#error code: imagines

[katzensilber]

Man, this is why I always hated math class.

Khan Academy gave me this easy (or so I thought) problem to solve:

"A factory makes toys that are sold for $10 a piece. The factory has 40 workers, and they each produce 25 toys a day. The factory is open 5 days a week. What is the total value of toys the factory produces in a day?"

I said to myself, okay...

10 times 40 times 25 equals 10,000. That means the factory produces $10,000 worth of value per WORKING day.

10,000 times 5 equals 50,000. And then there are two days per week (the weekend) when no value is produced. So, per week, the total value produced is still only $50,000.

And finally, there are seven days in a full week, so $50,000 divided by 7 equals roughly $7,142.86. That's the total value of toys produced per day. Not "per work day", but "per day", as it specifically says in the problem.

But what does the teacher say as he guides us through it? 10 times 40 times 25 equals 10,000, so the answer is 10,000.

That's it. The end.

He even acknowledges: "So, you might be thinking, 'Hey wait, we didn't use all the information! We didn't use the "five days per week" information!' And yeah, as it turns out, that was information we didn't need."

'As it turns out'?! Are you kidding me right now?! I carefully read the question, precisely calculated exactly what it was asking for, taking all of the provided information into account... and now you're saying I'm supposed to have somehow magically known to ignore one of those pieces of information in order to make it easier for myself?

Just admit that your problem is worded badly, dude. UGH this kind of shit drives me crazy. Why can't people use words clearly >:(

[jamiesfootball]

"I think it has a dress code" they say about Bones & Honey and then one year later Roy and Jamie roll up in a leather jacket and hoodie

[waytoapurpleheart]

someone help me I'm so bad at coding

[mantisfriendd]

love when software gives me vague errors without any error code, makes it REALLY EASY to diagnose and solve

[pastelaspirations]

I don't know why I never thought of this before, but it is literally revolutionary and I am taking it and stealing it forever, you can't stop me-

Made an (elevated) blanket fort house for Error in the antivoid💕with his lil guest hanging out :3

[relto]

i really really want to strangle the person who wrote this code. what is this supposed to be!!!

[ozzgin]

Yan!Monster who is a famous author of human fiction. If a monster has a human kink, they’ve heard of him. They’ve read his books.

“The human’s husband”

“The human from the office”

“Human Farm”

“Kidnapping a human”

These are just some examples of his written debauchery. One detail, however, bothers him terribly: he doesn’t actually know much about humans. In fact, he’s never seen one with his own eyes. Hard to believe given the intricate details penned in each of his masterpieces, but it’s a cold, shameful truth.

Now, he’s not entirely to blame. Humans are a rare sight. So rare, in fact, most are considered an urban legend. Which is why his readers don’t mind the potential inaccuracies. A true master of the arts, however, strives for perfection. That’s what he always tells himself, that's his never-ending source of anguish.

Imagine his surprise when, on his most recent hiking trip, he stumbles upon the creature. You. A glitch in the matrix? An error in the grand code? You ask yourself the same question, staring wide-eyed at the enormous, unholy beast before you.

This is the chance of a lifetime. One he might never encounter again. His heart threatens to burst out his chest, pumping with anxiety, anticipation, eagerness. The potential! The research possibilities! No other monster could ever come close to his accurate depictions of a human’s body. Not only that, but unlike everyone else having to rely on printed dreams, he’d have access to the real deal. No more lustful scribbles in the middle of the night. He could have you.

All that’s left is to bring you to his home.

[More monsters]

[an-ruraiocht]

90% of the time when i see reviews and posts saying "this book needed editing" i don't think the reader have any idea what editing actually entails. usually this is actually code for one of several "problems" with the book:

it's too long, or it's slower paced than this reader's preference. they believe "editing" would mean making it shorter

it has a heavily descriptive style, which the reader doesn't like. they believe "editing" means paring every sentence down to hemingway-style prose with no adverbs

it doesn't follow the very rigid "save the cat" style 3-act story structure, disrupting the reader's sense of narrative tension. an editor, they believe, would've made sure it did

there were a few typos or formatting errors, and they believe it's the editor's job to catch these (it's not, it's typically the proofreader and the typesetter who have responsibility for that kind of thing)

and finally, most often:

the author had different narrative priorities than the reader, who thinks an editor would have made the author change their priorities.

the thing is, there are actually issues with editors in trad publishing being overworked to the point where things aren't getting the thorough, thoughtful editing that they need to be the best version of themselves. there are plenty of badly-structured, poorly-researched, and clumsily written books out there. moreover copyediting is typically freelance and perhaps because of that, this is the area where i see the largest number of issues: continuity issues, grammar issues, factual errors etc that someone should've spotted and didn't.

but this is not typically what people's "this needed an editor" reviews are focusing on. most often it just means they didn't like the book and they've decided editing is an all-powerful force that would have transformed it into a book they liked. but that's not how it works. and disproportionately what this comment means is that the book doesn't match what current fashions have decided is The Correct Style to write in

"this book needed an editor" if it's traditionally published, it had one. like. by definition. it was an editor who bought the book. that doesn't mean the editor did a great job but they definitely existed. there were probably at least two (acquiring editor who does the dev edits; copyeditor who does copyedits), and the proofreader, and a bunch of other people besides.

also i think people think editors are the ones who like. implement the changes. but they don't. they give comments and recommendations and ask questions and the author is the one to act on them. the editor will not rewrite the book. they will not fix the problems themselves, they will highlight the problem and the author will figure out a fix for it, or they will decide they don't agree that it's a problem and leave it as it. and a lot of the sentence-level style stuff is entirely on the author so if they don't have an ear for the rhythm then nobody's going to fix that for them. editors do a lot less than people seem to imagine they do, tbh

anyway

for reference—

structural/developmental edits: is this chapter in the right place and does the plot make sense and is the characterisation consistent and effective

line edits: is this sentence in the right place and is it as stylish as it could be

copy edits: is this sentence grammatically correct and consistent/factually correct within the story/its world and do the spellings follow the publisher's stylesheet

proofreading: are there any typos in this sentence and was the formatting preserved correctly when it was typeset

[jazziejax]

𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐕 *𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Modern AU | Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x Black!OC & Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore | Modern AU

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - Things get a little heated between Smoke and Juicy…more than once. But it’s also kind of cute.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mild sensual tension, soft dom undertones, food play(??), suggestive dialogue, light language. (let me know if I missed any!)

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - this was honestly just something cute after all the love from my last chapter. If you guys keep it up with the feedback, trust, you’ll get more and more chapters out of me. ALSO, before you even start, this is heavily out of character. Halfway through, I realized this is more Stack coded and unless you’re nit-picky like me, it might not bother you. If you are, just close your eyes and imagine this is Smoke without all the trauma. I hope you guys enjoy! Sorry for the grammar mistakes and spelling errors!!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5,966+

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ˖°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢 | 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟑

Ever since that day after the skating rink, ever since the kiss they shared on her porch, Juicy had been over the moon whenever it came to Elijah Moore. Simply seeing him made a huge smile appear on the girls face, and though they hadn’t really agreed on what they were, even talked about it really, they were less than subtle.

Their eyes met every time the other entered the room, with stares that said more than they knew. Their lingering touches went untied, but they each felt the connection that seared between them. Their laughs were shared as usual, but there was a softness behind them that wasn’t there before.

They were not different. They were still the same.

But now new feelings were in the mix and things had started to shift into something more. Something more longing. Something more…lustful.

It first started after a long day Juicy and Mary working during the hair salon rush, she and Smoke sit on the porch alone. Stack was on her couch, asleep after the meal she and Sinclair made, and Mary was at home, getting ready for a date. Juicy was tired, barefoot, her legs in his lap while she eats from a bowl of peaches she’d sliced earlier.

Smoke watches her, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of her ankle.

“Why are you eatin’ like that?” He asked, and his voice was a bit hoarse from not speaking for a while, and now that he did.

“Like what?” The girl questioned, just before she slurped an another peach slice into her mouth.

“Like you tryna drive me crazy, girl.” He responded, causing her face to heat up at his innuendo. She let out a small laugh, but her voice is breathier than she means.

Ever since their kiss, sly comments like that have been having more of an impact on her than before. At first, she’d simply blush with a small laugh as she tried not to let her mind race, but now, she had this primal urge to pounce on him whenever she saw him, and his words didn’t make it any better.

Feeling bold, she leans forward, with the objective to feed him one of her slices and maybe say something as suggestive in response. But, just like that, his face was in bed from hers. And the world seemed to still around them as her breath got caught in her throat.

She slowly raised her fork to his lips, the dripping fruit leaking into the bowl she held up under his chin. Her eyes flickered from his intense eyes that never left her, and the fruit hanging between them.

He didn’t open his mouth until the peach was rubbed against his plump lip, and Juicy wanted to clench his legs as she watched his long tongue peek out as he took the fruit into his mouth.

He was barely done chewing before they were both leaning in, their eyes closed. And when their lips touched,she couldn’t help but think that the peach tastes way better on his lips. It wasn’t until he his tongue graced her lips didn’t she pull back from the kiss, an overwhelming feeling taking over her.

But Smoke took it as something else. He simply nodded before speaking gently. “Whenever you ready.” He said, his large hands subconsciously rubbing at her leg.

And Juicy simply continued eating her peaches, though they seemed a little closer now. And that moment stayed between them, warm and glowing like the sun touching her skin.

And those moments became more bold as time went on. Tension rose, feelings peaked and moments lingered.

The overhead bell of the Crown & Glory Beauty Supply store jingled softly as Smoke pushed the glass door open. It was dead in the store—just the faint buzz of an old fan rattling from a corner and a box TV in the top corner playing 106 & Park on low. The air-conditioning was working overtime, but it still couldn’t keep up with the summer heat beating against the glass windows. It was hot outside—real hot—the kind of heat that made everybody move just a little slower.

Juicy was behind the counter, leaning over a fashion magazine with a chewed-up pen between her fingers, glasses low on her nose, lips glossed just enough to look edible. It was new, a sparkly peach color that had a bit of flavor. He’d know, he’d tasted it when she first bought it.

Her hair was up in a messy up do, a slightly puffy roller set that was in need of a redo by her standards, with two curls escaping at the front to frame her face. She wore her name on a gold necklace and a cherry red tank top that clung to every curve like a second skin. She looked up when she heard the door, and saw Smoke stepping inside, her whole expression shifted—eyes bright, mouth soft, body leaning back with that familiar little grin she always tried to bite back.

“You ain’t supposed to be here.” She said, but there was no real protest in her voice. Only that teasing lilt he had grown addicted to. “You might make me forget I’m on the clock.”

Smoke grinned and held up a white plastic bag with ‘Thank you’ plastered over the front. “What if I said I brought you lunch?”

Juicy’s stomach answered before she could, and she rolled her eyes, laughing as she grabbed her little purse from under the counter. “Let me tell Keisha I’m takin’ my lunch break before you turn me into a damn stereotype.” Smoke chuckled low as he watched her lean over the little half-door to call into the back. “Keish! I’m takin’ my lunch now. I’ll be back in thirty.”

“You got forty-five.” Keisha called back. “But only if you bring me a pineapple soda.”

Juicy didn’t answer, just gave Smoke a playful side-eye as she walked out from behind the counter and toward the door, hips swaying with nothing but pure temptation in her denim shorts. “Come on, Mr. Delivery Boy.” She said as she passed him, while Smoke watched her as she licked his lips.

The sun hit them hard the moment they stepped outside. Smoke held the door open to his cutlass for her, parked just under the shade of a half dead oak tree off center of the stores entrance. The inside smelled like Black Ice air freshener and a little bit like him, clean clothes, cologne, and something vaguely minty.

He slid into the drivers seat and handed her the paper bag before she’d even fully shuffled into her seat. She took it, eyes wide with creepy delight, already knowing what he’d gotten her. Smoke helped her take the food out, and held the white Styrofoam to-go plate like an offering. “Figured you’d forget to eat. Got you the ten piece lemon pepper from Dock’s.”

Juicy blinked, then her lips parted in a slow grin. “You got me the good fries?”

“Seasoned and crispy. Just how you like it.”

“Mmm.” She reached out for the plate and brushed his fingers as she took it, her nails freshly done in that glittery nude pink he noticed last night when they were tangled up on her bed whispering secrets into each other’s necks. “You’re spoiling me.” She said with a little smirk, already opening the box and letting the smell take her over. “You’re gonna make me expect this every shift.” She said as she grabbed a fork to pick her fries.

Smoke leaned back in his seat, his eyes taking her in without shame. “Maybe I like spoilin’ you.”

Juicy tried not to blush, but it came anyway, spreading warm and rosy across her cheeks. She sat back in the passenger seat and picked at the fries first, licking the Cajun salt from her fingertips like she didn’t know it was killing him slowly. Smoke leaned back and watched her pick at the wings, the smell of zesty spice thick in the car. She took one bite and hummed.

“I swear, this might be better than sex.” She said with a mother full.

He arched a brow, watching the way she licked her fingers. “Might?” He questioned.

She smirked and didn’t answer, reaching for a fry instead.

For a while, they sat in easy silence. The windows were cracked just enough to let the summer breeze tease its way in. Smoke tapped a beat against the steering wheel while Luther Vandross’s ‘Take You Out’ played low from the stereo.

They hadn’t exactly told any one of their…relationship, yet. That much was understood without it needing to be said. Not Mary, not Stack, and definitely not Martin, needed to know about why they had going on. It wasn’t out of shame—at least not for Juicy. It was protection. Privacy. It was not wanting to hear her brother’s mouth or deal with Mary’s need for graphic detail or the way girls in the neighborhood would start watching her.

Smoke didn’t push. He never did. He just kept showing up.

At the end of her shift last time, he’d been parked out front with the windows down and Aaliyah playing low, just waiting to walk her to her car. The time before that, they sat in the backseat of his Cutlass for thirty minutes saying goodbye with their mouths and not a single word. His hands had found the small of her back, the inside of her thigh, the curve of her neck. None of it was ever rushed. He was always asking for permission with touch alone.

Now, watching her eat, he had to stuff his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out.

“How long you got left?” He asked.

“’Til six. Bianca’s mom coming to drop off some things, and I gotta tag ‘em and put ‘em up front.” She took another bite from a wing, eyes fluttering as she chewed. “This so good. I should slap you.” She hummed.

“You wanna slap me?” He teased, leaning in just a bit. “What happened to all that lovin’ from the other night?”

Juicy’s eyes met his as she sipped from the stare of her cup, and for a moment, everything else went quiet. The radio, the passing car, even the hum of the air conditioning within the vehicle.

“You keep bringin’ me food and walkin’ me to my car like some gentleman, you can get some lovin’ alright.”She said softly, lips curving into a grin. “You gon’ mess around and make me soft, Smoke.” She pouted, faking annoyance with him.

“Maybe I want that.” Smoke said, his voice low, head tilted. “You already soft in all the right places.” He smirked, his head tilted as he looked her up and down.

Juicy didn’t know how to respond to that, she just looked at him for a long second. Her eyes were deep brown, like pools of warm syrup, and they narrowed just enough to let him know she was feeling it.

“Anyway.” She said, turning her eyes back to her plate. “You don’t gotta keep doing all this.”

Smoke leaned closer, his hand sliding across the center console to tap her wrist. “You don’t want me to?”

Juicy’s lips parted just enough to suck in a breath. “I didn’t say that.” She murmured.

He gave her a crooked smile, one that pulled slow and easy like honey off the spoon.

“Then hush and eat.”

She smiled like she couldn’t help herself. “You gon’ wait here until I’m off?” She asked, playing with a fry.

“Maybe.” He said before glancing at his gold watch. “Maybe I’ll wait outside. Or maybe I’ll go nap and come back. But I’ll be here.”

Juicy rolled her eyes, but it didn’t match the quiet joy stretching across her face. “You need to stop acting like we go together.” She said, letting her impulsive thoughts win as typed with him.

Smoke leaned closer, voice brushing her ear. “Oh, we don’t?” He questioned, already knowing what game the bratty girl was trying to play with him, so he decided to play a different one.

She paused, the bite of her fry halfway to her mouth. Her lips twitched again, this time with something softer—something unsure but open. “Boy, go on somewhere.” She whispered, turning her eyes away from him.

But he stayed right there. Watching her eat. Watching her smile. Watching her pretend like they weren’t already wrapped up in something they couldn’t name yet—but it was definitely felt.

“Oh, I can’t be on your space now?” He questioned, leaning a bit closer over the console, his eyes trailing her face. “This my car, I can be where I want.”

“You’re gonna smell my breath, Smoke, move.” Juicy said, leaning away from him a bit, just as he was trying to trial his lips closer to her.

He didn’t flinch. “So?”

“My breath probably smells. And that fruit punch ain’t made it no better.” She said, looking over at him, her hand over her mouth as if to block the smell from reaching him. Smoke simply started into her eyes, the only thing he could see over her hands. His eye bounced between hers as he leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “Still wanna taste it.”

Juicy’s whole body went still, the corner of her lips twitching like she was fighting something. She turned to face him fully, one leg tucked under her. “You are real bold today, huh?” She questioned, letting her hand drop.

Smoke leaned in more, his palm resting on the back of her seat, his eyes locked onto her mouth. “You been sneakin’ around with me in parking lots and empty rooms for how many days now?” He retorted. “It ain’t about being bold, baby.”

She didn’t answer, only nipped at her bottom lip.

“You lettin’ me touch all up on you, makin’ me wait just to kiss you again…”

“You already kissed me.” She said, soft as a confession.

“Yeah.” He said, his thumb now brushing against her jawline. “But it ain’t enough. Not when I think about it every time you walk away from me.”

Juicy’s eyes fluttered closed for a half-second, the tension so thick it hung in the car like fog.

She opened her eyes again, and they were darker now, shaded in lust and something tender. “I’m really feelin’ you, Smoke.” She murmured. “I just don’t want nobody in my business yet. Not my brother, not Mary, nobody. Not ‘til I know this is real.”

Smoke nodded slowly. “Then let me show you it is.”

He leaned in again—closer this time—and just before their lips met, she pulled back and covered her mouth with her hand.

“Wait, wait, wait.” She said, laughing softly. “I told you. My breath probably smells like lunch.”

Smoke smirked. “I told you. I don’t care.”

Then he kissed her.

Soft at first, warm and slow, like a question he already knew the answer to. Juicy melted into it, her hand slipping behind his neck, her lips parting without hesitation. He kissed her like he’d been waiting since the rink, since the last car meetup, since every sideways glance and half-second pause between them.

She sighed into him, her body turning so her knee brushed his thigh, and his hand slid down to her waist, tugging her closer. Her fries were forgotten on the dash, the radio hummed on, and somewhere in the distance, construction work buzzed—but all she could focus on was the way his fingers pressed into her hip, the heat of his mouth, the way he kissed her like she was his favorite food and he was starving.

By the time they pulled apart, her lip gloss was gone and her heart was racing.

Smoke looked at her, thumb brushing the side of her face like she was fragile, like he was still tasting her.

“Is that real enough for you, Juicy?”

She caught her breath, smirk tugging at her lips.

“It’s a start.” She said cheekily.

Smoke laughed, low and warm, already leaning in again.

And outside, the sun beat on the windows, heavy and golden, while Aaliyah’s voice floated from the tiny TV in the corner:

“Boy, I’ve been watching you like a hawk in the sky…”

The next time was about a week later, and they were sort of high off not seeing each other for a minute.

The house was quiet. The kind that came only when the day had finally exhaled. A low hum from the box fan in the corner of her room carried through the walls, but otherwise, silence blanketed the place like the thick heat outside.

Tyson was down for bed, knocked out cold after a long afternoon of playing with his toy dinosaurs, goldfish crackers, and singing Whitney Houston songs off-key around the house. Sinclair was out on a date with some boy guy, and Martin was God-knows-where, probably laid up with the flavor of the week. The house was Juicy’s for the night, and she’d planned to take full advantage of that.

She had just slipped into her favorite silk moomoo—champagne-pink and ultra soft, loose fitting but clinging in just the right places while letting everything else breathe. Her legs were smooth, freshly shaven and moisturized, and her roller set was tightly secured beneath a silk, butter-colored scarf. Her room smelled like bag champa incense and cocoa butter, a familiar blend of calm and comfort. The lights were dim, casting a warm amber glow from her bedside lamp. Juicy glanced at the clock. 10:46 p.m.

She was leaning over her nightstand, lighting a second stick of incense when a sharp tap-tap at the window made her jump.

Her heart stuttered.

Wide-eyed, she turned slowly, suspicious, hand hovering near her dresser drawer where she kept her little knife—just in case. Another knock followed, softer this time. She crept toward the window, staying low, her silk moomoo brushing against the floor as she moved. She peeked between the slats of her blinds and gasped.

Smoke.

Standing outside her window, straight faced, his stature intense as if he could see through the blinds. His gold chain glinted under the streetlight, and he lifted his hand in a slow wave, eyes locked on hers.

Juicy let out a tiny squeal, panicking. “Oh my God,” she whispered to herself, yanking the curtain closed.

Her room turned dark again, but her mind was racing. She spun around, clutching her moomoo. Why tonight? Why when she had her scarf on, her rollers showing through the wrap? She felt so exposed, caught mid-transformation. She wasn’t cute, she wasn’t ready.

She paced, muttering, “Why the hell would he come tonight? I look crazy…” She was in distress.

Then, from outside, his voice cut through the quiet.

“I’ve already seen you in your rollers.” He said, cool and calm, like he was talking with his lips pressed against her skin instead of standing on the other side of a pane of glass. “Open the window, Juicy.”

She froze. Could he hear me? She thought.

Her breath was caught in her throat, somewhere between embarrassment and excitement. Then, with a soft curse and a helpless little pout, she padded back over to the window and lifted it with a quiet creak. A second later, Smoke was climbing through like some bad-ass high school boyfriend in a ’80s movie. It seems easy and he seemed unbothered, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

His feet touched down on her carpet and his eyes immediately swept over her.

“Damn.” He said, voice a little lower now. “You always look good, but this right here? Yeah…this different.” He said, his tongue peeking out to trace over his bottom lip.

Juicy crossed her arms, suddenly shy. “Don’t start…” She warned.

“I’m serious.” He said, taking a slow step closer. “I don’t know why you hidin’ from me like I ain’t seen you in a bonnet before.”

“This ain’t no bonnet.” She said, fussing gently, cheeks warm. “This a roller set. Whole different level of ugly.”

He chuckled. “Ugly where?”

“You’re blind, Smoke.”

“Nah.” He said, taking her hand. “I see just fine.”

And that was all it took for her shoulders to drop a little, her nerves to settle into something soft and warm.

She turned from him to straighten her bed, trying to keep her hands busy. “And now what’s given you the gall to show up this time of night?”

“Ain’t nobody home but you and the baby.” He said, settling onto the edge of her bed. “And he sleep, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, but you know how Sinclair be. If she find out you was over here this late, she gon’ tell everybody and they mama.”

Smoke leaned back on his palms, his chain sliding against his chest. “Then I guess we better be quiet.”

Juicy turned slowly to face him, chin lifted in that defiant little way she always did when she was trying to keep herself from melting. “Smoke…” She trailed off, trying not to grin as she fluffed the pillow, avoiding his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“I missed you.” He said, voice dipping again as she changed the subject. And by the way he rushed it out, it’s been meaning to come off his tongue since he first laid eyes on her. “Been runnin’ all week, tryna get shit done with Stack. I been thinkin’ ‘bout you, though. How you sound.” He began, his hands trailing over to her, pulling her closer by the fabric of her gown. “How you taste.” His raised his hand to light grace over her lips, which were buttered in chapstick. “How you make them little sounds when I kiss on that spot right there…” He reached up and brushed his fingers gently along the side of her neck.

Juicy shivered, tucking her neck a bit. “You can’t keep doin’ this…” She mumbled with a small pout.

“Doin’ what?”

“Showin’ up late, and sayin’ stuff that makes me forget why I said you couldn’t come over in the first place.”

He grinned slowly, a look Juicy knew was dangerous. “Then don’t say I can’t come over.” He shrugged, as if it was such a simple solution.

She rolled her eyes but her smile gave her away. “You get on my nerves.”

Smoke stood and stepped toward her, closing the small gap between them. “Good.” He said, hands sliding to her waist. “Then you gon’ really hate this.”

He leaned in slow, lips almost brushing hers when she suddenly pulled back a little, nose scrunching up.

“Wait.” She whispered, laughing nervously. “I just brushed my teeth…”

Smoke paused, then smirked.

“And?”

“And that’s nasty!”

“I don’t care if your breath smell like hot dogs at a block party.” He said, lowering his voice. “I still want it.”

She let out a laugh, hand lightly pushing at his chest. “Oh, you’re nasty.”

Then he kissed her, something warm and deep. And just like that, they melted.

The kiss grew, slow but intense, their bodies pressing close, her silk moomoo whispering as it moved between them. It deepened naturally, his hands resting gently on her waist while hers slid around his neck. His hands roamed gently, not grabbing but holding onto her he was trying to memorize every curve. Juicy kissed him back, one hand curling around the back of his neck, the other resting softly on his chest.

The incense smoke curled around them.

His touch was slow, reverent, but had an unmistakable heat underneath them. When he backed her against the dresser, one hand sliding along the small of her back, she gasped softly, then caught her breath in his mouth.

Her silk moomoo slipped between his fingers like water.

The incense kept burning. Outside, the world kept spinning, but inside that room, it was just the two of them, quiet and tangled, while suspended in heat and candlelight. They stayed locked in that moment, breath against breath, a love they weren’t ready to explain yet.

Eventually, Juicy pulled away, breathing a little harder, her lips kiss-swollen, eyes heavy and breath barely above a whisper. “You better go.” She whispered. “I don’t stay too long. You know I gotta be up early.”

Smoke rested his forehead against hers. “I ain’t stayin’. Just needed to see you.”

She brushed her fingers across his cheek. “I know.”

Then he kissed her once more before he turned to the window. But before he left, he glanced back at her over his shoulder and grinned. “You look real good in that, you know. Like, a housewife or some, might have to get you another.”

Juicy couldn’t fight her grin as she grabbed her pillow and threw it at him, laughing softly. “Get out, boy.”

He caught it easily, flashed a smirk before he tossed it back at her, and disappeared out the window into the thick summer night. Leaving Juicy standing in her incense filled, candle lit room, heart thudding against her moomoo, smiling like a woman who had it bad.

And then there were the soft moments between them neither questioned.

Two days later, the sun hung high in the sky, casting golden light over the neighborhood as Juicy walked over to Stack and Smoke’s place with a plastic bag hanging from her hand. She held Missy’s peach cobbler mingling with the buttery scent of her famous pecan pie. Tucked beneath it were still-warm containers from Sinclair cooking—fried catfish, cabbage, and macaroni and cheese with a crunchy, golden crust.

Juicy had just planned to drop it off. She assumed both men were home—maybe out back playing dominoes or arguing over the game on TV. So she didn’t bother calling, didn’t reapply her lip gloss, didn’t even leave with the intention of staying long. She had plans with Mary, anyway, to get their nails done and gossip.

But inside of the More residence, the house was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of weed and linen spray. The blinds were turned just enough to let in slats of warm afternoon light, stretching across the hardwood like tiger stripes. It was one of the rare days Stack wasn’t home—off somewhere chasing money or women or both—and the place felt too quiet without his usual loud presence. Smoke didn’t liked it that way.

But there was nothing he could do about it, so he had just settled on the couch, a blunt half-rolled between his fingers, when a soft knock landed on the front door.

He knew that knock. And he was giddy about it before even getting up, though his face didn't really show it.

When he opened the door, there she was. His Juicy, dressed in a fitted white tank top and jeans that hugged her hips just right, gold earrings swaying gently with every movement and and her baby fat belly peeking out proudly, crowned by a ruby-studded belly ring that glinted in the sun. She held a little plastic grocery bag in her hand like she was just dropping something off, like she hadn't planned this.

When Juicy knocked, she expected Stack’s voice booming through the door or both of them calling out to her. But instead, it was Smoke who opened it—shirtless, as usual, his chain glinting in the light and his black durag still on.

“Oh.” She said, blinking.

His lips curved. “Oh?”

“I thought both y’all was here.”

“Nah. Stack out handling something. Just me,” he said, stepping aside and nodding her in. “Come on.”

She hesitated only for a second before stepping into the house. The cool air brushed against her skin, goosebumps rising as the scent of sandalwood and cologne hit her nose. Her skin was glistening from her coco butter later and smelled like brown sugar and his eyes trailed her figure as she walked by.

She set the bag on the kitchen counter and was already turning to leave when she felt him. His presence was close, his body blocking her path without even touching her.

“Where you going?” Smoke asked softly.

Juicy tilted her head, eyes narrowing, but her lips twitched. That voice of his. That low, patient, and just on the edge of coaxing voice, always meant trouble.

“I just came to drop these off.” She said, brushing invisible lint off her shirt. “Mary’s waitin’ on me. We supposed to go get our nails did.”

He didn’t move.

“I want you to fix me a plate.”

Juicy raised a brow. “You want me to fix you your plate?” She repeated, a bit take aback by his audacity.

“I’m hungry.” He said, voice deeper now, eyes still gentle. “Come on, Juicy.” He pleaded.

She let out a breathy laugh, not even bothering to hide her smile now. “Alright, damn. Let me wash my hands.”

In the kitchen, she moved like she’d done it a hundred times before. Opened the cabinets, found the plates without asking, scooped a fat helping of mac and cheese onto a plate, along with some catfish and added a side of cabbage, warmed it up in the microwave all while Smoke leaned against the fridge and watched her with something that looked dangerously close to adoration.

When the microwave dinged, she grabbed a fork, set it on the plate, and handed it to him.

But he didn’t take it.

Instead, he jutted his head before he turned and walked to the living room, flopping back onto the couch with the blunt now behind his ear, juicy following.

When juicy stood there, his plate and fork in her hands, Smoke looked back up at her and then patted the cushion next to him. Juicy narrowed her eyes. “Boy, if you don’t—”

“Come on, Juicy.” He said again, sweet and smooth and far too tempting.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, but made her way over and sat beside him, holding the plate out to him again. But Smoke simply looked over at her again, a rare playful glint in his eyes, and Juicy was rolling her eyes at him before he even opened his mouth.

“You ain’t gon’ feed me?” He asked.

“Boy, what?” She asked, scoffing softly, though her amusement was apparent as she held a small smile at him. Smoke snaked his lips, cutting his eyes at her. “Come on, Juicy.” He said, and his voice was soft but thick with something heavier. Something that sat right beneath the surface and made her heart skip just a little. She stared at him, lips parted, that nervous excitement fluttering in her chest when she noticed how…domesticated this felt and how soft it was. She could feel her body heat rise. He was shirtless, gold chain glinting, and close enough that she could count the lashes on his eyes.

“Okay.” She agreed before she broke a piece of the fish and brought it to his lips. He took it, slow, like he was tasting her fingers as much as the food. She rolled her eyes and fed him a bite of mac and cheese next. He let out a low groan of approval that sent heat curling up her spine.

“You gon’ spoil me.” He murmured between bites.

“Ain’t that what you want?” She asked, smirking.

He looked at her, eyes soft and unreadable. “I want you.”

She cut her eyes to him as she gather food onto the fork and held it in front of his mouth. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” And they sat down on the couch beside, and she feed him for a while, with the plate and fork in hand. The vibe had shifted into something playful to soft. The television played in the background, an episode of The Sparanos, humming low through the TV speakers.

She fed him fork after fork, laughing when he groaned dramatically at how good the food was, rolling his eyes and leaning back like he couldn’t take it. Juice wiped a bit of hot sauce from the corner of his mouth with her thumb and licked it away.

“You act like you ain’t never ate before.”

“I ain’t never ate like this.” He teased.

When the plate was clean, she started gathering it up, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Alright, I gotta go. Mary gon’ think I stood her up—”

“Hold up.” Smoke said, stretching. “I ain’t get dessert yet.”

“You want dessert?” The girl asked, a bit sassily as she placed her hands on her hip. “Yeah, I want something sweet.”

She rolled her eyes but was smiling too hard to pretend she meant it. “Fine. Pecan pie or cobbler?”

He pointed at her. “You pick.”

“That was the entrée. I want somethin’ sweet.”

She went to the kitchen and cut him a slice of Missy’s pecan pie. This time, she sat closer. Their thighs touched, as she fed him bite after bite while he kept his eyes on her, not the TV. Her fingers brushed his lips as she fed him, and he kissed the pad of her thumb when she wasn’t expecting it.

“Boy, don’t start.”

“I ain’t even done nothin’ yet.”

By the time the plate was clean, they were both smiling and too close. They laughed at something dumb on the screen and Juicy shook her head and almost dropped the fork when Smoke licked a bit of filling off her finger instead of letting her wipe it. “You a mess.” She murmured, but her tone was fond.

He took the plate and set it on the coffee table, then leaned forward, brushing his lips across her jaw before resting his forehead against hers. “Let me take you to Mary’s.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

So she gave in. Of course she did.

She climbed in his car, trying not to smile the whole time. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on her thigh, slow strokes up and down that kept her distracted the entire ride. The windows down and the radio humming some slow R&B track that made her cheeks warm.

They didn’t talk much—just let the cicadas hum outside and the warm summer breeze float through the cracked window.

When they pulled up in front of Mary’s, she started to unbuckle, but he caught her wrist.

“Hold on.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded stack of bills. She tried to protest, but he shook his head.

“Smoke—”

“Get somethin’ extra. Gel or whatever y’all get.”

“You know I don’t need your money.” She whispered.

“I know. But I want you lookin’ good for me. You not payin’ for your own nails and toes when I’m around. That’s mine now.”

She looked at him, lips parted, unsure whether to argue or melt.

“You always doin’ the most.” She muttered, cheeks hot. And he didn’t answer, he just leaned in and kissed her, deep and slow. It was soft and slow on the cheek, just behind the curve of her jaw, before it moved to her lips. A hand found the small of her back, and before she could fully process the moment, he took a handful of her denim covered bottom into his hand, causing Juicy to let out a small yelp into his mouth. When he pulled back, and she was on her way out of the car, he gave her a light smack her on the bottom as she stepped out of the car. “Go on now, Juicy.”

She stumbled out the car, heart racing, money clutched in her hand, cheeks redder than cherry polish. She let out a tiny squeal and grinned all the way up the walkway. She walked into Mary’s house still smiling.

Mary was in the living room, filing her nails. “What you grinnin’ for?”

Juicy simply let out a sigh, fluttering her eyes to make sure this was still real life. “Don’t worry about it.” She muttered, waving her off. But the grin didn’t fade. Not even a little.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 & 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 🗑️ 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬★ ★ ★ ★ ★

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[probablybadrpgideas]

Bad Signs In A New RPG Rulebook

It quickly becomes clear the "What Is An RPG?" section at the front isn't intended as informative but is in fact a genuine question, complete with a number to call if you know the answer.

All the art is AI-Generated. You can tell this from subtle clues like the composition, blurry details and the fact that rather than anything to do with the game they're images of humans being shot with lasers labelled "DIE MEATBAGS DIE"

"What you need to play" is dice, paper, friends, imagination, cards, a roulette table, masks of your characters, desecrated holy objects from at least a dozen religions, a box full of nerdy snakes, a b-tier youtube celebrity and something they only refer to as "the tit-ripper 9000" .

The character creation section seems to be a guide on how to use the Pinkertons to enforce game copyright that was put in by accident.

The example play game session is a transcript of your last gaming session, word for word.

There is a section on avoiding outdated offensive stereotypes in gaming and instead using more modern offensive stereotypes that better resonate with a contemporary audience.

It has a sidebar titled "How to avoid scheduling errors" that just says ";)"

The sample starting adventure is a QR code. When you scan it it downloads Suicide Squad Kill The Justice League but with your party in the place of the main characters. It's actually really technically impressive, but you wish they'd chosen a better game.

Regardless of the genre or tone, It's using the fucking 5e D&D system again. It's not a generic system, guys! I can handle the character sheet being rigged to detonate if written on but this is where I draw the line!

[shinysobi]

ecobrutalism (kim mingyu)

because drafting tables are not meant to be anything more than a decoration.

☆ annoyances to lovers: architect!mingyu x therapist!reader ☆ wc: 5k ☆ genres: non-idol au, annoyances to lovers, office setting? romance, fluff, comedy, no angst (this is a first for me) vibes based on second wind ☆ regular warnings apply; mingyu is both delusional and dramatic, jihoon is tired. ☆ notes: tiya was one of my first mutuals here on tumblr, and she's always been one of the people i can count on to listen to my yapping and not think of me as a strange person (is this weird? i dont think so) but our birthdays are only one day apart, and so, because i can't send a gift from so far away, here's my gift, a small mingyu fic that i hope will bring a smile to your face. happy birthday, @gyubakeries, i hope i know you for a very long time <3 thank you to alta @haologram for making the banner at my speedy request, and @mylovesstuffs for betaing this (if there are errors, there aren't.) masterlist

“She’s insane,” Mingyu mutters, holding on to a pamphlet, “she’s insane, and she’s going to make me insane too.”

“She’s not insane,” Jihoon mutters, sipping his tea, “she’s just a therapist. You’re projecting.”

“I’m not,” Mingyu mutters, “she’s the one who’s arguing about stupid rules in the building code that doesn’t even make any sense. I mean, who brings a folder with color-coded tabs to every meeting? Why does she have opinions on how we should build and decorate, for every shop in the building? No one even makes use of these codes in today’s day, they’re virtually obsolete.”

“So, object to them,” Jihoon shrugs, “you’re good at that, right?”

“I’m not, actually,” Mingyu groans, “I’m not even good at ignoring her. It’s making me anxious and irritable. To the extent that it’s affecting how I behave with my clients.”

“Your clients, meaning the old ladies who come here to ogle you and then force their husbands to get their shops redesigned by you?” Jihoon arches a brow, “I hardly doubt those count as actual clients, Kim Mingyu. You’ve got admirers here.”

“They bring money so yes, they’re my clients,” Mingyu snaps, “and you’re one to talk, hyung. Didn’t I catch you yesterday, buying random books from the bookstore? You don’t even read post-war Japanese crime fiction, for heaven’s sake. You were trying to get with the bookstore owner, weren’t you? You even composed a song for her, don’t even think about denying it.”

Jihoon colors, “none of your business, Mingyu.”

“None of your business, Mingyu,” Mingyu taunts, “anyway, help me out with this woman. She continues to get on my nerves at every possible opportunity, and I don’t know how long I can hold on before I inevitably lose my shit and kill her or something like that.”

“Not long for that,” Jihoon muses. 

“Shut up, and try and help me.”

Jihoon sighs. He’s been tolerating Mingyu’s antics since the past year when the younger man decided to open his shiny new office in their dilapidated shopping centre, and while his perfect visuals have helped in footfall, it also means Jihoon has to take care of Mingyu and his tantrums on a semi-regular basis. Semi-regular now that he’s managed to find himself a sworn enemy. It’s not even a big deal, Jihoon does not understand why he keeps swearing to high heavens that he hates her guts. 

“She doesn’t seem so bad,” Jihoon says, trying to get Mingyu to calm down to a certain degree, “you don’t even typically get this angry, do you?”

“I don’t,” Mingyu shakes his head, “imagine how royally annoying she has to be, to get me this mad.”

“Huh,” Jihoon turns it over in his head a few times, “are you sure it’s not just a random one-time thing? She’s not proposing bad things as such, she’s just telling us to be more aware of the city’s building rules and regulations. Something which I thought you would have been a stickler for, given how you are the architect here, not her.”

“I do care about building rules and regulations,” Mingyu seethes, “I’m just not a bloody fanatic about it.”

“Ah, so that’s the problem,” Jihoon shrugs, “anyway, sort this shit out amongst yourselves, all this is seriously cramping my rizz.”

“Your rizz?” Mingyu scoffs, “hah! You’re just going to spend all your money at the bookstore, aren’t you? You’ve got no rizz to speak of.”

“Speak nicely to your elders, you little shit.”

“I’ll speak nicely to you when you actually show me proof of your rizz that goes beyond stupid yearning from a distance,” Mingyu taunts, “wait, have you even talked to her? Or are you just planning to stare at her and creep her out? You know that’s not how anyone asks someone out, right?”

“Shut up,” jihoon ‘s looking intently at the door, “I’m actually trying to get her to go on a date with me.”

“And have these thoughts found any other home outside of your mind, Lee Jihoon?”

“You know she’s friends with the therapist you keep yelling at during the meetings,” Jihoon groans, “until you stop fighting with her friend, she’s not even going to look at me or give me the time of day. Now make up amongst yourselves and for once, let me go on a fucking date.”

He leaves to go back to his regular yearning duties, and Mingyu is left seated in his chair, pondering over two things; the current state of his finances, which would absolutely not withstand the onslaught of a renovation putting it to date with the city’s newest regulations, and Jihoon’s love life.

—

“Why the fuck won’t he just comply with whatever I’m asking?” you yell, throwing up your hands, “it’s the city’s regulations, stuff that he should be familiar with, given that he’s an architect, for heaven's sake, not me! Why the hell am I the person telling him things?”

“Maybe it’s because you can be a bit annoying about these things,” the bookstore owner, your only friend in this goddamn place, pipes up from behind her stack of books, “maybe if you weren’t so pushy about it, he’d hate you a little less.”

“He’s just an asshole," you say, “I need to look into his architecture degree.”

“Not to that extent,” she holds up her hands, “but you can be really pushy and I think maybe, if you’re really this concerned about the building regulations, then you should come to a compromise with him before the next building committee meeting two weeks later.”

“That soon?” You groan, “oh god, he’s going to be so annoying when I approach him first, isn’t he?”

“It’s not about who’s more annoying, it’s about who is more reasonable out here,” she shrugs, “have you ever seen me pick fights I don’t need to?”

You shake your head, “god knows how you manage to do it. If it were up to me, I’d have his head on a pike outside my office.”

“And risk facing the wrath of all the neighbourhood aunties?”

“Yes, that’s the only thing he’s good at,” you seethe, “he’s basically eye-candy for all the neighborhood aunties. Why the hell is he on the neighbourhood watch? He didn’t even live here until a few years ago!”

“Neither did you.”

“I did! I moved back!”

“Look, the point is that you need to make amends with him,” your friend reasons, “or else living in this shopping complex will be difficult for you. People actually like him a lot more than you think they do, which is why it will not be difficult for them to get you out of  here.”

“Out of here?” you shriek, “what do you mean out of here? They can’t do that to me, not legally at least.”

“They can make your life a hundred times more difficult than it already is, which will make it worse for you to run a business,” she replies, strangely calm, “I’ve been here far longer than you have. Being likeable is currency. They want someone likeable, not someone who sticks to the rules and makes everyone more annoyed than they already are.”

“Ugh, I knew I was right about him the moment I met him,” you mutter, and your friend frowns. 

“You really did have a poor choice of words back then.”

You shake your head, ignoring the jibe, “So, I need to be nice with him.”

“Precisely.”

—

Mingyu is trying to be nice, he really is. Jihoon has been blowing up his phone, asking him to fix things so he can go back to creepily stalking the bookstore owner, but he’s a good friend, so he’s going to be nice. 

Which is what he’s been telling himself since the moment he stepped foot into the clinic run by that woman. Happiness Clinic, he repeats, looking at the sign on the wall, how stupid. 

“Kim Mingyu,” you say, surprised to see him walking through your doors in the middle of the day, “strange to see you here.”

“No business?” he asks, offhandedly, making a motion at the empty waiting area. 

“I have a consultation in half an hour,” you reply, “what do you want?”

Mingyu sighs. He’s really not looking for an argument, but your attitude is not helping his current goal. “Look,” he says, after a whole minute, “about the newest resolutions, can we at least work it out? Most of the residents don’t want to upend their entire businesses to make sure their stores are up to code.”

“Yes, but shouldn’t they be making sure they’re not violating code?” she argues, “and you of all people should be making sure they’re not being fined by the city officials. You’re an architect. I’m just a random therapist.”

“You’re not a random therapist,” Mingyu argues, before taking a deep breath, “even the city officials generally give the store owners a window of time within which they have to comply with regulations. At least give them more than a week.”

“Fine,” she snaps, “just so you know, I’m not doing this as a favour to you. I’m doing this as a favour to my friend.”

“The bookstore owner?”

“Yes, the bookstore owner,” The sarcasm is not lost on him, “she’s the one who told me I have to at least make sure the residents don’t hate my guts.”

“See, she’s got it down,” Mingyu suddenly feels a bout of gratitude towards the bookstore owner, whose name he still is not familiar with, but he’s going to give her a basket of flowers the next day. “You need to compromise to some degree, to be able to cohabitate. Life is all about cohabitation and compromise, you know.”

“Yes, yes,” she makes a face, “fine, I’ll tone down the arguing. They can make their arrangements taking as long as they want. When the city officials come knocking on their doors, don’t say I did not warn you.”

“Noted, doctor.” he gives her a mock salute, before turning to leave the same way that he came. You groan, before making a rude gesture, which Mingyu catches. He just laughs, before walking away. Cute. 

—

“Hyung,” Mingyu has been running for an hour, he thinks, knocking on Jihoon’s door, until the older man opens up, angry expression on his face, “why the hell did you take so long to open the door?”

“I was taking a nap, Mingyu,” Jihoon mutters, “it’s four in the afternoon, and I don’t have customers right now, so of course I was doing what any normal person does, and was taking a nap.”

“Wow, you’re such a productive member of society, hyung,” Mingyu scoffs, before opening the door wide open, “okay, I need your help with something.”

“I don’t have money.”

“It’s not—why does everything have to be about money?”

“We live in a capitalistic society, Kim Mingyu-ssi, of course everything is about money.”

“Ugh fine, but this one is not,” he waves a hand, “I think I’m going crazy.”

“And it took you this long to figure out?” Jihoon raises an eyebrow, “wow, you really are a genius, as they say.”

“This is not a time to make fun of me, hyung,” Mingyu wails, which, in retrospect, is not the best look on a grown adult man, “how did you even know you liked the bookstore owner?”

“She has a name, you idiot,” Jihoon swats the back of his head, “and no, why would I tell you?”

“Just help me out once, please,” Mingyu wails again, “I’m seriously never going to ask you for help again if you help me out here.”

“Fine,” Jihoon is not entirely convinced with his declaration, but he sits down at the counter anyway, “what seems to be your problem?”

Mingyu takes a deep breath, “I think I like her.”

Jihoon scowls, “like who? There are eight billion people in the world, you have to be specific here.”

“The therapist!” Mingyu throws up his hands, pacing around the shop, “I seriously think I like her or something like that. I’m going crazy here, just help me out once.”

“Might I suggest a psychiatric hospital?”

“Hyung.” 

“What do you expect me to say?” Jihoon makes a vague gesture with his hands, “until yesterday, you were vowing to kill her with your bare hands or something like that. Now you’re here at my door, telling me you like her. I’m not the only person, you ask anyone else, they’ll all say the same thing; you’ve got to check yourself into a hospital or something like that.”

“You’re not even getting the point,” Mingyu groans, “up until last night, I never even had thoughts about her in that way.”

Jihoon raises an eyebrow. It reminds him of his elementary school teacher, just as terrifying, “Mingyu, what have we said about catching feelings from a sex dream?”

“It was not a sex dream!”

“So it was worse,” Jihoon leaned back into the chair, “go on.”

“I don’t know man,” Mingyu sighs, “I went to meet with her yesterday afternoon about the upcoming meeting, and she was actually nice to me.”

“You mean she did not actively argue with you?” Jihoon tries to smile, although it’s more of a grimace, “you seriously need to rethink the reasons for getting attracted to someone.”

“It’s not even like that!” Mingyu protests, “she was actually nice to me. And she didn’t even yell that much!”

“Mingyu, last week, at the committee meeting, she told you to go fuck yourself.”

“And I’m coming to that,” he holds up a hand, “she actually did flip me the bird when I was about to leave.”

Jihoon’s got an expression on his face that makes it very clear he does not understand anything Mingyu’s saying, “she flipped you off? Made the sign which tells you to go fuck yourself?”

“Yes, but there was no real malice behind it,” Mingyu waves, “that’s not the point here.”

“I think you’ve gone insane,” Jihoon sighs, “and what, she flipped you off, and you fell in love with her?”

Mingyu makes a face, “why would I fall in love? I’m not that stupid.”

“Yes, you just dreamed about her and are now yapping to me,” Jihoon mutters under his breath, “nothing stupid.”

“Anyway, last night, I literally saw her in a dream,” Mingyu explains, waving his hand about, “it was not even an explicit dream, I legitimately just dreamt of us going on a picnic. And I woke up, and kept thinking about her. Now, whenever I think about her, my heartbeat rises just slightly, not noticeable enough to be concerned, but just enough to make me stop and think, ‘oh? Do I actually think about her in my spare time?’ and it turns out, I actually am thinking of her in my spare time! I even went down to her clinic today, to make sure what I was feeling or thinking about were not just random feelings, and I saw her through the glass doors, and my heartbeat increased to 119, I’m not even kidding, hyung, look at it—”

“Mingyu!” Jihoon yells, “calm the fuck down, you’re rambling.”

“Am I?” Mingyu clutches at his hair, “I really don’t know whatI’m supposed to do, it’s so embarrassing, I want to die.”

Jihoon sighs. This is new. “Look, Mingyu,” he says, cautiously, as if approaching a spooked fawn, “are you confused or are you scared?”

“What do you mean?”

“These feelings, for her,” Jihoon shrugs, “do they confuse you, or do they scare you?”

He pauses, and then replies, “scares me. I’m terrified.”

“That’s good,” Jihoon replies, going to the small fridge in the shop and offering Mingyu a diet coke, “being scared of your feelings means you’re at least acknowledging the attraction. If you were confused about what you were feeling, I would have told you to drop it.”

“Yes, but like you said, I’ve only had about three civil interactions with her, and now I’m feeling attracted to her? Is this normal?”

“Attraction does not follow the rules of normal social behaviour, Mingyu,” Jihoon replies, feeling very much like the father of an emotional teenager, “it does not follow what we want it to do. And being attracted to someone is not a bad thing. She’s not a minor, nor does she have a boyfriend or girlfriend. You’re allowed to like her.”

Mingyu groans, before shoving his entire face into his hands, “I just feel like I’m going to mess everything up if I even try to like her. I mean, she’s never really going to give me the time of day, so why bother? Just look at it this way, hyung, if I go up to her right now, in that stupidly well-lit mental health clinic of hers, and tell her, ‘hey, I think I am attracted to you’, what do you think she’s going to do?”

Jihoon muses, “Probably take your teeth out with a punch.”

“See!” Mingyu wails, “even you know she’s going to think this is all a giant joke or a prank and that I am exactly what she thought of me in the first place.”

“And what exactly did she think of you in the first place?” Jihoon raises an eyebrow, although he’s perfectly aware of the exact words you had said. Mingyu had agonised over it for a whole hour, before deciding to just embrace the misconception and go with it. Shallow, you had called him, a shallow man with no sense of right and wrong. “And you’re sure if you go ahead and tell her you’re attracted to her, to a certain degree, she’s going to label you as a shallow person?”

Mingyu nods. 

“She does not seem like the person to do that,” Jihoon says, “and if she really does do that, then I’ll tell you to just forget about her, because that does not seem like the characteristics of a good person.”

“So, what do I do right now, hyung?” Mingyu asks. 

“For starters, go to your office, and leave me the fuck alone,” Jihoon shrugs, “and in the evening, just go over to her office with a cake or something, and ask her to work with you on which regulations the business owners should adopt in the upcoming meeting.”

“Wow, hyung, look at you go. Who would say that you’ve been single since birth?”

—

“I think I’m going to be killed.”

Your friend stares at you, seated across the table in the bookstore, two lunch boxes open in front of you both. She takes a gulp, swallowing down a large piece of kimbap, and manages to warble out a “come again?”

You sigh, “I think I’m going to be killed soon.”

“By who?” she half-yells, taking a swig from her water bottle, “who the hell wants to kill you?”

“Kim Mingyu.” You whisper conspiratorially, and her face falls. “What?” You protest, “he’s really out to get me, you know that, right?”

“You told him that he was a shallow, self-centred man within thirty minutes of meeting him,” she replies, going back to eating, “I’m going to be surprised if he hasn’t made any attempts on your life yet.”

“You don’t get it,” you wail, “yesterday, he came to my office, asking about the committee meeting next week, and even made an appointment to draft a joint resolution that accommodates both the new regulations of the city and complies with the business owners’ demands of more time and extra funds.”

“And?” She's still not getting the point, which is making you slightly frustrated at this point, “he’s trying to make amends, and he’s actually doing something about what the larger community wants and needs, instead of yelling at everyone and annoying them in public meetings.”

“I’m going to ignore that jibe because I’ve got better things to think about,” you mutter, “he also smiled at me when I flipped him off! He smiled!”

“And you flipped him off, like a middle schooler,” she sighs, “was it a creepy smile, or was it a normal one?”

“Pretty normal, but you can’t really know with Kim Mingyu, right?” 

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say he’s much more normal than you,” she replies, still calm in the face of your anxiety, which in other circumstances would be a good thing, but right now, it is not, “has he done anything else that would give you the impression that he intends on killing you?”

“He’s also asked me to meet him in his office this evening to discuss the joint resolution.” You say, “why the hell would he do that if he did not have nefarious intent?”

“Maybe he just wants to draft a joint resolution,” she counters, “after all, you both argued for so long last time, the committee had to disperse on their own. They even postponed the whole voting process and argument over the resolution because they wanted you to come up with a joint solution to the problem. And he’s the one who’s been making steps towards peace, not you.”

“You’re my friend. You’re supposed to be on my side, not his.”

“I am on the side of whoever makes me not attend those boring meetings,” she yawns, “the last time it ran for over an hour and half, just because you two were fighting so much. This time, please make  sure you play nice with him.”

You narrow your eyes, “Are you sure you’re saying that because you want me to be nice to Mingyu, or are you saying that because you want to flirt with the music store owner?”

“At least I have better social skills than you,” she counters, “and I’m not running out my only chances at normal socialising out with a proverbial broom.” The last part of that sentence is said in English, which goes over your head. 

“What the hell do you mean by that? Stop using complicated  English words because you’re a bookstore owner.”

She sighs, ignoring the second sentence, “the music shop owner is Lee Jihoon, and him and Kim Mingyu, yes I know you hate him, are the only people in this shopping centre who are of our age. The rest of them are all thirty years older than us. People don’t come here to have fun and open up swanky offices, they come here to retire in peace and get a sense of community.”

“I do not get the point you are trying to make.”

“The point is, if you at least tried to be friends with those two, we would have someone of our age to at least talk to. We could go on dinners, trips, ask them to set us up with their friends—”

“Hold on,” you raise a hand to stop her, who’s rattling off things to do with friends, “why do you even want to hang out with those two after work? We already see them here seven days a week, is that not enough for you?”

“No, it’s not,” she makes a face, “I cannot be fraternising solely with senior citizens, you know. I’m not old. But talking to these women, every day and every week, has made me feel like I’m some sort of ahjumma, too. Last week, I corrected a child’s posture.”

“You probably spared them some very expensive spinal surgery down the line.”

“Does not matter!” she snaps, “I don’t want to be correcting a child’s posture, I want to actually go out and have fun, after I close up my shop, instead of just sitting around my house and doing nothing!”

“You actually spend a lot of time doing inventory.”

“And you are going to go and talk to Mingyu,” she practically chases you out of the door, “and don’t even think about coming back here without fixing this mess!”

—

“There, all done,” Mingyu holds up a document, waving it around like he’s won a war, “this is the joint resolution we are proposing, right? Don’t go back on it, please.”

“Now why would I do that?” You ask. 

‘I don’t know, general issues. Maybe you’ll hate the way I dress in the meeting.”

“Do you plan on wearing something wildly inappropriate?” You ask, eyes narrowed, “then I will reconsider.”

“No!” Mingyu yelps, taking a step back, “I do not plan on wearing anything inappropriate for the meeting. In fact, I shall be the most appropriate man in the room that day.”

“That’s good. Bare minimum, but good,” you snipe, wondering how and why your friend wants you to be nice to him, given his penchant for saying the wrong things at the wrong times, “let’s get a meal next time, yeah?”

It’s a polite question, of course, one that does not require a proper answer, of course, no one expects an answer for this question, but Mingyu perks up instantly, wide grin in place, “do you want to get dinner with me right now?”

“Right now?” You check your wristwatch, it’s ten p.m already. If you were to stick to your usual schedule, you would have been at home by now, sitting in front of the television to catch up on your daily hour of peace and entertainment. But the man in front of you seems unable to take no for an answer, nor does he look like he’s someone who has been told no very often. Did no one ever reject him, you wonder, and contemplate idly how it would feel to be the first person to ever say ‘no, thank you’ to his face. 

But he’s looking at you with an open and honest expression, so you sigh, picking up your bag, “let me close up.” another day. I’ll tell him to fuck off another day. 

—

Mingyu is going insane, really. He should have left her alone, their work was done, so why bother to even hang around for another couple hours? But Jihoon’s words from earlier have kept bugging him for longer than he would care to admit. He’s even messed up a semi-important meeting and has been forced to reschedule it. Hell, he’s been so fucked up over this one little thing, he even went back to drafting plans by hand, using the same vintage drafting table he’s used exclusively as decoration. Even that failed, and he spent the rest of the evening wallowing in his misery. 

Why the hell was he looking forward to spending time with her? 

Even now, he’s aware that she doesn’t really want to get a meal with him, and he really feels bad, he does, but he’s also slightly selfish, and he wants to make sense of his own feelings, preferable in a setting separate from their usual one. Proximity breeds affection. Maybe all this is because I’ve been spending too much time in that shopping centre. 

“What’s your favorite architectural style?” She asks, picking up a piece of mushroom from their soup. 

“Huh?”

She rolls her eyes, “I asked you what your favorite architectural style was. I assume you have one, since you are an architect.”

He ignores the jab, “Organic architecture, actually. All throughout university, I was obsessed with the works of Frank Lloyd Wright.”

“The architect of Jiyu Gakuen, right?” She asks, shrugging, “I had an architect as a patient. Back in Seoul City Hospital.”

He files that information for later, “yes, the architect of Jiyu Gakuen. I was so obsessed I even took a trip to see the Fallingwater house in Pennsylvania. And yes, I made several trips to see all his Japanese works.”

“What draws you to him?”

“It’s interesting, how he uses nature, not as a foil, but as a companion to human existence,” Mingyu replies, smiling slightly, “I think I fell in love when I saw pictures of the Pope-Leighey house, when I was in my first year. Honestly speaking, I don’t think I would have been an architect if it was not for—” he pauses, “are you trying to therapize me?”

She laughs, “is it that obvious?”

“You are not as slick as you think,” he laughs, “you said you moved here from Seoul.”

She sighs, “I was hoping you would not hold on to that.”

Mingyu shrugs, “if you don’t want me to, then I won’t, but if you don't mind me asking—”

“I mind, actually.”

“—why did you move to a new clinic? From Seoul City Hospital, too.”

She sighs, “look, there were personal reasons, that’s all I will say. Other than that, I just realised one day that the big hospital did not allow me to look after my patients as well as I could. So, I moved here.”

“And opened the clinic?”

“And opened a clinic.” She smiles suddenly, broad and open, and Mingyu’s smartwatch beeps; abnormal heart rate detected: 109 BPM. 

Damn, he’s fucked. 

—

She’s actually having fun. Mingyu might be out to kill her, but he’s a terrific dinner partner, to the point where she does not miss the warmth of her familiar house and her familiar sofa and the familiar tv dramas. This is concerning. 

—

“Traitor,” your friend scowls, over lunch the next afternoon, “did you get dinner with Kim Mingyu?”

“How the hell do you know that?” 

“Mingyu posted it on his instagram story,” your friend holds up her phone, where Mingyu had posted a picture of her, seated across from him in the restaurant, eating dinner. It could very well have been mistaken for a soft launch picture, if no one was aware of the facts. It should be embarrassing. 

“Huh,” you mutter, going back to organising your notes for all your patients, “I did not think he’d post a picture of me.”

Your friend narrows her eyes, observes her for a full minute, “you like him, don’t you?”

“I—what the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t even give me that act,” she scowls, and for a split second, you hesitate, thinking back on the whole evening, and whether or not it would have been embarrassing if anyone had caught you out with Mingyu, of all people, and, “answer the question.”

“It wasn’t embarrassing,” you murmur, half in disbelief. 

“What?” Your friend asks, but she’s heard it too, only asking you to repeat yourself. 

“I said it was not embarrassing!” You yell, and immediately clap your hand over your mouth. What the hell was that about?

“Knew it. Lee Jihoon owes me ten thousand won.” Your friend grins, self-satisfied, before settling back into her chair. 

“Were you actually betting on this?” You shake your head, “you’re such a traitor.”

“A traitor who will buy you coffee after work,” she grins, “happy now?”

“Ugh, I would be happier if I was not attracted to him,” you sigh, finishing your lunch, “and he was really respectful about the whole thing too, which makes it even more annoying. How can I hate him in peace when I know that he likes Frank Lloyd Wright’s work and wants to repurpose old concrete buildings into designated ‘breathing spaces’ filled with greenery? Like, that is objectively a beautiful idea.”

“Selfless, too.”

“And selfless!” You wail, “I cannot even hate him in peace. All I can do is be annoyed with myself.”

“You like those concrete buildings, don’t you?” Your friend asks after a beat, “they’re symmetrical.”

“And orderly! I like order in my life, which is why I like those buildings.”

“And he wants to turn them into ‘breathing spaces’.”

“Who the hell has heard of something so annoying?”

“It’s not a bad thing at all, you know,” she says, putting a mini sausage on your rice, as though she were comforting a small child, “not everything goes according to plan at all times. Order is well and good, but some sunshine is also good for your health.”

“I’d rather die.” You scow, “just wait, I will never even talk to Kim Mingyu ever again. Even if he shows his stupidly handsome face back in here, I am never talking to him! Never, on my life, never again—”

The door swings open, and a brightly-smiling Kim Mingyu pokes his head in, “what are you doing for dinner?”

“Nothing,” your friend says on your behalf, “she’s free after eight.”

“Great, I’ll see you for dinner, then!” He waves again, and it’s annoying, how you automatically blush, “it’s a date!”

The door closes, and your friend laughs, “should I look up architectural style names now?”

You sigh. I’m really screwed. 

[starz-n-stuff]

Dc x dp headcanon/prompt idea thing! If u wanna use just tag me on here with a link if it’s ao3 or wherever else

What if the GIW controls what’s accessible on the internet? Okay so imagine that for whatever reason Tim Drake has a laptop from Danny or maybe Tucks PDA:

“Hey, Tim, you called while I was in class so now you’re on speaker and everyone can hear you.” Danny tells him quickly before he can say anything.

“Alright,” Tim doesn’t seem to care if the class is able to hear, “so the laptop is fine now, but it wasn’t letting me into some things, citing an error code that shouldn’t exist so I did some digging and Danny is there only one network provider in Amity?”

“Yeah, everyone uses it, why?”

“I think they’re controlling what is visible to you all on the internet. Because there’s no result online for Superman or, or, the Justice League, none of that.”

You could hear a pin drop in the classroom, even Lancer, who had been intending to tell Danny to hang up or take the call into the hallway was staring at Danny and the phone, spinning a pencil in his hands.

“Who… who are those people? Superman and…” Danny trails off.

“Superman is an alien from the planet Krypton. Our sun gives him powers like flight, heat vision, ice breath, and a whole lot more.” Tim explains, “and The Justice League is an organization of superhero’s dedicated to protecting Earth and its inhabitants. If they knew about Phantom or Amity, or had received any sort of distress call they would’ve sent someone over with a similar power set and helped train Phantom, since he’s a newer hero.”

It’s silent in the classroom. Nobody has anything to say.

“Can you fix it?” Danny asks, voice scratchy from the burning in the back of his eyes and throat.

So yeah— I know nothing about technology n stuff so feel free to like play around with the idea. Also did anybody else’s teachers make us answer our phones on speaker if they rang in class? Or was that just my terrible high school?

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Hii, I was wondering if you could do poly141! with a crush on administrator!reader? Like how they would all be having a crush on her and eventually bringing her into the relationship? No worries if not, I love your work and you’re one of my fave accounts. Have a good day💗

At Their Mercy

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Tension, suggestive flirting, possessiveness, military setting, mutual pining, rumor mill drama, reader described as professional/feminine-coded, slow burn with romantic payoff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy! I absolutely love this idea!! This is a fantastic idea and I hope I captured what you imagined! I’m so glad you love my writing as well!

Summary: You run the tightest operation Task Force 141 has ever seen. But even the sharpest minds can be unraveled when four elite soldiers set their sights on you.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You ran a tight ship.

The kind of ship that never hit rocks, never leaked, and never allowed room for error. As the lead administrative liaison for Task Force 141, you were the bridge between elite chaos and tight military structure. Every mission roster, clearance request, requisition form, and post-op report came through you first. You were the force behind the front lines—silent, efficient, untouchable.

You dealt with mission logistics, debriefs, diplomatic correspondence, and more red tape than any human being should have to suffer. Every supply chain was calculated to the second. Every form filed precisely. Even if it meant chasing men with blood on their boots down the hall to get them to sign a single line.

It was a high-stress job.

But you thrived on control. On being the one fixed point in a volatile world.

Until they came along.

Captain John Price. Simon “Ghost” Riley. Johnny “Soap” MacTavish. Kyle “Gaz” Garrick.

The 141.

They were a storm wrapped in Kevlar—brilliant, lethal, insubordinate, and damn near impossible to manage. They were the embodiment of beautiful chaos. The opposite of everything you stood for.

And your undoing.

John was the first to notice you—not just for your mind or precision, but for your calm. You were a lighthouse in the combat fog. You never flinched when brass raised their voice. You never cracked under pressure. He respected it. Then he admired it. And before long, that admiration curled into something deeper. Something more.

Simon came next. You didn’t shrink away from him like others did. You handed him mission packets without hesitation. Spoke to him like he was just another man, not the reaper in a skull mask. That grounded him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

Johnny flirted from the start. Relentlessly. At first, it was just to get a rise out of you. But when all he got was sarcasm and the occasional unimpressed glance? That made it personal. A challenge. And Johnny loved a challenge. Especially when the prize was someone like you.

And Kyle… Kyle never pushed. He observed. He noticed how you rubbed your temples when no one was looking. How you tucked your mug into the same corner of your desk every morning. How you softened—just a touch—when it was only them in the room. He didn’t flirt. He *saw* you. And that made it worse. Because it made it real.

You tried not to encourage them.

You dressed sharp. Stayed professional. Avoided lingering. You didn’t meet their eyes when they looked too long.

But they knew.

They noticed when your shoulders relaxed in the privacy of your office. When you started teasing Johnny back under your breath. When you called Simon “brooding” and made him *smirk*. When you caught Kyle watching you and actually *smiled*. When you told John to stop looming like a disappointed father, and he laughed.

They saw the cracks forming.

And then the rumors started.

You heard them in the mess hall, murmured by soldiers with too much time and too little respect. That you were sleeping with the 141. That Kyle got special treatment. That Johnny kissed you behind the armory. One lunatic even swore he saw you sneaking out of Simon’s quarters—which was laughable, considering no one knew where Simon actually slept.

None of it was true.

Yet.

It got back to you fast. You called a meeting with HR. Filed two formal complaints. Nearly took a corporal’s head off when he winked at you in the hallway.

You thought maybe the 141 hadn’t heard.

But one day, you stepped into your office to find John seated at your desk.

“Close the door,” he said quietly.

You did.

“We heard the rumors.”

You crossed your arms, jaw tight. “They’re lies.”

“Don’t doubt that,” he said. “But they’re still hurting you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to us.”

You looked at him, and something shifted in the air between you. “Why?”

Simon stepped in from the side room. “Because we care.”

Kyle leaned in the doorway. “Because we’re tired of pretending.”

Johnny entered last, his face softer than you’d ever seen it. “Because it’s true. Maybe not yet—but we want it to be.”

Your heart hammered in your chest.

John stood and came closer. “We’re not asking you to throw away your job. We’re not going to parade anything. But the four of us… we’ve talked. We want you. All of us.”

Simon added, “You make us better. Tighter. Calmer.”

Johnny smirked, just a little. “You even make Ghost smile. That’s a miracle, love.”

Kyle’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

You looked at all of them—John’s fierce steadiness, Simon’s burning silence, Johnny’s relentless affection, Kyle’s quiet care—and something in you broke open.

You didn’t speak. Just moved.

You stepped forward and curled your hand into John’s shirt, tugging him down. You kissed him. Soft. Certain.

Then turned and kissed Kyle—slow and sweet. Simon stepped closer and pressed a palm to your waist like he was anchoring you, and you turned and kissed him, too, his mask barely lifted, lips warm and wanting.

Johnny grinned when you reached for him. “Knew you liked me,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I like all of you, but you’re all still insufferable.” you whispered back.

Their touches were careful after that. Reverent. John cupped the back of your head. Kyle rubbed slow circles into your back. Simon rested his hand at your hip, solid. Johnny leaned his forehead against yours like he never wanted to leave.

It wasn’t perfect. It wouldn’t be easy.

But it was yours.

And for once, you let yourself fall.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[ladycaramelswirl]

definitely not old

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

A/N: Did I create an extremely improbable scenario just to suit my need to create another highly improbable scenario? Yes. Do I care that it’s unrealistic? No. Please forgive any typos/ grammatical errors. 

CW: suggestive content, but not explicit (like 15+?). Use of y/n one time. (Technically this would probably warrant one of those hostile workplace environment seminars like they had for Derek and Penelope. But it’s funny? Idk this isn’t serious.) Sassy Hotch. Crack plot tbh. 

Also I know the timeline doesn’t really make sense, because JJ is a profiler and Emily and Rossi exist, but I imagined Season 1 Spencer while writing this! I guess it’s 2005? Btw I do not know how tapes work, so just pretend it makes sense please. This is so unserious. 

Summary: reader wife and Hotch are private people; the BAU team is nosy. Spencer is just constantly in the right place at the wrong time. 

Enjoy!

——————

The screen in front of you depicted horror - just not the kind the BAU was used to. The UnSub had confessed to leaving a message in an old tape. He had already been arrested, but you were all hoping it might contain something that might help the conviction stick. Only he was extremely paranoid, so not only had he left the message in a code, but he had spliced it into a tape he thought people were least likely to watch. His p***. It was the last thing to do for the case and everyone was trying to help. You all sit at the round table, and Spencer shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. Derek laughs at his shyness and Emily laughs at the very unrealistic movements. She and JJ tilt their heads at the shape the two on the screen have put themselves into. 

“That does not look comfortable”, JJ mocks. 

The words are out of your mouth before you think. “Trust me it’s not”. 

Everyone at the table snaps their heads to look at you. 

“Damn Mama”, Derek laughs. “Who are you doing these moves with?”

You try to hold back a laugh. You were not ready to share about your sex life with your colleagues, no matter how close you were. Plus you’re pretty sure Aaron would not appreciate it. 

“That is inappropriate workplace conversation”, you say, pausing the video. “And you’re going to miss the next series of code”, you tell him, trying to get him to revert his attention back to the video. Emily grins at your attempted evasion.

“We already got all the code. She just doesn’t want us to tell Hotch she’s capable of all that. Doesn’t want to make the old man feel bad”.

“He’s not old. He’s only 5 years older than you”, you remind her. She puts a hand on her chest in mock offense like you’ve stabbed her. You roll your eyes. “And this is still inappropriate”.

“So it wasn’t Hotch”, Derek laughs. 

“You’re just annoyed because you haven’t tried it yourself”, you deflect, moving to sit next to Spencer who seems to actually be doing his job. 

“I’ve seen her do yoga and she’s very flexible, so if she couldn’t do it I don’t think you can”, JJ tells Morgan. 

“Oh you have no idea what I’m capable of”, he teases, which earns laughs from around the table. “I’m better than the old man for sure”. They all start laughing and talking about you and Hotch. 

You roll your eyes. “Wasn’t old in bed last night”, you mutter under your breath. You startle at the sound of a book hitting the floor and see Spencer’s bright red face. JJ, Derek and Emily look over in curiosity at what they might have missed, but you ignore them, attempting to give Spencer an apology for making him uncomfortable. He moves to drink his coffee in an attempt to avoid more of the conversation. Only he chokes on it because Hotch enters the room. 

“Have you finished working out the code?”

Everyone’s heads snap to him - JJ, Emily and Derek wearing matching grins. Hotch eyes you patting a coughing Spencer’s back.

“Are you alright?”, he asks. 

“Yes! Good! I’m good!”, Spencer squeaks, afraid Hotch is going to ask him why he’s so nervous. Aaron looks to you for some answers but before you can tell him it’s nothing, Spencer suddenly stands up.

“Got the code! Going to call the local PD. DA is waiting”, he warbles before you all watch him run out of the room. Hotch turns back to the rest of you. 

“Well then that wraps it up. Go home now, get some rest”, he instructs. Everyone starts packing up. You and Hotch walk towards the door when he realises there’s only 6 of you in the room. 

“Where’s Dave?”, he asks.

You’re about to tell him Rossi went to the bathroom when the Italian walks back in. Rossi immediately notes the paused video.

“Wow that looks uncomfortable”, he remarks. Everyone smirks in your direction. Hotch snakes an arm around your waist and looks at the screen. Then at you. 

“It was, wasn’t it?”

He smiles at the jaws dropping to the floor. 

“Good night everyone”.

—————————

A little bonus scene:

In his office later:

“You heard us talking before you came in the room didn’t you”, you question your husband. He was so private, he wouldn’t have said something like that otherwise. 

“They called me old”, Aaron grumbles, but his tone is amused. “Just wanted to shock them a little”.

You make your way over to his side of the desk, pulling him to stand up beside you. 

“Well Agent Hotchner, I have to tell you, there’s been some speculation about your performance”, you taunt. “Care to prove them wrong?”

“Last night wasn’t enough proof?”, he laughs raising an eyebrow. You run your hands up his chest and behind his neck, pulling him close. 

“The results were inconclusive”, you tease. He grabs your hips and traps you between himself and his desk, his mouth trailing kisses down your jaw. 

“Well I can’t have that kind of speculation going around”, he murmurs into your skin. Your breath hitches from the sensation of his lips on the sensitive spot on your neck. But instead of continuing, he pulls away and meets your eyes in a conspiratorial grin. “We should do an in house evaluation as soon as possible”.

You open your mouth to reply when the door swings open, Spencer finding you sandwiched between Hotch’s thighs and your blouse rumpled. His mouth drops open and suddenly all 187 iq points mean nothing when his brain loses function.

“Oh- I- um- sorry!”, he manages before running away. You stare at the slammed door then back at Aaron and burst into giggles. He drops his head to your shoulders and sighs. 

“I feel like a teenager”, he groans.

“At least you don’t feel old.”

—————————

Bonus bonus: 

Still in the conference room: 

“I want to go back to 10 minutes ago when I didn’t know this information”, Emily moans. 

“I think I need 5 more minutes before I can form a coherent thought”, JJ laughs in disbelief. Spencer walks back in.

“I finished my report. Where’s Hotch and y/n? Can we go home?”

“Probably doing it in his office for all we know”, Derek mutters.

Spencer’s brows furrow in confusion. “Doing what in his office?”

Rossi raises an eyebrow at Emily. “Is this kid serious?”

She shrugs back at him. 

“Spence, Hotch says we can go home. But you should probably report about what local PD told you before you go”, JJ tells him.

Spencer nods and makes his way to Hotch’s office. The rest of the team watch him walk away.

“You think we should have told him to knock before going in?”

“Probably.”

The sound of a high pitch yelp and the slam of an office door echo down the hallway. 

“Oops.”

——————

thank you for reading :)

masterlist

[vizjpmdose]

୨ৎ ──── jpm's entry in the 5 love languages. ────

⭑.ᐟ warnings : possessiveness, mention of murder

𓏲 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖ a/n: : first time posting stuffs like this and this is a long one! | these are his greenflag versions (this has been in my draft for an eternity) English is not my first language so I apologize if you spot any grammatical errors that I'm not aware of.

JPM x wife fem!reader.

PHYSICAL TOUCH

for him, physical touch is his way to remind ownership but also genuine devotion to his lover.

for example, if someone is trying to flirt with you he'd suddenly just appear behind you and suddenly pulling you close to him by grabbing your waist softly in front of that person.

"darling, who's he?" he spoke with a forced smile, glancing at you and the man while he gives your waist a soft squeeze as he shows ownership.

can be a PDA king

with showing devotion, physical touch is his way to remind you of how important you are to him

keeping a hand on the small of your back while walking around in the hotel

loves to trace your facial features/body

imagine having a talk with him while just relaxing in bed, he listens to whatever you're saying while he traces a part of your body (waist, arm, legs) or facial features (jawline, lips, cheekbone)

he could be doing it while making eye contact with you while you're speaking or his eyes could be at your body part/facial feature that he's tracing while you speak.

it gives you extreme butterflies specially that he's humming in response from time to time while busy tracing your body with his fingers.

WORDS OF AFFIRMATION:

this man has a very wide vocabulary, he's a master with his words.

he's the best in wooing using his words that he's sure of being very effective on you.

he actually doesn't excel in comforting with words:(

But worry not! He's good in encouraging you with words.

"you, my dear is the best. You don't have to stress about it just to prove it to me, because I knew ever since the day I saw you that you're going to be the perfect lady of the Cortez."

Very resourceful with his words, very witty.

you'd receive appreciation phrases that are very high standard coded

FLIRTS VERY GENTLEMANLY!

"Such a sight for sore eyes. Surely, my favorite sight for tonight." 

he loves the reaction he gets from you with when he flirts with you using fancy idioms. 

He actually could write poem/poetries and it would be all about you.

loves to brag about you, he brags about you to other people even though you're not around. He loves to publicly speak about you and your relationship with him.

QUALITY TIME:

this man is a sucker for attention. 

he prefers spending quality time with you by having a conversation during a fancy dinner or having a conversation while drinking or smoking together.

would literally host a dinner nightly if you'd agree.

Loves to play cards with you every night before going to sleep 

There's a lot of secrets in the Cortez that no one knows but him. If you're a curious one, he'd find joy to walk you around the Cortez, telling you facts about every area that you both visit. 

"This feels like a museum date, right darling?" 

In a conversation, he's always the talker but loves to be a listener when it comes to you so that he can spend more time with you while having a conversation.

He loves taking you to the grand empty ballroom of the Cortez for slow and elegant dances with him when you both are feeling elegantly romantic. He would put on a vintage jazz or classical music record.

If you're an adventurous type just like him, he'd be so so happy to go on a killing spree with you. He’d admire that about you, pushing you to be bolder, more daring, much like he did in his own life. Times like these would be his core memories with you.

ACT OF SERVICE:

This man is the number 1 real gentleman and that's for you only. 

Yes, let's say he uses his gentleman side to lure his victims in but that gentleman side is fake. He'd only be a real gentleman when it's for you. 

He opens doors for you and pulls out chairs for you 

He makes sure he attends your needs before you can even ask. 

He's highly observant/highly perceptive, he does everything you need or want before you even voice them.

"I will give perfection to such a perfect person like you, my love." What can I say? This man is such a simp.

When you have any problems, he'd do anything to help you with it or he'll be the one to fix it for you.

He's always mindful for your physical comfort, he'd always make sure that his staffs are giving you what you want and what you need if he's not around, and whatever that makes you feel pampered.

He gets mad at his staffs when you have any complains or when he observes that you're not feeling comfortable enough.

With protecting you from harm in the Cortez, He would use his power and influence to keep you safe from the dangers.

If one of the ghosts in the Cortez dares to disrespect you or interact with you in a way that you or he doesn't approve of.. James would swiftly and ruthlessly handle the situation.

GIFT GIVING:

No. 1 sugar daddy material

When you get upset and doesn't know how to comfort you, he'd shower you with expensive jewelries and stuffs that he knows that you like.

Everything he gifts you will be expensive, this man values good quality all of the time

He sends Liz to the outside world to buy these gifts he'll give to you.

"If I were just allowed to leave the hotel I wouldn't hesitate to go out alone to buy you these lavish things myself, a high quality man like me knows a lot about high quality things that deserves to be in my queen's grasp." 

Expect gifts on random days because anytime he'd think of an item that he thinks you would like, he'd action on getting it immediately.

He lives for your reactions, praises, and compliments when he surprises you with gifts. 

[yuurei20]

Dream-world information/rules (by request): interestingly, the dreamworlds are possibly teaching the dreamers how it feels to be Malleus:

Ortho: “It's the dreamers themselves whose imaginations form those happy dreams. Of course, those dreams still have to be made within Malleus's constraints…namely, no negative emotions like sadness or anger allowed.”

And there is someone else who is not allowed to feel any emotions like sadness or anger, lest something terrible happen 🐉

Ortho: "I thought Malleus's dream worlds were designed to provide the target with whatever form of pleasure they wanted...But maybe it's more of a system to remove displeasure the target doesn't want. Sadness, anger, and the like.”

And this is not just speculation, with Sebek and Silver coming to the same conclusion:

Idia: “It's like playing a video game where you start at max level and every enemy steers clear of you. There's no losing and retrying. No trial and error to overcome obstacles. The challenge and payoff of getting good is what truly makes gaming rewarding.” Silver: “In Malleus's case...I think in terms of encountering rewarding challenges, his experience is extremely limited. Ever since he was born…or even before then..he's had enough power to easily trounce even veteran soldiers. Starting at max level and having every enemy steer clear isn't just an analogy for him. I think it's an accurate description of his life.”

Idia follows with:

"If Malleus actually matched Sebek's description and had some unflappable superhuman psyche…we wouldn't be in this mess at all. But nope, this natural-born overlord and walking cheat code experiences the same emotional highs and lows that the rest of us do. That's what I call a glaring design flaw.” “There are times when setbacks and defeats can be contributing factors in reaching a happy ending. Likewise, there are times when successes and victories can be causal factors in a bad ending. No matter how much of a walking cheat code Malleus is, maybe he just doesn't have that level of predictive ability or control. Which leaves his only option being a systematic elimination of all negative emotions.”

Malleus has never experienced setbacks or defeats, so he has no frame of reference for happiness that derives from them.

It is beyond Malleus’ ability to imagine, and we have seen the dreams limited by Malleus’ imagination before: Lilia’s, where Malleus was unable to interfere in a timeline before his own birth.

Silver: "What if Malleus has trouble controlling things he doesn't know about and can't imagine...?"

We are still learning the rules of the dreams as the characters themselves do not understand what is happening and are providing us with information through trial and error, and there is still more, very important information to come on EN (memo: this post will need to be updated📝).

But here are some of the rules!

1. Dreams break down when a happy ending becomes impossible, at which point everything is swallowed into an abyss (hence the name of Book 7 in the original game: Lord of the Abyss)

2. Idia says that once swallowed by the abyss the dreamer can potentially wake up on their own but there is no telling what may happen to foreign elements

(we have possibly seen successful examples of “foreign elements” being swallowed into the abyss and surviving, with both Silver and Lilia having their abysses invaded by others, but Idia has not)

3. The “happiness” in the dreams is superficial, as though following the vague order of “keep dreaming happy dreams,” possibly due to Malleus’ inability to imagine what happiness is.

4. Despite the “superficial” nature of the dreams, Ortho explains that “people’s mental circuity—their hearts and minds—can be surprisingly complex,” resulting in the dreams coming up with creative ways to please the dreamers

(Example: Kalim attending a school that isn’t NRC not because he is unhappy at NRC and Rook dreaming of NRC without Vil not because he wants Vil out, but because they were both avoiding tragedies that happened there.)

5. People who shares lots of memories with a dreamer have a better likelihood of helping them wake up 

6. When a dreamer is about to wake, NPCs will try to keep them inside.

7. It is possible that consuming food in a dream aids in mental recovery

8. It is possible to run out of breath through exertion and feel pain when hit in a dream

9. Malleus is possibly keeping the stronger mages under tighter surveillance than others, with Idia and Vil being constantly attended by their dreams “GM” (human-Ortho for Idia, Neige for Vil)

10. In instances where a real-world source of negativity is too much a part of who the dreamer is to separate them, their absence is likely to cause paradoxes and dream-breakdowns.

The dreams adapt to this by rewriting the source of stress into something less offensive: a bumbling assistant version of Neige who could never hope to rival Vil and a more polite and humble version of Kalim for Jamil.

To Be Continued ♪