#Resume checklist

[mentorshelly]

ATS-Friendly Resumes: Secrets to Beating the Bots (and Landing That Interview!)

So, you’ve spent hours crafting the perfect resume. It’s got personality, flair, and maybe even a little sparkle. You send it off into the job application abyss, only to hear…nothing. Silence. Crickets. What happened?! Well, my friend, you may have just been ghosted by a bot. Meet Your New Gatekeeper: The ATS Before your resume even reaches human eyes, it must pass through an Applicant Tracking…

[jobbabu]

We'll go through the steps in this guide to successfully adding job experience to your CV.

[silverrdagger]

my final marks for my BA are in yayyy. I'm not going to my actual graduation though so my degree should be coming in the mail. Also trying to get stuff set up for grad school and applying to more jobs bc my supervisor has insisted on a start date of June 24th like we are not doing that I need money!!!

[ai-resume-builder]

Master Your First 90 Days: The Ultimate 30-60-90 Day Plan to Succeed in Your New Job

Landing your dream job is no small feat—congrats! But now the real work begins. The first 90 days in a new position are crucial. They’re your chance to learn, contribute, and prove your value. Whether you’re a recent graduate starting your first job or a professional making a strategic move, companies expect you to hit the ground running. That means adapting fast, showing initiative, and making…

[tariesaus]

Transferable skillset checklist

jswa-personal-transferable-skills-checklistDownload

[winwintea]

that's okay

PAIRING ↬ academic rival!na jaemin x ace!female reader

TAGS ↬ fluff, romance, slight angst, academic rivals to lovers au, college au, fake dating au, jaemin = campus playboy, drunk decisions, art museum date, plushies because i want a plushie, jaemin is kinda whipped fr

SUMMARY ↬ you're determined to outshine your academic rival na jaemin, the campus heartthrob infamous for his frivolous reputation. but when a few too many drinks suddenly ropes you into a fake dating scheme with jaemin, you realize that there's much more to him than his playboy persona. can two opposites navigate a connection that’s anything but fake?

WORD COUNT ↬ 3.7k+

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ HAPPY BIRTHDAY @lotties-readings !! grinding this fic in a day was so fun. the 3 am brain creativity actually carried this time too. hope i did him justice 😭😭 SHOUTOUT TO THE ASEXUAL COMMUNITY I LOVE YALL <33 THIS ONE'S FOR YOU !!!!

PLAYLIST ↬ cooler than me - mike posner, anti-romantic - txt, are you satisfied? - marina, that's okay - d.o.

WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?

Na Jaemin. The Playboy. He’s probably slept with half of the school and the rumors are on and off with him. The college’s infamous frivolous playboy, a firm believer of the ‘hook up as much as you can before you find your soulmate!’ ideology. For some, it was oddly endearing. For you? Maddening. Because Na Jaemin wasn’t just a playboy. He was your rival. Jaemin just had this certain charm to him that attracted the masses. Everyone, including your friends, had had a crush on him at one point in their lives. Everyone except you. Despite his supposedly carefree attitude, he always ranked #1. And you? Stuck perpetually at #2, clawing at his heels, only for him to breeze past like it was nothing. If it were anyone else, maybe you wouldn’t care so much. But no—it had to be him.

You swore to steer clear of him. No parties, no flirtations, and certainly no personal involvement. That resolve lasted until one ill-advised college party, where Jaemin, drunk and absurdly charismatic, roped you into the lead role of his most ridiculous performance yet: his fake significant other. And you were equally as drunk to play along with it, nodding in the face of his ex-girlfriend as she looked at the both of you in disbelief. For a playboy like Jaemin, you thought he was managing to control his dating life better than this. But you guess he just got bored of being surrounded by love.  “Just go with it,” he’d said. You hadn’t thought it would last beyond that night.

You were wrong.

You suppose it’s partly your own fault finding yourself in your current situation, considering the recent events. In a world where everyone is busy chasing after time, enjoying the dating scene, you’re an outcast. An outcast with false modesty to trick people’s curiosity. You should be used to them by now, their comments about you not being interested in relationships. And even though you do feel fed up with it, the thought of lying about dating someone just so they can shut up never crossed your mind.

“Remind me again why I have to spend the whole day being your pretend partner.” you say, glaring as Jaemin hands you a pastry. “The party doesn’t start until 10PM tonight!” 

“Here you go, love. Be careful, it’s hot!” he says, completely ignoring your question. He resumes walking, hands in his pockets, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, resuming your slow stroll in the garden of a nearby art museum. You hurriedly take it from his hands if that would make him finally pay attention to your question.

“I know it’s hot,” you mutter, taking the pastry anyway. He’s insufferable. Even now, you can tell he’s doing this for show, making a big deal out of playing the doting boyfriend for the strangers milling about the museum garden. “Do you ever actually answer questions, or is that too much to ask?”

“Oh, I answer,” he breezily responds, unfolding a crumpled checklist from his coat pocket. “I’m just selective about when. Do you want to taste mine? I can taste yours too.”

“No thank you.”

Straightening the lapels of his gray coat, Jaemin fetches the brochure handed earlier to him out of his inner pocket and takes a quick look at it to make sure you checked out everything of interest in the area before entering the museum itself. “Now, do you want to check out the sculptures before we head to the main exhibit?”

The guy has a whole checklist of activities for the day. You’ve seen it. He purposely taped another page underneath just to scare you with its sheer length, but you’re seeing right through his tricks, the page is full of gibberish written just to take space. You’ve got your best frown on to keep the illusion of ignorance, hoping that you’d get bonus points for agreeing to go through the full contents of the list, both the real and the fake ones. 

But is it really an act? The occasional tidbits of satisfaction coming from beating Jaemin’s brilliant mind (not that you’d ever give him the credit for it) are hardly enough to keep you entertained throughout the day. When the activities you take on today are meant to be just that, entertaining. And romantic too. 

Now, were you a normal couple, a true couple, then maybe you’d be having fun now.

“Jaemin, I think partners are supposed to listen to each other. At the very least.”

He grins, entirely unbothered by your irritation. “Relax, Y/N. We’re supposed to look like we’re having fun. Couples don’t bicker this much in public, you know.”

“Maybe because real couples actually like each other.”

“And yet,” he says, slinging an arm around your shoulders, “Here we are. The picture of romance.” Ah. He’s right, damn it.

“I only lowered my guard because these people don’t know us, stupid… Let’s get inside already!”

Hearing his low, annoying chuckle triggers the sensory neurons in your brain until a neat little image of his smirk is produced with near-perfect accuracy. Have you simply seen it too many times? There’s no escape even when you turn your back to him, great.

You grit your teeth but let him guide you down a quieter path, away from the crowds. It’s all part of the act, you remind yourself. Just one day of playing along, and people will stop speculating about your personal life. Totally worth it.

Right?

Inside the museum, the tension eases slightly. The museum is magnificent to explore with the many pieces of art it houses. There’s so much to see that you’d frankly not mind getting lost in here just to have an excuse to spend more time surrounded by art.

You have to admit, Jaemin chose the perfect dating spot. You’re not sure if it was based on your own preferences. Surely not. But you find yourself not minding it suddenly.

“Picture!” he announces, pulling you close before you can protest.

Hearing the signal, you instantly turn in the direction of the raised-up phone, smiling for the camera as Jaemin presses his face closer to yours.

“Oh, this is a good one, I’m definitely posting it. You look so in love.”

“I’m in love with this work, that’s it.” you say flatly, staring at the painting behind him.

“Uh-uh. That works for me too.” Jaemin replies while his fingers dance across the screen, likely typing some cheesy caption for the picture. A second later your own phone vibrates in your pocket, signaling that he posted the picture and tagged you in it, and you don’t even bother looking.

“At least you’re a natural, Jaemin.”

“What, in faking an expression? How are you so sure?”

You blink, meeting his gaze as some child holding a balloon separates the two of you for a mere second. Instinctively, you shorten the distance so you don’t lose Jaemin, looking for his hand to take hold of. You’ve already been through that today, linking hands in the crowds. And while there was no real need to do that right now, you just did that…

To the question in your eyes evoked from his last words, he smirks and adds, “There are pieces of art here that I look at with fondness just like you do.”

Your heart sinks for a moment, only to create palpitations that mess with your head. You have no idea where they came from or what evoked this feeling in your chest, but while looking anywhere but at Jaemin, your gaze falls on other couples passing by. You were instructed to watch them if you’re having trouble recreating the subtle romantic gestures that indicate dating. Advice from him no doubt, one that you wish you could forget because it’s too late telling your brain to forget what it’s been taught. But the question is, why the sudden turning of stomachs at the sight of them?

While failing to watch your step, you lose your balance and stumble on your own feet, meeting the hard ground hands-first. You feel eyes on you for a short moment; just a mere second any stranger might spare to witness the unfortunate event before moving on with their tour.

That’s it, except for Jaemin, who is there to pull you up in a manner of utmost care, dusting off your clothes, taking you to a more secluded area with benches to rest on and asking you at least three times if you’re alright before you can snap out of your surprised state and let out a murmur of affirmation.

In the whirlwind of emotions rushing through your slightly clouded mind, you put the embarrassment of your fall aside. As Jaemin turns your hand around to inspect it, you realize that no amount of hand-holding numbs your reaction to the touch of his warm hands. 

And no amount of his exaggerated lovey-dovey gestures of affection could prepare you for the look of genuine worry over something so insignificant on his face.

“You fell on your hands, they must be scrapped… let’s get them under cold water, it would wash away the dirt too.” 

“It’s okay I can do it myself.” You back away from Jaemin, running to take care of it.

And that’s when you realize it.

Pretending to be Jaemin’s partner might be the biggest mistake of your life.

Because it’s starting to feel a little too real.

When you exit the bathroom, Jaemin is waiting for you outside, arms crossed with an unreadable expression on his face. The two of you continue your museum date as normal, nothing out of the ordinary happening other than Jaemin just being Jaemin. 

When lunchtime rolls around, Jaemin takes you into the museum café, refusing to let you pay for anything even though he bought the museum tickets as well. Struggle as much as you want, Jaemin was pretty stubborn.

You and Jaemin sit across from each other, nursing cups of hot chocolate. The quiet buzz of conversation around you blends with the faint classical music playing overhead, the calmness contrasting your otherwise chaotic day.

You’re still nursing your wounded pride (and scraped hands) from earlier. Jaemin’s fussing had been embarrassing, sure, but also... oddly touching. It’s been messing with your head ever since.

“You’re being quiet,” Jaemin says, breaking the silence. He stirs his drink and watches you with another unreadable expression. “Not complaining. Unusual for you.”

“Just tired,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze. “This whole thing is exhausting.”

“Yeah?” He leans back, “What part? The fake dating, or me?”

“Both.”

His laugh is soft, almost self-deprecating. “Fair.”

A moment passes, and you realize he’s studying you. Not with his usual playful smirk, but something more serious. It’s unsettling and scary, like he’s peeling back layers you didn’t even know you had.

“You know,” he starts, voice quieter now, “you’ve always hated me.”

Your head snaps up. “What? I don’t—”

“Don’t lie. I noticed.” he cuts in, but there’s no malice in his tone. “It’s fine. I get it. I mean, I’m Na Jaemin, right? The playboy. The guy who’s ‘probably slept with half the school.’” He uses his fingers to air quote the phrase, lips forming a bitter smile. “That’s what people say, isn’t it?”

You feel a pang of guilt. It’s exactly what you’ve always thought, always assumed about him.

He continues, eyes fixed on his drink. “Funny thing is, that wasn’t true at first. I wasn’t like this in high school. Sure, I was flirty, but it was harmless, y’know? Then one day, someone started a rumor about me. Said I hooked up with some senior at a party.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t true, but people believed it. And once the rumors started, they didn’t stop. Girls came up to me and I just... didn’t say no.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice. “Why didn’t you?”

“Why not?” His smile not breaking, “They already thought I was that guy. And honestly? It was easier to play the part than fight it. People liked the idea of me being the ‘fun, no-strings-attached’ guy. I became what they wanted.”

You’re quiet, the weight of his words settling heavily in your chest. All this time, you’d judged him without really knowing him. And now, sitting across from him, you realize how wrong you’d been.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

“For what?”

“For... hating you, I guess. I just—” You hesitate, fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve, searching for the right words. “I’ve never liked the whole ‘playboy’ thing. It feels... shallow. And I don’t understand how people can be so casual about it.”

Jaemin’s gaze softens. “That’s because it’s not your thing. And that’s okay.”

Your eyes lit up with shock. You definitely weren’t expecting Jaemin to be this receptive towards your criticisms of him. “I guess I’ve always judged people like you because I don’t... get it. Sex and dating just seem so complicated and messy. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

Jaemin tilts his head, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “You’re ace, right?”

You nod, surprised he remembered. He must’ve heard it somewhere, you barely told anyone except for your close friends. Others just assumed, which was fine by you.

“That’s... honestly kind of cool,” he says, leaning forward. “I mean it. You don’t have to deal with all this shit. Expectations, drama, people using you for what they want. You just... are. I envy that.”

“You do?” The idea feels absurd. Jaemin, envying you?

“Yeah.” He smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in it. “I’ve spent so much time being what other people expect. Sometimes I don’t even know who I really am. But you? You’re just you. That’s... rare.”

His words catch you off guard, leaving a strange ache in your chest. You wonder if he’s just been hiding behind a mask this whole time. Who really was the Na Jaemin sitting right in front of you right now? “Well,” you say softly, “I think you’re more than what people say about you.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Careful, Y/N. That almost sounded like a compliment. You’re supposed to hate me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” you shoot back, but there’s no hostility in your tone.

For the first time, you see him for who he really is. Not Na Jaemin, the playboy, your rival… but just... Jaemin. And maybe, just maybe, you don’t hate him as much as you thought.

When the two of you finished your museum exploration, you found yourselves in the gift shop. The aisles were packed with trinkets, books, and stuffed animals, the kind of things that were charming but utterly unnecessary and overly expensive. You didn’t plan on buying anything, but Jaemin insisted he wanted to pick up something for a friend.

Shivering slightly, you rubbed your arms, trying to warm up in the chill from the air conditioning blowing down from the vent above.

“Cold?” Jaemin asked, his sharp eyes catching your sudden movement.

“Oh, just the A/C,” you replied quickly, waving him off, but you couldn’t stop the flush creeping over your cheeks.

“Do you want my coat?” He was already starting to remove his gray jacket, but you held up a hand.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you said hastily. “It’ll be warmer outside.”

Jaemin paused, then smirked. “Aren’t you glad your friends dragged you to that party?” He asked, standing right beside you now, picking up a penguin from the stuffed animal bin. “Isn’t he cute?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, laughing despite yourself. “Though I’ll admit, this has been... fun. Even if the ‘fake dating’ part threw me for a loop. And yes, he’s super cute. But penguins aren’t my favorite.” 

He raised an eyebrow, eyes burning into you, as he turned the penguin over in his hands. “Who said it was fake?”

You blinked at him, unsure if you’d heard right. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer, just hummed and walked away, leaving you standing there with your arms crossed, frowning after him. What’s he playing at?

Trying to shake off the odd tension, you wandered to another shelf and found yourself staring at a tower of cell phone plushies. Your eyes landed on a bunny plush, adorable, with floppy ears, sparkling blue eyes, and a pink nose. You reached for it, but so did another hand.

“Oops—sorry,” you stammered, looking up to see Jaemin standing beside you again.

“Oh,” he said, his voice light, but his eyes were unreadable.

“I was just—”

“Which one did you want?” he asked, his tone suddenly serious.

“The bunny,” you admitted, pointing. “But it’s the last one, and if you wanted it—”

Before you could finish, he grabbed it.

“Actually, I did,” he said, pulling out his wallet and heading to the cashier.

You stood there, stunned and a little annoyed. Seriously? He’s that kind of guy?

As you stared forlornly at the remaining plushies: a raccoon, a squirrel, and a cat that weren’t nearly as cute. You sighed. It’s fine. It’s just a toy. But somehow, it still stung.

“Here.”

You turned to see Jaemin dangling the bunny plush in front of you, a playful grin on his face. “You—I thought you wanted it?” you said as you reached out to take it. The plush felt even softer than it looked.

“I did,” he said with a wink. “But I wanted to buy it for you.”

“I—thank you.” You stumbled over your words, suddenly feeling silly but also oddly happy. A big, goofy grin spread across your face as you hugged the bunny to your chest.

Jaemin chuckled softly. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, you know that?”

“Shut up,” you fired back, but your cheeks still burned.

You started to turn away, but Jaemin stopped you with a gentle tug on your sleeve. His expression was different now, serious, almost nervous, as he looked at you.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice quieter. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Your stomach flipped. “What is it?”

“This... whole fake dating thing?” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost shy. That was strange in comparison to his usual confidence. “It wasn’t just about my ex, or shutting people up. I—I’ve been watching you for a while. I mean, not in a creepy way,” he added quickly, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “I just... I’ve always been interested in you. You’re smart, funny, and you don’t care about impressing anyone. You’re... different. In a good way.”

Oh you weren’t expecting that. You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Jaemin, I—”

“I know you have concerns,” he said, cutting you off gently. “About... your sexuality, and what people might think. But I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care what the world expects or what people say. I care about you. And I’m not asking you to change or be anything other than yourself. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with sincerity. You didn’t know what to say. You’d spent so long assuming Jaemin was just a shallow playboy, someone who could never understand you. But now, looking into his eyes, you realized how wrong you’d been. Jaemin understood you way too well. Enough to the point where he was hitting all the right points of reassurance in your heart.

“I don’t know if I can be what you’re looking for,” you whispered.

He smiled softly. “You already are.”

For a moment, the world around you faded. The noise of the gift shop, the bustle of other shoppers. It was just you and Jaemin, and the quiet, fragile connection that had grown between you.

Maybe this wasn’t fake after all.

You realized just how much he’d been hiding. Jaemin, the playboy everyone admired, the guy who never seemed to take anything seriously, was opening up to you in a way that was raw, even vulnerable.

“Honestly?” you whispered, clutching the bunny plush to your chest. “I never thought someone like you would understand... someone like me.”

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “I get that. I probably don’t fit the part, huh? But, Y/N, you’re incredible just as you are. I think it’s amazing that you know what you want and what you don’t want. I wish I’d figured that out sooner.”

You looked down, feeling way too emotional, “So, you really don’t... mind?”

Jaemin shook his head, his smile was gentle. “Not even a little. I’m here because I like you for who you are. You don’t need to be anyone else or change anything about yourself. I’m fully willing to love you. Just like this.”

His words settled over you, as warm and comforting as his coat might have been. The insecurities you’d held about relationships, about your identity, all the ways you feared you might not be enough for someone. Maybe never even find someone at all? They began to melt, replaced by a quiet sense of peace.

“So... if this isn’t fake, does that mean this is... this date is… real?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jaemin smiled, reaching down to take your hand, his fingers intertwined with yours in a way that felt so natural it sent a shiver down your spine. “It’s as real as you want it to be. No pressure, no expectations. Just us, figuring this out together.”

Looking up at him, you felt something you hadn’t quite felt before. This wasn’t about conforming to anyone’s idea of love or romance. It was about connection. And standing there, surrounded by stuffed animals and museum souvenirs, you felt like you’d found something rare.

You squeezed his hand, a small smile breaking across your face. “Alright, Jaemin. Let’s give this a try. Just... don’t go stealing all the last plushies every time we’re out together, okay?”

He laughed, his grin brightening at your words. “Only if you agree to keep that bunny plush with you as a reminder.”

“Of what?”

“Of this moment. And of the fact that someone finds you absolutely perfect, exactly as you are.”

The two of you walked out of the gift shop hand in hand, leaving behind any doubts and stepping into something perfectly real.

PERM TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @ldh0000 @polarisjisung

[edenesth]

The Royal Librarian

Pairing: tutor!Yeosang x librarian!reader

Word Count: 1.1k

'Crazy Form' Comeback Special Series | Hongjoong | Seonghwa | Yunho | Yeosang | San | Mingi | Wooyoung | Jongho |

ATEEZ Masterlist

"Yeosang, if you don't confess your feelings to the librarian soon, I swear I'll do it for you."

The royal tutor's eyes widened at the princess' words. Resisting the urge to slap a hand over her mouth, he hissed, "Your highness! You will do no such thing, that's highly inappropriate." Despite his disapproval, she merely smirked, enjoying the panic in his eyes as you walked past the two in the palace library, checking the newly arrived books.

Arms folded, she locked eyes with the tutor mischievously, retorting, "You can't tell me what to do; I'm the princess." Yeosang sighed deeply, questioning why he was stuck tutoring this unruly student instead of her disciplined elder brother.

"Why won't you just leave me be? I promised I'd talk to her soon," He pleaded. She scoffed, "You've said that before, and I don't see any progress. This is your last chance, or I'll take matters into my own hands."

With a defeated sigh, he smacked his palm against his forehead, muttering a curse. The princess grinned, satisfied, and resumed her studies with a quill in hand, "I'm only doing this for you because you're my favourite teacher."

Yeosang gave her an unamused stare, "You do realise I'm your only teacher."

She smiled sarcastically, "Exactly, so you have no choice but to do as I say."

As their lesson concluded for the day, the princess shot a threatening squint at her tutor, her fingers subtly gesturing, 'I'm watching you,' before she gracefully exited the library.

Defeated, Yeosang nodded and bowed lightly as he watched her leave, a sense of resignation settling over him. If he wished for a peaceful existence, compliance seemed to be his only option. His heart raced as he turned his attention to you, who were diligently ticking away on your checklist, ensuring the library remained well-organised, as you always do.

He found himself captivated by the sight of you working from a distance; in his eyes, you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. From the very first encounter, he sensed it was love at first sight. As he got to know you better, he discovered that your allure extended beyond physical beauty.

Your kindness, knowledge, and passion for your work set you apart. It might sound cliché, but to him, you were incomparable to anyone else. While the princess' lessons could be torturous at times, your presence never failed to brighten his day.

He took a deep breath and dared himself to approach you. Nervously, his hands instinctively moved to straighten his hair and adjust his clothes. Despite having spoken to you before, you always made him stumble over his words like a bumbling fool.

Upon noticing the handsome tutor's presence, you greeted him with a warm smile, setting down your work documents, "Hey Yeosang, how was the lesson today? I hope her highness wasn't too difficult; she's been in a good mood lately. Do you think it has anything to do with the painter she's been seeing in town?"

He chuckled shyly, "It was alright, thanks for asking. I've heard about her new friend; she won't shut up about him. Unfortunately, that doesn't change the way she torments me."

Laughing, you shook your head, "You poor thing. What will it take for her to let you live, hm?"

Yeosang hesitated, unsure whether to be honest. He did know what it would take for her to go easy on him. This could be the perfect time to broach the topic, but he searched his brain for a way to smoothly transition the conversation.

Scratching his head sheepishly, he said, "Yeah, trust me, I always ask myself why I'm stuck with her. It would've been great if only I got the crown prince."

You nodded with a knowing smile, "I know what you mean; the prince is certainly very mature compared to his sister. It's reassuring to know the future of our kingdom is in good hands."

Drawing closer, he leaned against your work desk, attempting to appear cool, unaware of how awkward he looked. You giggled into your fist, finding him adorable. His shyness had always endeared him to you; the tutor was unlike any other guy you'd ever met.

If only he knew how special he was... to you.

"Speaking of which, the sudden news of the prince's engagement was quite a surprise, wasn't it?" He tried to steady his heart as he began his mission.

You brightened immediately, "Oh, it sure was! What a joyous occasion it is. We could use more positive news like this around Wonderland, especially with the ongoing tensions with Utopia."

Enthusiastically agreeing, he said, "We sure do! Have you also heard about the duke and the mapmaker's recent engagements?"

You nodded excitedly, sighing wistfully, "I have. It must be the season of love. Makes me wonder if my turn will ever come."

Here's my chance!

Biting his lip, he prepared for the pivotal moment, "Well, perhaps it will come sooner than expected," Your breath hitched at the direction he was taking, "Perhaps Wonderland could use another engagement soon..."

Your heart pounded as he circled around your desk to approach you, "Yeosang... what are you—" He cleared his throat and whispered your name, "I've been in love with you from the moment we first met. Will you allow me to court you?"

While you were convinced you must have been dreaming, he persistently proved you wrong by dedicating all his efforts to courting you over the next few months. The two of you became the centre of attention among the palace staff. Although he had initially hoped the princess would let him breathe, she had shifted her attention to urging him to propose.

Once he was certain that your feelings matched his own, he needed no further pushing from his student. True to his word, he kept his promise, and before you could fully grasp it, you found yourself strolling around the library with a beautiful ring adorning your finger.

"Wow, what a gorgeous ring you're wearing," Your head snapped up to find none other than your fiancé teasing you, "I know, I'm getting married soon." You responded smugly. His confident grin left you amused, marvelling at the transformation from the timid royal tutor you first met.

Gone was the once shy Kang Yeosang.

You gasped when he gently pushed you against a bookshelf, his hand shielding the back of your head as he leaned in, "Care to share who the lucky guy is?"

Slapping a hand on his chest, you attempted to push him away, "Not here, Yeo—"

But he cut you off, "Tell me."

You relented with a sigh, "It's you."

His smile widened, "That's right, my love." Any resistance melted away the moment he pressed his lips firmly against yours.

Just as he had predicted, Wonderland witnessed another engagement, and this time, it was yours. It was an unforgettable union, etched into the minds of all, thanks in no small part to the princess who claimed all credit. She proudly reminded everyone that her tutor was, at last, marrying his dream girl—the royal librarian.

In case you haven't already noticed, all the parts of this series are sorta interconnected since it's in the same universe. This one also teases the next member's part. Have fun guessing who it is, teehee.

Tag list: @aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01 @evidive

All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[dinoandguitar]

Between Rounds & Rhythms

Idol!Dino x afab!medicalstudent (Hana Chae)

Part 1 : The Unexpected Meeting

(A/N : Hi my Lovlies! Hope you all are doing well. This is my first official fanFic so please bear with me. My first language is not English but I hope you guys enjoy! Please feel free to send in requests/ suggestions. :)

TW : none!

Masterlist

Hana Chae had never been one for distractions. Her days were a whirlwind of hospital rounds, late-night study sessions, and a relentless pursuit of something more... something greater than just scraping by in her final year of medical school. Sleep was a luxury, and free time was an illusion and entertainment? A distant memory.

That’s why, on a rainy Tuesday evening, she found herself at an indoor complex—not for leisure, but for work. The upcoming health seminar needed a venue, and she had volunteered to inspect the facilities. It was supposed to be a quick stop, a checklist item between her shift and the textbooks waiting on her desk.

But of course, fate had other plans.

As she stepped inside, the rhythmic thump of bass-heavy music.. which she swears she's heard somewhere.. reverberated through the empty halls, pulling her toward a partially open door. Curiosity won over logic. Peering in, she found a lone figure moving across the dance floor, his body flowing with effortless precision. Even with the sweat clinging to his shirt, exhaustion evident in the sharp rise and fall of his chest, he didn’t falter. Every movement was sharp yet fluid, disciplined yet free.

Then he noticed her…

As soon as his gaze met hers, Hana froze. The dancer straightened slightly, his movements coming to an abrupt halt. For a moment, all that filled the space between them was the lingering echo of the music and the steady rhythm of their breaths.

Hana’s brain scrambled for a response, anything-but words failed her. The man in front of her, still catching his breath, tilted his head slightly.

“Uh…” she started, gripping the strap of her bag. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The dancer blinked before a small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re fine.” His voice was warm, yet slightly husky from exertion. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead. “Just… wasn’t expecting an audience.”

“I-” Hana took a step back, suddenly feeling like she had intruded on something personal. “I was just checking out the venue for a seminar. Didn’t realize anyone would be here.”

The dancer nodded, finally reaching for a water bottle nearby. As he unscrewed the cap, he gave her a once-over—not in a scrutinizing way, but with the curiosity of someone trying to place a face.“You work here?” he asked before taking a sip.

Hana shook her head. “Medical intern. I-uh-study at the hospital nearby.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Ah, a doctor-in-training.” He capped the bottle and set it aside. “You must be busy.”

“You have no idea,” she exhaled, then immediately clamped her mouth shut, realizing how easily she had spoken.

The dancer chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Sounds like we’ve got that in common.”

Before she could ask what he meant, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A reminder about her upcoming rounds. Reality snapped back into place.“I should go,” she said quickly, taking another step back. “Sorry again for disturbing you.”She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“Hey.”

Hana looked over her shoulder.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his expression unreadable but his tone light.For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she hesitated. But then she figured—what harm could it do?

“Hana. Chae Hana.”

He nodded, rolling his shoulders. “Nice to meet you, Hana.”

She waited for his name in return, but it never came. Instead, he simply shot her another small, knowing smile before picking up his phone and restarting the music.The heavy bass resumed, and just like that, he was moving again—fluid, effortless, lost in his world.

Hana didn’t linger this time. But as she stepped back into the hallway, the faintest feeling nagged at her.

She swore she had heard that music somewhere before.

Hana shook off the odd feeling and continued down the hallway, mentally running through the checklist for the seminar venue. She had other things to focus on-real, tangible responsibilities that didn’t involve mysterious dancers in empty studios.

Still, as she stepped outside, the sound of rain hitting the pavement greeted her, along with the cool scent of damp earth. She pulled out her umbrella, but hesitated for a moment.Something about that guy… It wasn’t just his dancing. There was an air of familiarity, something lingering in the back of her mind, but no clear memory to grasp.

Shaking her head, she dismissed the thought and focused on her phone, sending a quick message to confirm the venue’s availability. The rain had lightened to a steady drizzle by the time she reached the hospital.

Part 2

[terriblesoup]

Dealing with Grief in a World that Moves too Fast

Grief is slow. It moves like honey in winter, like a tired old dog who refuses to be hurried. Meanwhile, the world; this bright, noisy, impossible world keeps running like a train you swear wasn’t scheduled to leave yet. Everyone is boarding. The announcements are muffled. And you? You’re standing on the platform, still holding the weight of something you can’t quite set down.

People will tell you, kindly or impatiently, that life goes on. And they’re right. It does. The seasons turn, emails pile up, your favorite coffee shop replaces the one pastry you loved with something called a matcha surprise (and it's disgusting and loud and too sweet). But none of this means you have to keep up. You are allowed to lag behind. You are allowed to move through grief at the speed of grief.

Grief is such an inconvenience. It does not care for schedules or deadlines, for meetings or grocery lists. It lingers when the world expects you to be done. And oh, the world does expect you to be done.

At first, everyone understands. They bring flowers, they send messages. They tell you to take your time, that they’re here for you. But time stretches, and people have lives, and one by one, they step back onto that wretched moving train. The world resumes its usual speed. You, however, are still standing in the wreckage of what was lost, watching everyone else carry on as if nothing happened. And then comes the worst part, the guilt.

You start to wonder: Shouldn’t I be better by now? Shouldn’t I be moving on too? You catch yourself feeling sad when no one else is anymore, and it feels wrong, like you’re holding onto something you’re supposed to release. You laugh at something and feel like a traitor. You have a good day and wonder if that means you’re forgetting. And when you have a bad day (when the grief hits like a sudden wave that no one else saw coming) you feel like a burden. Like you’re making too much of something that everyone else has quietly folded away.

But here’s the truth: There is no deadline for grief. There is no quota of tears, no checklist of "acceptable mourning time." You do not owe the world a version of yourself that is conveniently healed. Some wounds do not close neatly. Some losses do not fade. And that does not make you weak. It makes you human.

If the world moves too fast, let it. If people don’t understand, let them. If you need more time (and you do) then take it. Grief will not be rushed, no matter how much pressure you feel to keep up. And one day, without forcing it, without guilt, you’ll realize you are carrying it differently. That the weight is still there, but you have built the strength to bear it.

That doesn’t mean you’ve left grief behind. It just means you’re learning to carry it differently. It doesn’t disappear; it just becomes a part of you, like an old coat that no longer fits quite right but still smells of home.

You're going to be okay, you always will be.

Heart dividers by @strangergraphics

[hanlimz]

[midnight thoughts: jungwon + bad habits]

pairing: yang jungwon x gn!reader (reader is jake's sibling) genre/warnings: angsty fluff (happy ending) / mentions of alcohol, vomit, some blood / idk it could potentially be a bit suggestive but i don't rly think so? wc: ~2.1k a/n: LOL cass write abt someone other than won challenge pt.2: FAILED!!!! / whtv! this had been in my drafts n then i reworked the idea into that jay drabble i posted but i still rly wanted to write abt motorcycle jungwon so here you go.. (it turns rly soft at the end bc i am incapable of writing hurt without comfort LMAOOO)

as you climb out your window to perch atop your shingled roof, a wave of cold surges up your spine, taking care to freeze each and every vertebrae on its way. your breath billows before you, the white cloud contrasting the pitch black of night. from this vantage point, you can watch all the bodies as they move in tandem, warm from the alcohol and the dancing. it's mesmerizing, the rhythmic swaying lulls you into a state of peace, a state of tranquility. paying no mind to the booming party music or the numbness blooming at the tips of your fingers, you let your eyelids flutter closed. comforted by the nothingness, you take in the scent of wet earth mingling with the air freshener you have in your room as it permeates the air. with chilled bones and a clear mind, you remain a passerby, a shadow, a ghost.

that is, until an unceremonious rumbling breeches the music blasting from your brother's speakers. the people below begin to whoop and cheer as the manmade thunder grows quiet; your brother shouts a greeting, and you're all too familiar with the person who manages to turn heads merely upon arrival. a rush of nerves tingles through your body, and you run over a checklist. heeseung, jay, and sunghoon are all presently dancing, sunoo is watching over the kitchen, and riki has been relegated to the dj booth for the night. with all other options exhausted, you know it has to be him.

craning your neck, you catch a glimpse of his crimson steed. it glints, almost menacingly, in the light of the moon. the chrome accents are like liquid silver as he dismounts and casts a myriad of shadows over his bike. jake claps him on the shoulder as he removes his matching helmet. his hair falls out—deliciously messy, perfectly tousled; it's a waterfall of silky, black strands that somehow look windblown and gelled back simultaneously. save for everyone that has continued to dance, girls and guys alike are crowding around the boy and his bike.

a cursory smile is offered to all of the faces in the crowd, but it becomes real as he turns to look at your brother. friends since they met through soccer practice years ago, friends despite their differing social circles, friends through the thick of it all. they push through the throng of classmates, acquaintances, and strangers—closer to the house, closer to you.

before they disappear beneath the awning, jake pulls him into a hug, and you can see him dig his fingers into the boy's leather jacket. "it's good to see you, man," jake says, just loud enough for you to make out. "drinks are in the kitchen with sun, i'm sure he'll be surprised to see you make an appearance."

and, just like that, the party resumes. you watch as the horde of people assembled around the motorcycle gradually disperses, and they begin to partner up again. despite not offering any physical warmth, a fire builds inside of you; small embers of memory are ignited by the nervousness that rips at your stomach. reliving each one is painful—the images that flash behind your eyes are hot, burning themselves into your mind once more. you guess that there are mere seconds left until he comes to see you, and you are proven correct when a measured knock sounds against your door. it confirms any suspicions and lays any doubt you might've had to rest.

you know all too well who this is.

the slab of wood creaks open, groaning as if aged by the cold. gazing back at him, you notice how young he looks when bathed in the warm, yellow light emanating from your desk lamp. he seems to glow, crowned with a halo of innocence, overflowing with something you can't place. this angelic countenance distracts you from the red solo cup sitting in grasp, distracts you from the fact that he is inching forward, distracts you from the movement of his lips. and, after a few moments, he is settling next to you and fidgeting in an attempt to get used to the frigid air. suddenly, you are stripped of your alien status because he is looking at you, seeing you—just as he always does.

ghosts notice ghosts, you think, daring to steal a glance in his direction. he catches you, ensnaring you with those deep, brown eyes, but he doesn't say a word. it isn't like him, really. he's an obligatory people person, a fan favorite, a crowd worker; he can have you doubled over with laughter one minute and crying the next. this irregularity is not lost on you as he continues to stare. you can almost feel the words waltzing on the tip of his tongue, and it kills you—the waiting game. it's one you always manage to lose.

"thought we agreed to take a break from each other ..." you hum, breaking the silence and turning your head away. "hm, jungwon?"

he mirrors you, and takes a sip from the cup. his impenetrable pokerface doesn't give you any hints as to what he's drinking. peeking over, you watch as jungwon answers with a nod and a sharp clench of his jaw.

"so, why are you here?" you ask, scoffing and shooting him a forceful glare. "why are you here, sitting with me in weather you hate, not saying a word? what—do you care about me, suddenly? about us?"

he prickles at this particularly harsh jab, rushing to defend himself, "i told you, [y/n]—"

"oh, yeah—you told me, jungwon. you told me about sunghoon, about how protective he is of his sister, about how he broke siwoo's nose after he found out about their relationship. you told me that you didn't want jake to get in our way, that you didn't want things to get ugly if jake didn't like us together," your tone is venomous enough to kill as you berate him. "then, after i called you on your bullshit, you told me that it was for my own good. you didn't want me to get hurt, didn't want me to walk away broken ... you talk such a big game with your motorcycle and your leather jackets, but really, jungwon? all you told me is that you're a coward."

the aftershocks of your explosion are still rocking through jungwon as he tries to process all of your words. absorbing your poison, guilt and realization wash over him; he is a coward. and, a fool for letting you slip through his fingers. his mouth gapes as he searches desperately for the right thing to say. jungwon flounders, and you take perverse delight in his struggle. all of the weight that had been crushing you is now his to bear; it feels good, but only for a minute or two. then, this parasitic love you harbor for him squeezes at your heart. the silence starts to suffocate you, balls of cotton begin to fill your throat, and the cold air is making your lungs burn. you turn to see him already looking at you, and the apology you were about to let free dies away.

his eyes are wild, frenzied almost. not in a way that frightens you, but in one that saddens you. jungwon is frantically hunting for a way to make you see how sorry he is, for a way to make you stay. he reaches out to you but flinches away on his accord, unsure of what your reaction might be. taking a deep breath, all he says is: "you're right."

as the admission of guilt hangs in the air, it is almost underwhelming. you sigh, preparing to push up from your seat and head back inside, but jungwon stops you. he grips your wrist before he is able to stop himself this time and wills you to sit once more. his hands are as warm as you remember, calloused and rough and surprisingly gentle.

"you're right, [y/n]. i'm a coward, and i don't deserve a second chance—i didn't even deserve the first one you gave me. but, god—you have to believe me when i say that i care. i care about you, about us. my stupid, fucking thoughts got in the way, and i was scared," jungwon explains, blinking rapidly to keep his tears at bay. "i used jake to hide from you, to hide from how much i loved you. from how much i've always loved you."

jungwon begins to shake—from the desperation or the cold, you're not sure. but, as the conversation dips into a natural lull, you usher him past the threshold of the window pane and shut it behind the two of you. a quietude settles between your bodies, a static that coaxes you closer while simultaneously pushing you apart. gently, you slip the tingling tips of your fingers beneath the leather of his jacket; it is replaced with a fluffy blanket before he can blink, and he relishes in the silken sensation blooming in his chest. enveloped by this newfound warmth, you ask him the same question from before: "why?"

he answers immediately, ignoring the searing pain as his blood begins to flow again, "because, i'm not good, [y/n]. i'm not good ... and, you're perfect. i'm afraid—if we go any further, i'll turn you into someone else. i'll ruin you."

you exhale sharply out of your nose, "selfish."

yang jungwon is stunned to silence; the remnants of vitriol seep like a toxic sludge into the cracks forming in his heart—a heart that he claimed to never have, a heart that you managed to steal for yourself. selfish. you called him selfish. jungwon wanted to protect you from the person you might become after being with him; he wanted to keep you away from the sight of bloodied knuckles and the putrid scent of vomit and alcohol. "i'm ..." jungwon starts, incredulity ringing clear in his voice, "selfish?"

"beyond belief," you sniff.

"wh—how?!"

"how? jungwon—who are you to decide what's good for me? who are you to tell me that i'm good ... that i'm perfect? what do you know about me that i don't?" inhaling deeply, you inch forward; jungwon unceremoniously plops down onto the pillowy cloud of your bed, and you follow suit. in this light, the halo makes a reappearance, and you swear the entire galaxy twinkles in his wide, blown out eyes. resting mere millimeters away, you whisper, "who are you to try and make me believe we aren't meant to be?"

his facade is crumbling bit by bit; walls upon walls of cold concrete are reduced to dust in the wake of your storm. falling back into the soft down of your comforter, jungwon flings an arm over his eyes. stupid, foolish—distracted by the possibility of losing you, he managed to make one of the biggest mistakes of his life. "i'm sorry," jungwon admits once more. "i was selfish. you deserve better."

"sure, i guess. if you think so ..." you begin, interlacing your fingers with his and taking away his hiding place, "but, i want you."

jungwon feels fragile in your hands. the look in his eyes is tentative, almost as though if he were to move, you would fade into a fine dust. in this moment, he is vulnerable—a turtle without its shell, a knight without his armor. there is a certain frantic hesitance you can feel as his heart beats against yours; the rise and fall of his chest is not so steady, and the rhythm is not so sure. having already done so once, jungwon doesn't want to lose you again.

you sigh, and jungwon takes in the sweet aroma of starlight mints and lemonade. "stop thinking so hard, won," you murmur. "i want you. i deserve you. i love you."

"you do?" he asks, uncertain.

"i do," you answer, resolute. "can i show you?"

when he nods, the butterflies flitting in your stomach begin to settle because this is jungwon. pressing into him, the rich taste of butterscotch and tang of beer blooms on your tongue; the sensation of your lips slotting against his is only rivaled by the victorious completion of a huge puzzle. perfect in every way—pieces fall into place, and everything just fits. jungwon is familiar, a home that has returned to you. you make jungwon know your love. so, you kiss his forehead, and you kiss his nose, and you kiss his lips.

i want you. i deserve you. i love you.

[heylittleriotact]

𝐢 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

𝐄𝐦𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐌𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐀𝐔

“If you’d like to bring in Mr. Kaminski’s clothing today, someone will be in until five… yes, I’ll be here till five too… oh, okay - go ahead…” Rook hit ‘print’ on the open Funeral Director Statement of Death document and adjusted the phone against her ear to hear better over the sound of the nearby printer coming to life. 

Emmrich was standing in front of the raised ledge of her desk, tucking his business card into the inside cover of the folder that Rook was preparing that they gave to families during arrangements. It contained a number of helpful checklists and pamphlets containing grief counselling resources, estate administration assistance, urn catalogues, memorial jewelry offerings, and of course, the Funeral Director’s Statements of Death that were generally required by banks and businesses in order to close accounts on behalf of the deceased. 

“Undergarments? Completely up to you, and not required. Many choose to provide socks and underwear for their loved ones because they were just part of what they normally wore day-to-day. There’s no need to go out and purchase new ones if you don’t want to.” Rook finished, listened, smiled. “Oh no, don’t worry - lots of people ask the same question. It’s not weird at all.” She quirked an eyebrow at Emmrich who looked amused as he stepped behind the desk and took the freshly printed stack of Statements of Death, returning to his side of the desk, and reaching under the overhang in front of Rook, feeling around for the desk seal. 

“Okay, thank you, Glenn… see you before five. Take care.” Rook hung up the desk phone and started signing the Statements of Death that Emmrich had managed to seal while she was on the phone. “You guys do tell people during arrangements that it’s fine and completely normal to bring underwear for their loved ones, don’t you? Because I feel like people are constantly asking me that question.” 

“We do,” Emmrich sighed, still smirking slightly. “But they tend to forget - much is discussed during arrangements and it can be overwhelming, given the circumstances.” 

He handed Rook another stack of sealed Statements of Death and lifted his gaze to the window behind her. It was Saturday so there was only one administrator scheduled to work over the weekend, and it was Rook’s turn. Truth be told, he got the impression that she preferred her solitary weekends, even if it meant being a bit more strategic with her time management when things got busy. She seemed perfectly confident and capable, however, as she ran the office on her own, fielding calls from families, writing and submitting obituaries to the local paper, setting up and running identifications, and whatever else may come up - which in this profession could be nearly anything. 

“It’s still snowing,” Emmrich observed before resuming his task of sealing the Statements of Death, slipping the bottom corner of a page between the plates of the seal and pressing down on the handle; withdrawing the paper, then doing the same with the next. “I could drive you home again, if you don’t feel like standing around in the snow?” 

If he drove her home today, it would make it the third day in a row since the first day he managed to coax her into his car earlier in the week. He really didn’t mind doing it - even if it was very much out of his way. He did enjoy driving, and he knew that even though she hadn’t said as much, Rook appreciated getting home in half an hour instead of the usual hour-plus her regular commute stole from her day. 

She had been much less combative the day before as well, which surprised Emmrich. She was still far from chatty, and remained somewhat guarded when he asked questions or made conversation, but she hadn’t called him a creep once yesterday, and that had to be some sort of progress. 

“Um… oh. You don’t have to,” was her reply - he knew it would be. 

“I know I don’t have to. I’m asking you.” 

She didn’t like burdening people with herself, he’d discovered. She was stubbornly independent: a useful trait to have for one pursuing this calling - taking initiative was not something that could be taught.

“I… yeah, okay. I guess if it’s not any trouble for you. I know it’s really out of the way for you…” 

This was word-for-word the exact same thing she’d said yesterday. It was like she was worried that because it wasn’t necessarily convenient for him, he was going to turn around and demand gas money for his troubles… or something else.

“No trouble at all,” he assured her, accepting the signed Funeral Director’s Statements of Death from her and slipping them into the folder. 

“Alright then. That would be awesome. It’s still really shitty out there and weekend transit service means there’s even more time between buses, so it was gonna take me forever to get home and I’m going out tonight.” She set her pen down and updated the checklist she had open on the computer monitor on her right. “Thanks, Emmrich.” 

And then she smiled. A real, genuine, proper smile - the kind she gave families. 

He couldn’t help feeling like he’d won some long-fought battle. Unlocked some great secret that dwelled within the simplicity of the expression. 

“Of course, Rook,” he tipped his head politely, and picked up the folder. The office administrators were supposed to bring them in and hand them to the funeral director so they could be introduced to the family as they would be working with them a fair bit in the coming days, but Emmrich always thought it felt rather archaic to accept the package from the obedient administrator and introduce her like she was the Girl Friday of the death-care profession: instead he just mentioned the administrator by name, and told the family that they would be in touch to assist in the coming days, and that they would physically at the chapel each day to assist, even if he wasn’t.

The doorbell chimed, indicating someone had just entered the front doors. Rook looked up at the chapel schedule displayed on the large monitor mounted on the wall and stood from the desk, smoothing the front of her skirt. 

“I think that’s the Lawrence family here for Mr. Lawrence’s urn.” She breezed past Emmrich out into the foyer without another word. “Hello,” he heard her say to whoever was there in the same friendly, amiable tone she’d used on the phone. 

He picked up the folder and returned to the arrangement office, still feeling like he had accomplished something. 

He pulled into the garage, put the car in park, and set the parking brake before cutting the ignition. The interior lights blinked on when he opened the door to get out, but he paused when his eyes landed on a small, round object sitting on the passenger seat that hadn’t been there before. 

Rook’s headphones. Oh dear. 

They must have slipped out of her coat pocket without her noticing. 

Emmrich picked up the smooth blue case and sighed, not quite sure what to do: he knew Rook was incredibly attached to her headphones - he’d seen her walk through the doors in the morning with them in her ears enough. Had seen her jam them in her ears as she walked out the doors at the end of her shift. She even had them in during her breaks, where she could be found in the staff room at the end of the table, eschewing conversation with co-workers in favour of her music as she tucked into her daily styrofoam bowl of instant noodles.

She’d be gutted when she discovered that she’d lost them…

He could drive them back over to her apartment, he supposed, but she’d mentioned that she was going out tonight, so she might be gone by the time he made it all the way across town again. Besides, he got the feeling that showing up unannounced in her lobby might net a negative reaction from the already defensive and guarded young woman.

At the very least he should tell her that she forgot them in his car, and they were safe and accounted for, and he’d return them to her in the morning. 

Yes. 

She couldn’t possibly take offense to that.

Of course she could, he reminded himself, closing the door and withdrawing his phone from his breast pocket and pulling up the shared internal company directory that included the personal home and cell numbers of every employee of McDermott & Rafferty. She’s not going to be pleased that I’m taking it upon myself to text her.

I could call her instead.

No… no that would be worse. 

Or I could simply not say anything and just return her headphones in the morning without crossing a boundary and imposing myself on her evening.

But if I do that, she’ll be taking the bus into work in the morning without any music to listen to, and no idea where her headphones have gone. At the very least if I tell her she won’t have to worry, right?

His thumb hovered over her number on the spreadsheet as he continued to weigh the pros and cons of his intentions. 

“‘Creepy dude’ indeed,” he admonished himself, copying the number and pasting it into the To: field of a new message.

‘Hello, Rook. This is Emmrich. I’m very sorry for the intrusion of your privacy: I got your number from the company directory. I just wanted to let you know that you left your headphones in my car in case you were looking for them and were worried you’d lost them. I’ll hold onto them tonight and give them back when I see you at work tomorrow. Take care. Emmrich.’

Not allowing himself to think about it and doubt himself any further, he hit Send, and with the affirmative and cheery ‘bwoop’ indicating the message had gone through, he tensed, waiting for the response that would surely be something along the lines of: ‘Wow. I let you drive me home three times and suddenly you think that’s an invitation to start texting me? God you’re so creepy.’

But no such response came. 

No response came at all. 

He stared at the message: the little footer under the bubble of text that said ‘Delivered - 6:46 PM’ stayed that way until 7:03 when he finally blackened the screen and pocketed the phone. It was entirely possible she had read receipts turned off and had read his message and was currently sending a screenshot of it to all of her friends with the accompanying text: ‘Look at what this horny old pervert from work just sent me - he thinks he’s being subtle’ punctuated by a number of emojis or something to that effect.

So be it - at least he’d done the right thing. If she chose to misinterpret that, it was her problem, not his. 

He’d been nothing but courteous and professional in their dealings: it was hardly his fault if she perceived every kind word from another person as a threat. If anything it was rather sad. 

He unlocked the garage door and entered the darkness of his townhouse, light flooding the entryway from the garage behind him as he was greeted with the pulsing trill of the alarm system telling him he had thirty seconds to disarm it, and the harmonized meows of Manfred as the bone-white cat emerged from the darkness, paws pitter-pattering over the hardwood as he looked up at Emmrich and began to regale him with the events of his day. 

He keyed in the code to the alarm system and crouched down to scratch under Manfred’s chin.

“Hello Manfred. Did you have a good day?”

“Mraaaaow!” The feline responded brightly, rubbing his cheeks against Emmrich’s hand.

Emmrich beamed and straightened, his knees cracking audibly. 

“Now let’s see what you’ve gotten into today, shall we?” He pocketed the headphones which were still in his other hand and flipped on the lights, thoroughly wiping his shoes on the mat before embarking down the hallway, Manfred trailing eagerly behind him, tail stuck straight up in the air, chattering merrily. 

It didn’t take him long to find today’s target: a phone charging cable bitten cleanly in two, one half still plugged into the electrical outlet. Holding the severed portion of the cable, Emmrich regarded Manfred: his fur was indeed looking a little staticky, standing unusually upright and lending him a slightly demented look.

Emmrich was generally good at remembering to store unattended electrical cables away from Manfred, but he must have forgotten this one in his rush to leave that morning.

“You only have so many lives, you know, and this is far from the first time you’ve chewed through a live cable.”

“Mrrraow,” Manfred agreed, licking his lips and sitting on the floor in front of Emmrich, looking eminently pleased with himself.

Emmrich sighed and pulled the other end of the cable from the brick and disposed of the two pieces in the kitchen garbage, turning on more lights as he moved around the main floor of his home. 

“I suppose you’d like to watch your stories, hm?” 

Chirping affirmatively, Manfred leapt up onto the brown leather sectional in the living room and settled into the well-formed indentation where he usually sat. 

Emmrich didn’t watch television: he found it an unproductive and uninspiring use of what little spare time he had. The sprawling, 70 inch, 4k UHD TV he had purchased solely for watching movies, as he considered himself to be somewhat of a cinephile, but tuning mindlessly into endless news segments and banal reality tv was boring. 

Manfred, however, loved television - specifically 90s sitcoms. He wasn’t sure why - perhaps it was the canned laugh track - but Emmrich had unwittingly discovered years earlier that letting Manfred watch his shows was a reliable way to keep him occupied and distracted from his seemingly never-ending compulsion to kill himself via misadventure. He did set limits though: only an hour of television per day. It wasn’t good for people to watch too much television, so it only made sense in his mind that too much time in front of a screen wasn’t healthy for cats either. 

He queued up an episode of Seinfeld for Manfred and scratched under his Italian leather collar before setting down the remote and returning to the kitchen. 

He shrugged off his suit jacket and fished his phone out of the pocket, glancing at the screen to see if Rook had responded while he was seeing to Manfred - she hadn’t - and setting it on the counter alongside the headphones before washing his hands and trying to decide what he’d have for dinner. 

While he waited for the frying pan to heat up and the pot of tomato soup he’d settled on to warm, he opened a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass - he wasn’t on call tonight, so he’d allow himself this rare indulgence. Something to calm his nerves was welcome anyway - he kept eyeing his phone, waiting for the screen to light up. It wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong by texting Rook, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow gotten himself into trouble. 

When the pan was hot, he dropped his cheese sandwich into it and picked up his glass, swirling the wine inside of it and resuming his vigil of staring at his phone. 

It was 7:34 now. 

Rook was constantly attached to that phone of hers even though Derek and management were borderline militant in enforcing their ‘no personal cell phones allowed’ policy during work hours - she and every other staff member under thirty-five had mastered the slick and nonchalant trick of palming their device and slipping it into the inside left pocket of their suit jacket with alarming elegance at a moment���s notice: they would be the envy of any street magician with such sleight of hand.

Knowing this, it struck Emmrich as unlikely that she hadn’t at least seen his message yet. What was taking her so long to respond? It was simple, wasn’t it? Just a plain, ‘Thank you for letting me know’ would suffice, surely? 

He turned from the island back to the stove, flipped the cheese sandwich in the pan, and stirred the pot of soup. He had just set down the spoon on the spoon rest in the middle of the stove when he heard the ‘bzzzt-bzzzt’ of his phone vibrating against the granite countertop. 

Snatching it up, he unlocked the screen and braced himself for Rook’s disgusted response. 

Jaw clenching, he allowed his eyes to focus on the words in front of him. 

‘At first I thought this was a really pathetic excuse to text me, but my headphones are actually missing and unless you managed to pickpocket me while you were driving, you must be telling the truth.’

Three dots popped up underneath the message, indicating she was typing something else. Then they went away. 

Then they came back. 

‘Thanks Emmrich.’

He stared at the pair of messages, reading them over and over, genuinely taken aback at the lack of vitriol in her words. Snarky, yes. Snide, certainly. But a far cry from the outright revulsion he had anticipated. 

Perhaps she was finally warming up to him: they’d worked together for four months now, it only seemed natural that they build some semblance of rapport over time, regardless of her misplaced assertions that he was some sort of deviant. 

Could it be that she was finally beginning to realize that he wasn’t panting after her like the weirdo she assumed he was, staring at her ass whenever she walked in front of him, and wondering what the tattoos that peeked out from under the cuffs of her shirt looked like? He’d never had such thoughts. Never once had he wondered how much of her skin they covered; whether they ran all the way up her pale arms and resolved at her shoulders, or if they curved across her collarbones, dipping down past the swell of her breasts, and–

The sound of the smoke alarm punctured his unintentional reverie, deflating it instantly as the bitter smell of burnt toast filled his nose and he slammed his phone down on the counter to deal with the urgent matter of his burning grilled cheese sandwich. 

Manfred appeared around the corner of the island and meowed loudly, making his displeasure at this interruption of his ritual television hour inescapably clear.

Emmrich looked down at the blackened sandwich in the pan, then to Manfred, who was licking his lips hopefully.

“No, you may not have the sandwich,” he said sternly and dumped the ruined grilled cheese in the garbage. He made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and turned off the element the tomato soup was on. 

He reset the smoke alarm and paced over to the back door beyond the breakfast nook, wine in hand, pausing to grab the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he kept in the console table next to the patio door before stepping out into the cold and lighting up. 

Rook Ingellvar was going to be his undoing at this rate. 

He’d managed to salvage the remainder of the evening and resume his normal routine: he’d had his soup and just a plain cheese sandwich, poured another glass of wine, fed Manfred, had a long hot shower, and climbed into bed to settle in and read until he was ready to fall asleep. 

Manfred was curled up on the bed at his feet, purring loudly - it wouldn’t last long. He would be up again in a few minutes to persistently smash his face against the edges of Emmrich’s book as he tried to read it, attempting to bully him into putting the book down in favour of petting him, which was clearly more important. Emmrich would eventually capitulate and do exactly that.

The antique analog alarm clock on his nightstand indicated that it was going on eleven o’clock, and Emmrich had just closed his book for the night and reached over to turn off the lamp when his phone lit up on the charging stand next to it, vibrating insistently to alert him to the incoming call. 

Emmrich frowned: he was certain he wasn’t on call tonight - Lindsey Finch’s name had been listed as the overnight on call funeral director on the service schedule that day, and he certainly wasn’t expecting any calls from anyone… not at this hour.

He picked the phone up from the charger and frowned harder at the number on the call display: it wasn’t a number he’d saved in his contacts, so there was no name. It looked familiar, though, like he’d seen it recently…

His stomach twisted on itself. It couldn’t be. No. Why would she?

“...Hello?”

Loud, distorted music crashed through the earpiece of the phone. The bass was clear, but everything else was a muffled cacophony that he couldn’t make out. He could hear Rook’s voice, but couldn’t discern what she was saying: she was talking loudly - practically shouting. Then there was a male voice, equally unclear. Fabric shifted against the mic, making a harsh scratching noise that had Emmrich holding the phone a few inches away from his face. 

“Hello?” He repeated, but received no response: she must have pocket-dialed him accidentally. 

She was at a bar with live music by the sound of it. He heard her voice again. Managed to catch the words, “kinda hot” before the exceptionally loud band drowned out what she said next. 

But he heard her laugh then, and it rather caught him off guard how different it was from her usual facetious, dry tone. 

It was light and free and joyful. 

He ended the call then, feeling ashamed: like he’d just intruded on something private that he was not welcome to. Judging by the brief snatches of conversation he’d overheard, she was clearly on a date, and if she’d known that he’d been eavesdropping - even accidentally - there was no doubt in his mind that he’d never hear the end of it. 

Setting the phone back on the charger, he folded his glasses and set them down before he turned out the light and rolled onto his side, facing away from the nightstand so he wouldn’t be able to see the screen if it lit up again. 

Lonely thoughts were no stranger to Emmrich in the silent hours of the night, but tonight for some reason, they felt heavier than ever. 

Manfred woke him up a few hours later when he managed to find a way around the locking child-proofing tabs Emmrich had installed on his dresser, and began systematically pulling articles of clothing out from the top drawer, dropping them on the floor whilst having a loud conversation with himself. 

“Manfred…” Emmrich grumbled sleepily, slipping out from under the covers and crossing the room, plucking the cat from the top of the dresser and ignoring his protests, setting him gently on the ground. “You’re far too clever for your own good.” He re-affixed the tab as best he could and stooped to stroke Manfred’s soft back before plodding back to bed. “Please let me sleep,” he entreated groggily, feeling Manfred’s weight join him on the mattress.

What time was it anyway? He could tell it was still dark beyond the blackout blinds over his window, but that meant little at this time of year. 

His antique alarm clock wasn’t backlit, so he fumbled around in the dark until he felt the base of his charging stand. Following it upwards, he tapped his phone and squinted as his pupils adjusted to the sudden light. 

3:40… ugh… 

He had to be up in less than an hour anyway. 

Resolving to get at least a bit more sleep, he was about to collapse back onto the mattress when something on the illuminated screen caught his eye. 

A notification. 

He pulled the phone from the stand and propped himself up on one elbow, finding his glasses with his other hand and shoving them onto his face. 

It was a message from the same number that had called him earlier - Rook’s number. 

3:34 AM read the timestamp - only a few minutes ago.

Blinking a few times and feeling suddenly much more awake, Emmrich keyed in his passcode and opened the message. 

It was a picture of Rook - a selfie, he supposed - and she appeared to be home - or in someone’s home - judging by the fact that she was obviously in a bed, her long black hair cascading over a red pillowcase as she cheesed up at the camera. Her crimson lips were contorted in a picture perfect snarl that showed off her straight white teeth and she was holding up her fingers in a peace sign. She was clearly drunk: her gray eyes were glassy and unfocused, and her heavy black eyeliner was somewhat smudged. 

‘thx again for looking after my headphones♥️’

Why was she texting him at this hour? 

And why did she send him a picture of herself?

And why did she feel the need to thank him again?

He stared at the heart punctuating the message, turning question after question over in his mind as his own heart decided to behave like he was halfway through running a marathon. 

His eyes were drawn to the lower half of the photo, and he couldn’t help but notice that the thin black tank top she was wearing was certainly more revealing than her uniform, confirming that her tattoos most definitely did not end at her shoulders.

He swallowed, his tongue feeling three sizes too big for his mouth. 

She’d only just sent him this. There was a good chance she was still awake…

Dare he? 

‘You’re welcome. E.’

He hit send.

The three dots heralding an incoming message popped up almost immediately, followed by Rook’s reply. 

‘holy shit y r u even awake rn?’

He let out a short huff of laughter at this, gently pushing Manfred away, as he had finally been drawn by the light of Emmrich’s phone. 

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘because i just got home and need to eat something lol’

‘I see. I’d better leave you to it then.’

‘u didn’t answer my question: y r u awake?’

Emmrich glanced down at the purring ball of fur next to him that was trying desperately to nudge the phone out of his hands. 

‘My cat woke me up.’

‘lmao u have a cat?! u don’t really seem like a pet person tbh’

‘He more or less adopted me, as it turns out.’

‘crazy’

The dots popped up again, then vanished. 

‘anyway - i need to go to bed. c u in a few hours i guess lol’

‘Goodnight, Rook.’

He stared at his phone for a few more minutes, but no more messages appeared. 

He scrolled back up to the picture she’d sent him. Despite the fact that she was clearly potted, she looked so… unbothered. There was an easy joy about her that she didn’t have during the day while she was working. Perhaps the date had gone well. 

But… she mentioned that she was at home, so perhaps it hadn’t.

He didn’t know why, but he found himself hoping for the latter outcome.

His eyes drifted back to the shape of her plump, pert breasts, pressed together slightly due to the angle and position of her arms. 

“That’s enough of that,” he chided himself, darkening the screen and forcing himself to set the phone down. 

Deciding that he wouldn’t be getting any more sleep, he got out of bed instead and started his morning early: he had breakfast, fed Manfred, and did his morning workout, trying to find stability in the comfort of his predictable routine. 

As he stood under the nearly scalding water cascading from the showerhead above him, he took himself in hand and stroked - slowly, languidly at first, but before long he was jerking off in earnest, leaning into the dark granite tile of the wall as he breathed heavily, soft moans nearly drowned out by the rush of the water falling around him. 

He couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t get the image of those perfect breasts from his mind. The shape of them. The way they looked pressed together in that picture. The crisp black lines of the mirrored serpents and roses that spread from the front of her shoulders down towards the neckline of that skimpy top. He was filled with the treacherous desire to trace the lines of those tattoos with his fingers… his tongue…

A strangled cry pulled from his lips, and he came hard, his seed spilling forth, one steady pulse after another. It fell to the floor, and dripped down his hand into the drain below. 

Guilt slammed into him before he even finished cumming, ashamed of himself as he watched the last of his release vanish with the water.

It had been quite some time since he’d had a romantic partner, but he worked with this young woman… taught one of the courses she was enrolled in at the university. They were colleagues - professionals - and here he was, fantasizing about her body while he jacked off like the pervert she so frequently accused him of being… proving that she was right all along.

And worst of all, he was going to have to look her in the eyes later that morning and pretend that he hadn’t brought himself to orgasm hours earlier while thinking about her. 

“You’ve really done it now, Volkarin…” he sighed, raking his fingers through his wet hair and shutting off the water. 

It was very rare for Emmrich to have a cigarette before he went to work. 

He had one that morning. 

[swtichblde]

Nurse Kenjaku and Male reader, hospital sex please and thank you <3

𓂃 𓈒 ϑ Let Me Take Your Vitals.

──〃synopsis : You are completed with your stay at the hospital after five days of recovery from a bad stomach bug. Your nurse is coming to take your final round of vitals, but the checklist seems to shift directions.

──〃characters : Nurse!Kenjaku, Male!reader

──〃content : Smut, dominant Kenjaku, submissive reader, hospital sex, handjob, blowjob, latex gloves, edging, teasing, consensual

──〃word count : 1423

The walls of the infirmary were plain and white. The only thing that changed the scenery was the TV screen pointed towards the similarly plain bed. Your right thumb fiddles with the other, awaiting the nurse who would take your vitals one last time before you are discharged. 

It had been five days since you were brought in. It was nothing overly serious, just a bug. Although, it was uncommon and could have been serious if you were not in the hospital's care. With your train of thought drifting to the quiet hum of the TV, it was soon interrupted by a subtle knock on the door to your room. 

“Come in!” You shout, the handle of the door clicking open soon afterwards. 

Through the opening gap, you see the black, shoulder-length hair of the nurse. His face wore a smirk as he hugged the clipboard close to his chest. You could not help the jump of your heart as you saw the beauty before you. Shaking your awe, you greeted him with a smile as did he. 

“I am here to take your vitals.” The nurse says dryly, eyeing you up and down in the process. 

He reached for the velcro blood pressure cuff, undoing it once it was in his grasp. You bring out your arm to be accessible and he swiftly encloses it in the cold material. You are very used to the feeling by this point, so when he begins to pump the cuff, the squeeze is hardly an issue. The only issue you seem to suffer with is the intoxicating floral smell of the man’s perfume along with his good looks going straight to your dick.

He marks a few things down on his clipboard before taking a seat on the edge of your bed; his leg crossing over the other. That smirk has not left his face since the first glimpse you got of him. 

“You appear to be stable, so no need to resume with the list,” He states, placing the clipboard beside him on the bed. “Although, there is one thing we have yet to check you for entirely.” He whispered with his hand snaking towards you.

Your heart thumps in your chest once you realize the impending direction of his hand. You gulp, returning to hold the eye contact you previously had. “Go ahead, I wouldn’t mi–” You were cut off by his finger which was now shushing you. You nod in response slowly. 

His other, needy hand, pulls back the sheet, revealing your rising excitement below the hospital gown. Your cheeks flush when you realize his smirk is only growing more intense. 

You watch his fingers gracefully dance along the bone of your hip. The tips of them were only centimetres away from the half-hard embarrassment below your garments. It was like as he entered the room, he could smell the instant arousal you got from the ethereal appearance he wore with pride. 

It was plausible you were simply pent up from the past five days, but something about the demeanour of this man pulled you in like a fish on a hook.

“Oh my, someone is eager!” The nurse provoked, slipping a hand under the gown to lift it up. 

Your body twitched, begging for stimulation to your erection, but unfortunately, he avoids the touch. Instead, he patted down the fold he made in your hospital gown. Your eyebrows furrow as he removes himself entirely from your side, leaving you open to his view. 

“Ple–” He cuts you off again. This time, with a verbal silencing. 

Despite his teasing bringing more desperation out of you, you cannot help but seek his touch to return. 

“My, my,” he began, inspecting your length that continued to spring to life. He smirked again, removing his clipboard from beside you as well. “Someone is eager. Do not move.” He instructs.

He placed the clipboard down onto the nurse’s desk, replacing the grasp with the small box of latex gloves. He popped out one of the white disposables from the rest, tossing its holder back onto the table. 

Although his back was facing you, the snap of the glove on his hand sent a jolt of surprise down to your core. He turned, holding the edge of the white latex with his bare hand, pulling it to snap once more. Your eyes shot open when you realised what he had planned. 

He returned to his previous place beside your thigh on the mattress, only this time, his creeping hand did not tease. He pressed a clothed finger to your tip. You shuddered in response, keeping your own hands to your sides as you were told to. Five days of no stimulation, who knew you would be so sensitive from a simple touch. 

Though, that simple touch did not remain for long.

His finger slid down your length, the other digits joining in unison. Soon, they formed a fist, grasping around the width of your aching erection. You cannot help but let out a whimper in response, although it only added to the nurse’s cockiness. 

A low snicker could be heard as he picked up his pace. Your mouth was now agape, moans drawn out from every motion of the nurse’s firm grip. 

“Desperate, are we?” The black-haired male said, noticing your hips started to buck in anticipation. 

He could tell you were already close. This may have been the most pathetically quick orgasm you would have in your lifetime, but to your surprise, that would not be the case. He removed his now pre-cum coated hand from your dick. Your whines echoing throughout the room. 

“Please…” You begged, but to no avail. He was cruel, you thought. Maybe edging you was simply part of this erotic exam. 

“You poor thing,” He teased, slipping the sticky latex material from his hand. “Fortunately, you passed that portion of the exam. Only one more procedure to go.” He said, easing your distress with a point to his mouth. 

He tossed the soiled glove into the garbage pale beside you, making sure to lean close to your face. You breathed in that sweet floral scent again, which only invited more twitching to your dick. 

“Nurse, please!” You begged once more, earning you a pat on the thigh to silence your attempts. 

“Relax.” He said, bringing his face close to kiss your sensitive tip. 

He opens his lipstick covered mouth to allow your length to slip inside, his tongue pressing against the underside. The nurse licked up all your pre-cum from the previous exam, popping off from your erection loudly. He replaced the sensation with teasing kisses up the side.

He made sure to wrap his hand around your base as he tediously sucked and kissed at your tip, filling his mouth once more with your, once again, aching member. He lets his mouth sink lower onto you, gulping which creates a tightness that sends a jolt of pleasure up your body. You moan loudly in response.

His eyes found their way back to your own as you broke his request to not move. You place your hand into his hair, clenching it into a fist but not pulling.

“Yes, yes!” you cry out, bucking your hips down his throat as you near your orgasm once again. 

He closes his eyes, bobbing his head onto your desperate dick as your body begins to shake. Your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, your eyes rolling into the back of your skull as a long, drawn out moan slips past your lips. 

He pulls himself off you, swallowing all that was in his mouth before placing an innocent kiss to your tip. You whimper in response, overstimulated and exhausted from the events. 

“Good job! Your examination has been completed. You passed everything and you are safe to go home.” He said, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb. 

Your breath is left uneven, your eyes half-lidded as the nurse cleaned up and headed for the door. You frowned in your post-orgasmic state at the sight of his dismissal before he slowed to a stop. 

“Do not forget me, my dear patient. You were so good.” He praised, blowing a kiss to you before he turned, opened the door, and left. 

You could not believe what had just happened, it felt like a wet dream. You knew the doctor would see you soon, so by instinct, you covered yourself with your gown again. Pants beginning to halt. 

What a unique nurse. 

[fuck-customers]

I'm sorry this isn't exactly what this blog is for, but I was hoping it could slide. I have something at work that I'd like the opinions of mods and followers, if possible please.

I was wondering if I should ask for/pursue a promotion to store lead, as several people in my life, including friends, family, and a very persistent (annoying) coworker, have been pressuring me to do so. But I have several cons and pros about it. And since all the people in my life are blindly telling me to apply to be a lead, they won't listen to what my concerns are and say that I'm just being stubborn and difficult without listening to why I'm hesitating. So here's why

Pros:

•it would look good on my resume

•get paid $2 more per hour

•I'd get paid for training. Yay

•it may force me to get better at responsibility, as I'd be in charge of keys and codes

•I'd get slightly more hours per week (more on that below)

•I would get to freely move around the store as I'm doing my tasks vs. being trapped at the register area as I've currently been, which is great for me personally, because I hate being trapped at one station

•I may be able to fix some things around the store that have been driving me nuts as a result of being free to move around (such as changing the godawful music)

•it would probably be a needed confidence booster

•I have several ideas of things we could and should be doing that would greatly improve the store and maybe my manager would actually listen to a lead vs. a regular employee, as she currently refuses to listen to my suggestions (which, for the record, are things like "hey maybe we should put price tags on the products" not only does she refuse to listen, she actively goes out of her way to undo the work I do and tear down price tags/signs)

Cons:

•store leads ≠ full time and current leads get the same amount of hours that I do, give or take 3 hours or so (for example, this current week I have 9 hours, the lead who has been pressuring me to become a lead has 10 hours, and other leads have between 10-15 hours) I would already be a lead if it was a full-time position, but that will not happen. I'd even consider it if there was a significant increase in hours while still being part-time. 1-3 hours more is not an increase in my opinion

•the store is severely understaffed by design and leads have to do several tasks alone at once, such as: run the service department alone, unlock anything customers need throughout the store, fill online orders, backup the cashier when needed (the only other employee in the store) get yelled at by angry customers who demand a manager and do a daily checklist from the store manager that consists of 20 or so tasks to do in a 3 hour shift.

•store leads have nearly all of the responsibilities of the store manager, except they can't hire or fire anyone and they get paid less than half of what the store manager gets paid while having to do all of the same tasks, minus the fun ones (hiring/firing people)

•there are many signs that the company may shut down in the near future, but the company and my store manager are pretending like everything is fine and refuse to discuss it with employees

•leads are also expected to go to the bank for cash deposits for the store/to get change, etc. and I do not have my own car or license (which is not something I want to mention to my manager, as I'm required to have reliable transportation to work there, I just don't have to specify whose transportation it is) and that is a job requirement of a lead that I straight up cannot do. And the public transport in my city is lackluster and taking the bus to and from the bank would easily be an hour long trip or more, when it takes someone with their own car 15-20 minutes.

•I have a very bad memory and I am not confident that I could remember all of the procedures and passcodes that managers are required to remember. I could technically write it down, but I don't want to draw attention to my terrible memory, as I've been successfully hiding it for years. Nor am I confident that I could be responsible for keys and not lose them. And realistically, I'd lose the book/accidentally delete the notes app I made notes on.

•I've been able to hide it for now, since as a regular employee, I am not watched very closely, but I cut a LOT of corners and there are several store policies that I think are extremely stupid and I either straight up don't follow them or have workarounds for them. Obviously as a lead, I'd have to stop doing that, but some of these policies strongly go against my morals. This is just a whining bulletpoint lol

•I'm not great under pressure, and I'm even worse when someone is yelling/swearing at me or talking down to me. I've seen leads get talked to like they're trash by customers and they have been able to successfully stay calm and collected. In situations where I have been yelled at or talked down to, I call a manager to back me up, but that doesn't work if I am the manager. And I don't mean that I'll cry, because in some situations, that may help. No. I mean that my natural response to stress, especially someone yelling at me, is to fight back. I will cuss them out, yell back and I have been known to physically attack. Not at work, obviously, but that's because up until now, I've been able to push aggressive customers off onto my managers. I've also successfully hidden my anger issues from management and coworkers to the point where they think I am always happy and never get mad. It helps to have someone to back me up/deflect off of, but if I am the backup, no one can defend me.

•There are several things wrong with the store that are completely out of the control of any of us employees at the physical location and are the fault of corporate, but customers blame the employees personally and as a lead, I'd have to answer for the fuckups of corporate that I genuinely cannot answer for. (Such as return policies and inventory inaccuracies)

•My manager is very shitty at communicating with her team. I've personally witnessed several incidents that were caused by her not properly communicating with her leads and I don't want to wind up in a position where I'm responsible for resolving the conflict she caused by not communicating. Also

•I have nearly zero respect for my manager. I think she is an absolute moron, but I've been able to hide it as I don't have to work/interact with her very often. As a lead, I'd have to work with her more and it may slip.

•I don't wear a nametag. I very strongly believe that nametags are a great danger to the employees, especially employees like myself who have a very uncommon name with a very uncommon spelling. Yet as a manager, I'd have to "lead by example" and wear a nametag. I would ideally wear a fake name or have several fake nametags to rotate, but my coworkers obviously know my name and would call it out.

•I'd have to double-check on this one, but I think leads, as members of management, are required to watch potential shoplifters and confront/track them down. I'm not sure if this is a requirement of a lead or if the particular leads at my store are going way beyond their job requirements/have been coached incorrectly by the store manager. I know I, as a regular employee, am not required to chase after thieves and I actively refuse to confront/chase thieves for my own safety. But I am not sure if that would change with becoming a lead. My work does not have a security guard.

•I have several ideas of things we could and should do to improve the store, but my manager is very arrogant and refuses to listen to constructive criticism or constructive feedback in any form. It would drive me insane to have to keep doing things the wrong/difficult way just because she won't listen to suggestions. And this isn't just an assumption by me. I have personally suggested things that she blatantly ignored and so have other leads.

Posted by admin Rodney

[sappheethefox]

The Cold Years-Chapter 1 (for real this time)

“After Action Report: Sustained major casualties attempting to delay the Kurchan and Silen advance. At 0523 hours, the 79th Penal Battalion was shelled by enemy artillery with rounds complete at 0626 hours. Straight-leg infantry began to assault the position, enemy forces estimated at seven companies worth. Friendly casualty count: 47 KIA, 149 wounded. Resupply request issued. Previous request for mechanized reinforcements denied. Previous request for armored reinforcements denied.”

Onyx leaned on a tree after reading the report, rubbing his chin as it continued. Another night he hadn’t slept, another night he spent on the battlements, another night of firing at what he hoped was just shadows. But shadows don’t fall and scream for a medic, scream for pain, scream for their mothers. He folded the report and placed it in his pocket, resuming his walk along the lines.

“What a nightmare. It’d be nice if we had some bullets, but all we get is a bunch of greenies with half a brain between thirty men.” he said, shaking his head. He approached the new soldiers meant to fill his ranks after the last battle. 50 new soldiers, untrained, uncooperative, and ultimately unprepared for the coming times. Onyx inspected the new company, looking them up and down, taking a mental checklist of their imperfections, their postures, even the way they breathed. Most of them aren’t even properly at the position of attention, standing stiff like a board or way too relaxed.

Walking up the line, he has to look down to see one of the replacements. It’s a teenage boy, his uniform loosely fitting his body and his weapon not present. His posture is significantly too tense, his legs locked up tight. The markings and patches denoting his job were missing, and his cap sat crooked on his head. Chiefly, he lacked the most basic of necessities for warfare; a firearm.

“You, child.” He snaps to the kid, his eyes fixed on where a gun would be. “You don’t have a rifle. Why?”

The conscript stammers out a response. “T-they didn’t g-give me one at the d-depot…”

The taller, demon-blooded captain steps closer to the boy, his breath condensing in the air.

“Finish that sentence. ‘They didn’t give me one at the depot’ what?” Onyx’s eyes bore straight into the soul of the poor kid.

“S-sir.”

“What’s your specialty? Besides being a rifleman.”

The young lad shakes a bit. “I-I can’t remember, something to do with letters o-or something…O-Oh, courier!”

What a nightmare indeed.

“…Tch.” Onyx shakes his head and mumbles. “I don’t need a courier,” he thought. “They either get shot, captured, or get lost.” He moves along, analyzing and mentally noting. After ten minutes of this inspection, one of them pipes up, groaning.

“Can we move on already? I’m tired of being stared at by some muka son of a bitch.”

The “muka” in question stopped in his tracks, the silence that followed deafening. He turned so slowly you could almost hear his muscles moving. He puts one foot firmly in front of the other, time after time, until he’s face-to-face with the disheveled cretin who blurted out while he was supposed to be deathly silent.

“What’s that, private…?” Onyx glares deep into his eyes, deep into the recesses of his spirit.

“Bruckles, it’s Zhovda Bruckles, now get off my dick before I-”

Before the unruly man could get another word off, he’s slapped across the face.

“Watch your goddamn mouth, do you understand?” Onyx delivers another slap, backhanding him with enough force to knock him to the ground. “I own your ass! While you are under my command, you do not mouth off, you do not burst out, and you do not talk shit!” His face red as a beet. “Get the fuck up, you slimy damned worm, and get back in formation before I strangle the fucking life out of you and toss your crumpled body in a ditch!” The rougher stands up and straight, two massive hand prints across his face and a deep cut in his ego.

The captain, finally calming down from his disciplining, makes his way to the front of the formation. “…Fall out, go find the housing officer, 2nd Lt. Makav, and she’ll assign you your quarters. Don’t expect luxury.”

With some haste, the platoon of criminals, free thinkers, and undesirables dissolved into a loose gaggle, disappearing into the battalion and fitting in just right. But Onyx puts a hand on the young boy’s shoulder.

“You.”

The kid freezes in place, the color draining from his face. He doesn’t know whether to look at his commanding officer or to keep staring at the ground.

“Y-Yes, s-s-sir?” he squeaked.

“You haven’t got a gun. This is a problem. Come with me.” Onyx lets go, motioning the young man to follow him. The young man scurries along quickly, looking anywhere but the eyes of this man. Is this how he dies? Shot within ten minutes of arrival by his captain for being unprepared by the supply staff?

They stop at a tent with a table deployed in front of it, a man sitting behind said table, and a few palettes of empty boxes.

“Quartermaster, I need a rifle. ‘Courier model.’ Ammo, too.”

The gray haired older man looks at Onyx, puts down a clipboard and pen, fetches a gun and tosses it to him. “I’ve got two cartons and the magazine already in it, Captain Maxim, no more. Just about 98% of the 188th’s supply train has been diverted to a priority mission: hauling artillery shells for the 41st Infantry DIVARTY.” The rather old man slides the two cartons over to him.

He picks up the cartons, annoyance slowly filling his face. “What, all of that for artillery? How do we not have any more carbine rounds?” He looks around the stockpile and around the supply area. “Almost all of our guns use the same ammo type, and the courier model uses an ammo type that we haven’t used in a bit since we have a distinct lack of couriers.”

The quartermaster, chuckling, continues. “Well, because we haven’t found a use for the rounds, we’ve sent them down to other units.”

“…What about the other 2% of supply trucks?”

“They’ve been busy, supplying units that’ve been capturing Nook positions all along the southern side of Porlakas, post shelling of course.” He takes a deep breath before adding “…And it seems Silen partisans are ambushing what few trucks try to come our way.”

Press-checking the carbine, Onyx hands-no, rather shoves the gun into the hands of the teenage soldier. “What about aerial resupply?”

The old man shakes his head. “League airpower has the airspace contested, so they’re not flying rotary until dominance in the sky is achieved.”

“When are we getting another supply run?”

The quartermaster shrugs, responding “If we’re lucky, within the next week. If not…Well, you’re great at making do with what you got, Maxim.” Onyx turns around and trots off, seemingly miffed.

“W-Why is he like that? Are a-all commanders like him?” the conscript’s words wobbling out.

The old man, beginning to take an inventory of what’s left, chimes in saying “That boy’s got a bad hand. Or man, I suppose.”

The boy shakes his head. “No, he can’t have a bad hand, h-he…well, he ‘disciplined’ someone earlier with it.” He anxiously fidgets in place.

The quartermaster chuckles. “Not a bad injured hand, but he’s had a tough life, s’what I mean. Can’t blame him.” He shakes his head and looks at the kid. “By the way…” He narrowed his eyes and lifted the boy’s cap, revealing golden strands and small nubs on the sides of his forehead. Before the old man could make a remark, the captain yells from afar to get moving. He covers his head before catching up, struggling to hold the unfamiliar tool he’s been given.

They walk through the woods, with the kid straggling slightly behind out of respect for Onyx’s authority and fear of what may happen should he cross him. He’d never seen someone who commands such a terrifying and intimidating presence.

“What’s your birthplace?”

The conscript mumbles out, “C-C-Chernoy, sir. I-It’s the original home of the d-demonfolk. H-Have you been?”

Oh, he had. “Yes, I have. I was there for a good few years as part of the counter-insurgency.” He looks at the ground, then up at the sky. “My first deployment. Ruinous, that’s what I remember of it. It’s been over a decade since then, it’s probably unrecognizable to me now.”

Onyx takes a deep breath, the cold nipping at the exposed skin on his face. “What’s your name, boy?”

Fiddling with his gun, the young man’s breath hitches. “I-I don’t know, sir. M-My family was taken from me shortly a-after…”

“After what?” He contemplates before continuing. “T-They joined Alebester Curran and the Infernal Meikras Liberation Front…”

Onyx blinks a few times. “The IMLF, right.” The young boy’s words get caught up in his throat.

“C-Curran had moved everyone who was left into the Autonod’s capital building…”

“Mm. The Governor’s Palace.”

The boy nods. “Yeah, the palace. W-When the army finally broke through, they captured us…T-They separated my mother, father, and sister before shipping me off…first they sent me to a prisoner camp, once I-I turned 16, they shipped me here…” The taller man nods, ushering him to continue. A single tear drips down the boy’s face. “I-I never got t-the chance to say g-goodbye…”

Onyx doesn’t flinch, it’s a story he’s all too familiar with. However, this one presented him with a unique twist; this boy was known just as a number or a prisoner or even just an occupation within the system.

“Beryl.”

The boy stops and looks up at his CO, a confused look dawning on his face. “W-What, sir?”

Onyx continues without skipping a beat, “Your name is Beryl. You are old enough for a name.” His cool facade thawed just enough to allow the corner of his mouth to curve slightly and to wipe the tear. “It’s in line with demonic naming customs. I imagine you’re not a beastkin, given that you’re not hairy. Hell, you can’t even grow a beard at your age.” Onyx feels his chin. “Well, neither can I. I suppose demons can’t grow body or facial hair.”

He touches a lock of hair poking out from the bottom of the boy’s cap.

“Also, you suck at trying to hide your features.” He begins to trot off again, saying “Just wear it out with pride. Or don’t. It won’t matter. I will train you to be useful, and you train better if you’re not worrying about your hat coming off.” He looks over his shoulder as the boy looks at the captain with bewilderment. The newly christened Beryl stood there, confused and shocked at what had just unfolded. This is the first instance of kindness he’s been shown in years.

“Are you aware of the nature of your assignment, Beryl? The job of ‘courier?’”

He stands there, in a mix of joy and nerves. “N-No, Captain Maxim. I-I was just assigned the job on lottery.”

“It’s one of the most dangerous jobs for the normal combat units, even more so for the penal units like ours. My last courier accidentally waltzed into enemy lines, we only got a third of his body back.” He stares into the forest for a minute. “Couriers are a prime target for the enemy, second only to commanders. You will be receiving and distributing written orders, dispersing pamphlets in places, and be reporting directly to me outside of combat, think like an assistant or secretary.” He takes a deep breath. “You’ll also occasionally be given saboteur objectives as well, playing into the whole PSYOPS deal. Here, on this front, you’ll be infiltrating Kurchan and Silen positions. Always bring a grenade with you when you go out because…” Onyx looks down at his feet and kicks a stone. “…They will torture you to death. Slowly, painfully. If you’re ever captured, a quick suicide is not cowardice, it’s the better option.”

Beryl nods, listening intently. He knew that he was going to be in grave danger, anyone in a penal unit would be. The position of “courier” is usually quite the title, should one live to see retirement. However, much like Onyx had said, the aspect of infiltration and close-in psychological warfare is something that gets deep under the skin and into the minds of the enemy. How could it not? Someone sneaking up into your camp, all past the sentries on duty and people watching for infiltrators miss it and now things are blowing up and enemy pamphlets are everywhere? That’s truly frightening.

“Oi, stop standing around and report to the housing officer, Makav. Rations are at 1730, don’t be late and get the old tins of stuff.” Onyx reaches into his coat and retrieves a flask, taking a long swig before putting it back in his coat pocket. “If you’re late, you get a can of rotting tinned meat, used-to-be vegetables in water, and a rock posing as bread.”

“Y-Yes, sir!” Beryl scampers away, a nervous yet content smile across his face.

“Heh, that’s never happened.” He takes a deep breath. “Normally, they run in fear with a look of terror scrawled across their faces.” He takes a look around. People huddle together around fires, light up cigarettes and inhale the fumes, bury themselves in whatever layers they can scrounge to cover up, all for the sake of warmth.

“Gods be damned, I’m freezing.” Onyx puts his hands under his arms. He approaches a few soldiers sitting on logs around a burning oil drum. “Move over, share the fire.” The soldiers scoot over just enough to let their CO in.

“Shit, you need to heat yourself up? Damn, it really is gonna be a rough night.”

“Shut up, Fuzzy. You got fur on ya damn legs and chest, the rest of us have hair on our heads and nothing more!”

Onyx puts his head down and closes his eyes.

“Corporal Meklavic, just because I’m a demon doesn’t mean I don’t get cold.” He takes a deep breath, the warm air enters his nostrils. “And Staff Sergeant Schauber, you’ve had to loot a few enemy coats to wrap around your breasts to keep warm and to stop yourself from getting frostbite.”

He leans back, finally opening his eyes. “Neither of you have any points, so just shut up and let me get some heat in peace. This fucking brigade’s gonna be the death of me.” He takes the flask out and takes a drink, but the alcohol in his flask has turned into a slush. “Damn it.” He stands up and starts walking towards his rack, passing by the mess tent to get his share of rations for the night.

Getting in line, he waits as the other soldiers waddle up to the serving table, get their slop, and waddle away. Five minutes pass, then five more. Finally it’s his turn. One hand in the pocket, he holds out his mess tin. The cooks ladle in his serving of boiled vegetables in water and hands him a slice of stale bread. He stares at the sad, sad excuse for soup and the hard piece of bread before sitting down in his tent and beginning to eat. He picks up his spoon and dips it into the broth, bringing the clear liquid to his lips.

“…Bland.” He taps the bread on his desk, clacking like a wooden stick. He rolls his eyes, dipping the bread into the soup.

After he finishes eating, he takes the mess kit and puts it aside. He picks up his guitar, tuning it and testing with a few plucks.

“No, that’s not right.” He twists the knobs and plucks once again. “There, that’s fine.” He begins to strum and play a melody from demon culture, singing along in infernal as he goes.

“May she live, may she prosper, long live Alepul; May we live, may we prosper, long live the Meikras-”

“With our blood, the flowers bloom, the Pailan blooms red!”

Onyx stops for a second, standing up and poking his head out from his tent. It’s the first time someone has responded to his singing since he began his time in the army, let alone in the native demon tongue.

“And so long as we live, Alepul is not lost, and we will rejoin the nation!” There, right across from the CO’s tent, Beryl is singing along to the song as he sets up his domicile for the time being.

“Hey.”

“O-Oh, C-Captain, sir! I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend!” Beryl drops the shovel and holds his hands up, slightly cowering. “I didn’t realize y-you could speak infernal! I-I mean, it’s k-kinda nice…your singing, I mean, s-sir.”” He wipes his brow and looks down at his feet, picking up the spade. “I-I never met someone else who spoke the language, e-especially considering that it’s illegal…”

“It’s my battalion, I do as I please.” Onyx leaves the tent, the flaps draping over his shoulders before falling away. “My mother taught me growing up. Then I did time in the camps with other demonkin, letting me become proficient, and time in the trenches lent me time to learn to play and to sing in our mother tongue.” Onyx steps forward, holding the instrument in his left hand by the neck. “I imagine, given what you’ve told me, you grew up speaking mostly Meirak, but the humans made you give it up.”

“Y-Yeah…I-I mean, yes s-sir.”

“…That’s the nature of the demonfolk-us Meikras-in this land. The humans invaded our lands, stole it from us, and forced us to pay in slavery and extermination of our people and culture for resisting.” He shakes his head. “You know the stories, yes?”

“No, s-sir. I can’t r-remember.”

“I’ll tell you. See, we tend to pass our history through song.” He takes out the flask and drinks. “I will do as my mother did for me, and I will elucidate on the nature of the Meikras. Find me something to sit on, I’m not sitting on snow.”

Beryl’s young, hopeful face lights up as he goes to find something for his commanding officer to sit down on. He returns with an empty rifle box, almost yelling. “H-Here, sir! I-It’s not much, but it’s something!”

“I will tell you the story of our creation, one of the most important histories of the Meikras.” Onyx puts himself down on the box and begins to strum.

Singing long into the night, a bond would form.

[xxsycamore]

A Soulmate That Wasn’t Meant to Be

╰┈➤ 🩷 While rare, there are some instances of a soulmate clock appearing to be broken, showing a negative countdown or one that you cannot outlive. Or both. You were just born under an unlucky star. One that destined you to not only fail to experience such a major event of your life as knowing when you've met your soulmate, but also for Arthur Conan Doyle to find out about it when you've successfully kept it a secret from almost everyone so far.

Arthur Conan Doyle x Gender Neutral Reader • rating: G • tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Alternate Universe - College/University; Alternate Universe - Reincarnation; Alternate Universe - Soulmates; Soulmate-Identifying Timers; Denial of Feelings; Feelings Realization; Fake/Pretend Relationship; Pet Names; Drinking; Time Travel; First Kiss • wordcount: 2,641 • masterlist

a/n: This is my gift for @oigimi, for the Secret Santa event hosted by @lemeowade ! I saw your preferences for AUs and I couldn't help myself searching for a connection...then I remembered soulmate clock AU is a thing, and then I remembered ikevamp deals with timetravel and I went "hmmm this can turn into something interesting!" and it spiraled out of control after that point 😭 i sincerely hope this isn't too big of a mess and that it's your type of fic! Hope you enjoy, I had a lot of fun!! 🥺🥺❤❤ Namesake song by Jess Benko. Take a look at the end notes for clarification on some parts of this fic!

"Remind me again why do I have to spend the whole day being your pretend partner. The party doesn't start until 10PM tonight!"

"Here you go, luv. Be careful, it's hot!" Arthur hands the freshly baked pastry to you, resuming your slow stroll in Jardin du Carrousel, the garden of the Louvre museum. You hurriedly take it from his hands if that would make him finally pay attention to your question. Of course it would be hot, he doesn't need to remind you - it only annoys you further, as he so obviously does it to look like a good boyfriend more than anything.

"Do you want to taste mine? I can taste yours too."

"No thank you."

You suppose it's partly your own fault finding yourself in your current situation, considering the recent events. In a world where everyone is busy chasing after time, enjoying the dating scene before their soulmate countdown turns to zero, or trying to rush in and see the countdown speeding up as they try to play with fate and meet with their designated soulmate faster, you're an outcast. An outcast with a broken soulmate clock on your wrist, condemning you to a lifetime of long sleeves and wide bracelets and false modesty to trick people's curiosity. You should be used to them by now, their comments about you not being interested in relationships. And even though you do feel fed up with it, the thought of lying about dating someone just so they can shut up never crossed your mind.

But it crossed that of Arthur Conan Doyle. The college's infamous frivolous playboy, a firm believer of the 'hook up as much as you can before you find your soulmate!' ideology. Now, you didn't want to have anything to do with a guy like him, but on one of those college parties you were dragged to, he decided to pick you for the lead role in his biggest, stupidest drunken decision yet. And you were equally as drunk to play along with it, nodding in the face of his ex-girlfriend as she looked at the both of you in disbelief. For a playboy like Arthur, you thought he was managing to control his dating life better than this. But you guess he just got bored of being surrounded by love.

Straightening the lapels of his grey coat, Arthur fetches the brochure handed earlier to him out of his inner pocket and takes a quick look at it to make sure you checked out everything of interest in the area before entering the museum itself.

The guy has a whole checklist of activities for the day. You've seen it. He purposely taped another page underneath just to scare you with its sheer length, but you're seeing right through his tricks, the page is full of gibberish written just to take space. You've got your best frown on to keep the illusion of ignorance, hoping that you'd get bonus points for agreeing to go through the full contents of the list, both the real and the fake ones.

But is it really an act? The occasional tidbits of satisfaction coming from beating Arthur's brilliant mind - not that you'd ever give him the credit for it - are hardly enough to keep you entertained throughout the day. When the activities you take on today are meant to be just that, entertaining. And romantic too.

Now, were you a normal couple, a true couple, then maybe you'd be having fun now.

"Arthur, I think partners are supposed to listen to each other and answer each other's questions. At the very least."

"But you see, dear…" Arthur wraps his arm over your shoulder, gently nudging you into taking a turn away from the crowded path ahead and into a more secluded walk. "By asking that question out loud with people around us, you've already answered yourself. We clearly have more training to do, or we won't appear as a genuine couple."

Ah. He's right, damn it.

"I only lowered my guard because these people don't know us, stupid… Let's get inside already!"

Getting ahead of him, you think that as long as you appear excited to see the exponates, you can get away with keeping a few steps distance from Arthur. Hearing his low, annoying chuckle triggers the sensory neurons in your brain until a neat little image of his smirk is produced with near-perfect accuracy. Have you simply seen it too many times? There's no escape even when you turn your back to him, great.

The Louvre is magnificent to explore with the many pieces of art it houses, instantly changing your infatuation with the slow passage of time into wishes it would stop altogether. There's so much to see that you'd frankly not mind getting lost in here just to have an excuse to spend more time surrounded by art.

You have to admit, Arthur chose the perfect dating spot. You're not sure if it was based on your own preferences - surely not - but you find yourself not minding it suddenly.

"Picture!"

Hearing the signal, you instantly turn in the direction of the raised-up phone, smiling for the camera as Arthur presses his face closer to yours.

"Oh, this is a good one, I'm definitely posting it. You look so inlove."

"I'm in love with Da Vinci's work, that's it."

"Uh-uh. That works for me too." Arthur replies while his fingers dance across the screen, likely typing some cheesy caption for the picture. A second later your own phone vibrates in your pocket, signaling that he posted the picture and tagged you in it, and you don't even bother looking.

"At least you're a natural, Arthur."

"What, in masking an expression? How are you so sure?"

You blink, meeting his gaze as some child holding a balloon separates the two of you for a mere second. Instinctively, you shorten the distance so you don't lose Arthur, looking for his hand to take hold of. You've already been through that today, linking hands in the crowds. And while there was no real need to do that right now, you just did that…

To the question in your eyes evoked from his last words, he smirks and adds, "There are pieces of art here that I look at with fondness just like you do."

Your heart sinks for a moment, only to create palpitations that mess with your head. You have no idea where they came from or what evoked this feeling in your chest, but while looking anywhere but at Arthur, your gaze falls on other couples passing by. It's because you were instructed to watch them if you're having trouble recreating the subtle romantic gestures that indicate dating. An advice from a writer no doubt, one that you wish you could forget because it's too late telling your brain to forget what it's been taught. But the question is, why the sudden turning of stomach at the sight of them?

While failing to watch your step, you lose your balance and stumble on your own feet, meeting the hard ground hands-first. You feel eyes on you for a short moment; just a mere second any stranger might spare to witness the unfortunate event before moving on with their tour.

That's it, except for Arthur - who is there to pull you up in a manner of utmost care, dusting off your clothes, taking you to a more secluded area with benches to rest on and asking you at least three times if you're alright before you can snap out of your surprised state and let out a murmur of affirmation.

In the whirlwind of emotions rushing through your slightly clouded mind, you put the embarrassment of your fall aside and realize you still feel hot. As Arthur turns your hand around to inspect it, you realize that no amount of hand-holding numbed your reaction to the touch of his warm hands.

And no amount of his exaggerated lovey-dovey gestures of affection could prepare you for the look of genuine worry over something so insignificant on his face.

"You fell on your hands, they must be scrapped… let's get them under cold water, it would wash away the dirt too."

"Wait, don't look!-"

With the distraction slowing down your reactions, you fail to stop Arthur on time before he can roll up your sleeve.

Your soulmate clock instantly makes him adopt an expression of perplexion, as the quick look he gave it was enough for him to notice the bizarre sight of one too many numbers aligned on the width of your wrist.

-46 750 days, 9 hours, 17 minutes, 35 seconds

"Your countdown is…"

"Screwed up. I'm one of those people."

While rare, there are some instances of a soulmate clock appearing to be broken, showing a negative countdown or one that you cannot outlive. Or both. You were just born under an unlucky star.

One that destined you to not only fail to experience such a major event of your life as knowing when you've met your soulmate, but also for Arthur Conan Doyle to find out about it when you've successfully kept it a secret from almost everyone so far.

It has to be some kind of irony, being here with him today for these reasons. He who made up this whole plan because he needs an escape from love, while you on the other hand-

"Now that I've seen yours, it would only be fair I showed you mine."

"It's nothing, you really don't have to-"

You try to avert your gaze as Arthur extends his hand and rolls up his sleeve, turning it so you can see the inside of his wrist.

-12 616 days, 9 hours, 16 minutes, 51 seconds

"Huh…" You freeze for a moment, not believing your eyes. The guy you secretly envied for having the privilege of being sure about meeting true love to the point he'd chase ephemeral trysts just to kill time. Turns out he also won't be able to…

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't think I'm all that sad, luv. I was never destined to have a soulmate, but that's fine by me. Maybe that's what I deserve."

Your head spins with emotion once more, and this time it's guilt. And it weighs down on you heavier than all else there is, and you suddenly want to disappear.

It's probably not wise to turn your back on Arthur without saying a word, but you'll be regretting this later. You start running, and he calls out your name but it never approaches you. He's not even chasing after you, but you're glad - you've already started thinking of the apology you're going to drop in his direct messages before blocking his number.

Just as you halt your step and check behind your back, you spot his tall frame amidst the crowd, trying to push his way toward you. Without much time to think, you open the nearest door and pray that he'll lose you from his sight and continue ahead on the corridor.

This section of the museum appears different somehow, ontop of being strangely devoid of visitors, with the exponates carrying an air of extra antiquity to them. The path ahead is quite narrower in contrast to the other hallways too, the lightning more sparse, and the feeling of unease tells you to wait out Arthur's chase attempt and then go back where you came from.

Except, he finds you.

You hate it that he read your mind about entering that door, and you hate that you're now practically given the privacy to talk. Not wanting to face him now, you simply continue ahead, hoping to blend with the crowd at the other side of that corridor and escape him then.

Arthur follows behind you, continuing to call out your name, and your mind becomes dizzy out of a sudden. You're ready to blame it on one too many things and you don't pay much attention, until something odd happens. A blinding light flashes before you, making you unable to advance further. Arthur catches up with you just in time to put his hand on your arm.

The light is gone in the next moment, and you slowly open your eyes to find yourself in a different hallway, together with Arthur.

Sinking to your knees, you try to make something out of the bizarre situation, and Arthur follows you on the ground to soothingly massage your back, simultaneously checking for injury. A tiny part of you remains sane and warm, and it's glad that he's here.

"A-Arthur! Look at my-"

Moving his gaze from your shocked expression to your outstretched hand, he gasps as he sees your soulmate clock suddenly speed up, losing years upon years, seemingly not planning on stopping anytime soon. Another portion of shock hits you as you notice his own clock doing the same, and you drag up his hand to get his attention to it.

At a pace slower than yours, Arthur's clock reduces its countdown. The two of you can only watch in alert silence, everything else becoming irrelevant in the face of the miracle happening to those who accepted their deprived-of-love fate long, long ago. In the lone hallway, two sets of eyes search for a third person who does not exist, as one might do when that moment approaches.

The days on the counters reduce to what at most adds up to a few years, then a few months, then finally they turn to zero; followed by the minutes, and at last, followed by the seconds as well.

The rows of zeros align on both of your wrists, signaling that…

"My soulmate is…"

"It's been you the whole time?"

***

After being found by the residents of what you came to know is the mansion of Comte de Saint-German, you were introduced to the lord of the house himself. His explanation eased some of your concerns while still being bizarre enough to be hardly believable.

Being trapped here for a month surely sounds like you'll have enough time on your hands to unpack everything that happened today. But you're glad you're not going through this on your own.

Once you find yourself alone in the company of Arthur again, the butterflies in your belly are revived, stubbornly refusing to let anything overshadow the realization you came to just awhile ago.

Arthur seems to be able to tell what's on your mind. His deep sea-blue eyes lock into yours, and you don't know what to say. Luckily, he takes the initiative.

"We traveled back in time. The clocks were never broken… we were meant to meet here."

An echo of his words reverberates in your head as you try and let them sink in, absurd as they sound…there's no other explanation.

He starts laughing, much to your dismay.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, just…" He casually puts his hands in his pockets, admiring a painting hanging on the hallway's wall as he picks his words. "Seeing as we won't be showing up to that party… I guess we don't need the pretend couple lessons anymore."

It's a laugh you didn't know you needed. You aren't sure what is it about human nature that nudges you to seek the solace of a smile no matter how sobering and hostile a situation is, such as finding yourself in an unfamiliar place, in an unfamiliar age. But you're thankful.

"It's a shame." Arthur turns to you. "I was looking forward to kissing you as our grand final lesson."

Your eyes widen, and Arthur has that stupid smirk plastered on his face. Without taking his hands out of his pockets, he leans into your frame and shortens the distance.

"It's a shame indeed…" is all you can muster before sealing those damned alluring smiling lips of Arthur with your own.

a/n: The soulmate clock AU normally uses the countdown for the couple's meeting but here they've clearly met before, so I wondered if I could instead make it count down to their first meeting in the place they're destined to fall in love at, Comte's mansion in 19th century Paris.

Arthur's countdown differs from that of the reader because his clock is synced with the timeline of his previous life - practically, he was born in 1859, lived through the year 1895 when they were destined to meet with the reader - but because it wasn't the right timeline, his clock began to run backwards. Arthur then dies in 1930 and gets reborn into 21st century Arthur, with a clock that still counts down to the year 1895, but the countdown picks up from the moment he died in his previous life - july 7th 1930 (his death day). This is why his and the reader's clocks aren't synced and they can't see it coming that they're each other's soulmate LMAO get doomed by the narrative

"mo are you alright why is this a 4 different AUs at once, 2600 word fic without any planned squeals" yes I think it's perfect as it and I had fun!

Taglist: @arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran    @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @galaxyprison @sadshaxk @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @lordsister @ikemen-banshou   @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @shrimpy-kitsune @nightghoul381 @xbalayage @lucyw260 @kittygrimm88 @lokis-laugh Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[nut-today]

Her Butterfly Era.

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"AAAKKKK!" Audy let out a dramatic squeak. Calm down, Audy. He only sent one chat, not a proposal.

Her iPad, currently playing I Love You by Celine Dion became the background music to her dance performance. A performance that involved a lot of spins. The room—an organized domination of pinks and blues—had been aggressively cleaned ten minutes ago, right after she sent what she now classified as a risky text. Post-text panic = instant deep cleaning. Glad Nuraga replied it playfully.

Rencana ke supermarket? Checked. Checklist of cookie ingredients had also already typed out in her Notes app. Tapi kayaknya cookies-nya nggak bakal dia bikin besok karena dia mau nunggu Nuraga balik dulu dari Malaysia. Biar bisa kasih langsung. Face to face. Heart to heart.

"Namanya juga usahaaa!" she declared triumphantly, still spinning like she was auditioning for KPop idol audition.

Her eyes landed on the wedding invitation list stuck on her bulletin board. Three to go. She giggled. What if she asked him to be her +1? He didn't ghost, cringe, or freak out over her flirty text, so yeah—Audy was pretty sure that was a green light from him. Sometimes we gotta shoot our shot fast, no? These days modern romance is a battlefield. Enemies could pop out of literally anywhere. What if Nuraga got another girl in Malaysia? Or worse... a whole folder of flirty girls waited for his reply one by one? Because let's be real, with his resume... real-world employees, thousands of online subscribers, international bookings... There's no way girls aren't lining up behind him like it's a Justin Bieber concert. That man is peak crush material.

"Tuhannnn pleaseee just this one time let me be the main characterrrr!!" Now Audy pleaded in front of her window, facing the sky. "He asked about me to his friend, that has to count for something!!! Pleaseee tolong jadiin Tuhan jadiinnnn!!!"

Drrrttt

Her phone buzzed with another message from Nuraga. One she hadn't seen. Audy flopped onto her bed, clutching her phone, heart racing, cheeks warm. OMG, she was so back. Welcome to her butterfly era!

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