Hetaliatypists

One would think that using magic could easily complete the most mundane of tasks. But work? God, no. He had to do it himself. There was no charm or spell that could write out emails for you. Let alone anything more complicated than that. Soon enough, he left behind the world of the fantastical to focus on the fact that he had a job. He wanted to give you the world, and he couldn’t do that by falling down rabbit holes or indulging in nonsense. He’d been anxious all morning. Years had passed since he last returned to this place. But that couldn’t be why. His childhood home, a picturesque, two-story cottage surrounded by lush, overgrown gardens fostered some of his fondest memories. The problem was, he couldn’t get himself in the spirit to appreciate it. Buried underneath his things were stacks of papers he’d never finished. He was skeptical he could hide it—that he had days-worth of work to catch up on—on a trip you had both been planning for months. “Fuck me.” He hissed under his

It was a Godsend that Allen’s shift required him outside of the restaurant for most hours, otherwise, you weren’t sure how you could handle this. When he was in the restaurant, your manager left it up to you to teach him the ropes, seeing that you both already knew each other. As the last two employees left in the establishment, you never held back on training him, but he liked to call it ‘workplace bullying’. “This is all wrong. Do it again.” Gesturing to the clean dishes he slotted in the dish rack, he turned to you with a cloth in one hand and a plate in the other. “What do you mean, do it again? They’re clean!” “But you didn’t do it the way I showed you.” Allen threw his head back out of frustration. Before he could pace off, you pulled him in by the wrist—he sighed as he was moved against his will—so he could stand in front of the sink. Taking the cloth from him, you hung it on the wall. “Start over. We’re not leaving ‘til you get it right.” “Why do you gotta be so mean to