#minimal desk setup

[theartofsleek]

[ilta222]

my desk setup 💗 still have some work to do but it's getting there!

[sakurafaerysblog]

cozy Rilakkuma game 🐻💚

[souvelitas]

my desk

[ffz3photography]

The Bard

[ellamarblog]

Earthy tones just hit different.

© ɪɴꜱᴛᴀ | ɪᴠᴏʀʏᴅɪᴀʀʏ

[8one6]

How did you get a picture of my family's computer setup from 2001?

Home Office Life (2001)

[glowettee]

✧˖° romanticizing discipline: why your study aesthetic matters more than you think

post 1 post 2 post 3

heyyyy angels, mindy here!

okay, listen. we need to talk about something that people love to roll their eyes at. making studying aesthetic. every time someone posts a pretty study setup, there’s always someone in the comments like, “you don’t need pastel highlighters to get good grades 🙄” or “discipline is about hard work, not vibes.” and okay, sure. but also?

if your study routine feels like punishment, you’re gonna run from it.

the way something feels matters. if you walk into a cozy, candle-lit café with soft music playing, you’ll want to stay there for hours. if you sit down at a messy desk with harsh lighting and a chair that makes your back hurt, you’ll last 15 minutes max. same work, different environment, completely different experience.

so why wouldn’t you make your study sessions feel good?

the truth is, romanticizing discipline makes you want to be consistent. and when you crave the work instead of dreading it, that’s when everything shifts.

so let’s make studying feel like an experience instead of a chore.

✧˖° why aesthetics actually matter

people like to pretend that discipline should be cold, harsh, and mechanical, but your brain doesn’t work like that.

➼ your brain loves sensory rewards. if your study space looks, smells, and feels good, your brain will start associating it with pleasure instead of stress. ➼ habit-building depends on emotion. if studying is something you enjoy (even a little), you’ll do it more often. if it always feels miserable, you’ll avoid it. ➼ your environment shapes your identity. if your space and routine reflect the kind of person you want to be, you start stepping into that version of yourself.

this isn’t about making everything look cute just for the sake of it. it’s about creating a feeling that makes you want to show up.

✧˖° how to romanticize discipline (without making it a distraction)

because let’s be real... if you spend two hours making an aesthetic notion template and zero minutes actually studying, you played yourself. the key is to set up your space and then get to work.

✧˖° 1. make studying a full sensory experience

romanticizing discipline isn’t just about visuals. it’s about creating an atmosphere that makes you want to sit down and focus.

➼ sound: play a study playlist that makes you feel productive (lo-fi, classical, rain sounds. whatever works). keep it consistent so your brain recognizes it as a “focus” trigger. ➼ scent: light a candle, spray a room mist, or use an essential oil diffuser. scent is one of the strongest memory triggers, so pick one that makes you feel calm and focused. ➼ touch: make sure your chair is comfortable, your desk is clean, and your study tools feel good to use.

it’s about tricking your brain into thinking, this is a space where we focus.

✧˖° 2. design a study space that makes you want to sit down

your environment dictates your focus. a cluttered, uninspiring desk will make you feel restless. a cozy, minimal, well-lit space will make you want to stay.

➼ keep only the essentials. a clean, distraction-free setup makes it easier to focus. ➼ add a little inspiration. a vision board, a cute calendar, a motivational quote. just something that makes you feel like that girl when you sit down. ➼ lighting matters. natural light is best, but a warm desk lamp can make nighttime study sessions feel cozy instead of exhausting.

again, the goal is to create a space that makes your brain want to work.

✧˖° 3. make discipline feel like a lifestyle aesthetic

some people make discipline look miserable. but the people who actually stay consistent? they make it look effortless.

➼ romanticize the act of opening your books. make it feel cinematic. the soft scratch of your pen, the glow of your laptop, the warmth of your tea. make it feel like a movie (mean girls, gossip girls... etcc) ➼ dress like the best version of yourself. even if you’re studying at home, wear something that makes you feel put together. ➼ upgrade your study tools. if you like the way your planner, pens, and laptop setup look, you’ll actually want to use them.

this is about shifting your identity. when you see yourself as the kind of person who enjoys discipline, you become her.

✧˖° keeping the balance: romanticizing vs. actually doing the work

okay, but let’s not pretend like aesthetics alone are gonna get you an A. you still have to put in the work. the key is to use aesthetics to enhance your discipline, not replace it.

➼ set a “setup time” limit. you get 5-10 minutes to set up your space. after that? no more tweaking. just start. ➼ use a study timer. 50 minutes of deep work, 10-minute break. repeat. this keeps you from getting stuck in the “pretty but unproductive” trap. ➼ reward yourself after real progress. light a candle before studying, but don’t let yourself scroll Pinterest for an hour instead of doing the work.

discipline first, aesthetic second. not the other way around.

✧˖° final thoughts

romanticizing discipline isn’t about making things look good for the sake of it. it’s about shifting your entire mindset so studying feels good.

when you make your study space feel warm, inviting, and yours, you stop dreading it. and when you stop dreading it, you show up more often. and when you show up more often? you actually get sh*t done.

so go romanticize the process. set up your space. light the candle. play the playlist. and then? open your books and do the work. because that girl you’re envisioning? she’s already you. you just have to step into her.

do not fall into the trap of "aesthetics over work" because there will be NO reason for you to romanticize studying, if you don't actually study.

with love,

mindy

[nerdygirlramblings]

Off to See the Wizard (2)

previous | next

tw: canon-typical violence

Your introduction didn't cause pandemonium, per se, but your effect on the rest of the team was immediate. Soap sat straight up, his eyes alight like a kid who'd been set loose in a toy store. Kyle's whole demeanor unwound, his smile softening, his eyes going glassy, as if all the tension holding him together was suddenly released. Simon tried to make himself smaller, take up less space, maybe disappear into the cushions of the couch he was on. It was clear they didn't know you were coming, and they seemed as excited - well, all but Simon, who seemed terrified - about it as you were.

Things settled down quickly after that as Price reminded everyone this arrangement was for the sake of their next mission. That took some joy out of the introduction, but the electric thrum of excitement was there. You were finally in the same place as your boys.

Your first full day is rather boring. You are only a little startled to hear voices in the hall at 4:30 but then realize the guys are simply getting ready for their morning training. You also slightly regret picking the room next to the bathroom, despite how helpful it will be when you need to shower while the others are around.

You spend your morning setting up your mobile command center with the tech you brought. You arrange the monitors to match your usual setup, pulling up the background files and current mission data across your screens. You send an encrypted message to Laswell updating her on your status. You know she wants someone she trusts here, and encrypting the email is probably overkill, but you didn't get to where you are by assuming anything about safety. You'd been a black-hat hacker before Laswell scooped you up, so you know it's possible.

When you left, she told you you'd have the same decision-making abilities in the field as she does. You've never had that much power, and you want to show Laswell her trust is justified, so your message is a concern about transports and what you'd like to do instead. You want to get her take on it before simply changing things. In your mind, roping her in on these kinds of decisions now means she'll be less likely to challenge any decisions you make when the boys are in the field.

The highlight of your first day is the knock that comes around 1:00, startling you a bit, just as you're realizing skipping breakfast after such an interrupted schedule the previous day was not a smart idea. The only person you know who knows you're here is John, so you quickly open your door, smile already in place. But you're pleasantly surprised to see Kyle instead.

"Hey doll, Cap said you should come eat." He leans against the doorframe, smiling gently at you. "Looks like you're all set."

"Got everything but the curtain," you reply cheekily.

He grins in response. "We may call ya' Oz, but you're so much better than the man behind the curtain."

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks and duck your head. You aren't behind a screen anymore; you're going to need to be more aware of your reactions to the boys if you don't want them reading you like an open book. "You said something about food," you murmur, shuffling paperwork around on your desk.

"Yea. The Captain was hopin' you'd join us," Kyle replies.

You glance up at him in the doorway. "Do I have a choice?" you ask cheekily. You need to eat, but you can't let them think you're so easily commanded. It sets a bad precedent and is at odds with what they know of you from previous missions.

Kyle's smile slides into a smirk. "He did say I might need to convince you."

You aren't sure what he might try to do to convince you, and your mind immediately jumps to some inappropriate fantasies. You're so flustered you quickly stammer, "No, you don't need to do that." You minimize your open programs, leaving a blank desktop, despite the fact you're the only person with access to this office. You turn to Kyle moments later. "I'm ready."

Kyle steps fully into the hallway, gesturing you to lead the way. You pull the door closed behind you, checking to make sure it locks. "You do remember I got the ten cent tour yesterday and don't really know where much of anything is, right?"

Kyle puts a gentle hand on your lower back, in the same way John did last night, unconsciously. He leads you through base, and you watch other groups of soldiers notice you for the first time. Some openly stare while others watch you on their perifery.

You're not sure what they think of you or if they even know who you are, but you don't like their prying eyes. Kyle doesn't seem to like it either, wrapping his arm more possessively around your waist as he guides you to the mess.

Walking through the door, it's easy to find the rest of the 141. For one thing, Simon is massive. Even seated he's nearly a head taller than most of the other people in the mess. For another, you know of their reputation, but the soldiers here have seen it first-hand and keep a wide berth in the mess. You don't know if the distance is out of fear or respect, but it means your boys have a table to themselves near the back of the room.

John and Simon are facing the door, eyes constantly scanning the room. You don't know if this is how they always are, or if they're looking for Kyle and you. You catch John's eye before turning to the food line, but Kyle steers you towards the others. As you approach, he calls out, "Look who I found? An' she's here without any coercion!" Simon looks at you and away again quickly, what is going on with him? Soap turns around, grin stretching across his face.

"Oz, mah girl, finally get ta see yer pretty face! Where've'ye been heedin'?" He pats the space next to him.

You slip onto the bench. "I've been in my office, Soap. Setting things up so I can support you while you're gone." He seems to deflate a little at the reminder that they'll be leaving soon, leaving you. You try not to read into it.

You turn and look at John, who's now across from you, and Kyle, who took the spot on your other side. You don't fail to notice that though your back is to the room, the two most imposing members of the 141 have their eyes on everything in the room, and you're flanked on either side by some of the youngest ever members of such an elite task force. Consciously or not, they've made sure you're well protected.

"So what do you recommend I get?" you ask, glancing around only to realize no one has anything to eat yet. "Wait, did you all eat already?"

John chuckles. "Nah, Oz. We were tryin-a be polite and wait for ya. 'Sides, Laswell said you'd likely skip meals, so I figured eatin' with ya would make sure yer fed." He stands, as does Kyle and Soap. "Now you sit tight with Ghost while we grab some scoff."

You watch as the others get up, leaving you with a Simon who looks anywhere but at you. You notice he has a plain black balaclava on, and he'd been wearing one yesterday too. You wonder if anyone on base knows what he looks like. You don't know what to say as you sit there in awkward silence. This is so different from your usual dynamic with Simon, it makes you uncomfortable.

Minutes tick slowly by, and you look over at John chatting with some other soldiers, Kyle and Soap with a few trays between them. Across from you, Ghost is still silent. And you finally snap.

"Simon?" You try to keep the hurt from your voice as he finally drags his eyes to yours. "Did I do something wrong or offend you somehow?"

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

an: I'm trying to get Soap's accent, and it's hard because it's all in the vowel sounds, which have to be spelled out. Forgive me any glaring issues.

Taglist: @blackhawkfanatic

[mrsvante]

The Long Game VII

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: sugar daddy au, yandere, domestic bliss

summary: he’d prepared for this moment a thousand times, imagined every sound you’d make, every look you’d give. But nothing compared to the reality of you—standing in the space he’d shaped around your absence, breathing life into rooms that had felt cold without you. you had no idea. no idea what you’d done to him. no idea how far he’d go to keep you exactly where you were now.

warnings: domestic namjoon, there’s some fluff, breeding kink, oral f!recieving, possessive vibes on crack, namjoon is drunk off you, the life of luxury 😩

word count: 3,505



Namjoon could barely contain himself.

No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t containing himself.

His usual cool, collected demeanor had all but crumbled the second you stepped through the doors of his penthouse, your penthouse now, whether you realized it or not. He’d been practically vibrating since the moment you landed, eager anticipation simmering beneath every polite smile and courteous gesture.

Now, as he guided you through the space with your hand resting delicately in his, Namjoon felt like a boy showing off a science project he’d spent months perfecting. He watched you with hawk like intensity, hanging on every delighted sound that left your lips, cataloging every wide eyed glance and shy little smile as though they were treasures in and of themselves.

He was… ecstatic. And that wasn’t a word Namjoon often used for himself.

The penthouse had undergone a transformation in your absence, stripped of the sleek, cold minimalism that had once defined it. The walls were warmer now, soft grays and delicate earth tones replacing the harsh slate palette. The furniture had been swapped out for cozier, more inviting pieces, and tasteful personal touches were scattered throughout.

You couldn’t stop turning in slow, stunned circles as you took it all in.

“You remodeled… everything,” you whispered, breathless. “It feels so different.”

Namjoon’s lips curved into a soft smile, so unbearably tender it made his cheeks ache. He couldn’t help himself—he reached for you, brushing his fingers lightly along your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him.

“For you,” he murmured, voice thick with quiet devotion. “Only for you.”

He led you next to your new office. Custom built ins lined the walls, housing art supplies, books, your laptop setup—everything you could ever need. The oversized window overlooked the city, allowing natural light to pour in, and Namjoon made sure you noticed the little details: the plush rug beneath your chair, the coffee warmer on your desk, the miniature fridge stocked with your favorite drinks.

“Now you can work without distractions,” he said, pleased, watching your mouth part in disbelief.

Then came the closet. He’d knocked down walls for this, expanded what was once merely impressive into something borderline decadent. Your clothes had already been carefully unpacked, organized perfectly, and your bags, shoes, and jewelry were on display like pieces of art.

You laughed in shock. “You remodeled your closet?”

Namjoon only smirked, tugging you closer until your back hit his chest and his mouth pressed against your ear. “What’s mine is yours. Besides,” his hand slid down your waist, squeezing lightly, “you take up so much space in my life already. Might as well make room everywhere.”

The greenhouse stole your breath next. He’d designed it entirely for you—lush with tropical plants you’d brought back from Singapore, softly glowing grow lights overhead, humidity carefully regulated. It was warm and serene, a perfect little haven nestled right in the sky.

Namjoon watched you press your hands to the glass of the windows, your eyes glassy.

“You did all of this… for me?”

“Of course.” He said it simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. In his mind, it was. There had never been a version of this life where he wouldn’t make every inch of his home ready to receive you properly.

But the real jewel came last—the bedroom.

You gasped when you stepped inside. Gone was the stark, cool aesthetic from before. Now, it was intimate and warm. Soft, airy curtains framed the windows, plush rugs covered the hardwood floors, and the walls had been painted in a muted, romantic taupe.

The bed was massive. Dressed in seductive silk sheets, pillows upon pillows, and a comforter that looked impossibly inviting. There was a stunning vanity fully stocked with all of your makeup and skincare. On your side of the bed, Namjoon had even stocked your nightstand. Your favorite lip balm, your water carafe and glass, your favorite snacks tucked away in the drawers.

But what made you laugh softly, tears threatening to spring into your eyes, was the familiar sight of your giant shark plushie propped up between the bed and nightstand.

You turned, overwhelmed and radiant, throwing your arms around Namjoon.

“Joon,” you whispered, pressing kisses to his face, his jaw, his lips. “You are… so fucking good to me. This is everything. You’re everything.”

His eyes fluttered shut, basking in your affection, but beneath his soft smile, something deeper stirred. Because as much as he adored your gratitude—the kisses, the words, the way you clung to him —it wasn’t enough. Not yet. Not for a man like him.

What he really wanted… was you. In this bed. Wrapped up in his sheets. Marking this space as yours in the only way that mattered.

And so, Namjoon kissed you back.

Slowly at first. Almost achingly tender.

His lips tasted of restraint and simmering hunger, a fragile balance he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain for long. He walked you backward with deliberate steps, the heat rolling off him in waves, until your knees bumped against the edge of the bed. You fell back easily when he guided you, trusting him, pliant beneath the weight of his stare.

His body pressed over yours, large hands spanning your sides as though they were meant to anchor you there, under him, with him. His mouth dragged lower, down your throat, lingering with greedy intent at your collarbones where his lips left slow, wet kisses. They felt like brands, like marks that silently screamed mine.

You giggled softly, breath hitching as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“Greedy man,” you teased with a breathless laugh, your words threaded with fondness. “You already did all this for me and now you want more?”

Namjoon groaned, rolling his hips down against you, the thick press of his cock, still restrained by his sweats, grinding perfectly against your core. It pulled a soft gasp from your lips and immediately satisfied some deep, primal part of him.

“You know exactly what I want,” he rasped darkly, his voice already wrecked from need.

Clothes soon became meaningless. They were removed slowly, almost ceremoniously, his hands sliding across every inch of newly exposed skin like he couldn’t bear to leave any part of you untouched. Each patch of bare flesh was met with worship.

Kisses that lingered, touches that lingered longer.

He sucked marks onto your thighs, leaving evidence of his possession in tender bruises. He traced his tongue up your stomach, following the soft lines of your body with an almost devout care, and then buried his face between your breasts, inhaling like he could live off the scent of you alone.

It was intoxicating. You, laid out for him like this.

By the time he slid down between your legs, his control had frayed dangerously thin.

His tongue licked slow, calculated stripes over your pussy until you writhed for him, your moans bouncing off the walls and filling the newly christened bedroom. Namjoon hummed in satisfaction, fingers gripping your thighs tighter as he devoured you with slow, sinful expertise.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, voice muffled by your slick heat. “Let me taste home.”

You came fast and hard, body tightening beneath his mouth, and he didn’t stop until you were shuddering and tugging at his hair in desperation.

Only then did he rise, mouth glistening, eyes dark with hunger as he lined himself up and thrust deep in one long, claiming push.

You gasped, your legs instantly locking around his hips as your nails dug into his back.

Namjoon groaned harshly, pressing his forehead against yours, his hips barely moving yet as he savored the overwhelming tightness.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he breathed out, lips brushing against your temple. “You feel perfect… so fucking perfect for me. Always so warm, so tight. Like you were made for my cock.”

His thrusts began slowly, deep and rhythmic, dragging pleasure from both of you in slow, consuming waves. Your back arched off the mattress as breathy moans spilled from your lips, your arms curling around his broad shoulders like you needed to hold onto something, anything.

Namjoon couldn’t help but murmur into your skin, drunk off your body, drunk off you. His mouth dragged lazy kisses across your throat, lips swollen from how desperately he’d kissed you moments before.

“You’re my good girl,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Always so good for me.”

His hand slid down to cradle your thigh, holding you open as he rocked deeper into you, as if he could mold you to fit him even more perfectly.

“My perfect girl.” He kissed the shell of your ear, and the possessive tremble in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“Back where you belong,” he rasped, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he was trying to disappear inside you. “Back where I need you. Where you’re safe. Where you’re mine.”

His thrusts slowed, deepened—less frantic now, more deliberate. Like he wanted to feel every inch, like he wanted to memorize this. You. The soft, sinful way you wrapped around him.

“I missed this,” he breathed. “Missed us. Missed being inside you where I’m supposed to be. Like I’ve been walking around empty without you.”

“You were made for me,” he whispered. “Just for me.”

You whispered his name softly—Joon, Joon, Joon—like you couldn’t say anything else, like it was the only thing tethering you to reality.

But softness never lasted long with Namjoon.

Not when you clenched around him so sweetly. Not when your thighs trembled, your mouth hung open in pleasure, your face flushed from his love.

His pace grew rougher, more urgent, and he sat back slightly to grab your hips, angling you just right so his cock slammed into the perfect spot with every desperate thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed in the bedroom, joined by your breathy cries and his low, guttural grunts.

That’s when the shift happened.

That’s when he fell into it, that dark, obsessive place he rarely let show in front of you.

“Fuck,” Namjoon growled, his voice thick, drunk on the way your body responded to his every move. His eyes flicked down to where your pussy was stretched around him, flushed with hunger, taking him so perfectly. “Look at this. Look how you take me. Like you were born for me.”

His pace faltered, grinding instead of thrusting as he leaned closer, lips grazing your jaw.

“Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, his voice a sharp edge wrapped in silk. “Gonna fuck my cum so deep inside you, baby. You’ll be dripping with me for days.”

You whimpered his name, shaky and overwhelmed, but Namjoon wasn’t listening. Not really. He was gone, swept up in the idea of you.

“Imagine it,” he murmured, licking into your mouth as he continued to grind deep. “My wife. My perfect little wife, belly round with my baby, stuck at home because you’re too fucked out and swollen to do anything but wait for me to come home and fill you again.”

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Joon—”

“Imagine walking around this penthouse pregnant,” he continued, nearly delirious now. “Our home. Our bed. Every room yours… except you can’t even bend down to pick something up without my help because you’re carrying so much of me inside you.”

Your breath hitched, face burning with arousal and embarrassment.

“You’re insane,” you gasped, but your hips rolled up to meet his desperately, chasing the drag and press of his cock.

Namjoon groaned deeply, eyes fluttering as he lost himself in the idea.

“Insane for you,” he corrected, his thrusts suddenly brutal again, snapping into you hard enough to make the headboard knock softly against the wall. “Fucking crazy for you. Want to keep you like that. Want to make you mine in every way there is. Want everyone to look at you and know who fucking owns you.”

You moaned loudly, clenching around him hard, and Namjoon cursed, losing what little control he had left.

“Gonna fill you up every night,” he growled, slamming in deeper, harder, his pace wild now. “Over and over until it takes. Until you’re knocked up and glowing and stuck right here with me.”

Your cries echoed around the bedroom, your body locking up tight as you came again, sobbing his name as your walls fluttered wildly around him.

Namjoon followed instantly, hips grinding down as he spilled inside you, a long, desperate moan falling from his lips as he emptied himself completely.

He stayed there, buried deep, panting against your shoulder, his arms tight around your body like he couldn’t bear to pull away.

“I love you,” he whispered fiercely, pressing frantic kisses to your neck. “I need you.”

“You’re mine. Always mine.”

You whimpered softly, too wrecked to answer, but you pressed your lips against his jaw weakly and that was enough.

Eventually, Namjoon shifted, carefully easing out and gathering you into his arms as though you weighed nothing. He carried you to the bathroom, gently cleaned you up, and pressed soft kisses to your thighs and belly as you dozed off, too spent to protest.

When he tucked you back into bed, brushing your hair from your face and whispering quietly as you drifted to sleep.

“Sleep, princess. You’re home now,” he murmured, trailing his fingers along your arm.

—

The sun was still low in the sky when Namjoon stirred.

The penthouse was bathed in soft, early light, golden and warm as it filtered through the sheer curtains. The city beyond the windows was quiet, still asleep, but inside this bedroom, inside this bed, everything felt perfect.

You were curled against him, your face pressed into his bare chest, one leg tossed possessively over his waist. Your breathing was steady, lips parted slightly as you slept, blissfully unaware of the way Namjoon’s dark eyes traced every feature of your face like he was memorizing you.

Like he hadn’t spent the entire night tangled with you.

Like he didn’t already know every inch of your body and soul.

His fingers trailed softly down your spine, barely grazing, but the simple act made his cock twitch beneath the covers. Not even from lust—though that simmered quietly, as always—but from pure obsession.

You were here.

You were his.

Back in Seoul, in his bed, in his life.

Namjoon swallowed thickly, heart aching in a way that wasn’t gentle or romantic. It was primal. A dark, desperate need that twisted low in his gut and whispered that he would never, ever let you leave again.

Not now. Not after this.

He stayed like that for nearly an hour, just watching you sleep, before you finally stirred, groaning softly and stretching like a lazy cat. Your eyes fluttered open and met his gaze immediately.

“Why are you awake?” you asked, voice scratchy with sleep, lips curving slightly at the corners.

Namjoon smiled, warm and devastating, and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he murmured. “Not with you looking like that right next to me.”

You rolled your eyes but blushed anyway, hiding your face in his chest with a shy laugh.

“Gross,” you teased. “You’re gross in the mornings.”

“You love it,” he countered easily, his arms tightening around you. “You love me.”

You froze for a split second—then relaxed, heart skipping as your fingers trailed up his ribs.

“…Yeah. I do.”

Namjoon kissed your crown like he’d won something monumental. Like your sleepy little confession had satisfied something deep inside him that words couldn’t reach.

Breakfast was lazy. He ordered in, everything you liked, and insisted on feeding you bites straight from his chopsticks. He sat close, closer than necessary, his knee pressed against yours, his hand occasionally sneaking under the oversized shirt you wore, his shirt, to squeeze your bare thigh.

At some point, though, as you sipped your tea, you remembered. Your face warmed as you glanced over at him, watching as he polished off his own plate, annoyingly casual.

“…Joon?”

“Hm?” He glanced at you, licking a bit of sauce off his thumb, utterly at ease.

“Last night,” you began slowly, unsure how to phrase it without sounding too affected. “You said some stuff.”

His brows lifted faintly, clearly amused. “I said a lot of stuff, baby.”

You scowled playfully but your heart pounded. “You know what I mean.”

He stared at you for a beat. Then, slowly, a wicked grin spread across his face, so lazy and fond and dangerous it made your stomach flip.

“Oh,” he drawled, voice dropping slightly. “You mean when I told you I was going to make you my wife and pump you full of my babies?”

You choked on your tea, eyes wide. “Joon—!”

“What?” he asked innocently, leaning back and stretching his arms behind his head, muscles flexing beneath his tshirt. “It’s true. That’s the plan. I want you barefoot, pregnant, and stuck at home so I can keep you all to myself.”

You stared at him, mouth opening and closing uselessly, and he just smiled like you were adorable for being so flustered.

“You’re serious,” you finally whispered, eyes narrowing in disbelief.

Namjoon tilted his head, his grin softening into something more intense. “Of course I’m serious. Why wouldn’t I be? You’re mine. And soon, you’ll be mine legally too. That ring is coming, sweetheart. Soon as you even hint that you’re ready…”

His eyes darkened, voice turning rougher.

“I’ll put a baby in you so fast you won’t even remember life before it.”

You sputtered, your cheeks on fire.

“Joon, my parents haven’t even met you yet!” you blurted. “I haven’t even met your parents—how can you talk about marriage and babies like that?”

Namjoon blinked once, very slowly. Then, his lips twitched like you’d just said something very stupid.

“…Is that it?” he asked, voice low and amused. “That’s what’s holding you back from our future?”

You didn’t even get a chance to answer before he pulled out his phone.

You gawked. “Namjoon. Joon. What are you doing—?”

He was already typing. Already calling.

Within seconds, he had the phone to his ear and his tone flipped immediately. Soft, polite, almost boyish in a way that made your head spin.

“Eomma,” he greeted warmly. “Good morning. No, everything’s fine. Actually—yes. I have someone I want you to meet. Your future daughter-in-law.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, your stomach flipping wildly as he casually, shamelessly said the words like it was the most natural thing in the world. You couldn’t hear his mother’s response, but Namjoon’s pleased hum and knowing grin told you everything.

“Mm, yes. Soon. I’ll set up a day and time. Appa too? Of course. I want them both to meet her properly.”

When he hung up, he was glowing. No, preening. He looked absolutely smug and satisfied as he turned back to you.

“There,” he said simply. “Handled.”

You could only gape. “Namjoon…”

“What?” he asked, eyes gleaming with mischief and affection. “You said that was the issue. So now it’s not.”

You hid your face in your hands, laughing in disbelief.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Namjoon reached forward and tugged your hands down gently, cupping your cheeks as he leaned in, his voice dropping low and dangerous.

“Unbelievably in love with you,” he corrected, kissing your lips softly.

You melted, just a little.

“…My parents…” you tried again weakly, but Namjoon didn’t let you finish.

“Tell me about them,” he said easily. “I need to know everything before I meet them.”

It rolled off his tongue so easily. As if he hadn’t done an entire background check on every single on of your living relatives. Immediate and distant family. He’d left no stone untouched when he was debating on making you an offer of being his sugar baby.

How drastically things have changed over the years.

You hesitated, and then started explaining that they knew about someone. You’d vaguely told them you were seeing someone exclusively, but you definitely hadn’t explained that he was your sugar daddy turned boyfriend turned obsessed husband to be.

Namjoon listened carefully, nodding along with a thoughtful hum.

“And they’re… traditional, you said?”

You nodded sheepishly. “Kind of. They’re not super strict but, y’know… they don’t like too much PDA. Especially when meeting someone for the first time.”

For a moment, Namjoon just stared at you. Then his lips curled in a way that made your stomach clench.

“No hands?” he asked slowly, clearly amused.

“No hands,” you confirmed firmly.

“No kisses?”

“Joon.”

“No fucking?” he added with a wicked grin.

You groaned, slapping his arm.

“They’re my parents, Namjoon. Behave.”

He laughed, pulling you closer until you were straddling his lap again, his hands automatically sliding down to cup your ass possessively.

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promised smoothly. “But you know I’m going to be inside you as soon as they leave, right?”

You rolled your eyes, but your body betrayed you, heat flooding between your thighs at the thought. Namjoon kissed you again, slow and possessive, humming softly as he tasted your surrender.

“Soon, princess,” he whispered against your lips. “Soon you’ll be my wife. And then I won’t ever have to pretend to behave again.”

And the terrifying thing was… you weren’t sure you wanted him to.

six | masterlist | eight

[theartofsleek]

Source

[ii11y]

tethered in red - dazai x reader

bound by a deepening obsession, the story follows a mission gone wrong—an ambush laced with betrayal, bloodshed, and the terrifying possibility of loss. as the world around you burns, dazai holds you like it’s the last time—loving you with a desperation only born from death. its raw. its unhinged. its the kind of love that destroys and saves at the same time.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, graphic violence,injury, blood, obsessive love, breakdowns, nsfw, angst, betrayal, possessiveness, mentions of death.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

the cigarette between chuuyas fingers burned low, the ash hanging off the end like a whisper away from collapse. you were sitting on a rooftop just outside the port mafias southern compound, the wind stirring strands of your hair across your face, the dying sun bleeding out behind the yokohama skyline.

your back ached. your ribs were still sore from last week’s assignment. but that wasn’t what made you uneasy.

it was him.

dazai sat beside you on the ledge, one leg dangling, the other pulled to his chest, his chin resting atop it. his eyes were fixed on the city, but you knew he wasn’t seeing it. he was far away. somewhere in the dark, fucked-up parts of his mind that not even you were allowed to follow.

chuuya flicked the ash off his cigarette, exhaling a long drag. “he’s been like that since yesterday,” he muttered, nodding toward dazai. “ever since Mori called you in.”

your stomach twisted. you knew the pattern. the summons. the silence. dazai always shut down right before something bad.

you reached for him anyway.

“osamu.”

his eyes didn’t move. but he answered.

“hmm?”

“is something wrong?"

a pause.

and then, softly, “no.”

⸻

the elevator to moris private chambers always felt like a descent into the underworld. your stomach dropped as the lift sank below the normal levels, into the depths where sunlight and mercy couldn’t reach.

the hallway outside his office was cold. clean. the kind of sterile that hospitals tried to mimic but never quite captured. like a morgue pretending to be a sanctuary.

you knocked once.

the door opened itself.

inside, mori sat behind his desk, tea steaming gently beside an untouched chessboard. elise stood nearby in her doll-like form, eyes unblinking, mouth curled into a cruel half-smile. the air tasted faintly of antiseptic and copper—like blood scrubbed just a little too late.

“come in,” mori said, gesturing.

dazai walked ahead of you. his shoulders were tight, his hands buried in his pockets. you followed in silence, every instinct screaming at you to turn around.

“you’re both here because i trust you,” mori said, steepling his fingers. “there’s a traitor. a former associate named yanagi. he’s been leaking intel to the government. we believe he’ll be at a decommissioned shipyard tonight. the location is secure, minimal risk.”

you frowned. “then why us?”

mori smiled, and it made your skin crawl.

“because i want to be absolutely certain he doesn’t walk away.”

that was the first red flag.

the second came when dazai asked, “you said minimal risk. you're sure?”

mori didn’t blink.

“positive.”

but dazai didn’t believe him.

you could see it in the way his fingers flexed. in the flicker in his eyes. in the silence that followed.

“fine,” dazai said at last, before adding on coldly, “but if anything happens to her, ill ensure you regret it."

moris smile never changed.

"oh. i'd expect nothing less.”

⸻

the docks were drowning in mist. the air was wet, thick with salt and steel. you and dazai moved like shadows through the decaying ruins of what used to be a shipping port — cranes long dead, containers left to rust like forgotten coffins.

something felt wrong.

the silence was too complete.

your heart thudded in your chest as you scanned the area. “we are being watched,” you whispered.

dazai didn’t answer.

then the fog shifted.

masked figures on the rooftops. behind the crates. lurking in the shadows.

too many.

far too many.

it was a setup.

you didn’t have time to shout before the first bullet shattered a pipe beside your head, spraying steam and fire. dazai tackled you to the ground as a barrage of gunfire tore through the air.

then came the knives.

the screaming.

the blood.

⸻

the world erupted into hell.

bullets split the fog, hot lead searing through steel and air. your body moved on instinct—rolling behind a rusted crate, your breathing ragged, ribs screaming. dazai was already on his feet, two guns drawn, eyes wild like a cornered wolf. not a strategist. not a trickster. a killer

you counted eight, then ten.

too many.

this wasn’t a takedown.

It was an execution.

your fingers shook as you reloaded. “they knew we were coming,” you hissed, throat raw.

“no,” Dazai spat, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it. “mori knew.”

that truth tasted worse than blood.

the first wave came fast—black masks, gleaming knives, footfalls like thunder on wet steel. dazai moved like water, bullets slicing through skulls, a knife in his off-hand spinning a man’s body into the air like a ragdoll. blood sprayed across your cheek—warm, thick, coppery.

you didnt have time to think.

you stabbed upward into a chest, felt the rib crack. pulled free. kicked. shot. the violence was mindless, primal. you didn’t know who you were killing anymore. only that it was you or them.

and then it happened.

a blade slid into your side.

you gasped—eyes wide—as warmth flooded your ribs.

you turned, instinct firing too slow, too late.

the masked man grinned behind blood-stained teeth—his knife lifting again.

but dazai screamed.

the kind of scream that tears through your spine and nestles in your bones.

it was raw. animalistic. like something in him snapped.

he was on the man in seconds. tackled him. pinned him. punched him. over..

and over.

and over.

blood coated dazai’s knuckles like war paint. the man’s skull caved in before he was even dead.

and dazai didn’t stop.

you reached out, voice trembling. “osamu—stop—”

but his eyes were gone.

gone.

lost in a place no one could reach.

you had to grab his wrist to pull him back to the surface.

he blinked.

breathed.

his chest heaved like he’d been drowning.

and then he saw you. really saw you.

the blood at your waist.

the pain in your eyes.

his hands were shaking.

“oh god,” he whispered, “you’re bleeding—you’re bleeding—”

you collapsed into him, darkness curling at the edges of your vision.

⸻

you came to in the back of a black sedan, the engine roaring like a beast through the night.

rain lashed against the windshield in violent slashes, the sky sobbing above Yokohama.

dazai was holding you, cradling you.

one hand pressed against your side, the other brushing your damp hair back from your face.

he was covered in blood.

yours. theirs. his own.

you blinked, throat dry. “…are we dead?”

chuuya barked a laugh from the front seat. “not yet. almost wrecked my car picking your dumbasses up, though.”

you tried to sit up. dazai stopped you with a gentle but firm hand.

“don’t move,” he whispered. his voice was wrecked. hoarse. strained. “you’re still bleeding.”

you looked at him.

really looked.

his eyes were wild. his pupils too wide, his jaw clenched tight.

you reached for his face. “you saved me.”

his hands tightened on you like he was scared you’d vanish. “no. i failed you. i let him send us into that trap. i didn’t see it. i should’ve known.”

your vision blurred again—not from pain this time, but the sheer weight of his guilt.

“it’s not your fault,” you murmured.

but he didn’t answer.

just held you tighter.

⸻

The Safehouse — 3:02 a.m.

the room was warm.

quiet.

the chaos was gone, but it lived inside your skin now.

the safehouse was nothing more than an old warehouse in the outskirts of the city—converted into a loft with makeshift walls, one bloodstained couch, a mattress on the floor, and a single bulb casting soft yellow light.

you lay on that mattress, wrapped in clean bandages, sweat still clinging to your skin from the fever. your side ached like hell.

dazai sat beside you, shirtless, arms slicked in dried blood and fresh bruises. he hadn’t left your side in hours.

“why are you still here?” you whispered.

his head tilted, eyes tired. “where else would I go?”

you looked at each other

and in that silence, something broke.

he leaned down—slow, unsure at first—until his forehead pressed against yours.

“i thought i lost you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it cracked. “i thought you were dying in my arms and i couldn’t do anything.”

his lips brushed your brow. your temple. your nose.

“i wanted to kill them all. i did. and it wasn’t enough.”

your hand rose to cup his jaw. “i'm still here.”

his eyes closed.

and when they opened—something unhinged glowed behind them.

“you don’t understand,” he murmured, “i need you. if you ever die, i die with you.”

you shivered.

not from fear.

but from knowing he meant it.

⸻

dazai hadn’t stopped touching you since the moment chuuya dropped you off. he hadn’t let you stand, hadn’t let you breathe without his hand ghosting your skin like he needed confirmation that you were still real.

his fingers trembled where they rested on your hip, just above the edge of the bandage that wrapped your ribs. he looked down at you like you were a dying star, burning too hot—too bright—and about to vanish.

you saw it in his eyes.

that brittle kind of love that turns to ruin if it’s not touched back.

you shifted, your palm brushing over his bare chest. "osamu,” you whispered. “im here.”

that’s all it took.

he kissed you.

not gently.

this wasn’t a kiss, it was a collapse.

a collision of everything unsaid—all the times he didn’t say he loved you because he thought he’d lose you anyway. his lips bruised yours, frantic and deep, his body already pressing you down into the mattress like he needed you to anchor him to earth.

his voice was hoarse against your mouth. “i need you. i need you right now.”

You nodded silently.

that was all the permission he needed.

⸻

nsfw

touch like prayer.

dazai stripped you slowly, even though his hands were shaking. he pulled your shirt over your head like he was peeling back armor, revealing battle wounds he blamed himself for.

his fingers ghosted along your side, where the gauze clung tight. his lips followed, kissing everything except the wound. reverent. careful. like if he touched it, it would kill him.

“i almost lost you,” he murmured, breath hot against your ribs. “and I haven’t even—god, i haven’t loved you enough yet.”

you cupped his face. “then love me.”

and oh. he did.

he kissed your neck like it was sacred. bit lightly beneath your ear, then soothed it with his tongue. he pressed his mouth to your shoulder, down your collarbone, until your skin was flushed and trembling beneath his touch.

and then—your back.

he guided you onto your stomach with a tenderness that broke you.

his mouth followed the line of your spine.

one kiss at a time.

vertebrae by vertebrae.

a trail of heat and worship.

“you don’t understand,” he whispered, voice shaking, “you are the only thing in this world that makes me want to stay.”

and when he pushed inside you—it wasn’t slow.

it was urgent.

raw. desperate.

his breath hitched in your ear, hands digging into your hips like he was holding on for dear life.you gasped, body arching into him, feeling everything.

the stretch. the fullness. the emotion.

he moved like he was memorizing you.

“you feel so fucking good,” he groaned. “perfect. i don’t deserve this— i don’t deserve you.”

your hand reached back to find him, to tangle in his hair, to ground him.

“'samu” you whispered. “please. i need all of you.”

he lost it.

thrust harder. deeper.

your breath caught with every snap of his hips, every low, desperate moan he pressed against your skin. he worshipped every inch of you—your back, your neck, the shell of your ear—like he was imprinting himself onto your body.

abd you—you burned.

your body sang for him, trembled beneath him, opened to him like he was the only thing that ever made you feel whole.

when the first wave hit, it shattered you.

you sobbed his name, nails clawing at the sheets, as your orgasm ripped through you—hot, sharp, endless.

but he didn’t stop.

he couldn’t.

bot when he was this close to losing everything.

he flipped you gently, kissed the tears from your cheeks, slid back inside while you were still sensitive and trembling.

round two was even worse.

even deeper. slower. but devastating.

he looked into your eyes the whole time.

watched you come undone again.

held you while you cried into his mouth.

and still—he didn’t stop.

your legs shook. your throat was raw from moaning his name. yoy couldn’t think anymore—couldn’t speak. you just felt.

he finally came with a gasp like a man dying.

your name on his tongue like a last prayer.

he held you after. breathless. sweating. shaking.

his voice cracked against your neck. “youre mine. i don’t care if it’s selfish—i need you to be mine.”

you nodded.

“always.”

and in the silence that followed—he kissed you again.

softer this time.

but no less desperate.

⸻

thank u for reading!! if u made it this far lmk what u thought as this is the first fic ive ever wrote 🙏🙏

[g0dlyunsub]

red herring.

in which spencer can’t stop teasing you about how you constantly try to draw his attention away from your rather flawed board/card game skills.

pairing :: spencer x reader

warnings :: none? some [really slight] sexual tension but it’s mostly spencer being his witty self.

word count :: 1.3k

author’s note :: second post is now up! i’m a sucker for pure fluff that involves constant bickering, especially when it involves spencer’s ginormous brain. mention of his glasses like thrice. i also just realized i missed the opportunity to title this as reid herring, but i'm too lazy to change the cover :3

accompanying song :: show me by mac ayres and chris anderson

you let out a deep sigh before you can stop yourself, and you instantly try to fake cough to mask your disappointment. spencer’s quick to notice, however, and he flashes a smile at you. his glasses hitch up slightly as his nose lightly crinkles, and you can’t help but look and admire. in comparison, your smile is always turned downwards and you’ve never felt comfortable displaying a wide smile like his. 

you’d find his smile to be refreshing any other day, but right now, it’s more of a nuisance than anything. 

“what, can’t admit that you’ve lost the last seven games of chess?” spencer chuckles playfully and rests his chin on his hand. 

you huff in frustration and tap the table with your index finger. “you’ve been playing this game since like what, when you were a week old? your elo rating is probably well above candidate masters and-”

“so what else do you want to try? i’ve handicapped my queen, my bishop, do you want a rook gone next?” the rim of spencer’s glasses gleams under the lighting as he asks, and you hate how everything seems to be on his side. 

“no,” you pout, and tip over your king to surrender. “i want to play something different.” you fold your arms in front of your chest as you speak and lean back in your chair.

“you know, if it helps, i could explain the strategies i used to counter your plays. these seven- well eight games, we’ve played the italian defense three times, the caro-kann setup twice, the sicilian defense once, which is pretty impress-” you cut spencer short when you clear your throat and raise your eyebrows.

“can we not… talk about chess right now?” you pout once again, and push the chess board to the side of the table.

“well. is there anything else that you want to play?” spencer adjusts his glasses as you scratch the back of your head in contemplation.

“old maid. i’m a natural at that game,” you suggest, and you notice the corner of spencer’s lips tug into a smirk.

“oh, i bet you are. try me.” confidence oozes from his words and your heart beats just a little faster. he’s enjoying this a little too much.

“i’ll deal the cards.” you grab a deck of cards from the drawer of your desk and shuffle the cards in a swift and fluid manner.

“that’s right, in a classic two-player situation for a deck of 1 card to a deck of 51 cards, the latter of which is the standard for a game of old maid, the expected probabilities for the dealer winning are always higher than the non-dealer. if you’re really going for the win, i’d recommend playing with a smaller deck of cards, but the difference is really minimal. you’re looking at a simulated probability of 50.4 percent with 51 cards versus 51.8 percent with 23 cards.” spencer rolls the facts off his tongue like it’s common sense, and you blink rapidly in stunned confusion. he’s playing it off with a goofy smile again. ugh.

the next hour is filled mostly with intense silence, and you could swear a part of your brain was going to short circuit from mental exhaustion any minute. 

“is it… here? hm?” spencer observes your facial expressions for any note of change, but you wouldn’t give it to him. you remain unphased as his fingers trail between your cards and pull the rightmost card from your grip. 

your heart makes an ecstatic turn when he takes the old maid and it takes everything in you to suppress your smile. so much for being a profiler.

your excitement doesn’t last, however, when he slightly cocks his head to the side and starts to shuffle his cards. it’s endgame, and you might be able to come out of this with your first victory. 

you lean in ever so slightly, brushing your fingers atop each card and pausing in between. your eyes lock onto his hazel beads, and neither of you blink. 

“it’s not this card.” you move to the next card, and spencer raises an eyebrow.

“are you sure? you know, statistically speaking, when one shuffles their deck of-” your hand snakes under his cards and you lay a finger to his lips. 

“shh, i’m trying to concentrate,” you whisper, and everything goes silent. the tension between the two of you hangs suspended in the air and it’s increasingly harder for you to focus on the game. in fact, you’re thinking of everything but the cards in front of you. 

you draw in a deep breath and settle on the card that sits second to last in his right palm. when you turn the card over, a frown instantly overtakes your face. the old maid had instantly made its way back into your set of cards.

the rest of the game is torturous; each turn, spencer discards his pairs one by one, and your disappointment seeps through your loud sighs. 

you set the last card on top of the messy pile of pairs. it’s a loss, again. 

“spence, i’d beat you in any target game like darts.” you lift your head with an exhausted groan.

“you know, phil taylor, a 16-time world darts champion, is often cited to utilize geometry to his strategic advantage since he aims for the triple 20 section, which is one of the highest scoring areas of the board. it takes practice, of course, to nail the angle down, but an estimation of the dart's projectile motion offers great leverage to your precision.” he looks at you as you start to stack up the cards and stuff them back into their case.

after a pause, he continues: “can i not impress my favorite person once in a while?" he reaches for your hand to interlace his fingers with yours. 

his thumb rubs the cave between your thumb and index finger in a circular motion, and you feel your body relax under his touch. you suppress your excitement at the mention of the word favorite by pursing your lips.

“you always impress me, spence. wait – hey, is that a red herring, coming from you?” you question, pulling his hand towards you.

“perhaps. and i’ll actually address mine, unlike a certain someone…” a sly grin spreads across his face.

“but what about that one time you-” you start, raising your other hand to contest. 

“hm. interesting. that’s your first whataboutist reply in two days,” spencer cuts you off short. what an actual jerk.

he breaks into a small fit of laughter before he waves his hand to control himself. you, on the other hand, aren’t impressed. he stands, his figure towering over you as you remain seated.

“come on, let’s grab a cup of coffee before we head out for the weekend. i’ll walk you home.” spencer motions for you to get up, and you reluctantly follow suit. you’re glad you could spend more time with the witty doctor, but you hadn’t expected to accumulate even more stress after work was over. a cup of coffee is exactly what you need to get a moment of relaxation.

he hands you your cup of coffee and turns to face you while stirring his drink with a coffee stick.

“hey, uh, listen. it’s been really nice playing with you today, and if you wanted to play again sometime, talk about strategies, stuff like that…” he trails off, watching you as you take a sip of your hot drink.

“of course, if you’ll ever consider adopting me as your apprentice,” you jokingly respond, and a glimmer surfaces in his eyes. before he can respond, you lean in and embrace him. 

“i’m just kidding. invite me for a card game any time.” you look up so your forehead sits right under his chin. he’s surprised at your sudden move, but he sets his cup down and returns the hug.

“poker next?” 

“oh hell no. get out of here.” you laugh and take his hand as you walk out of the office while he desperately scrambles for his cup with his free hand. both of your laughs echo down the hallway and trail behind as the elevator doors close.

[worlds-end-discotheque]

This isn’t a fully finished thought-project yet so please bear with me but I’m pretty sure Cuno is the one paying the bills for the de Ruyter apartment.

Or at least he’s trying to.

When you go into Cuno’s apartment, the first thing you realize is the chain and the warning about the electricity. From what we know about how Cuno protects his shack (and the state of his inebriation-comatose father) we can safely assume that Cuno’s the one who chains the door closed whenever he leaves. Obviously, no one in Martinaise would want to leave their home open for any reason, but the apartments clearly have deadbolts installed in the doors— so the chain is an extra measure. Cuno can’t have anything being stolen, even taking the extra effort beyond confidence in his own intimidation to chain it up.

The apartment has two rooms: Uuno’s bedroom, and the living room. Uuno’s bedroom consists primarily of the bed, the clothes line, presumably a dresser or some end table-like surfaces. Plenty of room for his substances and shit.

The living room has the sofa, which is clearly covered in Cuno’s clothing and a makeshift sleeping setup. The risqué pinup on the wall is basically confirmation that this is Cuno’s “space,” not something that he and his dad alternate or share. The L-Couch is Cuno’s bed, bedroom, and dresser, effectively.

Which leads us to the tiny desk. The items on the desk are minimal, but crucial: Cuno’s speed with the straw, Cuno’s textbook and homework, a lamp, the stack of bills, and an open phone book.

We’ve established already that Cuno and his father do not share space. Cuno is already a territorial kid, established by his limited safe zones in his own home. He wouldn’t leave his damn homework out somewhere where his dad could access it; the fact that the homework exists means that beneath his attitude, Cuno clearly has a deep level of care for his schoolwork and at least a desire to complete it. With how terrified he is of his father, there’s no way in hell Cuno would leave his schoolwork out in a place that his father could damage it or get angry for it. Which essentially confirms that the desk is Cuno’s space only.

The speed has its little straw, making it convenient to sip on consistently while doing work at the desk. (I do this with my water tumbler.) especially if you’re at the desk for a long time. With the open phone book, it’s clear that Cuno is at least trying to find the numbers for the companies that the bills are coming from. It’s not just a pile of mail on the desk— he’s doing research into it. Gathering phone numbers to take outside to one of the payphones. The desk is organized, business-like, unlike anything Cuno is— except for how he deals.

Which leads me to my last bit. Cuno’s insistence on selling you shit. Obviously, the best way for this kid to maintain a steady supply for his own addiction is to be a dealer. However, for a 12-year-old boy with a substance addiction in the world of DE where there’s nothing else to do, that level of self-control is absurdly high. There’s a meticulousness to it that betrays a primary aspect of Cuno’s approach: business. Cuno isn’t doing it for popularity, for “cool” points, and if his focus was only his own addiction then he would likely just steal them, take it all for himself. He’s not supplying his dad, that’s for sure. On top of that, he’s got a side hustle selling clothing and other crap he picks up, enough to try and pitch it to Pigs— repeatedly. There’s a lot to buy off Cuno, and it’s the one thing he repeatedly brings up in dialogue options, aside from insults. He wants you to know he’s willing to do business. He needs the money. Because the bills are stacking up, his dad could die any minute, and now he’s got Cunoesse too. (It’s not confirmed if she stays in the apartment with him, and I’m inclined to think not, considering the chain, his fear of her too and the fact that she stands on the other side of the fence than him— there’s a special separation there. There’s also no trace of Cunoesse-noted belongings nor a second space to sleep indicated on the couch; shivers, empathy, none of the skills speak up when inside the apartment about anyone but Cuno and his dad. At the same time, this is again unconfirmed).

I lost what I was talking about here, but the point is. Cuno breaks my heart and I want to adopt and take care of him so badly. It’s one thing to be a delinquent kid, it’s another to be a 12-year-old delinquent kid trying to pay your own damn bills in Martinaise. Fuck, man. I love this kid so much. He breaks my heart.

As much as I yap about my old man yaoi, I think Cuno is my favorite character in DE. He’s just… I need to take care of him. God help me. I wanted to kill his dad so badly. Sigh.

Anyways. That was my thought project. Thought Cabinet just adopted Cunology.

[nova-moonlight]

𝘋𝘰𝘩𝘸𝘢 𝘉𝘢𝘦𝘬 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦r

Blending into the background is an art form I’ve perfected. While some people seem to thrive on drama, I’ve learned that a quiet, unnoticed existence suits me just fine. In a world where everyone craves the spotlight, I find solace in being the invisible observer.

The classroom buzzed with the usual gossip. “That girl has no self-respect,” one voice sneered. “How can she forget—” Another started, but I’d heard enough. I slid my earbuds in, trying to shut out the whispers, but snippets of their conversation still sliced through. “Behavior… something… small.” It was relentless.

I let my head rest on my desk, eyes partially open, watching Su-ae from the corner of my vision. Honestly, I had to agree with the whispers. How could she stay with Minu, who was more like a distant shadow than a caring boyfriend?

Just as I was drifting into my own thoughts, a commotion nearby drew my attention. Eunhyuk, with his usual air of confidence, was gripping another student’s arm. What was going on? I didn’t care enough to investigate further and settled back into my pretense of sleep.

Being a ghost at school has its perks. I get to watch everyone without ever getting involved. It’s a peaceful existence that I’ve grown to appreciate. At home, though, it’s a different story. My family sees me, sometimes more than I’d like.

I have older twin brothers, Jin-ho and Jin-woo. They’re fiercely protective, though sometimes their way of showing it can be a bit rough. They’ll back me up if I’m in trouble but won’t hesitate to tease me if I step out of line. Despite their tough love, I cherish them deeply.

Our family setup is unconventional. My mom is a high-powered lawyer who brings in the bulk of the money, while my dad is the stay-at-home parent. We’re comfortably off but not rolling in riches, which is why I sought out my own job.

That’s how I ended up working at a nearby convenience store. I slip into my uniform, don my glasses—my trusty disguise—and become just another employee. No one here knows me as the quiet girl from school or the youngest child at home; I’m just me.

Early March

The convenience store is my sanctuary. I slipped into my uniform, feeling the familiar comfort of anonymity. The name tag is the only thing that marks me out here.

“Hey, can you stock the shelves?” my manager called out.

“On it,” I said, grabbing a box and heading to the aisles. Stocking shelves is a calming ritual, a contrast to the noise of my thoughts.

As I worked, a familiar face appeared in the store—Eunhyuk. It was odd to see him here; he didn’t seem like the type to frequent convenience stores. Ra-im was with him, browsing the drinks. I didn’t expect to run into either of them.

“Hey,” Eunhyuk said, catching me off guard. “You work here?”

“Yeah,” I replied, trying to keep my cool. “Looking for something?”

He shook his head. “Just grabbing a snack. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Small world,” I muttered, turning back to my task. Eunhyuk lingered for a moment, his presence a curious anomaly in my otherwise mundane routine.

“You’re pretty quiet at school,” he remarked.

“Not much to say,” I replied. Why was he even talking to me?

He shrugged. “Fair enough. See you around.”

As he walked away, I couldn’t shake the flicker of curiosity. Eunhyuk is one of those students everyone knows about but doesn’t really interact with unless circumstances align. We’ve shared passing glances and distant nods, but our worlds never really intersected beyond these brief moments. I’m aware of his presence and his reputation, but our connection remains superficial, marked only by our occasional, minimal interactions.

I finished my shift, the encounter long gone from my mind. Home was a familiar chaos. My brothers greeted me with their usual mix of banter and affection.

“Hey, loser,” Jin-ho called out.

“Shut up,” I shot back, grinning despite myself. This was our way of showing we cared.

“Mom’s working late,” Jin-woo said. “Dad’s making dinner.”

“Great,” I replied, heading to the kitchen. My dad’s cooking was always a highlight of the day.

Sitting down for dinner, I felt a rare sense of contentment. Despite the complexities of life, I had a family that cared, a job that provided me with peace, and a quiet existence that was uniquely mine.