there are still some things you have to get off your chest, and you're not gonna run away from problems anymore. "I hated what you did to me," you tell him finally. The first month you'd been making raps about how much you hated him and his guts. Now you can finally filter those feelings to him, but in a way that involved less swearing and irony. "You ignored me instead of talking to me about how you were feeling about everything."

He looks unhappy to admit it but he nods. "I was a coward is what."

Your expression softens considerably. "I was too," you tell him. "But you really made me feel like it was all my fault."

"It wasn't!" he jumps up, both his hands gripping at the table. "I swear to you Dirk, it wasn't your fault. That was all on me, and I'm really sorry!"

"It..." you sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose under your shades. "It wasn't just you," you tell him. "I'm sorry too."

He lets out a sigh of relief again and sags against his chair. "If you wanna give me a bruise, I won't stop you," he says. "I think I deserve that."

You raise your fist, he flinches as you throw it towards him. But you stop yourself half an inch before your fist hits his face, and instead you just touch his cheek with your knuckles. "I'm a full grown adult Jake," you say with a soft laugh. "I can solve problems with words."

"But sometimes it feels good to use your fists too."

You can't argue with that, but you're in public and you can't exactly punch him even if you wanted to.

"I do want my friend back though," he tells you after a beat of silence. "I really miss you."

You feel a flutter at your chest. It is relief. "I missed you too."

He leans in, for a hug, and you hug him over the small coffee table and spill some of your coffee everywhere. It's kind of embarrassing, but you miss him. Before he was your boyfriend he was your bestfriend, and you didn't want to lose him.

When you separate finally you move from sitting across him to sitting next to him. You take your coffee, sip, and then smile. "So who were those guys?"

"Oh!" he smiles. "They're my new neighbors! They're a delight, I'm sure you'd get along!"

Honestly, you don't completely forgive him. Not yet. But you've missed him dearly and you suppose the road to forgiveness has never been that easy anyway.

[Softly,,,, The dude at 7/11 with jake was Eridan,, ,, jakes neighbors,,,, are eridan and sollux,,,, erisolsprite <> jake has been a weakness of mine]

[terriblespy]

Thanks for the tags @ace-nyctophyle and @captin-owl !!!!!

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tagging: @child-of-the-sea-and-sky @lady-caden @peppipoo @actualpieceofwhitebread-2 @peopledontchoosewhotheylove @flying-roomba @warriorofaphrodite @yeeper-doodle @toomanyfandoms8123 and @ritzbook don’t feel like u gotta do this if u don’t wanna or anything!!!

RULES: Bold in what you prefer and tag ten people!

Tagged by @blakechaos08 Thanks!

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typewritten or handwritten

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Tagging: @cadhla-marie @probably-an-adult @poisonapplespoisonworms @insertaqualityusernamehere @everyusernameisalready-taken @trickster-archangel @aziraphalesboi @ace-nyctophyle @trenchcoatsandfreckles @crowleythessnake