#document file bag

[poojalate]

Why Every Freelancer Needs a Reliable File Bag for Client Meetings

In the freelancing world, staying organized and making a professional impression are essential for success. One underrated yet vital tool that helps you do both is a file bag. Whether you're a writer, designer, consultant, or marketer, a reliable file bag keeps your essentials safe, sorted, and easy to carry. Let’s dive into why investing in a quality file bag is a smart move for every freelancer.

The Importance of Staying Organized as a Freelancer

As a freelancer, you juggle multiple projects, meetings, and client expectations. Without a proper system to manage your documents, things can quickly get messy. A file bag acts as your mobile office—keeping everything in place and within reach.

How a File Bag Helps Manage Documents Efficiently

A sturdy file bag provides space for all your work essentials, including contracts, invoices, notebooks, pens, and even gadgets like a tablet or laptop. With a well-structured document organizer bag, you won't waste time digging for papers during a meeting. You’ll walk in confidently, knowing everything you need is right at your fingertips.

Impact of Organization on Professionalism and Client Trust

Imagine walking into a client meeting fumbling with loose papers. Now imagine walking in with a clean, well-organized file bag. The difference is clear. Being prepared and tidy shows that you value your work—and theirs. Clients trust freelancers who appear responsible and organized.

Key Features to Look for in a Reliable File Bag

Not just any bag will do. You need a professional file bag for freelancers that suits your work style and daily needs.

Durability and Material Quality

Look for a file bag made of strong, water-resistant materials like leather, nylon, or canvas. This ensures your documents stay safe even when you’re on the go or caught in unexpected weather.

Size and Compartments for Smart Storage

A quality file bag should have dedicated compartments for files, business cards, pens, a laptop sleeve, and maybe even a charger. This turns your bag into an efficient freelancer file storage solution.

Portability and Comfort

As a freelancer, you may move from coffee shops to co-working spaces to client offices. A lightweight, easy-to-carry file bag with padded handles or shoulder straps can make these transitions seamless and stress-free.

Benefits of Using a Dedicated File Bag for Client Meetings

The advantages of a reliable file bag go beyond just keeping your papers together. It improves your workflow and boosts your image.

Enhanced Professional Image

Carrying a sleek file bag shows clients you’re serious about your business. Whether it's a leather folder bag or a modern backpack-style file bag, it becomes part of your personal brand.

Easy Access to Important Documents

Need to show a portfolio or review a contract? A file bag makes it simple. Everything is sorted and protected, ready when you need it. No delays, no embarrassment.

Protection of Sensitive Client Information

Client trust is everything. A secure file bag with zippers or locking compartments ensures private documents stay confidential and damage-free.

How to Choose the Perfect File Bag for Your Freelance Needs

With so many options, choosing the right file bag can be overwhelming. Start by assessing your daily routine and client interactions.

Match the Bag to Your Work Style

If you meet clients in corporate settings, a leather file bag with a clean, classic design works best. For creative freelancers, a modern document organizer bag with bold colors or tech-savvy features may be more suitable.

Consider Budget and Long-Term Value

While it’s easy to go for a cheaper file bag, investing in a high-quality one is wiser. A durable, functional bag may cost more upfront, but it saves you from replacements and gives a more polished appearance.

Final Thoughts: A Smart Investment for Freelancers

In freelancing, the little things matter. A reliable file bag may seem like a small purchase, but it has a big impact. It keeps you organized, projects professionalism, and gives you peace of mind during client meetings. Think of it as a mobile command center that supports your success.

So if you’re still using a basic tote or stuffing papers into your backpack, it’s time to upgrade. Choose a high-quality file bag that suits your style, protects your work, and helps you shine in front of clients.

[penisbilt]

why doesnt google docs file storage have a 'sort by creation date' option. i can sort by file name or by last modified or by last opened. why cant i sort by file creation date

[gyuswhore]

Sit Down

anniversary event [closed]

kim mingyu x reader

prompt(s): getting aroused by the other's jealousy/obsession with them, "Could he/she/they do it like this?”, “you're sexy when you're angry”

word count: 5.1k

warnings: smut (MINORS DNI), fluff, potter!mingyu, they're married, reader discovers jealousy, oral (m.rec), penetration (unprotected!!!), kissing, breast play, clit stimulation, they're nasty as hell idk what to tell you

synopsis: It isn't your fault that you feel this way, especially as you watch her hands trace over your husband's own.

It isn't your fault that you can barely go on with your day with that cursed image replaying in your mind like a broken record.

And it certainly isn't your fault that you find yourself completely naked on your husband's lap while his clay-clad hands cannot touch you.

[a/n]: @highvern at the scene of the crime as always, we all have to thank her for her service as she betas for me and encourages my tomfoolery. enjoy this and let me know your thoughts in the rbs, comments or send me an ask!!!!!

masterlist

The grip you have on the file is proving to be detrimental to the cheap plastic covering. Not that you could blame yourself as you watch your husband through the window of his pottery studio, leaning over to help a student with her discombobulated salad bowl. 

It was a beautiful morning, the beach across from the boardwalk sparingly occupied with delighted tanners and swimmers, the low buzz of waves reaching the shore sending a calming draft across the area. Envious as you were of Mingyu and his impeccable real estate choices, especially right now as your heel clad feet ache to take a dip in the waters, you couldn’t help but feel all the more irked that this was the background the image inside the studio was sitting against. 

Through the large glass windows, Mingyu is pressing his foot over top of his very pretty student’s on the pedal to force the pottery wheel to spin, hands over her own as he guides her fingers to put pressure on the wet clay. A spiteful part of you pushes a thought in your mind, that your husband was attempting to fix a lost cause, especially when his student seemed quite insistent in her soft smiles and keeping her gaze on the fingers that cover her own, rather than actually fixing the abomination on the pottery wheel. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there by the time he’s done, straightening his back to turn his attention to the other students that make their attempts at their half done projects. Mingyu catches your figure through the window and immediately breaks into a big smile, clay covered hand coming to wave at you. 

Taking it as your cue to walk into the studio, you return neither his gorgeous smile or his occupied wave as you strut through the glass doors. Your husband meets you on the other side of the open space, hands now washed clean as he leans over to place a kiss on your cheek. 

“Hey, you,” he says in greeting, hands drying on a towel. 

All you can think about is if that salad bowl girl can see you, and you thank goodness you wore your nice top today. 

“Here.” You merely push the slightly crumpled file of documents to his chest, jaw set and lips tight. 

“Oh, thanks,” he comments as he grabs the papers pushed towards him, smile dropping a little at your abrupt attitude. “Is everything alright?” 

“Hm? ‘Course,” you answer, adjust the strap of your bag. “I have to get back to work. Be careful about your paperwork next time, I can’t keep making trips across town for this.”

You bite your tongue as soon as you say it, the words tumbling out before you can help it. Can’t keep making trips across town for this? Last time you checked, you were looking for passive excuses to make the trip to your husband’s studio just to see him during the day. 

“Oh.” His brows are furrowed, the frown apparent on his face. “I–I didn’t think you’d be too busy today, you said you’d be done early so—I—nevermind. I’m sorry I pulled you out of work for this, I’ll be careful next time.”

There’s a pang in your heart as you hear him apologise, immediately mad at yourself for going on and ruining his mood. What were you annoyed at? That he was doing his job? 

Your gaze lands behind him where most of his students are occupied with their projects, but just one whose eyes dart between you and Mingyu. 

Taking a step back, you’re about to walk out before you feel him grab your wrist. “D’you wanna have dinner at the new restaurant down the pier after work? We can watch the sunset too, haven’t done that in a while.”

You want to scream yes. Of course you want to watch a beach sunset with your husband. Of course you want to eat at the restaurant you’ve been waiting eagerly for with your husband. And you aren’t entirely sure if this reaction is simply because you’ve been stressed lately, but the sticky feeling is pushing you to make your claim in some way, somehow. 

Biting back another strangely snarky reply, you make an attempt to fix your stoic face and walk back to Mingyu. Leaning up, you kiss the corner of his mouth in what you hope is slightly reassuring. 

“I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Kicking off your heels is the first thing you do once you make it back to your desk, taking no time to punch the power on button on your computer. You pull a file from the stack next to you, one that sits at the bottom, with a harder than necessary yank. Bad idea, because as you scramble to stop the pile from tipping over entirely, you can only think of other ways your day could get worse. 

Before the worst of it can hit the floor, you find a second set of hands catching the strewing papers. 

“Thanks, Han,” you say as you attempt to reorganise the documents, taking the extra ones off his hands. 

“Have the laws of physics forsaken you? Or do you just like reorganising paperwork?” Hansol asks, sipping on something from the stupid horse mug Mingyu had made for him in light of his promotion. 

Huffing, you only haphazardly stuff the files to the corner to be done with it, opening the file you need as your computer finally boots up. “Don’t you have manager stuff to do?” 

“Being a manager means I can put off doing manager stuff,” he states. “Besides, I’m taking care of my peers, can you imagine the catastrophe that could’ve been if I didn’t swoop in to save you?”

“Papers on the floor? How catastrophic indeed,” you monotone as you click away at trying to find a particular excel sheet. 

“How was Mingyu?”

Stiffening, you want to curse Hansol at reminding you of the very thing you did not want to think of right now. 

“He was fine.”

“You were back earlier than usual, thought you would’ve had lunch with him.”

That was your plan, but clearly the universe had other ways for you to go about your day. Like thinking about an overly flirty student and her all too oblivious teacher. 

“He…he had a workshop today,” you simply comment. 

“Okay, Elsa, who shoved an ice cube up your ass?” You can hear the sneer in his voice, the judgmental stare. 

Groaning loudly, you can only slam your forehead onto your desk in an all too dramatic fashion. “Can you drop it? Please?”

“Ah,” he drags. “Trouble in paradise. Understood. I will be at my desk if you want to complain about your husband like Margaret from Finance.”

Margaret from Finance. The woman who’s entire catalogue of marital issues would be solved if she and her husband simply spoke to each other once in a while. Perhaps even held hands on occasion. 

You wince as you envision yourself becoming as stuck up and miserable as that, Hansol’s harmless comparison sending you into yet another spiral. It wasn’t that serious, this was all because your brain was stressed, horny and in love. The fact that your husband looked like how he did wasn’t really helping either. 

With a little more aggression than you usually would’ve done with, you attempt to skim through the files as quickly as humanly possible, flicking through the useless filler pages to get to the ones that actually required your attention. 

You send a passive aggressive email to Hansol entailing his job to keep things precise. 

Shoving forkfuls of salad into your mouth, your mouse clicks louder than anyone else in the area, having gone back to change your cursor speed about thrice since you turned your computer on. 

Your phone dings. Closing your eyes, you count to ten before turning to look at the illuminated screen beside you. 

[Gyu <3]: did u have lunch?

[Gyu <3]: i wanted us to get sum together but u zoomed off : (((

[Gyu <3]: im done with my classes for the day. The students were asking ab you earlier when u came in heh

[Gyu <3]: cant wait to see u tonight i looooooveee u <333

God, he makes it hard to stay mad at him. 

Snapping your head back to your monitor, you close your eyes once again as you question the war in your head and chest. Why were you mad at him? There was nothing to be mad about. Did you expect him to go about his day covered in plastic wrap and a neon ‘OFF LIMITS’ sign all day? The ring on his finger was supposed to do the job just fine. 

You sigh as you force yourself to text him back something that wasn’t entirely passive aggressive. Typing and erasing, and typing again and erasing again. A smiley face to seal it into something you were not feeling, and send. 

It’s late in the afternoon by the time you’re done, the sun less blaring as it pours through the office windows. You flick the last file shut, power off your computer and spring up to your feet, immediately gathering your things. Phone, ID, keys, and the last plastic file in your hands, you stalk towards Hansol’s desk and slam the papers next to his computer. 

He nearly chokes on his pocky stick as you spit out your final notes in rapid fire, not caring if you were indecipherable in the slightest. Hansol’s eyebrows remain in the air by the time you’re done, spinning on your heels and walking straight towards the elevators. 

“See you, Monday!” you finally hear him call out and you don’t turn to return his goodbye. Something that might have given you a strike but you could threaten him to take it off all the same. 

Besides, you had somewhere to be, and the idea churning in your brain didn’t seem like it wanted to wait. 

The sun is setting by the time you get to the beach boardwalk, climbing the steps to the line of establishments that overlook the significantly more occupied shore. Everything is perfect. Warm just the right amount, the sunlight forcing everything in its path into an incandescent glow. 

What you would’ve given for a nice lie on one of the beach chairs to release an entire day’s worth of tense muscles. But alas, you trudge straight down the boardwalk and walk the way to Mingyu’s studio. When you’re nearly there, you see the glass door of the studio open from a distance, immediately recognising the part timer leaving for the day. 

You cross paths as he walks towards you in the opposite direction, lighting up as he recognises you through your work attire. 

“Oh, hi!” Chan chirps, arm raised in a half wave. 

“Hi! Clocking out?” you ask as you stop to greet him. 

“Uh—yeah, Mingyu let me go early.” He’s grinning. 

“Good to hear. You enjoy the rest of your night, alright?” 

“Yeah–uh, you too!” he stutters once again as he continues to smile wide. You think nothing of it and continue your short walk to where the studio doors were. 

Coming round, you find the large glass door and walls have been blocked out with the blinds, the blaring CLOSED sign right at the entrance. 

You stand there in front of the door like a fool, taking a deep breath, eyes closed as you gain your bearings. Grabbing the shiny handle, you push the unlocked glass open. 

The bell at the top jingles, signalling a customer, and you watch your husband sitting at one of the turntables, clearly occupied. The studio is completely empty except for him, the whirr of the spinning table coming to a halt as he turns to tell whoever came in that they were closed for the day. 

It’s revolting. He’s wearing his usual black tee, stained with months of splattered clay, his hair tousled like he’d run his hands through it before he started his project. The sun seeps in through the neglected edges of the top of the glass walls, past the blinds that cover most of them, casting him in an unbelievable light. It’s revolting, he’s done nothing and it’s making your head reel; revolting. 

“We’re—oh, you’re early!” There it is, that stupid smile he can’t help but flash at every last person he sees, directed straight at you laced with nothing but love. 

Reaching behind you, you push the metal lock on the door to click it shut, locking the both of you inside, and the rest of the beach and boardwalk out. Right after, you begin to kick off your heels. 

“I already made the reservations for an hour from now, let me change and wash up so we can go to the beach till—”

“Sit down.”

He was halfway out of his seat as he was talking, ready to leave his half done work on the turntable to leave with you. Your words come out firm, a strange tone like you were giving him a command. 

It works, and the shock has him immediately falling back into his chair. The force pushes the chair away from the turn tables, now half facing you.  

Dropping your bag, you shuck your long coat off and leave it on the floor. Eyeing his hands, they’re covered in wet clay, suspended away from his body so as to not ruin his clothes more than they already are, speckled with dried clay and paint. 

He recovers quickly, confused as he watches you fiddle with the buttons on your bottoms, rising out of his chair once again. 

“What are you—” 

“I said,'' you grunt as you finally push your bottoms down so they hit the floor. “Sit down.” 

The shift in his face makes it obvious it has clicked in his head, staring at you as you walk towards him in just your blouse as the situation escalates faster than he can keep up with. 

“Right now? Can you at least let me—”

Through his blabbering you’ve reached him and swung a leg over his lap, seating yourself on his clothed thighs as he moves his hands away, making sure not to get clay all over your blouse. 

His hands may be occupied in a different sense, but you choose to busy yours in other ways. Taking his face in your hands, you lock your mouths in an open mouthed kiss, rendering him speechless. 

Taking no time to think, nor to let him think, you push your hips down to meet his own in a deep grind, panty clad pussy making contact with the rough of his jeans right over his bulge. The feeling is so sudden, spiking throughout your system as you hear him take a sharp inhale still pressed into your mouth.

That was you. That was you getting that reaction out of him, no matter how small it was. The thought has you gripping the back of his head, fingers making home in the short strands of his hair as you let go from the kiss. 

Wasting no time, you push his head back and stick your tongue out, licking a stripe from the base of his throat right up to his jaw. He shivers beneath you, and it only muddles your mind even more. 

You can feel his bulge beneath you growing larger and larger by the second, pressing into your inner thigh as his breathing grows exponentially heavier in your ear. Locking eyes with him, you trail your other hand down to graze over the front of his shirt, pressing into the bumps and ridges that lie beneath.

Reaching his buckle, you hook your finger underneath the gap and pull at the metal. As you let go, it snaps back into place with a resounding cling! Keeping the eye contact, you drift even lower, your fingers find the growing tent in his jeans as you cup the bulge. Moving your hands in the way you know he likes it, you curb your speed to drag out the feeling for him. 

“Fuck,” you hear him curse lowly. 

It’s becoming impossible for him to keep his composure, especially to keep his hands away from your body that sits on him. He gets close, fingers brushing the white of your blouse in a moment of confusion, instant brown on the surface as his wet, clay hands ruin your shirt. 

“If you really can’t keep your hands to yourself,” you say, halting your movements on his crotch. “I guess this’ll have to go too.”

Not bothering to undo all the buttons, you tug the first couple ones unfastened and pull your blouse over your head, throwing it somewhere behind his head. Quickly, you reach behind and unclasp your bra, flinging it away in the same general area. You’re now almost entirely naked while he remains clothed head to toe. 

Your nipples harden as they meet the air in the studio, Mingyu’s eyes set on your mounds as he takes them in. 

Before he has the opportunity to do anything, you slip off of your seat in his lap, knees slamming the floors in your haste as you kneel before him. Hands flying, you tug at the buckle of his belt, undoing it despite your hurried motions. 

“You’ve been off today, are you sure everything’s alright?” Mingyu asks from, still wide eyed as he watches helplessly as you yank his jeans enough to reveal the final layer of his underwear. It doesn’t take you long to take his entire length out of there too, needing him in front of you.

“Do not ask me about my feelings when I’m trying to fuck you.”

“What on earth–shit!”

You’ve taken his now fully hard length into your hand, licking a strip from the base of his cock up to the bulbous head. The tip of your tongue teases the head ever so lightly, and Mingyu watches as his head and your tongue match in their reds. He watches the way your tongue dips into the pooling white of his precum, pushing into his slit as the tip of your tongue wiggles slightly. 

The fact that he cannot touch only heightens the effects of your teasing, clayed hands balling into fists just to feel something on his fingertips. 

Soon, your lips have wrapped around the head of cock as you let it rub against the beginnings of the inside of your soft mouth. Letting go, you take him in again, this time running your tongue over his slit, feeling his hips twitch beneath you as you continue to take him in and out, only to take him back in again. 

In one motion, you sink your mouth lower onto his dick, feeling the head of his cock run against the roof of your mouth. Mingyu hisses audibly amidst his very loud and heavy breathing. 

When you feel him hit the beginnings of your throat, you pull back, bringing your hand to curve around the base to cover what you couldn’t fit, pumping him up and down as you continue to pull his member in and out of your mouth. 

He’s moaning loud, the echoes resonating off the walls as you hear your name slip from his mouth over, and over, and over again. It only encourages you as you move down deeper, his cock touching the back of your throat in more familiarity than before. 

Everything is wet; the spit and precum turning into a shiny gleam on his cock and on the lower half of your face, the heat between your legs that makes you feel oh so empty. Clenching around nothing, you resist the urge to bring a hand down to relieve yourself. 

“Are you ovulating or something, why are you suddenly…suddenly, fucking hell I don’t know.” 

Releasing him from your mouth with a loud pop, you rear your head to look up at him, the lower half of your face covered in a wet glisten. Your hand continues to pump him as you watch his face remain contorted in pleasure.

In a daze, you don’t realise what you’re saying as you blab. “Could she do it like this?”

“What?”

“Could she do it like this?” you repeat like a mantra, needing to hear his answer. “Could she make you feel like this?”

“What are you talking about?” It’s taking Mingyu every bit of his soul to form coherent words. 

In one swift motion, you’ve hoisted yourself back on your feet, nails digging into his thighs through his pants. 

Hovering over his lap, you take his shaft once again, but this time you push your panties aside with your hand and bring it close to your heat, brushing the head of his cock over your wet folds, using him to feel the pleasure that builds. 

“God, you’re so wet,” he blabs as he throws his head back at the feeling. “I wanna touch you, fuck I need to get this clay off, I need to touch you.”

He’s brought his mouth to latch onto your nipple, evoking a loud gasp from you as feel him circle your nub with his tongue before sucking. Letting go, he sticks his tongue out as his only weapon, flicking it repeatedly as you continue to rub his wet cock over your equally wet cunt. 

Lining him up with your entrance, you sink onto his head as you let out a loud moan, feeling the tip stretch you out in the familiar way you’ve been craving all day. It’s like your brain is buffering as you recover from the bout of pleasure, barely registering that he’s continued to assault your other nipple now. 

Your free hand comes to toy with your relieved tit, twisting your spit covered nipple between your fingers as his dick pushes further and further inside you. 

Fully sheathed, you pull your husband’s face away from your breast as you bring his lips to your own, kissing him deep as you clench around his hard cock.

“Don’t. Do that,” he hisses against your lips, hands suddenly closing in your waist, so close before he realises he can’t. “‘M gonna fucking come, I’m so serious.”

The news is enlightening, especially as it encourages you to lift your hips ever so slightly, and curl back back down in an initial thrust. Again, and again, and again till you’re moving your hips at a swift pace, striking down on his length as you both moan into each other's mouths.

The feeling is electrifying, and the borderline pornographic noises your husband is making is only making it all the more easier to gush around his member, to move your hips faster as you feel the knot in your abdomen tighten and loosen. 

“You feel amazing, so fucking good,” he grunts as he mouths the column of your throat. “My baby, my darling, my wife.”

And when the burn in your thighs becomes more than just a mental battle, your hips slowing despite the mind boggling feeling and the choked sobs that come out of you, you feel Mingyu’s hips lift from the chair he’d been trapped in, pushing into you instead. 

His still dirty hands have taken hold of the top of the back legs of the chair, helping himself push off his seat to thrust into you rapidly. 

“Touch yourself, baby,” he says. “Rub your clit for me.”

Who are you to deny him, one hand on one of his broad shoulders while the other flies down to the mess that’s becoming of your cunt. Rubbing two fingers over your clit, you throw your head back in a loud moan as you feel yourself beginning to close in.

Mingyu is watching the apex of your thighs; the way your fingers work against your swollen clit, the way his dick disappears inside you, a ring of sinful white foaming at the base of his cock. He twitches inside you, a clear indication that he was also close. 

Your breasts are a sight to behold, and the scene before him is enough to make him bust entirely. Bouncing tits that he cannot touch, perfectly red, puffed pussy he cannot touch, the beautiful curves and dips of your waist and thigh, barely illuminated by the setting sun, that he cannot touch. He curses the wretched idea to make a last minute thing on the turntable before you arrived, curses the fact that he should be able to feel all of you. 

He might lose his mind, and he does when your walls clamp down on him like a trap, your moans so loud he’s sure he’ll be hearing them in his ears for weeks. 

“G–Gyu, I’m cumming,” you whimper through the pure brain fog. 

Mingyu fucks you through your orgasm, finally letting himself release his own load into you when he simply can’t take it anymore, dick spasming as he shoots white hot cum into your hole. The added slick makes it easier to slip in and out faster as his orgasm holds out far longer than it usually does, both of your hips twitching like you’d been zapped as you come down from your highs. 

It’s become near impossible to hold up your own weight, slumping against his large frame as you unclench every pinched muscle and joint. Forehead on his shoulder, you take pleasure in the afterglow, breathing in his scent with your nose pressed into the sliver of skin that reveals past his shirt. Sweat, the earthy odour of clay, and the calm familiarity of him.

“I don’t know what I did to have you acting like this,” he breathes into your ear. “But whatever it is, I need to do it more often.”

Sluggishly, you lift your head to look at him. His head is leaned back on the chair, face glowing as you stare into the eyes you fell in love with so long ago. 

“You haven’t done anything,” you sigh. “It was…stupid.”

“That’s the worst thing you could say to me right now.”

You whine, rolling your neck. “What do you want me to tell you?”

He stares. “Who do I need to thank for creating this monster?”

It was a joke, clearly, but you couldn’t help but feel the little pool of pride swell within you anyway. 

“Salad bowl girl.”

“And I’m supposed to know what that means? Do you want a salad bowl? I can make you one.”

“No. The girl in your class this morning with that god awful salad bowl,” you huff. “It looked offensive, she was too busy burning holes into you.”

“Oh no,” he whispers, eyes wide, mouth turning it the beginnings of a hysterical laugh. “My pretty little wife is jealous.”

“If you’re gonna rub it in, I'm getting off.” You try to remove yourself from his lap, slipping his now soft member out of you. 

You’re stopped when you feel the two points of his elbows locking you at the waist, pushing you down. He’s grinning like a fool. “You’re sexy when you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry—”

“Your hello was my dick in your mouth.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

“I’d fire myself in the kiln before I ever say that.” He locks his elbows harder, pulling you closer. “Besides, I think this means I’ve won.”

“Won what?”

“Like you’ve never noticed Chan looking at you like…like he’s got some puppy dog crush on you. I’ve won the battle of composure.” 

You guffaw, “What are you—stop it, he does not!”

He merely leans forward and kisses you, “I don’t blame him. My wife is the most gorgeous thing anyone could ever see.” 

Grabbing him by the elbows, you break free of his hold and get off of his lap, attempting to gather the clothes you’ve scattered across the studio. 

“Can you at least help me put my dick back inside my pants, these are my cleaner jeans!”

Snapping the elastic of your bra back on, pantied adjusted, you walk back to him. He’s looking at you with those stupid stars in his eyes and it makes it hard to focus on readjusting his jeans for him. 

Leaning down, you take in your hands his still wet cock, smothered in your spit and arousal, complete with his own release. You can’t help it when you dip further to take his head into your mouth, the groan coming from above you near automatic. 

“Oh, you’re evil.”

You grin as you wrap your mouth in a harsher suck, feeling him harden slowly, still quicker than you’d thought. Giving him a few more generous sucks, you run your tongue over his slit before moving back. 

He’s breathing heavily, leaning close as you pull his waistband up. “You know, they say you should lay down afterwards if you want to be successful. I think we might have to go again later on a real bed to do the trick.”

“You can stay horny, I’m getting dressed for some real food.” 

“I think we kinda need to be horny to do what we’re trying to do,” he lowtones, moving his face back and forth to meet your drifting eyes. 

You sigh once again, “Why can’t just getting off birth control be enough?”

“Are you not having fun?”

“I’m literally buttoning your pants for you, it was fun until now.”

Mingyu raises his hands in both surrender and pointed regard, the clay now dried and cracking over his hands and forearms. “I digress.”

 It annoys you that he’s right, so you lean in to give him a kiss as a distraction. It works. 

“It’s alright,” he smiles into your kiss. “This is the one thing I won’t mind breaking my back for.”

The giggle escapes you before you can help it, and you feel him kiss at your cheeks, placing one last one on the tip of your nose.

“Now, if my lovely wife will let me wash my hands…?”

“Go,” you chuckle.

“We should name our baby Salad Bowl in this honour.” He’s way at the handwash station by now, water running as he scrubs off all the dried up clay.

“So sad our baby will have to grow up without a father.”

 “I love you,” he yells. 

“I’ll be sure to tell our child.” 

“You’re insufferable,” he says, suddenly behind you as you pull on your blouse. Wet hands grasp your waist and you squeal at the feeling. 

“Mingyu!” 

“I love you,” he drags, spinning you around to face him. 

“I thought I was insufferable.”

Your husband groans, simply pulling you into him with his own two hands to kiss you. 

“I think we’re late for our reservation.”

“You’d better hurry then.” You eye his clay speckled shirt.

“Don’t miss me.” He turns around to find his cleaner shirt, all while you drift over to see the incomplete project still on his table.

A mug still clay-brown and half done, but one that looks suspiciously similar to your favourite one you broke last week. 

[starlightgum]

[Honest] Na Baek Jin x Reader (NSFW)

Synopsis: You’ve been dating the head of the Union and childhood sweetheart, Na Baek Jin, for some time now. Your boyfriend was everything you imagined him to be and more: loving, kind, and caring.

Despite all his qualities, his packed schedule and work kept him busy and away from you. As you grow restless with the passing of the days without seeing him, you end up missing him terribly and finally decide to pay him a visit in his personal office.

Warnings: Explicit (+18)

Note: This is quite the first piece of writing I’ve ever uploaded, I loved Weak Hero Class 2 and the lack of Baek Jin works were honestly disheartening, so I had to step in. This is not proofread nor corrected, also, please keep in mind that English is not my first language. It’s entirely self-indulgent!

✦✧✦✧

You shift in your shoes before looking up to the metal door in front of you. The hallway where you were accompanied by one of the guys at the front gate from the bowling club was empty but well illuminated.

You knew the man inside the room was waiting for you, as he was informed beforehand of your presence. Regardless, you knocked out of respect, bumping your knuckles twice and waited.

Placing your hand on the knob, you didn’t twist it until you heard a clear and deep “enter” echo throughout the walls.

As you opened the door, you peered inside until your eyes found the other set of inquiring and sharp ones, steadily expecting you from his table.

Setting your foot inside, you notice his usually hard gaze visibly softening. You close the door behind you before dropping your school bag onto the sofa unceremoniously and slowly making your way to his desk.

Your follow the edge of the table with your finger as you cast a quick glance at his surroundings. On the desk there were neatly arranged pens, a box with organized files, and color-coded documents.

Near his hand were his water bottle, his two phones, his personal and work one, and in the corner tucked safely were his keys, hanging with a small charm with your initial matching with your own B hanging from your bag.

A gift you gave him the first week you began dating, which he gladly accepted with a small smile and a pat on your head, although curiously asking why.

You knew everything about him when you began dating—his status, his work, and especially his enemies, so you also knew you couldn’t endanger him or yourself by giving out your relationship so easily.

Normal things like uploading your couple pictures online to boast him to your friends, hanging around in the city at any time, or having your photo in his phone case—those small variables were risks

You knew, and you accepted everything that loving him entailed. That’s why you had to be subtle. Even if it felt a bit overwhelming at times.

Baek Jin on his side was setting the documents he was holding before on the surface and turning his chair towards you, all without ever stopping looking at you ever since you walked into the room.

As he came to face you, he slowly rolled his very tense shoulders until his back was fully resting against the chair. His stare slowly drinking you in, as he was recharging from not seeing you physically for days. A slow smile started to form on his face.

The white turtleneck was hugging his torso nicely, topped with a light black jacket and some wasted dark jeans. A comfortable attire you suppose he changed into after classes when he was working at his "business".

His hair was nicely brushed and neatly kept, just the way he liked. The white light coming from the lamp was showing a nice contrast to his profile, which made his features look even sharper if possible.

You wondered how he managed to look so well-kept and dressed with how little time he had and how little he rested.

“Have you eaten yet? It’s nearly dinner time, y'know,” you muttered, while letting yourself appreciate the fond expression on his face, only reserved for you.

Baek Jin was a very hardworking man. He was always busy; when he wasn’t studying, he was volunteering; when he wasn’t doing extracurricular activities, he was working in the union; and when he wasn’t being a multitask man, he was also your boyfriend. 

And the fact is, that you missed your boyfriend very much.

“I was waiting for you, actually” he mused when you got close enough that your knees touched. He was sitting with his legs in a relaxed, wide stance, a hand supporting his chin, as he analyzed every single detail, from your shoes to your hair—a routine you got used to.

True to his high capacities, he was also a thoroughly observant individual; he always took care of his belongings. He also could only trust a few people, which he could count in one hand. For these few particular beings, he would do anything to ensure their safety, be it fight for them or kill for them. Therefore, he needed to be strong, sharp, aware, and instinctual. Which didn’t always play in your favor.

“Is that so? If I hadn’t come, would you have starved?” You half-jokingly asked with a small grin as you raised your hand to poke his forehead to ease the tension in his brows as he took notice of your demeanor.

From the exterior, you looked relaxed, a playful facade playing on your face, but your eyes couldn’t lie to him, nor your body.

You were fidgeting in place, unconsciously switching from fixing on his lips up to his sharp eyes repeatedly ever since you came into his field of vision.

And you should know better by now. You could never fool a man like Baek Jin, not him.

He suddenly took your wrist and pulled you closer. To avoid falling, you reflexively put up a knee in between his much bigger legs to balance yourself and he held your hip with a strong grip with his other hand to keep you upright.

“I know for a fact my demanding girlfriend wouldn’t leave me hungry; isn’t that so, love?” He answered with a knowing smirk, muttering the last infatuating nickname as he inched even closer until your noses bumped.

This only deepened the already shade of red forming on your face, and you tried to hide yourself from his penetrating stare into his neck. As you breathed in you noticed the smell of his expensive cologne, a sweet scent mixed with an edge of soft lavender and coconut blend.

Knowing you like the back of his hand, he rotated the chair until you were trapped between his chest and the edge of the table, effectively throwing you out of balance in the small space.

You held on to his lean chest with both of your hands, wildly meeting up an already amused expression looking down at you.

In this position, you were forced to straddle him, his strong arms encapsulating you and not letting you escape. You resignedly sat on his toned thighs as the embarrassment wasn’t stilling inside your body yet. Your uniform skirt slightly riding up as the position didn’t make it any easier.

“You’re not being fair; I came to pick you up for dinner, and you’re trying to-” you tried to struggle to avoid looking into his perceptive eyes and the hot fanning breath near your lips.

“You think I don’t know you?” He muses while wetting his lips once, your focus entirely falling into that action. “You need to be more honest with your intentions; you know better than anyone I would never deny you” as he dipped down to your ear, he whispered “anything.”

His hands slip until they rest on your half-covered thighs, thumbs rubbing small, feathery circles.

You visibly shudder in his hold, which makes him let out a low laugh you could’ve easily missed if his mouth wasn’t right next to your ear. You reach back to look up to see the damned face of your unpredictable boyfriend and notice a single strand of hair adorning his face from the movement, making him look insufferably more handsome.

You sit like this for a few moments. Baek Jin alternating between circles and taps on your thighs as he waited for you to answer, looking like he had all the time in the world to spare.

You sigh and realise there was no escape; you would have to talk.

“It's just that I missed you, I-” you mutter looking down again, focusing on his bobbing Adam apple instead to gather some courage to speak up.

However, he was having none of that, as he takes your chin almost immediately and raises it until you have to slightly crane your neck to look into his dark eyes.

“I like to be looked in the eyes when I’m being spoken to,” he demands with a warning tone that makes your back stand upright. “I can barely hear you either, dear.” He points while fake-disapprovingly shaking his head.

As he waits for your answer, his lips never leave the slight smirk, so when your shy stare finally meets his waiting eyes, his side smile only deepens until one of his sharp canines shows.

“I want us to go have dinner at that restaurant from last week again-” you start slowly, Baek Jin slowly nods as he was making a mental note to check off later.

“I’ll make time for you, just say which day” he simply answers and gives an appreciative squeeze to your hip with his large hands that sends shivers from your back till your neck.

“Also I want you to-, I want you to kiss me,” he hums affirmatively, and starts by leaving an innocent little peck on your cheek before going for another one lower on your neck.

Your reactions weren’t going unnoticed by him; the way your breaths were coming out uneven, your skin progressively heating up, and your eyelids fighting to stay open every time his lips came in contact your skin.

Leaving a wet path behind, he trailed even lower, the next kiss pressing harder into your neck.

He knew that was your weak spot. He was clearly messing around with you, and you were letting him get away with it.

Suddenly you feel his teeth slightly grazing your skin, which catches you off guard and accidentally clench your thighs around his own.

As you instinctively grind closer to Baek Jin, you feel something hard pressing into you through the clothes. A tinge of pleasure runs across your center.

At this, he suddenly halts his ministrations to hold you against him on the same spot, not letting you bulge an inch.

“And then what, beautiful?” He asks in a low, deep teasing tone only meant for you to hear, as if it were a secret. Slightly panting, he rises up his head to his height. From your position, you notice his eyes momentarily unfocused, desire pooling his dilated pupils.

His hands follow his gaze, thumb caressing your pouting bottom lip, slowly tracing the line from one corner to the other. He adjusts himself in the seat making you brush yourself against him again. You barely manage to muffle a sound coming from your throat at the feeling.

As the seconds go by, he grows more and more restless.

Surely, patience was one of Baek Jin’s best qualities. But even the strongest of the Union couldn’t hold himself back when his very own fantasy came true was sitting so prettily on his lap, in his own office.

You try to blink away the coming tears of frustration adorning your wet eyelashes. Not being able to wait any second longer, you let the distress from all these past days come forward on your next words.

“A-And I want you to fuck me.” You whimper the last words as you fist the jacket of the man beneath you. You needed him, badly. “P-Please Baek Jin”.

His eyelids drop lower as a satisfied lazy grin spreads on his face. He stands up while easily lifting you up from your upper thighs, letting your legs hang on from his hips. You hold onto his broad shoulders tightly to bring yourself impossibly closer to him.

Clearing the desk with one hand, he slips your back on the surface while speaking a promise onto your lips. “As you wish, my love.”

✦✧✦✧

[joojconverts]

4T3 Conversion of HistoricalSimsLife's CC Catalogue

So… here we are, haha! This is the grand project I’ve been working on for about three months now! I made a promise to all of you, so I’m here not only to fulfill that promise and make a bit of a comeback but also to celebrate reaching the incredible milestone of 3,000 FOLLOWERS!!!

I’m so grateful to all of you for everything that has happened since I joined this community, it’s one of the little shining points of my life, lol. So, let me give back by bringing your sims MORE THAN 150 pieces of CC, including clothes, hairstyles, accessories, and buy mode objects!

You’ve probably already guessed that I have A LOT to say about this set, so please, follow me after the cut! 💖

Hope you like it, enjoy!

In this compilation are included sets, mini-sets and standalone pieces that the original creator made! Posepacks, patterns, mods, and pieces categorized as “modern” are not included! HistoricalSimsLife has a lot of 3T4 conversions, and naturally they're also not included EXCEPT for the ones that are mesh edits (e.g. here and here)! TSM to 4 conversions are also not included, as you can find every item converted to TS3 here by votenga! I also re-converted CC that I had previously converted before, such as the printing press set and the dandy suit!

————— —————

I'll link the CC just so you know what I'm talking about!

Known Problems:

Most of the time the sleeping animation that comes with the One With Nature mod looks off when making your sim sleep under the prehistoric lean-to shelter. I'm not sure why but instead of sleeping horizontally they sleep vertically, so they clip with the branches that are on the floor. Two times while I was testing they slept horizontally tho, so I'm not sure if I can fix it. Sorry!!

The drawer (chest) of the Kativip Library set doesn't have an animation!

The telescope's eyepiece looks a bit off when a sim is using it. The way the mesh is made is very different from ts3's telescopes, and it would be quite hard to make it looks seamless and also it wouldn't look good, as ts3's telescopes all look kinda silly imo hahah. Hope you don't mind it very much!

The celtic cape might clip depending on the clothes being used and the animation being played!

The round weave rug of the Rustic Living Set generates some white lines when zooming really far out. I thought it was UV map, but I tweaked it and they're still showing up. It's only apparent if you look closely tho!

LIGHTING GLITCHES ONLY APPEAR ON CAS!

* Note that teens and elders have neck gaps. This is sadly the price for having them available! For teens, try using this and this slider by gruesim!

Please let me know if you find any problems!

————— —————

ALL OG CREDITS GO T​O @historicalsimslife, Kativip and EA/Maxis! IT'S NOT MY MESHES, AND IT’S NOT MY TEXTURES, I JUST CONVERTED THEM TO THE SIMS 3!

————— —————  

Buckle up now...

NOTES & INFO:

The whole catalogue is quite low-poly and gameplay friendly, so don’t worry about that!

The whole catalogue is categorized into folders once you extract the zip, so you can pick and choose if you're playing in a specific era!

The buy mode items have collection files so you can find them a lot easier (except for the crib, the map painting and the aztek sink)! Just put them inside your "collections" folder in ts3's documents folder!

I highly recommend using the One With Nature mod by @spheresims while using the prehistoric collection!

The printing press letter plate works as a functional computer, and it's categorized as so!

The printing press desk and chair both have 4 matching presets! They're all different wood presets!

The hollow food storage works as a functional fridge for your prehistoric sims!

The Pile of Rocks cave works as, you guessed it, a cave! Actually no lol, it works as a tent, and your sims can sleep inside! It also has 5 presets, all stone textures, first one is an overlay, the rest is recolorable!

The sleeping underlay works as a sleeping bag! It has 2 recolorable presets!

The Skyrim lean-to has 2 presets! First one has an overlay texture, second one is recolorable!

The prehistoric lean-to shelter has 7 presets. The last one (fur) is recolorable, the others are overlays!

The rustic living set has two bed frames (single and double bed) and two matresses! All you need to do is to put the bed frame first, and then the matress on top of it, now you have two separate objects that can be customized!

The weave rug has 6 recolorable presets!

The round weave rug has 7 presets, and they're all combinations of recolorable and overlayed parts!

Both love seats and both bed frames of the rustic living set have 3 presets, different types of wood! Not recolorable.

The matresses also have 3 presets, they're combinations of overlayed and recolorable parts!

The old map painting has 4 non-recolorable presets!

The aztek sink has 4 presets, and they're combinations of overlayed and recolorables parts except for the last one! It also works as a functional sink!

The two empty boockases of the Katvip library set work as displays, so there are many slots for you to put decor on!

All hats/caps are hat-slider compatible and unissex!

The Dandy Lady hat (renamed it from ts3's hairstyle) has 3 different versions: One with feathers (that I made), one without them, and one without feathers nor decorations (renamed as Gone to Riding Hat)! You need to have V1 installed for the textures of the other two to show up, as they're linked!

The maid dress has 4 different versions (i know the post says 3 but it's 4 lol), as you can see on the preview! They work just like the Dandy Lady hat, above!

The Pirate Dress has an overlay you can find in accessories! Using it with the outfit you can recolor the belt and the buckle! If you don't use the accessory, those parts will just be a usual overlay texture!

You need to use a no feet mesh to use the Boy's 1700s Frock Coat, you can find one here!

The Boy's 1700s Frock Coat has has an overlay accessory, same thing as the Pirate Dress! With it you can recolor the belt, the pockets and the buckle!

The Edwardian Tea In The Garden dress has 6 presets, 5 of them are floral overlays, and the last one is a solid version.

The Regency Morning Dress has 11 presets. First one is a solid version, the last four are patterned overlays, and the rest are recolorable patterns.

The Ester Wedding Dress has 4 recolorable presets, the patterns of the bodice change!

The Simply Rococo Dress has 15 totally recolorable patterned presets!

The Embroided Rococo Dress has 2 presets: the first one is the original texture as an overlay, and the second one is a recolorable version of it (though not as good, since it's a very complicated texture).

The Vintage Men's Exercise Outfit has 6 patterned presets, all recolorable!

The Edwardian Men's underwear and the Edwardian Men's nightgown both have 2 presets, one striped and one solid. Both recolorable!

The Dandy Suit has 9 presets, first one's solid and the rest are patterned, all recolorable!

The Celtic Warrior Outfit has 2 presets. In the first one the plaid is an overlay, original texture. In the second one you can change it however you want using CASt!

The Bodacious Boy Suit has 2 presets! The mask is different, so you can recolour different parts!

The Vintage Girl's Dress With Bows has 8 presets, one of them is a solid version, another one is a recolorable patterned preset, and the rest are patterned overlays!

The Colonial Living Girl's Dress has 5 presets, last one is a solid recolorable version, and the rest are patterned overlays!

The Victorian Tweed Dress Top has 6 presets. The last one is a totally recolorable preset, the other 5 are overlay presets!

The Celtic Dress Top has 2 presets. First one is a long sleeved version, and the second is a vest like top with long sleeved white shirt underneath. Both recolorable!

The Victorian Tweed Dress Skirt has 6 presets, same thing as the top!

The Celtic Dress Skirt has 2 presets. First one has an apron with it, and the second one doesn't! Both recolorable.

I think that’s all haha! Now to the download! <3

G-Drive |  Dropbox

☕  buy me a coffee or become a patron!

————— —————

Credits & Special Thanks:

@historicalsimslife, Kativip and EA/Maxis for all the meshes and textures! Check out the full catalogue here!

Thank you @deniisu-sims, @suteflower, @sideshowsnob and @twinsimming for the general support (and help, where needed lol) when creating this collection!

💖 @eternalccfinds @katsujiiccfinds @sisilou @darkccfinds @xto3conversionsfinds @wanderingsimsfinds

[aleese1111]

Continue the seongje and baekjin one shot, plss 😭 I love your writing btw

three wolves, one flame three | geum seong je x union!reader x na baek jin

summary: she disappears for three days. the group chat stays active, but her silence buzzes louder than the messages. when she comes back, no one asks for an apology—but some things still need saying.

warnings: [slow burn] violence, blood, emotional repression, miscommunication, bruises, language, toxic coping, mild angst, vulnerability, references to mental strain, unhealthy attachment .

author's note: this is lowkey boring . next chapter i will end some fights, maybe . requests ,,

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , .. two .. three .. ??

she didn’t show up the next day.

or the day after.

she didn’t say anything in the group chat either, just read messages and left them on delivered. the trio thread kept lighting up—seong je sending blurry photos of some idiot who thought he could run with their stuff, his bruised knuckles front and center in half the shots. baek jin replied with deadpan sarcasm as usual:

you get off on sending crime scene selfies or what at least wipe the blood next time, dumbass.

she left no reaction. no thumbs-up. no eye roll. just silence.

seong je didn’t say anything about it, but every time the chat buzzed and her read receipt popped up, he stared a little longer than he needed to. his replies grew shorter. more photos, less commentary.

baek jin didn’t press her either. he already knew where she was—texted once, got a vague “need space,” and left it at that.

by the time she walked into the office again, three days had passed.

the air smelled like microwave ramen and disinfectant. the arcade outside was still warming up—machines humming, half-lit—but inside the office, baek jin sat alone at the desk, mechanical pencil in one hand, a half-solved sudoku in the other.

she didn’t say anything at first. just walked in like she’d never left, dropped her tote bag by the couch, and moved to the filing cabinet near the wall.

baek jin didn’t look up. “you look like shit.”

“thanks.” she pulled open the drawer, flipping through documents with more precision than necessary.

silence.

“you okay?” he asked, quieter.

she paused. “eventually.”

he nodded once. “fair.”

she didn’t look at him. “did you keep the delivery records from last week?”

“top drawer. labeled in red.”

she found them, tucked them under one arm, and started organizing them into the accordion folder she’d abandoned three days ago. her movements were stiff—robotic, almost—but her eyes didn’t have that wild look anymore. just tired.

“i saw the chat,” she said suddenly, still facing the files.

baek jin raised an eyebrow. “yeah?”

“seong je’s still trying to impress us with his selfies.”

“he’s consistent, i’ll give him that.”

she didn’t reply. just clicked the folder shut and slung it under her arm like a shield. “i need to take these to the garage.”

baek jin leaned back in his chair, watching her go. “try not to set it on fire.”

“i’ll try.”

she left without another word.

@ . !

the motorcycle garage still smelled like sweat and oil, like time hadn’t passed since the last argument cracked through its walls.

seong je was slouched on the couch in his corner, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, doing whatever it was he did when no one told him not to—probably scrolling, probably brooding, or both. his school shirt was off again—just a tank top now, stained with grease—and his hands were already a mess of oil and old blood, wrapped haphazardly in gauze.

he heard her before he saw her.

she walked in with the folder hugged to her chest, eyes scanning the shelves for the logbooks that matched her records. she didn’t acknowledge him. not at first.

seong je didn’t move, but his eyes tracked her. “didn’t die after all,” he said flatly.

she didn’t look up. “sorry to disappoint.”

“you ghosted.”

“i needed air.”

he let the silence stretch. then: “baek jin knew?”

“of course he did.”

his jaw tensed. “right.”

she moved to the shelves, tugging out a binder, flipping through it like she was looking for something worth fighting about. but her hands were steadier than before.

“you mad at me or just at the world again?” he asked, not moving from where he stood.

she glanced at him—finally. her face unreadable. “if i was mad at you, you’d know.”

“that a threat?”

“no,” she said, softer now. “a fact.”

the silence that followed was brittle, but not sharp. just... unsure.

he watched her for a second longer, then went back to the caliper, voice quieter this time. “i thought maybe something happened. something worse.”

she froze for just a second before kneeling beside the lower shelf, pretending to search again. “why would you think that?”

“you left. no word. that’s not you.”

“it is when i’m not interested in a second breakdown in the span of a week.”

he didn’t respond to that right away.

then, voice low: “you don’t have to disappear to handle your shit.”

“i do when it’s loud.”

“...was it me?”

she blinked at the shelf. slowly. “you didn’t help.”

“good,” he muttered, tone sharpening. “because i’m not gonna play nice just ‘cause you cry once.”

“didn’t ask you to.”

“good.”

she shut the binder.

they stared at each other again. neither moved.

then—somehow gentler—seong je spoke. “i didn’t mean to scare you. that night. i just... i get stupid when i think we’re losing something.”

she exhaled slowly, standing back up. “then stop getting stupid.”

he smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

she moved toward the desk near the corner, setting the folder down. her posture eased a little, like the fight had already drained out of her. like whatever she’d been holding in those missing days had been emptied somewhere between baek jin’s silence and this garage’s stale heat.

“i’m not mad,” she said finally.

he didn’t reply. just nodded, once.

“and i didn’t cry,” she added flatly.

he snorted. “sure. must’ve been rain indoors.”

she rolled her eyes and flipped open the folder. “shut up and hand me the maintenance logs.”

he passed them over without a word, but when their fingers brushed, just briefly—she didn’t pull away.

@ . !

the garage was quiet. not just physically—quiet in that crawling, weighty way that meant something unsaid was hanging in the air, uninvited and unwelcome.

she finished shuffling through the folders, double-checking figures on her phone with one hand while holding the corner of a page with the other. she didn’t make a sound until she shut the last file closed with a dull thunk against the desk.

seong je hadn’t moved. still on the couch, one leg bent under the other, his fingers idle now, phone dark on his thigh.

she turned slowly, stretched her arms overhead until her back cracked, then walked over. he didn’t say anything, just watched her as she dropped down next to him like it was nothing. like she hadn’t ghosted the groupchat. like she hadn’t gone missing. like he hadn’t noticed.

she pulled a cigarette from her pocket. offered him one, wordless.

he took it.

the first drag was silence. so was the second. the air filled with smoke and something sharp that had nothing to do with nicotine.

“…you good?” he asked eventually, not looking at her.

she exhaled through her nose. “yeah.”

that was all she gave him.

he nodded once, jaw flexing like he was weighing his next words, then letting them drop.

she leaned back into the couch, staring ahead at nothing. the kind of stare that meant her thoughts were somewhere else—untouchable, maybe even to herself.

he lit his second drag. “baek jin didn’t say anything either.”

she glanced sideways at that, just briefly. “he knew.”

“hm.”

they sat there in that stillness for a while, smoke curling above their heads, shoulders brushing occasionally in that too-familiar way that meant something used to be here, maybe still is, maybe not.

“…next time,” seong je said, after a moment, “just send a blank message or something. so i don’t gotta keep guessing if i should start digging.”

she flicked ash into the tray. “you don’t need to guess.”

“still did.”

she didn’t say anything.

didn’t have to.

then, softer—quiet enough that it could’ve been for her or for himself—he added, “hard not to.”

that silence after hit different. not sharp. not cold. just real.

she didn’t look at him. didn’t flinch either. just sat there, smoke slipping past her lips like it didn’t matter.

but it did.

even if neither of them said so.

the cigarette burned low between her fingers. seong je had already stubbed his out, leaning forward with elbows on knees, eyes low, jaw set in that unreadable way of his.

she tapped ash into the tray again. “you ever gonna say what’s actually bothering you?”

he blinked. a beat passed. then he gave a breath of a laugh—more air than sound.

“didn’t think we were doing that now.”

“maybe we are,” she said, voice flat. “maybe i’m asking.”

he leaned back, stretching his arms behind the couch. the motion pulled his shirt tight across his chest, scars visible under the loose neckline.

“…i thought you weren’t coming back,” he muttered. it wasn’t accusatory. just honest.

she didn’t answer right away. the truth sat heavy behind her teeth.

then—quiet—“i almost didn’t.”

that shut him up for a second.

he turned his head to look at her. really look.

“you leaving for good wouldn’t have surprised me,” he said. “but not saying anything would’ve.”

she looked straight ahead. “i didn’t owe anyone a goodbye.”

“but you left us on read,” he said. “that’s worse.”

that earned him a look, finally. she wasn’t angry. just tired.

“you make it sound like i ghosted my high school friends. i needed time. that’s it.”

“you left me wondering if i fucked up,” he said plainly. “and baek jin kept saying nothing. that’s how i knew something was off.”

she pulled her legs up onto the couch, cigarette now mostly forgotten in the tray.

“…baek jin saw something he wasn’t supposed to.”

he arched a brow but didn’t press. didn’t need to. whatever it was, he filed it away behind that quiet demeanor of his.

she tilted her head back against the couch, closing her eyes for a moment. “i’m here now. that’s all that matters.”

“that all?”

she didn’t answer.

a knock echoed from the other end of the garage—a metal-on-metal tap against the doorframe. baek jin stood there, leaned against it, holding two plastic bags.

“you two gonna sit in your own smoke all day, or you want shitty convenience store food?” he asked.

seong je didn’t move. “depends. you get the melon milk?”

baek jin nodded. “one for each of you.”

she stood, brushing ash from her jeans. “then i’m in.”

as she walked past him toward the back table, baek jin’s eyes met seong je’s. something unreadable passed between them.

then seong je stood too, cracking his neck with a quiet roll of his shoulders.

back to normal. almost.

but not quite.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , .. two .. three.. ??

[dellieghtful]

[ZAYNE] LADS: Saying Things They Don't Mean

🍓A/N: Here comes another one >:3 we'll start off with the angsty and then I'll give u guys the groveling & yearning \\( •̀ω•́ )// I'm going to try and write for all the guys before I decide to release a longer series for this

SYNOPSIS: After a bad day, you both end up in an argument and to say the least, some things are truly better off left unsaid.

Masterlist | Rulebook | Tags

📍Character/s: Zayne

Tags: @animegamerfox @justanotherreader658

Xavier | Rafayel

Today just wasn't the day. It was surgery after surgery, consultation after consultation. The work just kept coming non-stop for the entire day and despite Zayne's cool and calm exterior, he was nearing the brink of exhaustion. Working an additional and unexpected 8-hour shift was not in his bingo card for this week. The worst part? He missed out a date with you. The only free day he was supposed to have was spent on another shift because the hospital was short-staffed as of the moment. Despite you, being kind and understanding partner with Zayne and his busy schedule, he couldn't help but feel guilty about not being able to exactly provide all your needs and wants just like any other partner would be capable of providing.

Capable. Was he even capable of taking care of you? At some points throughout your relationship, Zayne would go through the process of self-doubt. Funny, you'd think the man who just has about everything one needs before the age of 30 would doubt himself and his own capabilities?

Zayne would often ask himself if he was deserving enough to be sheltered with such love and kindness. Rubbing his temples, attempting to soothe the ache, he prepares and calls in his next patient to cater for the hour.

Zayne had worked himself to death that day, morning to night. If he'd look out the window right now, he could give out an estimate that it's way past 6:00PM. 6:50PM at most, I should've have gotten home about an hour ago. At home, with you. Zayne could feel himself take in a deep breathe and let out an exhausted sigh as he continued to eye the never-ending pile of documents on his table.

Zayne, choosing to not dwell on it, took out another pile and began skimming through the contents and carefully planting his signature at the last page of the file before tucking it away. Zayne had followed this smooth and gentle rhythm of opening folders, flipping the pages, then signing the documents. Unknowingly being stuck in a trance, Zayne had not realize the soft knocks coming from his door.

You were on the other side of the door, patiently waiting for Zayne's smooth and calm voice to give you the go-signal to come inside the room. You passed by the reception not too long ago, asking for your oh-so busy doctor of a boyfriend. Yvonne, had informed you that Zayne was busy being locked up in his office. You, then decided, to take yourself to his office with a fresh bag of takeout for dinner. You know with Zayne's busy schedule at the hospital, he probably skipped out a meal or two, not to mention you were both supposed to spend his free day to celebrate your 7th month of being officially together as a couple.

It had been a good 5 minutes and Zayne had not yet called out or come to open the door for you. You, then decided to give it another try before touching the knob of the door and pushing it open. You hadn't told Zayne you were coming today because you hoped to surprise him at work and spend the remainder of the night with him to keep him company before going home for the day.

"My love," Zayne called out, pulling himself out of the focused trance he put himself with the documents he had in hand. Sparing not a second longer, he stood up and walked towards you to cup your face and welcome you with such a warm gaze. "You did not tell me you were coming in today," He continued, already-eyeing the bags that you were holding which he presumes are dinner take-outs.

"I wanted to see you today," You started, moving your eyes past him and focusing your gaze towards the growing pile of paper works on his table. You couldn't help but scrunch your brows. "You've been overworking yourself again today".

Zayne already knew where you heading with this conversation. You and Zayne had always had the tendency to argue about his overworking habit that he can somehow never get over despite you always bringing up your concern about his health. You were his girlfriend, it was part of your job description to look after your boyfriend. Wasn't it?

Or does my opinion of him mean little of value to him?

And with that single thought, it made your heart ache a little. But, you quickly pushed that thought away in hopes of spending the remainder of the night in a good mood with a simple dinner takeout with your boyfriend.

"I brought you dinner!" You said, putting up a smile and bringing the bags of takeout in front of Zayne's face, hoping to change the subject and bring a up a better mood into the atmosphere of Zayne's office.

"I was hoping we could spend some time together over dinner. I didn't bother texting about my visit since I knew you'd be swamped with work". You said, going around your 6-foot something boyfriend and heading over to the coffee table near the couches to place the food on the table.

"I really appreciate the gesture but, you really didn't have too." Zayne said, breaking the silence between the both of you as you sat on opposite ends of the table. "Oh don't be like that. You've been working a lot lately, this is the least I can do to support my very hardworking boyfriend". You responded, with a small smile decorating your face as you pick up your meal and shove a spoonful of it in your mouth, happily chewing away your meal.

"No, I mean, you can't keep making unannounced visits here especially during the busier days". Zayne responded, taking off his glasses, and rubbing the curved space in-between his forehead and nose bridge as if attempting to ease an incoming headache. "You know how many people I have to cater from morning to night. I'd appreciate it if you could at least give me a heads-up before you come inside here like it's your second home".

"What are you saying?" You stared at him, as you carefully drop the spoon back into the box of takeout and placing the box onto the table. "I'm sorry, I didn't think I needed to book an appointment to come see my boyfriend after a busy work day".

"Well, maybe it is something to take into consideration the next time you do visit". Zayne had responded. What on earth was going on with him today? You knew where this conversation was already heading yet he chooses to act this way after you spent time out of your day-off to come visit and enjoy a good meal with him? As if the mere idea of seeing you, the mere thought of spending time with you wasn't part of his rigidly-made schedule for the day. Was being here in his presence a nuisance to him?

"Are you really going to pull this up on me now, Zayne? Come on. I just wanted to come see you today."

"Well, I never asked for your company in the first place".

And that was what set off the already-ticking bomb of self-destruction in your heart. "Okay, it's fine I understand. I didn't think being here would bring so much imbalance to your perfect schedule".

Not bothering to pick-up your meal, you quickly grabbed your bag and coat and walked towards the door, already reaching out and grabbing the knob to twist it open. You felt Zayne's presence from behind you and whipped your entire body towards his direction. "Happy first and last Zayne. I hope you find what you need with your work. Good night". Then bang, the door was closed shut, leaving Zayne at a loss for words. He fucked up and he knew that, but why couldn't he move and run out to chase you?

It didn't matter anymore what he chose to do. Your heart was breaking into tiny pieces and your vision, growing even more blurry by the passing second as you picked up your pace, walking further and further away from his office, from him.

Part 2 | Coming soon . . .

[g0dlyunsub]

make you mine.

spencer notices that you’ve been skipping a few too many team socials.

pairing :: spencer x fem bau!reader

warnings :: romantic confessions, mentions of alcohol, mental health, hurt/comfort, plenty of fluff, spencer is a huge softie

word count :: 2.3k

author’s note :: don’t think i’ve written anything where reader and spencer confess their feelings for each other?? anyways here’s to more hurt/comfort 

accompanying song :: sugar by brockhampton

“who’s up for drinks at o’keefe’s?”

a loud cheer erupts as the elevator doors open and reveals garcia standing in front of the entrance with a gleeful smile.

“count me in!” jj raises a hand and emily promptly follows suit. the two giggle as they lean in to embrace the tech analyst festively decorated with bright red jewelry.

when rossi declares the first round’s on me! the room breaks into an even louder celebration, whistles and applause sounding left and right.

moving past the crowd with a few happy chants of your own, you finally settle in your seat and stretch. sighing, you shuffle through the pile of case files sitting on your desk and stuff several into your shoulder bag. you tie up your hair and take out a pen from your pencil holder. once again exhaling with a deep sigh, you flip through the remaining manila folders, ready to document all of the evidence after today’s investigation.

“you’re coming, right?”

you crane your neck to your left to identify the source of the voice and see morgan, hands on his hips as he scans your face for your usual smile teeming with enthusiasm. you offer a feeble smile instead, shaking your head as you point to the case file you’re working on.

“i’d really love to, but… this paper isn’t going to write itself.”

“oh come on, not again. when’s it due?”

“tomorrow noon,” you mumble, gently rolling your head to the side to relieve the pain that’s been begging for release.

“you’re kidding. well, text me if you need a hand, or if you just want company.” morgan pats your back and turns around to leave, but not without first flashing you a wink. you watch as he slings his arm around garcia’s shoulder and as the rest of the team follow the pair out of the office, each giving you a wave before they disappear into the elevator.

“you’re not going?”

you turn around to see spencer, who’s just coming out of hotch’s office and holding a case file of his own. he turns off the lights upstairs and walks down the stairs, stopping once he’s in front of your desk.

“oh, um, no. i just need to finish writing this up really quickly, and then i’ll head back.”

you brush a strand of hair behind your ear and turn in your seat to get back to work, but spencer pulls up a chair beside you.

“that’s the third time in a row you’ve said no to them. you okay?”

you sit still for a second, unsure of how to respond. when spencer leans his elbow on the side of your desk, you know he’s not going to leave without an answer, so you look back at him hesitantly.

“yeah, i’m good. what’s keeping you here?”

“i just left a request to take two days off.”

“oh, nice. yeah, you seriously deserve a break,” you nod and offer a small smile. despite your friendly expression, the tiredness in your voice overrides your genuine words. before you can expose any more of your sluggish lethargy, you revert your attention back to your documents.

“yeah, and so do you.”

you turn to meet his gaze. a serious expression overtakes his usually lax face, tense facial muscles raising his brows and clenching his jaw.

you don’t know how to dispel the air of its building tension so you chuckle, playfully hitting him in the arm and shaking your head. “oh no, that’s- that’s not necessary. i’m fine, spence. besides, i took a break pretty recently.”

you rub your forehead tiredly as you speak and cock your head to the side, as if waiting for spencer’s dismissal so that you can get back to work.

“you haven’t requested a day off in 102 days. that’s 2448 hours.” spencer lowers his chin and studies you with his unwavering eyes. you feel your heart flutter alarmingly at his stare; you swallow slowly.

of course he’d be the one to count the days, no, the exact hour, since your last break. you try to play it off again by nudging him in the elbow, but he looks way too serious, concerned even. your arm hangs in the air with no warmth to latch on to.

“do you want to talk about it?” 

when spencer leans forward, you feel your throat run dry. holding your breath, you weigh your next words very carefully.

“spence, i’m fine. i don’t need the time off.”

“too late.”

“what?” your jaw sets uncomfortably when you hear spencer’s response, and a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes before he quickly narrows them.

“it wasn’t just my request that i submitted. i put in yours as well.”

“wait- wait what?” 

“yeah, hotch just wanted me to leave a physical copy for the sake of documentation. but he approved both of our requests before we even landed.”

“hold up… spence, you just… why would you do that?”

surprisingly, you don’t feel mad. yes, he’s just submitted a leave request without your permission, but maybe this is what you needed. someone to force you to take a break, because otherwise, you’d just work yourself to your death.

“like i said, you haven’t taken a leave in 102 days. constantly overworking yourself is detrimental and can lead to burnout because of the buildup of fatigue. in the long run, it can impair your memory and thinking. so,” he says as he grasps the pen out of your hand and closes your folder, “do you want to talk about it?”

as if he’s perfectly hit your pressure point, the tiredness you’ve been masking this entire time instantly unwinds. you let out a deep, weary sigh.

“you know, two weekends ago, when we went down to south carolina to investigate that case? and i stayed back for a few hours?”

out of the corner of your eye, you see spencer nod.

“well, i met up with a friend from college. we just hung out, you know, tried to catch up with each other.”

when you emit a stressed laugh, spencer reaches for your hand. he gently kneads your palm, and you take it as a signal to continue at your own pace. you turn your head to the side so you can take in the sight of him more fully.

“as we kept talking, i realized how she has so many friends, so much fun outside of her work. she’s even getting married in two months. and i just thought… i honestly wished for a second that she was a little more lonely, like me.”

you close your eyes, instantly regretting your confession. are you really making him listen to your childish concerns? you wish he’d laugh at you, dismiss it as plain stupidity and tell you that you were right to keep it to yourself. but he won’t, because he’s spencer reid.

spencer watches you intently, at how you force out a laugh and brush the tears that are welling up in your eyes. he observes the way you shake your head and refuse to look him in the eye.

“i’m so selfish, aren’t i? this whole thing–it’s so stupid. what am i saying, what am i even doing, wishing for something so foul?” your face crumples as you speak, and the words trail off into an absorbed mumble between your sniffles.

“it’s not stupid. you’re not selfish,” spencer hums quietly, lightly brushing his fingers against your cheek and dragging his thumb across your eyelashes to sweep your tears.

a strangled sob spills from your throat, and you lean into his touch, burying your cheek further into his palm. spencer waits patiently for you to recollect yourself, and coos a constant stream of it’s okay in your ear.

“at first, i thought it was the job, spence,” you finally utter your broken thoughts with a dry laugh, “but then i saw how everyone else was dealing with it. emily, jj, garcia. and then i realized, it’s me.”

spencer swivels your chair and draws you closer to him, so your thighs are lying between his legs. like a confused puppy, you let out a small yelp of surprise.

“you need to understand, y/n, that it takes time to find your rhythm, whether that’s at work, with your social life, or just a new place. so don’t compare yourself to others, because we’re all worried about something, and we’re all at different stages of coping.”

his longing glance breaches your lips, and you lower your eyes shyly. his soft-spokenness, undivided attention, and effortless verbal magic read your emotions like an open book. you don’t have to hide. the tears fall, fast and hard.

“let it all out. it’s okay. it’s always okay to cry, but you know what’s not okay? bottling it up all the time.” he pats your knees and rubs his palms across your trousers soothingly. 

“bottling your feelings constantly, it’s what psychologists call repressive coping. numerous studies have found that repressive coping has been linked to a less resilient immune system, higher vulnerability to cardiovascular disease, as well as proneness to certain mental health conditions, including anxiety and depression,” spencer continues while looking at you sympathetically with his soft brown eyes. 

slowly, you coil your arms around his neck and hold him in a tight embrace. 

“you’re not really fair, spencer, you know that?”

“what do you mean?”

“you can’t just cite all these cool facts when you speak. i don’t have an argument to toss back at you.”

spencer pulls away from the embrace slightly, and looks down at you with eyes full of mirth. he bursts into a small spate of giggles, and it’s contagious, because you also exhale a bubbly laugh.

“i can’t help it,” he breathes quietly, and the air that exits his lips tickles your eyelashes.

spencer continues to watch you with the same stare a sculptor would possess over a block of marble, and breathes warmth into your body. you finally let your arms loose and withdraw from the hug, grinning shyly.

“let me finish this report, and i’ll head back with you. what am i even going to do with the two days off anyways?” 

“i was thinking that we could check out the steam engine festival that’s happening downtown? the 611 is actually the sole surviving member of fourteen class j locomotives produced by the norfolk and western railway, and there’s going to be special excursions reserved for interested passengers.”

you laugh as spencer happily goes on his ramble, and you go back to writing your report – this time with a rejuvenated spirit.

“be honest, spence. you submitted my request because you wanted someone to go with you to this festival, didn’t you?”

“what? no!” spencer shakes his head, but your suspicions only grow when he starts fidgeting with his fingers.

“if you say so,” you grin cheekily, “but i could really use a drink tonight. you coming?”

spencer nods. he waits for you to finish up your edits and sign off the last page of the document, and helps you pack the rest of your belongings into your bag. with a boyish smile, he offers you his elbow, and you loop your arm in his. 

there’s a lot to be thankful for, a lot to be hopeful for, and a lot to love spencer for.

“spencer?” you ask quietly. spencer hums back in response. 

you don’t know why, but a sudden wave of confidence washes over you, urging you to say your next words without holding back.

“i like you.”

you thought your years spent concealing your feelings for spencer would have culminated in a much more formulated confession, but it’s too late to retrace your steps.  

almost immediately, spencer looks at you with widened eyes. you’re almost scared he’s going to abandon you and run away in a nervous flight, but he stays put, his cheeks flushing with the shade of deep red.

“y-you can’t be drunk already,” he stammers and then abruptly chuckles, making you wonder if he’s just attempted to respond to your confession with a joke.

but maybe you are drunk, drunk from the hazy feeling of love and the highs of spilling the emotional torrent earlier. you furrow your brows and fix your stare on the office floor.

“no, spencer, i like you as in i really like you. like, romantically.” 

spencer hesitates this time, moving only to press the elevator call button. you think you’ve just screwed up, right then and there, because his brows shoot up in surprise while his lips thin into a line. 

but then slowly, he smiles, his hazel colored eyes light up, and his gaze darts left and right excitedly. 

maybe all of the stars have aligned perfectly, because the air starts to collapse in on itself rapidly, and he stoops down to press a shaky kiss on your lips. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever shared with him, so different from when he hugs you, when he ruffles your hair, when he pats your back. it’s so tender and he leaves you to glow in the warmth of his lingering touch. 

it’s only after he does this that you realize that you’ve actually just confessed to your coworker, the man you’ve had a crush on for so long, the reason why you show up to work with a smile. before you can second-guess anything, spencer grabs your wrist and pulls you in. it starts with small pecks, but then he works up to a bigger kiss; by the time the elevator arrives, you’ve fully melted into his arms.

“2190 days.”

you look up to meet his blissful gaze with your own love-tainted eyes. “hm?”

“that’s the number of days that have passed since i first met you and started to work with you. i uh,” spencer swallows, toying with the strands on his leather bag nervously. 

he opens his mouth, only to shut it immediately after. he looks at you with a shy smile, the bashfulness dimpling his cheeks, and then clears his throat.

“i like you too.”

[novascharms]

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 1.8 chapter index — next chap. masterlist

one

thursday, january 9th

go where the wind takes me. it’s a phrase you’d heard countless times over the years. it eased people, gave them perspective, helped them loosen up. but you? no, it did the opposite. it made you do what you did best—research. what kind of research? the top 100 most successful people and whether they’d ever "gone with the wind." the answer was no. not a single one. going with the wind doesn’t make anyone successful. it leads to dead ends, wrong turns, wasted time—and time was the one thing no one could afford to squander.

the importance of planning everything as meticulously as possible was something that you'd ingrained in your mind at a young age and it had led you exactly where you were. it was the foundation of everything you’d achieved: top of your class, surrounded by like-minded peers, ready for a prestigious summer program, and just a year away from the university of your dreams. everything you’d worked for was at your fingertips. nothing could get in your way now.

"hi, sandy," you greeted the office secretary who watched you struggling to balance a precarious stack of papers in your arms.

"good morning, sweetheart. need help with that?" sandy asked with a warm smile.

"nope, i’ve got it," you replied, setting the stack on the counter with a satisfying thud. carefully, you aligned the papers before placing your palms on top to steady them.

"these are the documents for the student body audit next week. i printed an extra copy for principal oakley, complete with annotations, just in case there’s any confusion."

"always so thorough," sandy remarked with a grin. the compliment made your entire week.

"ah, just who i needed to see." a familiar voice sounded behind you and you twirled around to see principal oakley walking into the office. "oh, good morning, principal oakley." you said, your tone as polished as ever. you barely glanced at the boy trailing behind him before falling into step with the principal.

and yes, following him into his office was a tad unconventional but someone with as much determination and drive as you rarely let things like "innaproriate behaviour" get in your way.

"you are just who i wanted to see too. i know the holidays just ended but i did want to just follow up on my recommendation letter which you'd think about writing, remember?" you fixed your bag on your shoulder as principal oakley sat at his desk and briefly glanced behind you.

"y/n—" the principal tried to interrupt.

you didn't stop talking. "and i know you don't write recommendation letters for your students to keep things fair and whatnot but i—" principal oakley tried to interrupt again but didn't have the chance before you continued rattling. "—hope you reconsidered because i just know that having your letter under my belt will make me stand out to the admissions board and who am i if not representation for our fine school?"

principal oakley cleared his throat and this time you noticed the brief glance behind you. you slowly followed his gaze to see rafe cameron leaning against the doorframe.

your mental file on him loaded instantly: soccer player, tall, messy, and in your opinion, a bit… ran through. still contemporary philosophy like utilitarianism says the morality of having multiple partners depends on whether it increases overall happiness and minimizes harm so you were in no position to shame anyone just trying to increase their own happiness. you suppose.

"oh, was this a bad time?" you asked sheepishly, stepping aside. "not at all," the principal replied. "in fact, this concerns you as well. please, have a seat—and refrain from going into rants until i'm finished speaking." principal oakley says.

frowning in confusion, you complied. sitting beside rafe, you tried to mask your unease. what could he have to discuss with both you and rafe cameron? you weren't very good with uncertainty so sitting still was becoming a challenge as principal oakley rummaged through his desk.

you had to focus on something to stop yourself from panicking so you focused on him. very discreetly. he was so very..unruly. like something hard to contain, just spilling over the edges with his messy hair, that sweater that was not ironed, the shirt under the sweater that was untucked in that untidy way, that smell—woody with a faint hint of vanilla. you liked that smell.

you looked down at your own clothes—a powder blue ruffle top from khaite that you saved for for months and gifted yourself over winter break, off-white pants that were perfectly ironed and fresh from the laundry, hair in a neat french twist. from first sight, you and him were polar opposites.

"alright, y/n," principal oakley finally sat back down, his gaze steady as you watched him attentively. "you know rafe, right?" he asked, gesturing slightly toward the boy seated across from you. your eyes flicked to rafe, who was already staring at you, his expression unreadable.

"uh-huh," you murmured, turning your focus back to the principal.

"well, rafe here has a little problem." principal oakley slid a paper across the desk, and your curiosity spiked as you glanced down. it was rafe's report card.

it was disastrous.

you gasped softly, and rafe let out a noise of protest. "shit, it's not that bad," he muttered, leaning in close to peer over your shoulder at his own grades. the sudden proximity sent a ripple of awareness through you. despite your best efforts to stay indifferent, the intoxicating mix of his scent and the startling lack of male attention in your life was doing a number on your self-control.

"language, mr. cameron. and yes, it really is that bad," principal oakley said firmly. "which is why we need your help, y/n."

you tried to focus, though every nerve in your body screamed for you to stay perfectly still, afraid rafe would pull back. your intrusive thoughts—chief among them being the absolutely insane urge to bury your head in his neck—were becoming harder to suppress. quickly, you straightened and fixed your attention on the principal.

"my help?" you asked, the words laced with genuine confusion.

"the athletic board won’t let rafe play next season if he doesn’t pass at least one of his failing classes. we’ve discussed it with his teachers, and they believe algebra is his best shot. mr. coleman specifically suggested you for the job. he said your grasp of the material is exceptional, sometimes even surpassing his. your work ethic, dedication, and knowledge are exactly what rafe needs to bring his grade up to a satisfactory six—or, with hope, even a seven or seven and a half."

principal oakley's words hung in the air as you processed them. finally, you blinked slowly. "you want me…" you began cautiously, "to take him from a two-point-five to a seven-point-five in five months?"

"that’s like 150 days," rafe interjected, his tone unexpectedly eager. "we can do this! i’ll be the best student, i swear."

we?

"and on which planet is that 150 days, rafe?" you turned to him, your voice tinged with disbelief. "five months is about 150 days, sure. but i don’t know about you, mr. cameron, but i have class every day from eight to three. we have over 15 assignments a month, tests, midterms in march. i’m student body president. i’m organizing spring fling, pajama day, color war, the bake sale, and the car wash fundraiser—where, by the way, i expect the soccer team’s full, enthusiastic participation in semi-nude form for maximum profit. there’s also valentine’s day card exchanges, college fairs, and, oh, right—i have a life. i need to eat, study, and spend enough time with my friends and family to avoid being accused of neglecting them." you folded your arms. "so tell me, rafe, where in that mess do you see time for this?"

rafe stared at you, slightly wide-eyed.

"exactly," you concluded, crossing your legs. "nowhere."

you turned back to principal oakley. "maybe someone could contact the board and ask for len—"

"y/n, this is their leniency. usually, a two-point-five is an automatic cutoff." principal oakley cut you off, his voice calm but insistent. "i wouldn’t be asking if i didn’t believe in you."

the praise softened you momentarily. "principal oakley," you began, reaching into your bag and pulling out your life planner with a flourish. its heft rattled the pens on his desk. "this is my schedule." flipping to the last pages, you tapped a line with a manicured nail. "rafe, read this."

he leaned in, eyebrows raised. "january 20th, 2056: be sworn in as the 59th president of the country."

you smiled, all proud like you'd already achieved it which you technically had since everything that belonged to you was already yours.

"now, as you can imagine, i have a very rigorous plan in place to achieving my final goal and unfortunately, my schedule is just..airtight until.." you grimaced, "atleast 2061, maybe 2065." you were still debating the second term.

rafe chuckled quietly, and you shot him a glare before principal oakley interrupted.

"i assume my recommendation letter holds a significant place in your 30-year plan."

you hesitated. "…it does."

"well, helping your fellow student would demonstrate the leadership and dedication your university looks for. i could write you a glowing recommendation and even personally contact the dean’s office if you agree to tutor mr. cameron."

you froze, your mind flashing with possibilities. the thought of the dean knowing your name—of shaving years off your plan—was too good to pass up.

"fine," you said at last, exhaling. "but i expect nothing short of perfection in that letter. and the dean better invite me for tea when you’re done."

turning to rafe, you leveled him with a sharp look. "every tuesday and sunday at four. take this seriously, or you’ll see how hostile i can get. and read the chapters beforehand. i’ll text you my address."

you strode toward the door.

"you don’t have my number!" rafe called after you, amusement clear in his voice.

"i practically live in this office, rafe!" you shot back over your shoulder. "i have everyone’s number!"

chapter index — next chap. masterlist

[poojalate]

Best File Bags for Lawyers, Executives, and Students

A file bag is an essential organizational tool for lawyers, executives, and students, helping to keep documents safe, organized, and easily accessible. Whether you need a professional leather file bag for business meetings or a lightweight and durable option for daily use, choosing the right one can make a significant difference.

In this guide, we’ll explore the best file bags tailored for different professionals, highlighting key features, materials, and buying tips.

1. Why Do You Need a High-Quality File Bag?

A file bag is more than just a storage accessory; it helps in:

✔ Protecting important documents from damage, spills, or wear and tear ✔ Organizing papers, contracts, and notes efficiently ✔ Enhancing professionalism, especially for lawyers and executives ✔ Providing easy portability for students and business professionals

2. Best File Bags for Lawyers 🏛️

Lawyers deal with case files, contracts, and legal documents daily, requiring a durable, spacious, and secure file bag.

🔹 Top Picks for Lawyers

✅ Leather Briefcase File Bag – Premium choice for professionals, offering style and durability. ✅ Expandable File Bag with Lock – Secure option to protect confidential legal documents. ✅ Zippered Portfolio Bag – Compact and portable, ideal for client meetings. ✅ Accordion-Style File Bag – Keeps multiple case files organized with multiple sections.

💡 Look for water-resistant, lockable, and durable materials for maximum protection.

3. Best File Bags for Executives & Business Professionals 💼

For executives and business professionals, a sleek and stylish file bag is a must-have for boardroom meetings and presentations.

🔹 Top Picks for Executives

✅ Premium Leather File Bag – Elegant, sophisticated, and long-lasting. ✅ Multi-Compartment File Organizer – Helps separate documents, notepads, and stationery. ✅ Laptop-File Combo Bag – Perfect for professionals carrying both documents and a laptop. ✅ Slim Executive File Pouch – Lightweight and easy to carry during client visits.

💡 Opt for a high-quality leather or PU leather bag with dedicated compartments for pens, cards, and gadgets.

4. Best File Bags for Students 🎓

Students need a lightweight, functional, and affordable file bag to carry assignments, notes, and study materials.

🔹 Top Picks for Students

✅ Plastic File Bag with Handle – Affordable, lightweight, and waterproof. ✅ Expandable Document Folder – Multiple pockets to organize subject-wise notes. ✅ Canvas or Nylon File Bag – Durable and easy to carry to lectures. ✅ Zippered Mesh File Bag – Perfect for carrying exam papers and important documents.

💡 Choose lightweight, water-resistant, and budget-friendly options for daily use.

5. Key Factors to Consider When Choosing a File Bag

🔹 Material – Leather for professionals, canvas for students, and plastic for affordability. 🔹 Size & Capacity – Ensure it fits A4, legal-size documents, and other essentials. 🔹 Durability – Waterproof and tear-resistant materials for long-term use. 🔹 Security Features – Zippers, locks, or magnetic closures for confidential files. 🔹 Portability – Handles or shoulder straps for easy carrying.

6. Where to Buy the Best File Bags?

📌 Online Marketplaces – Amazon, Flipkart, Office Depot, and stationery stores 📌 Local Office Supply Stores – Best for testing material and quality in person 📌 Brand Stores – High-end options like Samsonite, Montblanc, or Tumi for executives

💡 Compare prices, read reviews, and check warranty options before purchasing.

Conclusion

The best file bag depends on your profession and needs—a leather briefcase for lawyers, an executive organizer for professionals, or a lightweight folder for students. Prioritize durability, storage capacity, and style when making your choice.

[dooberific]

I absolutely love your writing!! Idk if you're open for request, but if you do, can I request doctor!reader with Harumasa? He loves to go to infirmary not only he can pretend to be sick but also just to see them

Double trouble cause I thought it sounded like a fun combination. Does using a 1988 song name as the title make me sound old? 🤔

❝ 𝘉𝘢𝘥 𝘊𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯' 𝘠𝘰𝘶 ❞

harumasa x afab!doctor!reader

genre: fluff, I projected a little bit into this???

summary: if being in love with your cute doctor wasn’t bad enough, she’s completely clueless when it comes to romance

wc: 1.6k

The end of your pen tapped thoughtfully against your plush lower lip as you skimmed your notes. Once. Twice. Your eyes dart to the opened paper file on the counter beside you.

 Even cracked it was a solid two inches high and crammed full of health histories, specialty consult results and prescription sheets all bound haphazardly with what looked like ties from a bread bag. You really needed to get an actual binder to hold it all, but as of now you had other problems to address.

“Well,” you swiveled your chair around as you clicked your pen, eyes still skimming your intake sheet before you looked up with a smile, “Good news is nothing seems to be wrong. Well, let me rephrase that, wrong when compared to your baseline.” 

It was an important differentiation to make when you were dealing with one of your most tasking patients. In your two years of clinic practice in the city you had never needed to spend a series of days pouring over a patient file, heck, even before you graduated and were staged as a resident in the clinic in the Outer Ring it wasn’t so extensive. 

Ether Aptitude Regression Syndrome was a bad actor, and Asaba Harumasa seemed to be its favorite role to haunt. 

He coughed pitifully, a hand splayed over his chest as he shook his head. “Are you sure, Doc? My body’s aching all over and my head feels funny, and I—,” he coughed again, “can’t seem to shake this cough.” 

You frowned, scribbling another note on your papers. “Have you been taking all your medications as indicated?”

“Just as the doctor ordered…actually,” a pensive expression decorated his face as he fisted the fabric of his work shirt, “maybe I have a deficiency in something, I think I ran out of some of my vitamins.” 

You perked up immediately, flipping quickly to his laundry list of medication and supplements. “Which one have you been missing? A? C? K?”

“I think it was vitamin you.”

“Oh.” You pulled your prescription pad off the desk. “I’m going to write you an order for  Vitamin U. Try adding some cruciferous veggies to your diet, leafy greens, broccoli, stuff like that. Call me if it starts giving you stomach problems.”

You tore the slip off your pad as you extended it to him, the paper decorated in your curling and messy script. 

“Do you need a work excuse?”

Should he just quit? This was the question he asked himself every time he stepped out the door of the clinic back onto the street, paper bag of medication in his hand. 

White coat syndrome was a very real affliction, though his heart wasn’t racing and his blood pressure wasn’t spiking because he was anxious. After the fourth visit you just assumed it was his baseline response to see his pulse spike randomly through the exam, after all, his syndrome mainly seemed to impact his heart and lungs. 

What you didn’t know was that wasn’t his baseline, nor was it a mutation of his syndrome not documented by his past physicians. It was simply a biological response to something else you conveniently seemed to not notice: the raging interest he had in you.

Rest assured he was absolutely mortified when he figured it out himself, laying on his back staring at the ceiling in the dark as he realized he was enthralled by the very idea of you. Your intelligence, your nimble hands, the way you tapped your pen against your lips when met was a challenge you hadn’t quite deciphered, your warm smile.

It wasn’t a complete lie when he would tell you he felt feverish, or that his stomach felt sick and his heart was racing, he felt all those things with horrifying clarity tenfold when your hand pressed against his forehead after noting aloud that his skin seemed flush and clammy. 

Was it crossing a line to be flirting with your doctor? Definitely, he was sure he was toeing some doctor-patient professional relationship line, but if he ended up in someone else’s care later then there really wasn’t anything holding him back. 

But he was growing increasingly convinced that if you weren’t intentionally playing dumb that you might be a little thick when it came to the nuanced science of flirtation because he had shifted from casual to nearly outright and you never batted an eye.

How else could you have misinterpreted his texts from last week? He was half-giddy with excitement, sure he had you this time.

I miss you.

Your appointment isn’t until next week, you didn’t miss anything. Have a good night :)

It haunted him nearly as much as the day he forgot his work excuse and asked you to text it to him, how proudly he had flipped the phone screen to show Tsukishiro until she squinted and asked, “Why do you have heart emojis around your doctor’s name?”

A devastating blow to his ego. But so was every failed attempt to catch your eye. 

“Do you have an inhaler? Cause you just took my breath away.”

“Hold on, I’ll grab one from the cart. You’re supposed to carry your own inhaler, Mr Asaba!” You scolded, disappearing for a moment before tossing him an inhaler. 

“You look a little under the weather yourself, Doc. Sure you aren’t deficient in vitamin M E?”

“Ah, I didn’t put as much makeup on today.” You cupped your cheeks with your hands thoughtfully. “I feel fine though, thanks for your concern.” 

“I’m no organ donor, but I’d love to give you my heart.”

“Your medical condition prevents you from joining the organ donation program.” You didn’t even bother to turn around when you acknowledged him.

“I think my heart just skipped a beat when I looked at you.”

“You’re on a medication that regulates heart rhythm, should I write you a cardiology referral?”

He went to text you again as he walked home for the evening. Typed. Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. You just weren’t getting it, or maybe you were just too kind to tell him you weren’t interested or even that you had a boyfriend already on his numerous visits. Maybe he should just give you some space?

But maybe that would be cruel when you were standing on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change, mascara smeared down your cheeks as you sniffled. He pocketed his phone.

“Hey Doc, you alright?” 

You tensed, head swiveled in his direction before you quickly turned your face away, hands swiping at your cheeks before wiping them on your dark scrubs hastily.

“Oh, hey Mr. Asaba.” He frowned at your attempt at a cheerful tone, your voice still wavering from your tears before you cleared your throat. “You, uh, don’t have to call me Doc when the clinic is closed.” 

“And you don’t have to call me Mister when I’m not sitting on your exam table.” He retorted, catching the little quirk at the corner of your lips as they quivered in a small smile.

“Want me to walk you home? It’s kinda late.” 

“No, but thank you.” You peered over your shoulder towards the restaurant just behind you. You gripped your bag tighter, inching closer to where he stood beside you on the curb.  “Actually, would you mind..?” 

He didn’t have to ask you what was wrong, within the first five minutes of your walk you had apologized to him multiple times, started crying again, and spilled your heart out.

Six bad dates in the span of a couple weeks came to a head over a plate of chicken parm, your date kicking back as he declared you to be dull, hopeless, slow, and much uglier in person than your dating profile picture (which was your clinic profile photo). 

“He said that I “couldn’t take a hint”, whatever that’s supposed to mean!” You cried indignantly before you turned to him, eyes puffy and wet from your tears. 

“Am I that bad?”

He sucked a breath between his teeth. “Well, not to play the devil’s advocate but I’ve been flirting with you for weeks and you didn’t notice.” 

You stopped dead in your tracks. “What?!”

He held up his hands defensively, but before he could say anything your head had already hung low, shuffling your clinic sneakers on the dirty sidewalk outside your apartment.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice was small as your shoulders sank. “I’m not very good at stuff like this.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers grazing his choker. “I noticed, but it’s fine. You just need things to be a little more straightforward.”

He took a deep breath, clasping his hands together as he pointed at you. “I think you’re very pretty and charming in your weird doctor-y kind of way, so I would like to take you out for dinner sometime. Like, romantically.”

He was sure you gave yourself whiplash for how quickly your head snapped up, eyes wide. You brushed your tousled hair back from your face, cheeks flushing brightly enough he could see them burning under the streetlights.

“Oh, okay….when?”

“Tomorrow after you get off? I’m dreaming of beer and fried chicken if you aren’t opposed.”

“Of course not!” 

He was a little taken aback by how aggressively you answered, your hands clasping around one of his as if he was about to dematerialize before your very eyes.

“Great, then I will see you tomorrow. Have a good night, Doc—I mean, (y/n).”

“Good night to you as well.”

He turned to leave. He was practically screaming inside like a teenage girl you just secured a prom date, a new lightness to his step in the wake of his victory.

“Harumasa!”

He paused in his step, head whipping around to face you. You still stood on the stoop, a smile plastered across your face like he hadn’t seen before, one that lit your eyes up and dimpled your cheek.

“Thank you!”

He gripped his chest over his heart as it flipped wildly in his chest. His grin was pained when he looked up at you. 

“Doc, I might actually need emergency care this time--,”

Rey 2024

[catcze]

⠀「 Giving them random kisses (part 2) 」 

Reblogs are greatly appreciated !!

「 FEAT : 」 Wriothesley, Neuvillette, Lyney, Kaveh, Alhaitham (separate) x GN! reader

「 ### : 」 fluff n romance ! Some heavy kissing, but tbh nothing that warrants much more of a warning. Kaveh's is... a little sad, but it ends well ♡

A long-overdue part two !! Listen guys pls pls pls dont let this flop i actually efforted on this one haksdj 💔

⠀「 WRIOTHESLEY 」

He's initially pretty surprised, but he recovers quickly and smoothly.

He hasn't had many people showering him with affection, so it's a bit of a learning curve with you being so sweet to him.

Does his best to reciprocate though! He doesn't want you feeling like he loves you any less.

He ends up liking the surprise kisses more than he could have ever thought ♡

"Hey Wrio," you murmur from where you sit on his lap. Your boyfriend is engrossed with the documents in his hand, though one arm is still wrapped around your waist, holding you against him.

Wriothesley doesn't look up when you call his name. His eyes are still trained on the fine print, though he does acknowledge you with the tilt of his head and a, "Hm?"

You take his momentary distraction to reach up and pull his face down so you can reach it and plant a small, sweet kiss on his cheek. It's delicate and chaste, just the press of your lips to his skin, as light as the landing of a butterfly, but from the corner of your eye you see the way his eyes widen and the telltale flush of his cheeks.

He gulps, his entire body turning warm under your touch.

"It's nothing," you say, one hand still cradling his cheek. The documents crinkle in his grip, and you smile. "Just wanted to remind you that I love you, is all."

Before you can even realize, Wriothesley is craning his neck and turning your head so that he can press a full kiss against your lips, heart racing as he steals your breath. The way he kisses you is frantic, rough. Like he can't get enough of you in the moment. Like his heart is about to burst out of his chest, and the only thing he can do about it is kiss you harder.

When you finally separate, you're both heaving for air, foreheads pressed together and breath mingling. Every one of his exhales tickles your lips, and under your palm, you can feel how his heart thumps in his chest.

Wriothesley's breath is ragged when he speaks; breathless like he's just ran a marathon. "Just wanted to remind you that I love you too," he whispers.

⠀「 NEUVILLETTE 」

He's been around humans for a long time. It's to be expected that he's had enough time to observe what humans in love do.

Specifically with kisses, Neuvillette has always been a little intrigued.

What is it that makes the meeting of lips so enjoyable for humans? Is it different from the act of holding hands? From the act of linking arms as you walk down a street together?

It's with you that he finally finds his answers.

"Neuvi!" you call, walking into his office. There's a beaming grin as you close the door behind you, bags of takeout food in your hands. "I've brought lunch!"

Neuvillette raises his head the moment he hears your voice, his lips curving in a soft smile. By the time you've approached, rounding his desk and giving him a kiss on the forehead in greeting, the Iudex has already put away his case files and has cleared a place for you on his desk.

You perch on it with ease, one of Neuvillette's hands coming up to push you up, and place the takeout bags beside you. "Hey," you tell him with a smile, looking down at him from where you sit.

"Hello." Neuvillette's eyes glitter from this angle, and the way he smiles so fondly at you makes him look nothing like the scary Iudex that some people think he is. If anything, with the way he looks at you, he just looks like any other man in love. One of his hands find yours, gently weaving his fingers between yours and caressing the back of your hand with his thumb. "Thank you for bringing me lunch," he says. "You didn't have to."

"Mm, it's not for free, though!" You tell him with a grin, and one of his brows rise.

"Oh?"

"Mhm," you nod sagely, leaning forward so that your lips hover just above his. There's a smile on your face, and one of your hands goes to his shoulder to steady yourself. "I want a kiss for all my hard work."

"is that so," he muses, expression becoming just the slightest bit teasing. "Does the one you took upon arrival not meet your requirements, my dear?"

"That was nice, but I want a kiss kiss, Neuvi," you tell him, pouting just a bit.

Neuvillette chuckles under his breath, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck and pull you in closer. "That can be arranged," he murmurs, just before his lips meet yours.

⠀「 LYNEY 」

A relationship with him consists of so! many! kisses!

My guy acts like he's gonna fall ill if he doesn't have a kiss from you every so often.

Literally, he takes any excuse to kiss you that he can get!

And if you're the one initiating a little smooch? He'll be over the moon!

"If you're trying playing a magic trick on me, you're already cheating," Lyney laughs. He's seated on a chair in the the Hotel Bouffes d'ete, a silk handkerchief covering his eyes. One of his eyebrows are raised, and there's a joking quirk to his lips. Although he can't see it, you roll your eyes and tighten the blindfold.

"You're sure you can't see anything?" You ask when you think you've got it tight enough. You wave a hand in front of his face, and he doesn't even flinch.

"All I'm seeing now is my life if you were not in it, mon amour. Nothing but endless darkness." He's grinning while he says it, but you know he means every word, cheesy little shit that he is. You grumble the thought aloud, and he has the audacity to laugh.

You pull away, keeping one hand on his shoulder so he still knows you're there. "Alright smooth talker," you say. "Give me a number from one to ten."

"Ooh, a very intriguing question," Lyney hums. "I'll take the safe route... and go with five."

"Okay. Final answer?"

"Have I ever been one to take back my words, mon amour?"

You grumble again, and his grin widens. Your hands rise to cup his face, tilting it up for easier access. Lyney is lost for a second, lost on what you could have up your sleeve— then you press kisses to his face in rapid succession. One of his forehead, another two on each of his cheeks, one on his nose, and a last one on his lips. That one you drag out a little longer, feel his lips against yours with a familiarity that only you have ever known, before it ends too quickly. Five kisses, just as he's asked.

When you remove the blindfold, he stares at you, light flush high on his cheeks, lips tingling with the urge to kiss you more.

You grin. "Good enough of a magic trick for you?"

⠀「 KAVEH 」

For Kaveh, your kisses are nothing short of an oasis in the middle of the desert.

When he feels at his lowest, debt and impending deadlines creeping in on him, there's nothing that pulls him out of his headspace like affection from you.

If he feels like he's about to drown, you pull him out of the water.

For that reason, he welcomes every ounce of affection you can spare.

"Kaveh, it's late," you beckon him from under the sheets, a yawn crawling up your throat. "Come sleep. You can continue your work in the morning."

"Go first," he says, leaning over another set of schematics, hand pushed into his hair in frustration, a deep frown marring his face. "I'll join you once I finish this." His voice is distant, distracted, as if he's just spitting out preset lines in his head.

You've been saying that for hours now, you want to tell him. It's hard not to feel a little neglected when your boyfriend refuses to look at you for hours at a time— when he continues to run himself ragged despite all your best efforts at trying to make sure he doesn't break himself in his pursuit of perfection.

When Kaveh sighs once more, slamming his hands on his desk in frustration and groaning so loudly you're sure Alhaitham is cursing him out from his room, you slip out from under the sheets and walk over to him.

"Kaveh," you say again, a hand on his shoulder.

"What," he snaps at you before he can help it, teeth bared. When he sees how you flinch, hand threatening to pull away, he quickly looks down, staring at the sheets of paper with shame and regret. "I'm sorry," he says in a quiet voice, head hung and hands trembling. The fight and frustration drains out of his body, leaving him tired. Tired and feeling terrible.

You sigh— you don't blame him for the outburst. Archons knows he's been on the receiving side for a few of your own bad moods. That's just how some days can be, being graduates of the akademia. Gently you take hold of his cheek and guide him to look up at you, and when his eyes hesitantly meet yours, you smile a little sleepily.

"I forgive you," you say, giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead, moving down to his nose, and then ending on his lips. You can feel just the slightest curve of his smile as you kiss softly, feel the way his shoulders relax just a bit under your care.

"Come on. You need rest," you tell him, gently tugging him to his feet and leading him to the soft, warm bed. This time, he does not protest.

⠀「 ALHAITHAM 」

With him, it's a little difficult to randomly kiss him, because he's very rarely caught off guard.

He intercepts a lot of your attempts!

Whether it be side-stepping you to make you gasp in affront, or stealing your thunder and kissing you before you can kiss him— needless to say it's a challenge.

Good thing you always rise to challenges.

From the moment you enter the living room and perch yourself on the couch beside him, Alhaitham is squinting at you in suspicion. You just grin, not dissuaded by the sharp look in his eye.

"You're planning something," he say, snapping his book close.

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. "Who, me? Bold statement, mister grand sage."

"Acting grand sage. Non-permanent."

"Same thing," you dismiss with a wave of your hand. His stare only narrows further. "Now! I need to you do something for me, dearest love of mine. Give me your hands, would you?"

And although his nose wrinkles at the cheesy nickname, he complies, albeit a little hesitantly. One of the perks of him being your boyfriend, you suppose— lessened questions about any shenanigans you might pull.

When you're securely gripping his hands, weaving your fingers together and ensuring that he can't pull away (his brow furrows when he tries. He's getting more suspicious about what you're about to pull) you grin.

"Okay. Now close your eyes."

"I'd rather not," Alhaitham shuts you down immediately, and you frown.

"Please?"

"Tell me why, first."

"Just—! I pinky promise you'll like it. I super swear that you'll like it!"

And eventually he relents, eyes falling shut. You cheer internally, and before he can change his mind, you swoop forward to give him a kiss. The surprise of it catches him off-guard for once, and his hands clench yours, but just as you'd expected he doesn't try to pull away— if anything, he pushes back into the press of your lips, kissing you even harder than you kissed him.

When you separate, your face feels warm and your palms are undoubtedly sweaty, but he hasn't let you go for a second. Alhaitham swallows down a gulp of air, chest heaving just a little, and you feel the bubble of victory in your chest. "See? I told you you'd like it."

[girllblogging777]

TOTAL RECALL ౨ৎ

IN WHICH you get to know your coworker spencer, and try to take him off guard with questions

“alright, we got a new case in LA,” you spoke up, entering the briefing room where the rest of the team was already sitting. the sound of your voice made them all look up, and you tried to appear as confident as you could, despite the way your hands were holding tightly onto some documents.

today was your first day as the communications liaison of the BAU, and as much time as you’d spent training with JJ before she went on maternity leave, handling your first case by yourself was quite pressuring.

especially when you were surrounded by people whose job is to decode body language. remembering this, you immediately tilted your head upwards and shoulders back, before beginning to explain the case.

“four girls under the age of 25 have been abducted in the past two months. including two this week,” you spoke, walking around the table to hand the files to all of your new colleagues.

one of the agents, a brown haired boy you’d previously seen around, asked as he took the documents from you.

“are they under or over 21 ? because the statistics are entirely different within this range,” he explained, the rest of the team not even budging as he began rambling.

“three years ago, women over 21 represented about 65 thousands of missing persons files - 64 thousands nine hundred and fifty six to be exact…”

the man sitting next to the technical analyst smirked at you when he noticed the look of bewilderment on your face. “don’t mind the pretty boy,” he chuckled “he’s our walking encyclopaedia”

⋆˚࿔

about an hour later, after some more debriefing, you and the rest of the team boarded the jet. you sat down next to the window, fingers drumming against your thigh before a voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“do you mind ?” the brunette (whose name you’d discovered was actually spencer) spoke, fingers pointing at the seat next to yours.

you shook your head, motioning for him to sit down next to you which he did, careful not to disturb your personal space.

the others were all busy talking to eachother, or reviewing the case while the plane took off, and you focused on the steady humming of the engine to distract you from the boy next to you.

“so, walking encyclopaedia, huh ?” you joked, echoing morgan’s words in attempt to get to know him a bit more. you were going to have to work together for a while, after all.

he turned to face you, his expression a bit sheepish.

“i just uh, have an… eidetic memory ?” he suggested, weighing each of his words, assuming that just like everyone else, you’d simply characterise him as a nerd and move on with it.

realising they were not joking about the extent of his intellect, you tilted your head. that was going to be interesting.

“oh, total recall ?”

“basically, yes.” he answered, and you noticed the slightest hint of a smile creeping up on his, now that you thought about it, very pretty face. “but unlike photographic memory, it includes auditory memories and other sensory aspects.”

“woah… so could ask you anything and you’d just know ?”

he wanted to tell you that this was not how it worked, that he could only remember things if he’d ever actually learnt them before. but the way you were leaning towards him and seemed genuinely interested made him want to keep appearing smart to you.

eventually, he realised that the conversation was taking a turn, and becoming a quizz. but spencer couldn’t blame you, that’s what people were usually prone to doing when they learnt about his memory. except this time, he actually was having fun.

“so, do you know like…” you looked around, trying to think of something to ask before your gaze dropped to the cereal bar in your bag. “how many granola bars are consumed every year ?”

a second. his lips pursed.

“about 808.5 million units. the global average of cereal bars consumers is 37%.”

your jaw almost dropped, you had to ask something else.

“and the current population of new zealand ?”

“5 millions two hundred and twenty three… that was two years ago” he answered so quickly that you almost wondered if you should look for an “off” button on his forehead.

“okay, that’s super impressive…” you said, shifting in your seat so you could face him. “i know it’s probably tough though, knowing everyone expects you to know everything and having to live up to their expectations…”

at that, his eyes darted down. he didn’t expect you to say that, especially since you were simply getting to know him. and yet, it felt like you saw right through him already.

“it can get a bit rough sometimes… especially when i feel like i’m not able to use my knowledge properly for a case and it just feels like… like i’m failing everyone.” he said, feeling strangely comfortable admitting this to you, even if you were the newest member here.

you simply nodded, wanting him to know you agreed.

“come on, you’re human. you may be smart, but of course you’re going to be taken off guard at some point.” your voice was light, and reassuring.

“it’s not like you’re gonna know the name of… i don’t know, the deadliest jellyfish in the world”

a chuckle escaped his lips and his chocolate eyes locked with yours. “chironex fleckeri ? commonly known as the sea wasp, or the box jellyfish,” he stated, “the venom can cause death within minutes”

yeah, you obviously still had a lot to learn about him. and about jellyfishes too, apparently.

[revelboo]

Wanted to share this absolute cutie I got in a blind box today! ❤️ I was soo happy to see my baby when I opened the bag

The boy! He’s adorable

Memories

Shockwave x Reader

• That’s not him. Not his voice or his face as the drone pans and the other Shockwave smiles indulgently. ‘No, see, it’s just a micro drone,’ the stranger says, stretching an arm out and his cannon taps impatiently against his thigh. Doesn’t like the way every word that mech says echoes through his spark with an unsettling familiarity. ‘If it’s okay? I just, you’re a whole new species. I’d love to document our interactions, but if it bothers you, I won’t.’

• And the drone finally moves slightly, refocusing on a much smaller shape. A human when your species shouldn’t even exist, yet. You don’t look at the drone, your face upturned to look at the other Shockwave, the stranger, the imposter. Spark aching as his palm smacks against his desk, frame bowing toward the screen of his datapad. Turn your head. Look at the drone. Seems like he should know what those eyes look like, that he knows they look like they’re full of stars up close. Should know what your voice sounds like, too. He’s never seen you before, but his spark is aching as he braces himself against the desk. Feels like getting ripped apart watching this and it shouldn’t mean anything because it’s not him. ‘It’s fine,’ you say, voice soft and uncertain. Vulnerable as it sinks into him.

• Catches a glimpse of those eyes when you glance quickly at the drone and away. It’s not enough. Servos trembling as he accesses another timestamped file. Your face thinner. The recording’s from Cybertron. What were you eating? Was whatever that stranger synthesized not agreeing with you? Why do you look so tired? ‘You think this will work?’ You’re asking as you bend to push a tool closer to that other Shockwave’s hand and he resents that stranger. Can’t he see something’s wrong with you? It’s obvious.

• Another timestamp. You’re smiling, the dark smudges under your eyes gone now, your hair longer. And that other Shockwave reaches to slide the tip of a servo against your jaw, the touch familiar and intimate and he knows you’re going to reach to lay your hand on the mech’s servo before you do. Just like he knows your hand is soft and warm. ‘You should be resting,’ the bot says softly, frowning slightly and you wrinkle your nose. ‘I’m fine,’ you say and you watch the other Shockwave turn away. Go back to his work and he wants to snarl at the stranger to forget the terraforming project. Because the look on your face as you wrap your arms around yourself needles into his spark. You weren’t fine. Needed him and he didn’t realize it, yet.

• Hand sliding against his helm, he wants to smash the datapad. Wants to skip ahead to the last entry. Needs to know what happened to you and he’s afraid. This isn’t his. None of it’s his, because that Shockwave isn’t him. He doesn’t know that bot. Doesn’t know you. So why does his spark hurt so much? Pausing the playback he stares at you looking up at the other Shockwave who’s not even noticing. That’s not him. These memories aren’t his. He loves you. So much it feels like dying seeing you again. He’s never seen you before. Servo hovering over the last entry, he stares at your frozen face. The loneliness in your eyes.

• And he drops his head in his hand. Because if that is him, he can guess what happened. Empurata. Meaning that Shockwave did something, went against the senate. But the lost memories? A mnemosurgeon? Shadowplay? He knows there were mechs knocking on that door, working on fine tuning the art of stripping away memories without driving a subject insane. That bot isn’t him, those memories aren’t his. Unless they are. Did the drone record the end? Record what happened when it all fell apart? They would have come for him, but you wouldn’t have mattered to them. Would they have thought you were a pet and put you down? Would they have left you there alone to slowly starve? Can’t play the last recording. Can’t see how badly he failed you. Needs to know and doesn’t want to, as grief twists through him.

…. I’m not complaining, but the universe apparently knows I like Soundwave a normal amount

[divaofmads]

Thanatos | Dr. Crane

Pairing Jonathan Crane x Female Reader

Gif by @breakfastonuranus

Summary: A psychopath who wants to control fears — and a woman willing to become his plaything. On a journey filled with desire and fear, control and pleasure begin to blur into one.

⚠️ Warnings: +18, MDNI, NSFW, Smut, Fingering, Domination, Vaginal Sex, Rape/non-con/underage content is not present or condoned, The content explores consensual dark erotica and kink with clear agency, Age Gap (F! 20 -M! 30), Heavy sexual tension, Dark themes, Psychological manipulation, Obsession, Gaslighting, Dark!JonathanCrane, Fear Kink, Toxic relationship dynamics, Fear Serum Mentions, Experimental drug use (fictional substance, psychological context), Power imbalance (mentor x intern dynamic), Do not romanticize manipulation in real life, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @arcielee

📌A/N: While writing this story, I drew inspiration from Freud’s concept of the death drive (Thanatos), the life/sexual drive (Eros), and the dark line where these two opposing forces intertwine. What is told here is not just a fantasy; it's also about how people approach their desires with fear, and how they transform fear into desire. My story is both a warning and a surrender. Like a life lived under the shadow of death. Or like the sudden sense of absence that appears at the very depth of pleasure.

You began to tidy up the scattered documents on your desk. Files, pens, your glasses case. You slowly zipped up your bag and stood. Adjusted your shoulders. Noticed the bottom button of your shirt had ridden up and hastily tucked it back in. Your reflection in the mirror showed a tired but content expression, the day was over, or so you thought. Your palms were still clammy, because working in Dr. Crane’s office wasn’t merely an academic duty; it was a kind of survival art. Even his silence was a threat, and you had no choice but to obey it.

The wall clock had just passed six, its ticking sound slicing through the silence like a blade. In your mind still lingered the notes you’d taken throughout the day, the patients you observed, and Dr. Crane’s meticulous gaze. That gaze had followed you like a shadow through Arkham’s dimly lit corridors all day. Even though barely two sentences had escaped his lips, Jonathan Crane seemed to read you with a chilling precision. It was as if he knew what you were thinking, what you were feeling, what you were suppressing, better than you did. And the most terrifying part? He seemed to enjoy it.

Just as you turned toward the door… the handle clicked. And like a cold gust of wind, he entered.

He stepped in holding his notebook, and the air in the room shifted. The temperature seemed to drop by a few degrees. The dirty yellow light highlighted the pale sharpness of his features. His eyes looked at you like a hunter sizing up prey, just before striking.

“I don’t recall granting you permission to leave.”

His tone was low, measured, and deep. But the undertone was ice-cold. It wasn’t merely a sentence, it was a decision, a judgment, a command. Your heart skipped. Your hand remained on your bag strap; you couldn’t move forward or backward.

You opened your mouth, but the words stalled on your tongue. Because you knew there was no point in arguing. Jonathan Crane wasn’t just a strict professor; he was like a surgeon dissecting you. He had placed your soul on the table, opened your veins, and watched you from the inside. Not just as a student, but as a subject.

“It’s past six... I just…” you said softly, like a child retreating to defense. “I was just packing up, doctor.”

His expression didn’t change. His eyes stayed locked on your face. Then, he stepped closer. The door didn’t shut, through the crack, a line of sterile white light cut into the dark office like a blade.

“So you were preparing to escape before I dismissed you?”

His voice didn’t rise, but the subtle sarcasm scraped at your insides. Your gaze dropped to the floor, your head bowed slightly. Your shoulders sagged. You knew everything, this damned internship, hung between his lips. He had told you on the first day: “If you want to stay here, you’ll follow my rules. My rules are... changeable. Like your courage.”

“No... no, I just misunderstood, I think…” you said, but before you could finish, the strap of your bag slipped from your fingers. A small thud. And then silence. And his footsteps, ah, those slow, deliberate steps began echoing across the hard floor, sending a shiver through you.

Jonathan stood in front of you. He didn’t tilt his head or raise your chin when he spoke. The space between you was barely a breath. You smelled him; a metallic medicinal scent, a hint of sweat, and the dusty aroma of old book covers. His face was expressionless, but his eyes… they watched you break.

“This internship… requires diligence. Small details often determine fate. For instance, do you know who decides when you’re allowed to leave this office?”

You slowly shook your head. Your lips parted, but you gave no answer.

“I do,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not you. Not the bell. Don’t think you’re ‘free’ just because the sun has set. I control this institution’s rhythm, Y/N. And your little sense of time can’t disrupt my system.”

He reached out. His fingers moved toward the button on your collar but didn’t unfasten it. He only touched it. With cold and steady pressure. It felt like he was pressing not on the fabric, but on your throat. A tremble rose beneath your heart. A shiver coursed down your spine. You weren’t afraid… at least, not just afraid. There was something in that touch a submissive surrender mingled with fear.

“If you want to leave…” he said, and with his thumb under your button, he lifted your chin, “...you’ll ask for permission. While looking me in the eyes.”

You stood there, head bowed. Your body motionless, but inside, storms were brewing. Jonathan Crane’s eyes were on you. He had your strings in his hand, unraveling you. He didn’t even need to raise a hand. That eye contact was pushing you back, further and further from yourself. You swallowed against the heat swelling in your throat.

“Please… may I leave, Dr. Crane?”

Your voice was soft, barely a whisper. But in the silence, it was a confession, an audible expression of your submission to his authority. You didn’t want to please him as much as you feared angering him. Because his wrath wouldn’t be verbal, it would come through action. And while you didn’t yet know what he was capable of… your imagination was more than active.

His eyes lingered on you for a few seconds. Then, his eyelids drooped slightly, and he tilted his head ever so slightly. He examined you. Smelled your helplessness.

“No,” he said flatly. The word echoed like a bullet hitting the wall. “We’re not finished yet.”

Your heart paused. What could you say? To object… would be suicide. Your shoulders dropped. You dared to meet his eyes.

“But…” you said, swallowing hard, “…it’s past working hours. For today…”

“Be quiet,” he cut you off. His voice didn’t rise. But the tone, was like a slap that shattered any thought of defiance. “If you work with me, time does not belong to you. Understand? Time is mine.”

He took another step. The sound of his shoes still echoed coldly on the floor, but now he was just inches from you. Your eyes drifted to his chest, just below the collar. You couldn’t see his heartbeat, but it was there. Close. Dangerous. Yet… alluring. With the back of his hand, he lifted your chin this time. His palm was warm, but the skin he touched went numb. When your eyes met his… your balance shifted.

“You’ll go down to the archive room,” he said softly. His fingers remained at your chin, pressure slightly increasing. “Retrieve file A-38. The one with the red label. When you bring it back, we’ll… examine it together.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t about going to the archive. You didn’t care about the contents of the file. What mattered, was his tone. His request, so unnecessary and arbitrary… was a test. A rehearsal for control. A reminder of your place, your time of surrender.

“I suggest you move quickly,” he added. He removed his hand from your face but immediately reached again for the button on your collar. “And if you try to leave again without permission… next time, we’ll speak differently.”

He didn’t press the button. He just paused there. But for a moment, you felt your whole body lock beneath the tip of his finger.

He held your gaze for a moment longer. Then turned and walked toward the bookshelf. All that remained was silence, your shallow breath, and the fragile desire trembling in the cold room.

Your fingers trembled. You tried to suppress the storm inside as you took a deep breath. You knew… when you returned with that file, what awaited you wouldn’t be limited to the pages.

And the next time you stepped into that office…

you wouldn’t leave as yourself.

As you stepped into the corridor, even your own footsteps sounded too loud in your ears. It felt as if each step echoed off the walls, amplifying the noise inside your head. Your fingers were still trembling slightly, but you weren’t sure if it was from fear… or the lingering phantom warmth of where he had touched you. Your heart fluttered inside your chest like a restless creature clawing to escape. Your body moved forward, but your mind was still in his office. That tone of voice, the breath that brushed your neck, that single word: “No.”

No.

He had said no. And for the first time in your life, after someone told you “no,” instead of stepping back, you had chosen to move forward.

That was what shamed you the most. That fluid guilt flowing through your veins. Yes, you had to obey his command. This internship was a necessity for you. But deep down, you knew, it was no longer just about obedience. There was a need rising from within, something you couldn’t name. When you looked into his eyes, there was something stirring in you, something that made you feel… tainted. Desire and hatred should never be so tightly woven together. It shouldn’t be like this. Why did the dark feel so… alluring?

Why did his humiliation burn just like his touch?

Your underwear had grown damp. Even that detail embarrassed you. If he had realized what state you were in around him… he’d tear you apart. And even as you imagined that moment of unraveling, you felt shame.

You took a deep breath. Tried to collect yourself. The archive room was at the end of the corridor. “I’m just getting a file,” you told yourself. “A piece of paper. That’s all. Calm down.”

But your steps began to shorten. Because as you neared the door, all you could see was a slit of dim light. Most of the ceiling lamps were broken. The archive room was one of the least used, most forgotten spaces in Arkham. When you pushed the door open, the metal hinges groaned with rust. The creaking sound slithered across your skin like a chill.

Inside… was a dark labyrinth.

Only one fluorescent light flickered weakly on the left. It gave off more of a tremble than brightness. The rest was in total darkness. The shelves, if you could even call them that, were chaotic. Stacks of files, labels scattered across the floor, toppled folders. The place looked like it had been abandoned after a war. Which section was A, which was B? Where were the red-labeled files? Nothing was clear.

There were narrow paths. Just barely enough space between the shelves to squeeze through. Turning, bending, even taking a deep breath felt difficult. You felt like even a moment’s distraction, as small as a loose screw, could bring the whole structure crashing down on you. The air was stale. The familiar scent of dust filled your nose. You tried not to cough. In this silence, even the slightest sound from your throat felt too much.

A-38.

With a red label.

Your mind repeated the instruction over and over. Your feet moved cautiously between the shelves. But with each step, you felt more and more lost. Not physically… mentally. This place felt like Crane’s mind: cluttered, chaotic, narrow, out of control, yet woven with a strange, magnetic logic that kept pulling you in.

You lifted a few folders. A-14, A-22… C-03… B-67… All jumbled. Some labels were torn, others faded. As your hand brushed over the folder covers, the moist, dusty cardboard tickled your skin. Your eyes were adjusting to the dark, but your body remained on high alert. You kept feeling like if you turned around, someone would be standing there. Or… maybe you wanted to feel that.

Because his voice was still in your head. “If you try to leave again without permission…”

It echoed in your mind like an unfinished threat.

And you… you were beginning to hope for more than just threats.

You didn’t know how long you’d been struggling among the files. Time seemed warped in here. Your fingers were dark with dust, your elbows scratched from the sharp cardboard edges. Your back ached from twisting and bending in this oppressive space. But above all, you felt a weight. Something non-physical… an instinctual pressure. Your heart was slowly speeding up. Your ears buzzed. And strangest of all, at the tip of your nose, you smelled him. That same metallic, medicinal tone mixed with a dark cologne… or was it just your imagination?

Just as you were sifting through the lower section of the B shelf, a shadow suddenly passed to your right and struck the floor. You hadn’t heard any footsteps. As someone appeared behind you, your body instinctively tensed, but then you heard his voice. That cold, sleek blade of a voice, full of restrained authority, familiar and terrifying.

“Truly… that a task this simple challenges you so deeply is… disappointing.”

His voice was too close. And as soon as you heard it, your heart clenched and the tension radiated through every inch of your body. Your hand still rested on the files, but your focus shattered. The space behind you… wasn’t empty anymore. Just like the silence in your mind. He was here. Quietly. Watching. Patiently. And now… he had arrived.

You swallowed, feeling your throat muscles scrape against each other. Your eyes scanned the shelf in front of you, but the letters made no sense anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, barely audible. “It’s… quite disorganized. The labels are missing.”

It was an explanation, but also a defense. Because the thought of disappointing him had carved itself deeper into you than fear. It felt cruel, yes, but also… like a fragile form of attachment.

His presence shifted behind you. No sound. But your body could feel every subtle movement he made. The distance between you was shrinking. This shelf row was barely wide enough for two people to stand side by side. And he wasn’t moving past you. He was behind you. Very close.

You couldn’t move. His breath grazed the exposed part of your neck and you instinctively held your breath. Nothing touched your back, but where was he? He was close. You felt it in your bones.

“This file,” he said, his voice landing near your right ear, “is a kind of… case study we’ll be working on. If you want to learn, and you must, for this internship, you must understand what and why you’re looking for. Otherwise, you’ll wander in the dark like a blind subject.”

One more step. This time, you couldn’t suppress your breath. Because something lightly touched your back. Not harsh, not aggressive… but definite. His body, maybe his jacket… or simply his nearness was enough to make you feel it. You realized someone had bent near your waist. Then, something brushed the inside of your arm. A fine fabric. His hand. Moving discreetly at your elbow. Your eyes widened, but you didn’t turn your head. Your face was blank. But inside… chaos exploded.

And he continued speaking as if nothing had happened.

“Perhaps someone like you struggles to find what they’re looking for… because they don’t quite know what it is they’re seeking.”

The end of his sentence was dangerously close to your ear. But the real realization was that your body had forgotten how to move. You stayed as you were, hands resting on the files. Because if you moved, the contact might become more obvious. Or… it might change. It might go further.

And maybe… you wanted it to.

And the most terrifying, most shameful thought was this:

You wanted to stay like this.

As your fingers kept gliding over the folders, Crane’s presence was no longer debatable, it wrapped around you like a second skin. You stood caught between the shelf and his body, positioned so that even the lack of space itself felt intoxicating. The tightness of the archive room pressed him closer, yet he moved as if it were nothing but necessity. But nothing about this was natural. Every move was calculated, every breath rehearsed.

Suddenly, his right arm reached over you to grab one of the folders above. As the inside of his arm passed just behind your shoulder, you felt his hips brush against you, for the first time, there was no ambiguity in the contact. You held your breath, but he kept moving as if nothing had happened. His fingertips hovered over the labels, yet he didn’t move his body an inch away. On the contrary… he leaned in, just slightly.

The side of your neck was bare. Strands of your hair were messily falling. That’s when you heard his voice again. This time, lower. More personal. His vocal cords nearly touched your skin.

"Why are your hands shaking?"

It wasn’t a question. Not even an observation. It was a kind of threat, silent, implied. Not physical. Psychological. His voice seeped under your skin. The heat of his breath vibrated at your neck. Your shoulder now felt like it was pinned to his chest. There was no room to retreat. The shelf in front, his body behind. Your breath shortened. You thought of saying “stop”… but your tongue didn’t move. Because you didn’t want him to. But you couldn’t ask him to start, either. You were circling inside a moral void. And yes, you were scared it might cost you your internship.

He raised his hand again, reaching for another folder. This time, the motion was slower. As his fingers passed just in front of your arm, his palm lightly brushed your wrist. And stayed. He didn’t pull back. Not until he had the folder. The weight of his hand pressed against your skin, unmoving. You closed your eyes, tried to hold your breath—but your chest started rising and falling too fast.

And he noticed. Of course, he did. For Jonathan Crane, your body's responses were data. He didn’t need your words to understand. Your pulse, your breathing, the trembling at your fingertips... they were maps to him. And reading those maps gave him pleasure.

He leaned in a little closer. You felt him move through your hair. His lips were nearly at your exposed neck. It made your skin shiver. Your eyes locked on the labels along the far wall, but none of the letters made sense anymore.

You were scared. Every brush of his skin had carved itself into yours. But what followed shattered you even more. His other hand touched your outer thigh, just above the hem of your skirt. A warm touch. Maybe even a caress. But done in a way that suggested accident, like it was just part of the motion.

You swallowed hard. The knot in your throat wouldn’t loosen. You couldn’t speak. Your back was being pressed further into his torso. You were locked in place. And yet, his hands remained—on the surface—innocent. He was just browsing folders. Just… helping.

But his touch lingered longer each time. Each folder he reached for, he seemed to do so with unnecessary tenderness. Like he wasn’t touching paper, but skin. When he pulled one out, his hand grazed your hip. “Accidentally.” But it was too specific to be dismissed. And when your knees trembled, his breathing deepened. His chest rose beneath his jacket. He was watching you. Drinking in your reactions.

“You’re feeling too much. That pleases me. It means... there’s still something left in you to break.”

That’s when it hit you. This wasn’t just about finding a folder. This was a session. A covert experiment. You were his subject. The narrow archive aisle was the lab, and your helpless responses were the data. Every small shiver echoed inside him.

For a moment, you imagined yourself through his eyes. Someone who couldn’t move, couldn’t flee, and yet… wouldn’t say “no.” Your chest tightened. But within that tightness, something darker bloomed. A pleasure you couldn’t explain pulled you deeper.

And Jonathan Crane… he wasn’t rushing to drag you there. He was guiding you slowly. Without force. Without resistance.

Because you were already breaking.

The folder with the red label trembled between your fingers, shining like salvation. It had been wedged deep behind the shelf, covered in dust, nearly invisible. The rustling sound it made as you pulled it free shattered the icy shell inside you. Your heart began to race, but this time, it felt like breathing again.

“Ah... this is it,” you said, your voice trembling with a fragile kind of joy. “We’re saved.”

That word slipped out before you realized: saved.

Your own tongue had chosen it, as if aware of the weight of the moment. The presence of the man behind you still burned on your skin. But the file… was just an excuse.

You reached back with a gentle but decisive touch, placing your hand against Crane’s chest. It wasn’t gratitude, it was an attempt to escape. And the moment your fingertips met his warmth, it hit you like a blow. But when you pushed, he didn’t resist at all.

It was as if he’d only been there to observe you.

As if he wasn’t trying to trap you, but provoke a response. And he got it.

Once you stepped out of the narrow aisle in the archive room, you inhaled deeply. As the door creaked shut behind you, you realized something inside you hadn’t followed. It lingered on your skin. On your hip, your wrist, your neck... everywhere he had touched, a trace remained. A shadow.

You clutched the folder to your chest and started walking. Your steps became mechanical. Your left arm supported the file tightly, your other hand opened and closed in the empty air. Your eyes looked ahead, but your thoughts clung to words for distraction. You tried to smile. Maybe if you laughed, it would pass. Maybe if you spoke, everything that had just happened would disappear.

“Finally,” you said with a light smile. “Those shelves were like a battlefield. I think A-38 might be this building’s best-kept secret.”

Your voice tried to sound natural, but it felt foreign even to your own ears. Something inside you was still trembling. It hadn’t stayed behind. It was walking with you. His hands, his breath, his voice were now buried in silence, yet you could still feel him.

Dr. Crane was watching you. His eyes were on your face.

Through Arkham’s long corridors, the echoes of your footsteps over cracked ceramic tiles accompanied his silence. He didn’t say a word. Nothing. That made you feel even more on edge. His silence wasn’t a punishment, it was a clue. He knew he had read you. And now, he was enjoying the sight of you trying to wear your armor again.

You felt his gaze. Heavy. Sharp. Like fingers pressing into your back. It wasn’t the kind of desire that chased, it engulfed. A shadow wrapping around you from the inside. Picking through your mind. Memorizing your skin. The desire of a man who devoured you not with his hands, but with his eyes.

And no matter how much you clung to words, that silence… said more than any sentence could.

When you entered his office, the space transformed again into Crane’s domain. Unlike the cramped archive, it was wider, but somehow more intimate. The light was muted. The amber glow of the lamps leaned across the desk, casting soft halos on the papers, forming shadows. But here, shadows weren’t just from objects, they were intentions.

As you opened the folder, he sat down in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His fingertips touched one another, the familiar position of the observer. His eyes weren’t on your face. They hovered just below your neck, on the fabric of your shirt. But he wasn’t looking. He was scanning.

As you pulled the files from the folder, you noticed he hadn’t moved closer. Not yet. But his breath arrived before any motion did.

On the top right corner of the first page, there was a date: 03.08.22

Below it, a name: Leonid F. Klein.

And beneath that, a note scribbled in handwriting: “The perfect lie. Even to himself.”

“Klein,” Crane said, not taking his eyes off your hands, “a case of obsessive-compulsive behavior coupled with advanced mythomania. Which means he wasn’t just a pathological liar. His sense of reality was fractured. Lying wasn’t a defense, it was structure. Pleasure.”

His voice was low, but every emphasis carefully chosen. Just like the words. You rotated the file slightly toward him so both of you could read at once. That motion brought your shoulder close enough to touch his. Your knees nearly brushed. But neither of you pulled away.

“In cases like this,” he continued, fingers tapping the desk’s edge, “we don’t just look at the lie itself. We look at what need shaped it. Sometimes, the individual... requires a process even to confess the lie they wish were true.”

He placed his hand near the page. Close, but not quite touching yours. Yet you could feel the heat of his skin. The deliberate proximity.

“For instance,” he said, lowering his voice further, “imagine someone’s made to do something they didn’t want. They may say they didn’t want it. But the body... might tell another story.”

“Klein was the same. He always said, ‘I didn’t do it on purpose.’ But his pupils would dilate. His voice would soften. His pulse would spike. The body doesn’t make alliances with lies.”

A pause followed. Not from lack of information, but to listen to your reaction.

Your breathing had changed. He noticed.

Your hand trembled. He saw that too.

His eyes slid from your face to your chest, then to your neck, and finally... to the edge of your lips.

He didn’t say a word. But somehow... he said it all.

“People often want what they claim they don’t. But knowing that, hurts. You have the intellect to understand that.”

These words weren’t direct. But their weight was unmistakable.

You felt exposed. You stared at the table.

He touched your shoulder with the outside of his hand. This time, deliberately. Gauging your response. Then he leaned in. As he turned the next page, he spoke beside your ear.

“Do you know what a liar truly seeks, more than anything?”

“To be believed?”

“No. To be caught.”

You swallowed. Hard. Your eyes drifted toward the corner of the room. But your body, as if trying to escape, shifted slightly away from the desk. Your hip slid to the side, putting space between your leg and his. The distance still looked professionally acceptable. But what you felt… had already passed those boundaries.

He brushed your fingertips with his. Brief. Soft. But calculated.

“One doesn’t only defend themselves from others… but from their own impulses. And impulses... love resistance. Resistant minds are their favorite playground.”

With those words, he finally looked into your eyes. Fully.

And brought you to the edge.

Jonathan Crane’s touch on your hand ended in a thin line. The closeness he had maintained up until that moment had been sharp and patient; but now he pulled back. He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes for a few seconds. He left between you not a tense silence, but a calculating space. Then, when his eyelids slowly opened, it was as if he had become a completely different man, but he was still the same Crane. Only he had moved into the next phase.

He tapped his fingers on the edge of the table. Rhythmic, thoughtful. Then he tilted his head slightly to the side, his eyes returning to the pages. But there was a sentence on his lips that would pierce your mind:

“Do you remember… that new prototype I mentioned last term? A beta-typogenic class combination… a type of fluid. A formula that facilitates the confessional reflex. It is being developed to overcome behavioral blockages.”

His tone was neutral, as if you were in a classroom. But that was only the first layer. His words were presented to you as a technical reminder; but what was seeping beneath the tone… was something else entirely.

His jawline was harder. The inside of his eyes was measuring.

He was measuring whether he remembered or not, not just on the level of knowledge, but on another level as well.

“It’s a very interesting thing, chemically,” he continued. “There’s a very fine line between the neurological structures needed to tell a lie and the structures needed to repress it. If you can blur that line… everything that’s repressed comes to the fore. It spills out into words. Inevitably.”

You held your breath. Your hand was still on the corner of the file, but you weren’t looking at the pages anymore. As he spoke to you, he stood up abruptly. The slight creak of his chair echoed through the room like a small tremor. He turned his back to you and headed for a closet in the back corner of the office. His movements were not quick; each step was measured and heavy. As he opened the closet door, the fluorescent light reflecting off the metal shelves inside dazzled him.

He reached out and pulled out a small glass tube. Inside was a liquid as dark as night and quivering with a golden hue. The liquid moved slowly inside the glass, rippling as if it were breathing.

Jonathan turned to you, twirling the tube between his thumb and forefinger. His face was still expressionless. But his eyes… bore the impatience of a God about to begin an experiment.

“I’m glad you remembered,” he said. “But the question is… whether you have the confidence to put this theoretical knowledge into practice.”

He moved closer. He stood across the table, holding the tube in his palm. From where you were looking, the liquid was clearer now. The glass had been warmed by his body heat. He didn’t hand it to you. Not yet.

“The effect of the drug is temporary,” he said. “It doesn’t cause unconsciousness. It doesn’t involve external intervention. It just… brings out what’s inside. It doesn’t numb. It cleanses. It erases obstructions.”

Then he stepped forward. He came around the corner of the table and approached you. The tube was still steady in his hand. His stance was under control, but your breath was close enough to brush his chest. He lowered his voice another notch. He whispered, as if only you could hear: “Do you trust me?”

The words were easy. But their content was poisonous. And then came another sentence; that fragile persuasion that trapped you, leaving no way out: “Or… is there something you’re afraid to confess?”

Your whole body tensed. Because at this point, the choice was no longer whether to accept the drug or not.

The choice was whether to accept and accept how much you obeyed him. Whether to learn who you were in his hands or not. And he was offering you this drug as a personal tool, not just an experimental one. Would you choose to deny yourself?

Or, looking into his eyes… surrender?

Jonathan finally placed the tube on the table. He rolled it slowly to a stop. He locked his eyes with yours. There was a threatening expectation in his eyes. A cold, scientific, frightening curiosity-infused expectation. A decision that seems like "it's your decision", but in fact it has already been made for you.

The glass of the tube stopped spinning on the table. The movement had stopped, but the liquid inside seemed to still stir. It vibrated with uncertainty, fear, but also with an uncontrollable curiosity, just like the restlessness inside you.

You smiled. Forced it. Your facial muscles relaxed for a moment, your voice tried to sound natural.

“We can’t do this… I mean, it was an experiment. A prototype. I don’t know if testing it on yourself… is reasonable or ethical. It might even be… illegal.”

The rise in the voice at the end was tried to sound like a joke. But even you didn’t believe it. Your eyes still avoided his. Because there… there was a darkness reading you. A clinical coldness that analyzed not only your behavior but also your desires.

Jonathan Crane was silent for a moment. His head tilted slightly to the side. The line between his eyebrows wasn’t just a superficial sign of thought. He was watching you. He was listening to all the “no’s” you had hidden under that sentence. And then he spoke. Slow, sharp, as if every word had been chosen to tear you apart from the inside.

“I don’t meet students like you every semester. Do you know what’s interesting? They’re all brilliant at first. They’re all praised with grades. But then… they’re not tested. And no success that isn’t tested is real.”

He took a step toward you. His hands were tied behind his back. He was taller than you; his position was that of a judge rather than a teacher. He was cold. But that coldness… seemed like it would be warmed by a punishment.

“You think you’re ‘the best,’ don’t you? The most careful, the most patient, the most meticulous… even the most courageous. But none of these… should apply only to the classroom. There’s no room for these fairy tales in your professional life.”

The words seeped in. To be the best. That was the command you wrote inside yourself. You wanted to be ‘the first’ in his eyes. To be distinguished, to be seen as different. Because this internship… was the most fragile bridge of your career. And Crane had caught you on that bridge.

“Do you remember the students before you?” he asked. “Not one of them has been in this room with me where you are now. None of them have come this close. None of them… had this much potential.”

Your breath caught between your lips. Your chest heaved rapidly, but that breath was not a victory… it was a loss. He had set you apart. He had offered you the title of first place, but that title came with a price.

And Crane, as the one who held the prize, reminded you of that price:

“People like you can’t afford to be weak. They’re not afraid to make a decision. They think you won’t hesitate.”

“But now… you’re running away. You’re afraid. Because this is the first time you’ve been put to the test.”

His eyes locked on yours. Not to convince, but to leave no room for escape. Then he turned his head slowly. He opened the drawer on the desk. He pulled out a sterile syringe with a black frame.

It was the same temperature as the glass tube, but much more menacing. And he began to prepare this threat, as if it were a ceremony, calmly and methodically.

“It doesn’t change you. It just… opens you up to you.”

“Without any external interference, it just lets you face your truth. That’s what all ‘successful’ people avoid. Learning… who you really are.”

A note of tone appeared in his voice as his fingers tested the steel of the needle:

“If this is too much for you… maybe you’re not as brave as I thought.”

There it was. It was chosen to sink in. If you’re afraid, it’s because you’re weak. If you don’t accept, it’s because you’re not ready. And you… had to be ready. Because in his eyes, you were ‘the best.’

And in his eyes, being ‘the best’ was tantamount to obedience.

The hissing sound as the syringe began to draw the liquid echoed through the room. The golden liquid, flowing from the glass into the metal, was now only a few centimeters away from you. And Jonathan Crane watched you with no expression of triumph on his face.

Because he had already won.

The hissing sound as the liquid in the glass syringe vibrated into the metal needle was like a warning bell for you. It didn’t echo throughout the room, but it became an internal whisper that buzzed in your ears. This was no longer part of a laboratory experiment, but a chemical revelation ceremony played with your body. And you… You were standing there, facing Crane. Your wrist was exposed. The sleeve of your shirt was slowly rolled up. Your veins were highlighted by the effect of fear. The blue under your skin was now a direct target.

The hard rubber sound of Crane’s hands as he put on his gloves seemed to polish the seriousness of the moment. And then, the brief but infinite second of injection that would prepare you to see from within, not from the surface, would begin.

“Stay calm,” he said in a low voice. “This will only disable the voice that silences you. Everything else… already exists inside you.”

You felt the moment when the metal of the syringe needle touched your skin before it went deeper. First, the coldness. The sudden tightening of nerve endings that knew something was coming. Then a little pressure.

And then…

Introduction.

The moment the needle punctured your vein, your brain registered the moment. The puncture wasn’t sharp, but the wave that followed was…a fire that burned inside you but couldn’t seep out.

Crane slowly pushed the plunger. The fluid in the glass tube was now moving through your veins.

Your vagus system was activated. Your heartbeat slowed for a moment, then sped up. Your breathing became irregular. The fluid was directly touching the communication between your amygdala and your prefrontal cortex. The frontal lobes of your brain, which “censored reality,” began to fail like a membrane that was slowly evaporating. In its place, a more primitive layer was preparing to speak.

The drug’s intravenous spread reached your brain’s limbic system in about 8.3 seconds. And that’s when you realized that your body was no longer yours.

A vibration rose. First in your neck. Then in your shoulder blades. Finally… in the center of your chest.

The bottom of your chest tightened as if someone was pressing from inside. There was not enough air. You didn’t want to breathe because even the air you took in at that moment seemed to be under Crane’s control.

Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your sweat glands activated. Your subcutaneous temperature rose rapidly, while your body warmed up by 0.5 degrees.

But the most dramatic change happened inside. Your mind’s voice fell silent.

Instead, whatever was repressed began to climb upwards with the chemical drive of the liquid. Just as nausea comes not from a thought, but from a physiological drive…

For a moment, an image of the past flashed before your eyes. A failure. A race. A class. Eyes looking at you. That minus sign you received after the exam. That moment when you were told “insufficient”. It opened up in your mind like an unhealed wound. And then, the voice inside you asked: “Does Crane look at me like that?”

No thought was safe for you anymore.

It was all getting ready to come out. And he… was watching you.

When Crane withdrew the syringe, a small drop of blood rose to the surface after the metal had been removed from his skin. He pressed it gently with his fingers, but for the first time the contact was truly personal. Because this time, it wasn’t just the medicine that had seeped into his skin… but also his gaze.

“This is… the first stage,” he said. “Now, not your words… but your instincts will speak.”

Your pupils were dilated, your forehead moist. The insides of your knees were tingling, your body was losing control, but you weren’t falling yet.

Because you were still resisting. But the resistance was no longer just suppressing the medicine, it was suppressing yourself.

The silence of the room had changed to something else now. There was a chemical vibrating in the air; an aura that was invisible but coursing through your veins, an effect that took your thoughts from your hands and delivered them to his fingers.

You sat in your chair, your eyes wide, your lips parted. Your breathing wasn’t smooth, but rather undulating like waves crashing against the shore. Your chest, your shoulders… all seemed to carry a weight that was loaded onto your body. Everything you had suppressed inside you wanted to come out in the uncontrolled movements of your body, but you… were still trying to resist. Confessing… meant everything.

Jonathan Crane was still standing. After dropping the syringe into a medical waste container, he slowly guided his steps towards you. His stance was calm, but this calmness was only apparent from the outside; underneath it was strategy, appetite, lustful attention. His eyes lingered on you; he seemed to take note of your every reaction. But he didn’t want to tear you apart… he wanted to have you by making you unravel yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he finally asked, his voice low but direct. “Not much. Just honestly. Are you afraid?”

Even the question was a trap. Because if you said “no,” you would be lying. And you couldn’t lie. If you said “yes,” you would be accepting the fact that he was controlling you. But you… you were torn. After a few seconds of silence, without lifting your eyes from the table, you whispered:

“A little.”

He smiled. But it wasn’t warm. It was patient, mixed with pleasure. He was starting to figure you out. And now, he had decided to dig deeper.

He moved closer to you. He took a step toward the back of the chair. You couldn’t see his face, but you could tell he was getting closer to you from the thickening air between you. There was a deep silence. Then his voice rose again, from somewhere near the back of your neck. You shivered, your muscles tightening. “So what makes it hard for you to be honest with me? Fear? Morality? Or… something else?”

Your body quivered reflexively at that moment. Because the question wasn’t direct, but the implication was very strong. The words caught in your throat. The word “morality” felt like a needle when it came out of his voice. Was it what had happened between you and him that you were questioning… or was it that you wanted those things?

You swallowed.

“It’s just… weird,” you said with difficulty. “This isn’t normal.”

Jonathan tilted his head a little to the side at that answer. Like a doctor watching a subject’s first reaction. Yet he wasn’t impatient. Because he knew that the magic of confession… lay in its delay. Then, without forcing you at all, he began to speak slowly, in a way that would mentally grip you:

“People worship mediocrity to escape normality. They force themselves into ‘reasonable’ patterns. But inside them… there is a darker, more honest self. Those like you know this very well. Because you… don’t just want to be successful. You want to be distinguished. To be noticed. To know that something that is thought to be untouchable… has been opened up specifically for you. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you don’t stay silent.”

His words were filling the voids inside you. You were trying to resist, but your lips were moist, your fingers were tightly gripping the edge of the table. That liquid running through your veins was now loosening not only the urges, but also the shame.

Then he asked the question. Slowly. Almost in a whisper. “Have you ever thought about me?”

The blood rushed to your face. You felt like even hearing that sentence was tearing you apart. Your shoulders started to sag, as if someone had reached out from inside your heart and pulled away all the walls you had stepped on.

For a moment you couldn’t answer. But then… the word came. Like a rotten whisper.

“Yes…”

Jonathan’s eyes lit up. He didn’t smile. Because this moment wasn’t something to laugh at. This was the moment when the armor that made you who you were cracked for the first time.

And then he took another step. This time he was right next to you. He didn’t put his hand on your shoulder, he didn’t touch your hair. But you could feel his presence… under your skin now.

“When?” he asked. “What moment? What thought?”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to run away. But the words… came.

“The first day of the internship… when you didn’t look into my eyes. You weren’t talking to the other students like you did. I thought about it then. But I didn’t want to. But I thought about it anyway.”

Crane lowered his gaze to you. Just like a patient is put under observation at the first moment of crisis… only this time his interest wasn’t just clinical. He wasn’t solving you anymore.

He was solving you in order to take care of you.

Jonathan Crane accepted your confession with silence. He neither mocked nor showed any surprise. He simply remained silent. But this silence was not an ordinary “I heard”. This was the first time a lock was turned. And he… had now stepped into the room behind that lock.

He took another step. His fingers were slightly tense, but he did not touch. He would not touch yet. Because you had to want him to come closer. Your mind was just getting used to this confusion, and he was slowly untangling you with his patience.

He pulled a chair from the table and sat down next to you. There was a short distance between you, but that distance was now lost in his eyes. His pupils were constricted, scanning you. But this scanning was no longer clinical. It was a preparation for possession.

“You said what you thought of me,” he said softly, “but that is only the beginning. Thoughts… can escape intention. But desires are more honest.”

He was silent for a moment. You heard his breathing. The uncomfortable warmth that his arm leaning on the table had awakened in you was seeping up from under your body. Like a fire that could not reach its depth but made you feel it was approaching.

“When I enter the same room with you… what do you feel? Really. When you see me… how does your body react?”

The question was direct and chilling. This was no longer a ‘test’. This was a transition to another layer of confession. And under the effect of the drug, the filters on your honesty were now dissolving. But this honesty was chaining you instead of freeing you. Because everything you said would mean surrendering to him a little more.

You swallowed. Only one word came out of your lips first: “Restlessness… I feel like there is no limit to what you can do.”

But he waited. He looked at you without blinking. That answer was not enough. Because when you pulled away from his gaze, he could see your heart speed up. Your eyes wandered around the room, as the words were preparing to fall from your chest, the urges that you had not even confessed to your own inner voice began to rise.

“But… also… curiosity. I want to see your limitlessness. I want to stay even when I should be leaving. And that endless unknown makes me feel attracted to you. It’s… disturbing but… addiction, Dr. Crane.”

Crane slowly lowered his head. Like a hunter watching you over his shoulder. Not your words, not your fragile tone… nothing was foreign to him. He didn’t respond as if he already knew you. He watched you patiently, as if he were shaping you right now. And then he asked something even more specific. It was proof that he was moving toward becoming not just a counselor but an object of obsession:

“So… what would you like me to know about you? When you think of me… how would you like to be seen, Y/N?”

The question was like a knife. The answer was something you were waiting for, just to see in his eyes. Maybe “to be noticed.” Maybe “to be liked.” But in that moment, a more primal urge emerged:

“I want you to see my weaknesses… especially my fears,” you said. “But without belittling me. The thought of you not pitying me triggers me…The fantasy of controlling me stimulates my groin.”

Your words caught in your throat. Because this wasn’t just a confession; this was a declaration of your voluntary inclusion in the entire system he had created.

Jonathan was silent for a moment. Then, he leaned in. Very lightly, very slowly. You felt his breath near your cheek. But still, he didn’t kiss. Because the biggest touch between them… was still your voice.

“For you, boundaries are just the outer shell,” he whispered. “I’m not helping you break yourself. You’re already broken. I… am just holding up a mirror to you.”

And what you saw in the mirror… wasn’t just you. It was how he saw you now. And it was something you had never seen before.

Crane’s words didn’t hang in the air. They had descended over you like a heavy veil, slowly descending. You were breathing under that veil now, hazy, uncomfortable, but familiar. Because the deep, clinical softness in his voice… wasn’t a cure, it was a promise of resolution.

Your shoulders had slumped, your jaw had trembled slightly. Your body didn’t feel like your own. It was a place where only his words echoed. And Jonathan Crane was the architect of this place.

Nothing was rushed as he approached you. He slowly raised his hand from the edge of the table, and with a slight bend in his thumb, he reached just below your cheek. His touch was so gentle that at first you weren’t sure if he actually made contact. But then the veins beneath your skin began to pulse at the gentle pressure.

“Has anyone ever looked at you this closely?” he said.

“With all your masks off. Without running away. Without judging. Just… watching you.”

Your eyes turned to him, but you couldn’t look. Because this wasn’t just a look, it was the first step of surrender.

He didn’t take his eyes off you. As if he was memorizing all the subconscious folds inside you by watching your every breath.

His fingertips moved from the edge of your chin to your lips. He didn’t turn your face. He just touched your lower lip with his thumb. But this contact wasn’t affection; it was a form of dominance. Not to caress you, but to see where you were trembling. And you shivered.

A muscle twitched involuntarily on the side of your neck.

Because in his palm was not only the pulse of deep desires but also of repressed desires.

Crane moved his head a little closer to you. When his breath touched your skin this time, your body moved with an internal reflex, but you couldn’t move.

This was the disintegration of a body torn between running away and staying. And he saw it.

He could now read you without the need for medication.

“What do you imagine when you think of me?” he asked, his voice low but poisonously calm. “What do you want me to do with my hands? What did you imagine me doing, Y/N?”

It wasn’t a question, it was a confession. But it had to come from you. It had to be your choice to say it. And so your last remaining boundary would collapse with your hand.

Your throat went dry. Your eyes darkened. But the answer came. In a whisper. The words seemed to come from inside you, not from your lips.

“When I think of you, we’re always in the same place: in a dark room, with only your voice. ‘Be patient,’ you say. There are handcuffs on my wrists… But not just physically… You’ve captured me. You bite me because I want to be yours. With every painful touch, I become more dependent.”

Crane’s face didn’t come closer. He just listened to you.

Because that was the moment you opened up to yourself.

And that surrender… was the greatest victory for him.

“Good,” he finally said. “Because you have now surrendered yourself to me. Not your body, but your mind. Your most fragile part.”

He moved closer to you. His hands were now on either side of your neck, but he was not squeezing you. He was just pressing you with his presence. And you… even as you breathed, you were now following his rhythm.

He looked you straight in the eye with those cold eyes. “Get up,” Jonathan said, his voice echoing through the room. His tone was commanding, yet it also carried a dark allure. You did as he said, obediently. Jonathan stood before you, but it was impossible to understand what he was thinking or doing. And that uncertainty aroused you.

His frequent tapping of the glass syringe on the table against the floor gave him away. He was a control freak, and you wanted to be under his control.

Crane’s gaze changed. The dull calm of his eyes gave way to a sharper determination. He was no longer trying to untie you, but to possess you. For once, the contact was unwavering.

His fingers reached under your chin, tilting your head up slightly. You let out an involuntary sigh as you turned to him, an echo struggling with both uneasiness and surrender.

And then… his thumb pressed the edge of your lower lip. This time harder, like a beckoning gesture.

“I’m here,” he said. “And you’re mine now.”

“You want more, don’t you, Y/N,” he said, his voice as soft as ice. “Because you… you’ve already prepared yourself for this moment.”

He increased the pressure on the corner of his mouth a little more.

The thought that your desire wasn’t yours, but his… made you shiver and pull at the same time. You parted your pale lips slightly, the suppressed fear you carried inside you like a mysterious invitation in the curve of his lips. Jonathan, at that moment, mixed with your breath, as if he were looking for a spiritual contact, not just physical. But he didn’t kiss you. No. He had to drive you crazy first. He leaned down to the side of your neck. His lips didn’t touch your skin. But his breath was directed right at that point that coincided with your pulse. Your whole body was stuck for a moment. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Because movement could be the end of something. But you didn’t want it to end. He first touched your neck with his lips. Where your pulse beat. Your body trembled as if you’d been electrocuted. “Are you scared?” Jonathan asked, his breath touching yours. You nodded slowly. “Yes,” you answered, your voice trembling. Jonathan’s smile widened even more.

He ran his tongue first. It left a chilling dampness on your skin. Then a bite, just like in your dreams. Not enough to hurt you, but arrogant enough to claim it. “Perfect,” he said. “Fear is the strongest emotion. And you will share it with me.” As he felt the speed of your pulse, its irregularity, the pull mixed with fear, he felt like he owned you from the inside. It was as if he had completely taken over your body, like a parasite.

While you continued to feel his tongue, his lips, he moved along your neck. He brushed his lips all the way to your jawbone. From there, he reached your cheeks. But he never fully touched you. He did not let your tongues burn with each other’s wetness. His breath was now touching the spot between your cheek and ear. His fingers started from the tip of your shoulder; He moved down to your breasts, which filled the palm of your hand, over the thin fabric. Then he slowly slid and glided. First, he traced the outline of your waist, the hollow of your spine. Your body was so tense that each touch was not an observation but part of an experiment.

He bent his head ever so slightly. When the tip of his nose touched yours, your body shook. This was not a kiss. This was the first threat of contact. When your lips finally met; this kiss was a trembling and contradictory touch, dancing on the thin line of passion and death. His cold and controlled demeanor frightened you. He had the careful manner of a doctor measuring your body temperature. He measured how your lips were reacting. He pressed lightly, pulled back. He came closer again. This was not pleasure, but the application of the first dose that would create addiction.

His fingers slid to the back of your neck. Your skin shivered. And then the kiss deepened. But you were still not directing him. He lightly ran his tongue between your lips, drawing you in. But the movement of his tongue is deliberate: each curve slowly, almost calculating. Jonathan is not kissing you… he is silencing you. He is stopping all the “Is this true?” echoing in your mind by pressing it against his lip.

His eyes weren’t closed. They were open. He wanted to watch your reactions. There was power and analysis in his eyes, not affection.

When he slid his tongue into your lips, the rough, wet surface of the papillae tickled. The deepening rhythm as your tongues intertwined, as if synchronizing your heartbeats. There was no limit, but the tempo was his.

Even when he pulled away from your lips, the kiss wasn’t over. His gaze flickered to your mouth, then to your eyes. The pressure of his hand on the back of your neck continued.

“Do you realize how easily you give in?” he whispered, his fingers landing on your collarbones. “The serum I made won’t break your resistance. It will only disrupt your lying mechanism, and that comes with fear.”

And before you could respond, he pulled you closer. Slowly, but firmly. Your body touched his chest. His arms didn’t wrap around your back. He just stopped. Crane wasn’t holding you. He was locking you up.

“The void I’ve created inside you,” he said at ear level,

“Only I can fill it. And you belong to me now… in another form.”

Your body took an involuntary breath. As if your tongue had not yet reached the thoughts that were passing through it. But his fingers were now roaming the lower edge of your abdomen, carefully but insistently pushing you toward your limits. As if he were making decisions every millimeter, measuring when the touch would turn into desire, when it would turn into surrender.

One of his hands was now pressing gently on the back of your waist. He had paused there before pulling you closer. You were on the edge. And Crane knew it.

His gaze, as it slid down from top to bottom, showed neither hunger nor complete aloofness. Like a psychological prey, he watched you for when you would give in. His lips moved, but almost whispered:

“I want to see you… not what the world sees when you hide under cotton and fear.” His fingers touched the first button on your shirt. He wanted you to do it. He wanted you to watch him, but he made it clear to you before he did. He unbuttoned the button with a single movement. When he stretched the edges of the fabric to the sides, the curved lines of her breasts were visible.

There was nothing moving in the room at that moment. Only your heart. It was beating so hard that you were sure even Jonathan Crane could hear it. Your eyes were locked on his; but his was fixed, yours was searching. Perhaps you were instinctively looking for an exit. But this was Crane’s mental labyrinth. And now you had reached the last room from which there was no exit.

With trembling hands, you took off your vest and left it on the chair. Jonathan’s gaze roamed over your body, watching your every move. “Now your shirt,” he said, his voice becoming even more authoritative.

You unbuttoned his shirt clumsily. Your fingers were shaking more than usual. You felt the coolness of his skin against your underwear. You caught your breath at first. Then your rhythm quickened. This, the symptoms, occur for two reasons. Either intense desire or… fear.

Jonathan’s eyes rested on your breasts, but his expression remained blank. “Go on,” he said, as if this was just an experiment.

You prayed that your knees wouldn’t betray you as he took off your skirt. That shiver was always running up your spine. But also in your groin.

You were left in nothing but your underwear. The texture of the lace against your skin was almost whisper-light; delicate shades of purple and gray quivered like diamonds against your skin. The bra that hugged your breasts was more than just a piece of fabric, it was an intention. A clever trap between covering and exposing. The lace patterns traced thin paths across your skin, each one as clear as a line your fingers would want to cross, yet still forbidden.

Your panties were seductive with a simplicity that words failed to describe; the almost invisible thin bands dug into the bony line of your hips, the front generous enough to cover only the most intimate secrets. It was like a sensual oath, inviting you to imagine before touching.

Jonathan’s gaze traveled down your body, taking in every detail. “Very beautiful,” he said, but his voice was devoid of praise. “But tonight, your beauty does not concern me. Only your obedience.”

But you could no longer make eye contact with him. Your breathing quickens, but you can’t get enough air into your lungs. There’s a tension in the center of your chest, like your heart is stuck and hasn’t yet convinced itself to beat. Like when you’re scared.

“Look at me,” he says. His voice is controlled and measured. But you can’t look at him. When he does, eye contact is like a slap.

“You’re resisting eye contact… classic displacement behavior under chemically induced anxiety. That means it’s working.”

The serum.

Yes, the fluid Jonathan had injected into your vein for a special “test.” He hadn’t told you about his fear symptoms.

You heard his footsteps. He was approaching. You had pressed yourself against the window sill as if you could run away, but you didn’t realize it. The room wasn’t big. And you had nowhere to run now.

Jonathan stopped right in front of you. You were still looking away.

“Look at me,” he says again. There’s no anger in his voice. But there’s something there that defies argument. Like a scientist trying to keep a subject in line when they’re running away from him. With your eyes still on the floor, he took another step.

“Oh yes, you feel it, don’t you?”

The serum’s effects increased. The hormones of fear—adrenaline, norepinephrine, cortisol—danced through your blood. His hands were shaking, his knees felt weak. But he knew it, he was watching it, and he was aroused by it.

Jonathan held your chin in his fingers as you continued to look away. Not forcibly, but with an obsessive patience. He turned your face toward his.

His lips almost touched yours again. “No. You can’t look away. Not from me.”

“Fascinating,” he said when your eyes finally met his. His thumb slid to the corner of your mouth, barely touching your skin. You wanted to run away, and at the same time, you wanted to sink to your knees.

Jonathan Crane looked at you like someone analyzing you. “You’re shaking… but you’re not trying to.”

“Do you know what that means?”

You couldn’t answer. But what was going through you was neither fear nor desire. You were on a sharp, slippery line drawn between the two.

Your chin was still in his fingers. Even if you turned your head to the side, he wouldn’t let you. The pressure he applied was light but absolute.

When you tried to escape with your eyes, his gaze would bore into yours again. Looking at you was like penetrating you. And it was exactly what he wanted you to not be able to escape.

“That’s it… breathe. Let it take you.”

Let “it” take you. What? The serum? Fear? Or… it?

Crane leaned his head down a little more. His forehead was so close to yours.

"Your pupils dilated... your skin flushed... your hands trembled. Fear reached its peak. Now let's see what happens next."

He moved a little closer to you. His breath was just above your lips. But he didn't kiss you this time.

His hand slowly moved down from your chin to your neck. He stopped there. He felt your pulse with his fingertips. Much more noticeable now.

You were still shivering. But... But that touch wasn't just fear anymore. It was warmth. A desire. A mixed, dirty pulling feeling.

When he kissed your lips again, this time he was harder. He wanted fear to cascade, to merge with lust. When he pulled his lips back and looked into your eyes, he saw your pupils dilate. His cock was getting hard with this sight. And after that kiss came another one. A little more pressing, a little more burning with desire to possess.

His fingers wrapped around your neck a little tighter in the beat.

Then he put his hands on your bare waist. He squeezed you between the wall and his body. As if to remind you that he owned you.

His voice mixed with your breaths. "You can still stop this. But you won't."

Because you couldn't stop. The serum continued to flow through your veins. But now his voice, his touch, his closeness to your skin... More effective than the serum.

The wetness he left on your lips shone in the dim light, like raw meat.

Suddenly, he grabbed your hair from behind. Not hard, but determined. His fingers got into your hair, gripping it near the nape of your neck. Your head fell back suddenly, your neck tensed, your breath hitched. His breath licked your skin as he spoke.

"You're scared like prey... and I've never seen anything so perfect," he said through his teeth.

His fingers pressed against your hair roots, steadying you.

Your skin was burning. Your heart was beating like it had lost control. His other hand found the edge of your panties. And he entered between your skin and the fabric like an invader, finding the outer lips of your vulva.

It was wet... Dr. Crane’s fingers were wet enough to make them soggy. His middle and ring fingers were wet enough to slide easily into her slit.

A slick sound filled your ear as he stroked your inner lips in a circular motion.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled wryly, “Oh, my… you’re soaked,” he said, while continuing to tease your clitoris and vaginal opening. “So tell me, what exactly are you afraid of? Of me, or of the fact that I scare you and you enjoy it?” he whispered. When he reached your clitoris and stopped there, he squeezed the bud with two fingers. Even the slightest pressure inevitably stimulated the dilated capillaries inside. Your sensitivity increased to the point that your temple twitched with each stroke.

As he continued to crush your clitoris between his fingers, you felt the pain. Your chest heaved, you sighed, your mouth slightly parted. This was more than it should have been. Pain triggers your fear, Dr. He made you see Crane as a threat—and you should have. You wanted to run away. But the pleasure in the pain was so sweet, so tempting. Lust and pain balanced each other. Your mind was giving warning signals… your body was writhing in surrender.

“Ah. You weren’t expecting this, were you?” he said, his index and ring fingers stretching your outer lips. “That your fear would make you… suffer for me,” he said, his middle finger brushing along your vulva. It stopped at the entrance to your sensitive vagina, applying pressure.

You were so out of control that your breathing quickened. Your muscles tensed, you held onto the arms of the man you feared, your fingers trembling. The man who was bringing you to orgasm locked eyes with you, both godlike and beastlike. And he stared into your eyes, impassive, emotionless, and grabbed the fabric beneath him, pulling it taut. The sound of the fabric tearing didn’t fill the room, but your ears did. His dominant movements, his dull gaze, his desire to possess reminded you of death. You wanted to escape from him. To escape without looking back and to lock yourself somewhere he couldn't find you.

The wall behind you was no longer just a physical boundary. As alive as your own skin. Cold. Hard.

But he was more honest than you. Because you still thought you could escape. His presence was as close as a sentence. As heavy as a look. And you had already accepted that you couldn't escape, but you wouldn't admit it to yourself.

Jonathan threw the torn fabric in his hand to the ground and stepped back toward his desk, as if he expected you to follow him. Your inner thighs were wet as you took a step. Your arousal was flowing through your legs in a colorless, slippery liquid. It was the arousal of fear, the orgasm of death.

You stood in front of him. “Now,” he said, “you will bend over for me.” He raised one hand and pointed to the table. The files were scattered on top of it.

Your fingertips were trembling slightly. Your breath was now uncontrollably ragged. Your body wanted to get closer to a man you saw as a devil.

The moment you realized this, the inner scream began.

Your mind was screaming, “No.”

But your skin… that fire that stretched from your spine to your womanhood, knew that you were nothing but Crane’s shadow.

You turned back to the desk, your hands fixed on a place where there were no papers, your head bowed. He was right behind you, and that feeling was more dangerous than making eye contact with him. Because he was watching you. And him continuing to watch without doing anything, not taking you even though he had untied you… would leave you even more naked. Because then you would not only carry the desire, but also the shame of rejection.

When Jonathan’s hand touched your hair, your muscles clenched. His fingers tightened around the strands. He leaned your head back against his shoulder, his lips tingling your ears. “You flinch when I touch you… but your body calls me back like a prayer,” he said, his voice threatening. “Isn’t it beautiful? Your terror is what makes you… irresistibly wet.”

Jonathan’s face cracked into a smile, but it was dark. “You don’t belong in the outside world anymore,” he said, unclasping your bra. “You belong here. In this room. "Under my control," he continued. After your bra was removed, you were now as naked as your soul. Your warm body tensed when his cold hands cupped your breasts from behind. Your areolas were hard, your nipples were erect, and you felt the coldness of his fingers very sensitively. But that wasn't all you felt. His cock pressing against your hips was straining the fabric, twitching to fill your tight vagina.

He cupped your left breast and squeezed it hard. He crushed your right nipple between his fingers, just like he had done to your clitoris a moment ago. He leaned down to your ear and rubbed his tongue around it. All the way around, as if he were setting a boundary around your ear.

You, on the other hand, frowned in fear and began to moan with desire. The husky sound coming from your throat was lustful and shy at the same time.

"You're ashamed of how much you want this, aren't you, Y/N?" Jonathan said, sliding his hand from your left breast down to your belly. "But this shame... making you tighter. Wetter. Needier." His fingers were making a figure 8 at his groin now. "Don't hide it. Let it devour you. I want to see everything about you."

All of this, while the serum in your veins was still stimulating your amygdala, was getting darker and scarier. "No." came out of your lips. "No" had many meanings for you. But most of all, it was because you couldn't accept that the doctor you thought was more terrifying than your nightmares wanted to fuck you. Yet, he had been in your dreams ever since you saw him. Ever since you saw him, you wanted him to fill you with his sperm on the gurney in his lab. But the serum made everything complicated.

Jonathan pressed his hand on your back. His fingertips were strong enough to leave white marks on your skin. You bowed in lustful fear. First a little, then a little more... But it wasn't enough for Dr. Crane. He wanted you to press your face against the table.

You turned your head to the right. When your left cheek touched the file, the first thing you noticed was the cold. It was as if all the light in the room had been drained from the walls; only his silhouette remained. Your eyes were on the metal cabinet, but your mind was on him.

Your breaths were short, broken. You wanted to slowly push yourself up, but… When the warmth of his hand pressed against the center of your back, something inside you unraveled.

You were in the exact position he wanted. "I've been dreaming of this exact position since you were leaning over my bookshelf last semester," he said, his hand still on your back, applying pressure. It restricted your movement, shouting that the will was in his hands. "I almost touched you then. But I waited. Because now... now you'll remember this for the rest of your life."

And his free hand went to his tie.

You didn't see him. But you heard his movements. The slight rustle of the fabric of his tie. Time suddenly slowed down. As if every second was diminishing one more defense inside you. And you were no longer sure what was more troubling: his hand holding you or the fact that he hadn't done anything yet.

His removal of the tie was slow and precise. As if he'd done it a hundred times. But this time, not to loosen your shirt, but to steady you. His eyes never left yours as his fingers released the fabric that had come loose from his collar with a single tug. He took his time. Because he knew that fear thrived best in waiting.

And you... were motionless.

Your lungs were rising and falling rapidly in a narrow space.

Your hands were shaking, but your body couldn't move. Your head was crowded: "He chose you long ago. You always knew that."

The tie was now in Jonathan’s hands, and even before it touched your skin, you felt him tie you up. Your body froze, but your thoughts were screaming, “He won’t do it now. He’s just scaring you. It’s just a game…”

“Put your hands behind your back,” he said. His voice was low but unarguable. Just that sentence sent an icy shiver down your spine. You didn’t move. But he didn’t wait. He gently but firmly guided your wrists back. His fingertips were cold; like a doctor’s gloved hands.

He noticed you were trembling. But he didn’t say anything. As the fabric of the tie wrapped around your wrists, your heart began to race like a false alarm. But no one would wake up from that alarm. Because you were the only one in the room. And he was listening to your fear.

When the fabric was knotted, your hands were now tied behind your back. Your shoulders were tense. And he studied you like a painting. His gaze was not cold, but dark. Not satiated, still hungry.

The sound of the belt reached your ears. You knew it was your turn, but your heart was pounding with fear, and the colorless liquid flowing down your legs was thickening.

The hard, heavy click of his metal buckle echoed in the silence of the room, brief but firm. Every moment you didn’t see, your ears grew stronger with your imagination.

Then, that dry scraping sound of skin being pulled across fabric… As the buckle was released, the belt flexed like a spring at the end, then relaxed and dropped.

The sound of the zipper was more delicate. It cut through the air like a thin, continuous scratch.

The weight of his pants yielded on its own as the waistband came undone. The thick fabric made a gentle scrape as it slid down his legs; a brief stiffness at the knees, and then a muffled, rolling sound as his weight dropped to the floor.

He wore only a pair of skinny, smoky-gray boxers underneath. The fabric was neither new nor worn; it was simply “used.” He grabbed the faded seams and pulled them down. His hardened penis arched slightly as it was released from the elastic at the waist.

Jonathan was straining at the entrance to her vagina. He first took hold of his penis with his hand and flicked it toward her clitoris. A warning shot through your spine, clenching your fists. But the fabric around your wrists was straining and hurting. You sighed through your teeth.

Then he stroked your vulva a few times. He reached down from your clitoris to the entrance of your vagina, and pushed a few inches inside, but never in. It was driving you crazy. “Oh, please, Dr. Crane!” you moaned. “Please,” he begged. Like prey begging the hunter.

Jonathan was even more aroused by your words. “Should we put that in your internship report?” he asked, almost rasping. “‘Subject: Dr. Crane applied full pressure; subject responded with incoherent moans and demanded more.’” Dr. Crane could no longer catch his breath. “Let’s call it… behavioral data.”

You were aroused by these words. Both terrified and lustful. Triggered by the corrupt desire he had for you. His pursuit of you, his insatiable obsession with you, was enticing. “You scare me, Doctor…” you moaned. You paused but never stopped. “…but I don’t know why I still desire you so much.” The words came out in gasps, “I want you to fuck me, in all your sick fantasies.”

Jonathan wheezed breathlessly, “Do you really need someone to dominate you, Y/N? And someone to bring you to your knees with nothing but their eyes.”

You groaned breathlessly, “No… not someone.

Just you and your twisted mind.” You looked so eager. So needy.

When Jonathan pushed his cock into your vagina, it enveloped you completely. It wasn’t very long, but it was thick. Too thick for you. Too tight for him. He threw his head back in pleasure as the rough, warm walls of his vagina wrapped around Jonathan’s manhood. “Oh, Y/N, every breath belongs to me. Every tremor you make is my victory.”

His cock was surrounded by the knots of your warm vaginal walls. This rough structure allowed him to feel you deeper. Jonathan was losing himself in the pleasure you were giving him, moaning. Every time he pushed his big cock inside you, his swollen balls slapped your ass, stimulating both your ‘g’ spot and your clitoris, making you almost cry. And you couldn’t react at all. He had you completely trapped in his body.

“You like that, don’t you?” Jonathan asked as he fucked you like an animal. “Tell me you want me, Y/N, tell me you want to be trapped in my darkness.”

You were out of breath. With the intensity of the terrifying pleasure you were experiencing, the whites of your eyes were exposed, and your moans were getting louder and echoing in Jonathan's ears. "Oh, Dr. Crane, this is beyond my dreams."

Your flesh was slapping against each other with each impact as he rooted into your tight hole. And he continued to thrust rhythmically. "It's wonderful to feel you from the inside." he said.

You were both about to reach the peaks of pleasure. Your tight vagina felt Crane's hardness and veined surface down to the smallest cell. His penis was wrapped around your knotted walls, twitching.

You were now at the height of your orgasm. Even though his penis filled your vagina completely, the juices of pleasure continued to leak from the exit of your vagina. You were so wet that a slurry sound echoed with each thrust.

Jonathan leaned over you and put his lips to your ear. Now you could taste his moans, his short breath, the warmth of his breath just behind your ear. He bit your earlobe. It was painful, but the tip of his tongue was taking the pain to a stimulating level. "My poor obsession, just be patient a little longer. It's almost here."

The table was shaking. The creaking echoed off the walls of the room as the table legs rubbed against the floor. The muscles in his hips were now clenched, and he was about to spill his sperm onto your womanhood. But he held himself back to witness the moment his sperm slid across your skin, and he pulled out of you suddenly and came breathlessly onto your hips. As his sperm spread over your warm skin, you came right after. Your juices of pleasure had soaked the office floor, and the rest had seeped down your legs and dripped down to your ankles.

The effects of the serum had completely worn off, and you were left alone with only your interest and desire for Jonathan Crane. Your ears were buzzing, your eyes were blurry with pleasure. You were on cloud nine, realizing you had never had an orgasm before. You had never had real sex. And what you wanted was exactly what Jonathan Crane wanted.

[phoebejaysims]

Boutique Mod - DOWNLOAD

Inspired by the sims 2 shopping for clothes system, I present a sims 3 take on buying clothes, accessories and running a thriving boutique! Set up shifts, keep the racks stocked, and you might find yourself in profit!

Required:

Ambitions

NRAAS Master Controller + Integration Module

Optional:

ITF if you want to use the clothes mannequin and some visual effects.

Late Night if you want the animations for the security guard.

Seasons for extra interactions on the mannequin.

Savvy Seller Set for some visual and audio effects.

Full Documentation is included in the download. I spent a while writing it out, so please read thoroughly!

How Stores Work:

Set up a shift

Hire Employees (bosses count as employees so stores are fully functional with only one sim!)

Link at least one rack to the register

Open for business!

Employees:

Store employees can be given three types of roles: register attendant, sales attendant and security guard.

Employees will do their jobs automatically but you can always manually tell them to do things too like: restocking, dressing up mannequins, helping customers, among other things.

Customers:

Inactive and active sims can browse through the racks and have the ability to purchase items. They'll interact differently depending on if they are shopping at a clothes rack, accessory rack, or at a mannequin.

Inactives won't purchase outfits from mannequins unless you direct them to (or you enable auto-purchasing in the XML). However, they may "fake" buy clothes.

Once finished shopping, customers hold their bags and wait to be rung up! Take too long and they may abandon their purchase.

Shopping:

Adjust prices and restrict customers by age and gender to customise your store!

Clothes Racks:

Buy Clothes for your own sim, sims in your household, or (if you're an employee) suggest clothes for customers.

Employees that suggest clothes for customers can fulfil Ambition Stylist jobs this way.

Accessories Racks:

Choose accessories to be sold by adding them to the XML in the package file. The XML comes loaded with a few base game items already plus a couple modded items (Arsil's Sunglasses and lipstick - that won't be loaded unless you have them installed).

Sell buy-mode items as well as CAS items!

Make your CAS items wearable from your sim's inventory using your own meshes or my dummy accessory (see Documentation and XML for details).

Blacklist certain categories from being shown. If you want a dedicated shoe shop or an opticians, you can have it!

Try on products before buying them to see if they suit your sim. If there's a mirror in the room, they'll check themselves out in it.

Clothing Mannequin:

Try on the mannequin outfits to see if they suit your sim.

Plan different outfits to display and even set them to be rotated through seasonally.

Let your employees be creative and choose a random outfit for the mannequin to wear.

Buy clothes for your own sim, household members, or customers.

Allow or disallow inactives from automatically purchasing display outfits.

Security Gates:

Give your security guards something to stand and look threatening by.

You can try your luck at stealing from the shop. If you're caught, you'll have to pay up. If you get past the gates (or if there are no gates), enjoy your bounty!

Boutique Door:

Cloned from the Savvy Seller doors without the annoying 'kick-every-last-person-out-the-building-come-closing-time' feature.

Link this to a register and let the open and close sign automatically flip itself. Also, close the store or rename it, straight from the door.

Phone Interactions:

Ask for time off work (paid or unpaid).

Call in sick.

Cancel vacation days.

Credits and Thanks:

@dhalsims for adding geostates to the ITF rack for me. Modders, I really recommend her if you need any 3D models made also!

DouglasVeiga for the BG rack with the geostates.

@aroundthesims for allowing me to use her objects in my mod as always!

Sims 4 for all the animations that I converted.

Simstate & merchant mods for the idea to go into a mode to link racks to the register.

The OG shop for clothes mod and pedestal by @anitmb.

Arsil and @zoeoe-sims for wearable CAS items idea that I adapted.

Ani's Candle mod & Amb. Makeover XML which I looked at for inspo on how to do accessory rack xml.

Compatibility:

All new objects so shouldn't conflict with anything really.

Removes the 'plan outfit' interaction from dressers.

Made on version 1.67.

If you would like to donate as thanks, please feel free to do so at: my kofi! I don't take your generosity for granted!

Download: - Simblr.cc - 2t3 Boutique Mod Suggested Extra CC: - Lyralei's TS2 Conversions (incl. clothes changing booth) - More ATS3 Security Gates - ATS3 Friperie Set

Known issues, prop information and the full feature breakdown are all in the documentation.

Please be patient with me if there are bugs to fix. Also, anyone who DMs me "I don't know how to create a new shift" will be immediately fined £150.

With that said, please enjoy the mod and tag me in your beautiful boutiques,

Phoebe :)