#errand and delivery service

[postkodes]

What are the Key Benefits of Using Pickup & Drop Errand Services?

In today’s fast-moving world, balancing personal and professional responsibilities has become increasingly challenging. Whether it’s collecting groceries, delivering a parcel, picking up dry cleaning, or handling other time-consuming tasks, errands can take a considerable chunk of your valuable time. That’s where errand services come in, offering a smarter, stress-free way to manage day-to-day responsibilities. For more detailed information, read the full blog now!

[bruciemilf]

I can’t explain how fucking inconvenient a lack of local transport is

[jinjeriffic]

DCxDP Prophecy universe

(Title subject to change)

Sometimes Danny really hated Clockwork. You’ll know him when you see him. “Cryptic and unhelpful as usual”, Danny groused. “You’d think the Master of Time could be a little more descriptive considering it’s his damned errands I’m running here, but noooo! I’m starting to think this whole apprenticeship is just an excuse to foist his busywork off on me.”

Here Danny was, aimlessly flying above the rooftops of Gotham, trying to figure out who he was supposed to be delivering his message to. He had a name, but no description and no location. I’ll know him when I see him my ass. Whoever this Damian Al-Ghul was supposed to be had better stick out like a sore thumb or Danny was never gonna find him. Speaking of…

Danny paused in mid-air. There was someone crouching on a nearby rooftop, peering over the edge. He was young, wearing a red and yellow outfit with a dark hooded cape. He wore a sheathed sword on his back that looked way too real to be part of some casual cosplay. Welp, if this ain’t him then Clockwork picked the wrong errand boy. Now, how best to approach this?

Danny considered his options. The cloak and apprentice staff Clockwork had loaned him gave him a suitably spooky appearance on top of his usual ghostliness but he wasn’t gonna go around scaring kids, armed or not. The friendly approach it is then.

“Hey there!”

Wow, the kid had some good reflexes. At the sound of Danny’s voice he jumped as if electrocuted, spinning around and drawing his sword in one smooth movement. He held the sword in front of himself in a defensive position and his stance showed that he knew how to use it. “Who the hell are you?” he barked.

“Easy there” Danny raised his hands in a placating gesture “I’m just here to deliver a message. I’m looking for someone named Damian Al-Ghul. You wouldn’t happen to be him, right?”

A deepening scowl was his only answer. “I repeat, who the hell are you?”

Danny sighed “Look kid, I’m just trying to do my job here. I have a prophecy to deliver, so if you’re not this Damian fella…” he trailed off invitingly.

“A… prophecy?” the kid hesitated before lowering his sword slightly, scowl still firmly in place.

“Yep” Danny popped the end of the word for emphasis “Phantom, apprentice to the Ghost of Time and part-time delivery spectre, at your service” he threw the kid a mock salute. “My Boss told me to come to Gotham to give a prophecy to you’ll know him when you see him” he dropped his voice to a lower register and made airquotes around the words, “and you’re the only memorable person I’ve seen tonight, so…” Danny spread his arms in exasperation.

The kid hesitated visibly before letting his sword hand drop to his side. “I am the one you’re looking for.”

“Great! Hang on.” Danny pulled a messenger bag out from under his cloak and started rummaging around in it, causing the kid (Damian?) to twitch “Now where did I put..? Aha!” Danny pulled out a faintly glowing envelope in triumph. It had a large purple wax seal on it and Damian Al-Ghul written in elegant cursive across the back. Danny floated closer and held out the envelope to the kid.

“The prophecy… is a letter?” Damian drawled, eyebrows rising in disbelief. Danny shrugged.

“What, did you expect a dancing, singing telegram? I only do those for the really good tippers” he shook the envelope slightly “So, are you gonna take this or what?”

Damian finally reached out and took the letter, turning it over to scrutinise both sides. Danny tucked his bag back under his cloak and rose into the air.

“Right, I’ve got other errands to get done, so… see ya!” he turned to leave.

“Wait”

Danny turned back to face the kid and to his surprise, saw that Damian was holding out some folded bills towards him.

“You know the tipping thing was a joke, right?”

“Tt. I am told it is rude not to tip delivery people” Damian sniffed “I am simply acting within expected social norms”

“Wow, um… okay” Danny took the folded bills from Damian. It looked like it would last him for a couple of good meals and he wasn’t exactly swimming in money, okay? Ghost apprentice wasn’t exactly a paid internship. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome” came the haughty reply.

Danny shrugged and tucked the money into his bag. He rose back into the air with Damian’s eyes tracking his movement. With a wave of his staff, he opened a portal back to Clockwork’s realm and passed through it leaving Gotham behind.

****

Robin’s hand rose to the communicator in his ear.

“Oracle, did you get all that?”

Now has a Part 2!

[stellarsagittarius]

✨️🪐 7H in your Birth Chart: How you will meet your Future Spouse / Soulmate 🪐✨️

[Exchange readings open! Me (Astrology) x You (Tarot)] You can message me with your offer 🫶🏼.] CLOSED

7H ruler in 1H

You will most likely meet your soulmate through a place where you are the center of attention, but this doesn't have to be something grand. Just them coming across your social media profile is a great example. You might be fairly closed off in the beginning to them, almost inaccessible. These are more informal places, where it concerns nobody but you. This is a place where you play an important role with either your looks or your thoughts. "You," are the focus.

7H ruler in 2H

You can meet them when you are shopping. Like this is THE example that came to my mind. Places could be banks, malls, stores, even restaurants. This meeting is more steady, like there is no rush, and there is a certain stability to how the meeting proceeds. Go to your favorite restaurants and coffee shops often, you can really bump into them over there. This is also a place where you get some sort of work done on your body, so consider salons, parlours, tattoo shops, etc.

7H ruler in 3H

You are supposed to be meeting them in a locality or neighborhood you visit often. This may even be your hometown. Meeting through siblings or very close cousins is a thing as well. This relationship can start off on social media as well, more on the side of common interests and communication. This can be that one thing where your person has been hidden in plain sight all along.

7H ruler in 4H

This meeting has high chances of happening through either of your parents or close family members. This is more of a traditional placement and in a sense, more slow and gradually building up. This person really is coming at your doorstep, but only when you know you aren't "closing yourself off." Their is a bit of being emotionally guarded in the initial phases of your relationship. You may quite literally meet them at your home, like a delivery person or someone from service like replace AC or fix wires.

7H ruler in 5H

You are meeting them when you are having a fun time. Partying and clubbing is one thing, and if you are into that then there is a chance this relationship can start off as a one night thingy. Otherwise consider picnics, hikes or even just going on a date by yourself. This is an activity you really enjoy and are doing it for the sake of simply doing it. There is no responsibilities or things you have to comform to. You may also meet them through a kid or around some sort of kindergarten/nursery/daycare.

7H ruler in 6H

Oh this one is like that one character which hasn't been unlocked yet, but are around you all the time. They are a part of your routined life, and you can meet them while running errands, at the gym or while on the commute. This is the hidden in plain sight type of person. Continue with your daily life, go on that walk, go to the gym, grab the lunch and they are somewhere around. The first meeting is going to be quite steady, and everything will gradually develop from there.

7H ruler in 7H

This meeting is going to very special, in a way that you won't feel like someone else has a hand here. You will feel like it's just you and your person, whatever the situation. This could start as a partnership of some sort or a friendship. You will meet them more from their efforts, they will make the first contact. There is no hidden meaning or other intentions behind them approaching you. It's very direct, mainly because they want to get to know you. You can meet them anywhere, honestly, with this placement, but it will be more one-on-one. Like believe me, you won't have any other work besides them when you meet them. It's a great thing to have the ruler of your 7H in 7H, so this explaination definitely deserved a longer explanation. You are one of those people who are actually going to be in a strong soulmate connection that will be very prominent in your life. This is magical, even I don't know how to explain this. Look for any placements in your 7H, that will tell you specific qualities about your Soulmate, and perhpas give you specific insights on the meeting!

7H ruler in 8H

You will meet them through other people or through things having to do with other people. It's like a series of events that other people have you involved in, and then you bump into them. Like your friend asked you to accompany them to a party, and then they are like, "Hey, meet this person. They are very cool!" And that person they introduced you to turns out to be your soulmate. You may meet them though after some sort of hardship or change in your life, like a transformative one.

7H ruler in 9H

You can meet them through travel or on social media. Let's just say it, there is a physical distance between you both initially, and they may even be from another culture/country. The 9H always has a foreign connection, always! You may meet them on vacation or while on a work trip. There is also going to be a very interesting few exchanges, like they are from a different place and so you are, and you will have that natural curiosity to understand each other.

7H ruler in 10H

You will meet them through work or some sort of work network. The initial meeting could be very formal and you may have this tendency to think of your "image" in front of them, like wanting to make a good impression, etc. This is not necessarily a co-worker, that's more of a 6th house thing. They are someone new you happen to connect with because of work, like someone a rank lower or high than you, or some new business partner. Common work is something connecting both of you.

7H ruler in 11H

You can meet them through mutual friends, communities or networks. This is a more relaxed scenario, like I know a lot of people aren't just out there social, but think of it as going to a college party with some of your friends and that's where you find your person. It is not "through" someone, instead you will initiate that conversation yourself because you genuinely find them interesting, and then perhaps you get to know that you have shared acquaintances. It's a social place, somewhere you are out of your shell and making other connections.

7H ruler in 12H

You can meet them through some sort of solo activity. Like it is solitude. So maybe you are in a new country and don't know anyone just yet. Some places are hospitals, retreats, meditation centers, certain places of worship, or even certain abandoned places. It is a very calming meeting, like there will be a lot of peace in this. You may even happen to dream of them before you meet. There could be a bit of mystery to the first few meetings. This is a supposed to be a connection that will help you release a lot of karma.

Check out more Astrology content on my page 🎀🫶🏼.

[1800titz]

THREE

The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

WEE third part and she's a big one, this is where the plot kind of heavily starts to differ from the OG. This one definitely gives more of a deep-dive into Harry's character to set things up in that aspect. Reblogs/feedback always super appreciated. If you like a fic, sharing the work with the reblog button and leaving a comment/sending an anon keeps writers motivated to keep posting on this platform for free! (ꈍ◡ꈍ) <3

FETISH masterlist : PATREON masterlist (316.7K+ words of content and updating) : MAIN masterlist

CONTENT/WARNINGS: rumors, a DIY pastry delivery service (flavor: apologetic), sexual undertones/smutty insinuations, impact playing/spanking mentions

WC: 13.3K

Some people collect souvenirs. Harry collects tote bags.

It’s not inherently a purposeful, curated trove of keepsakes— not in the same way an avid mug collector would eye one of those kitsch ceramic cups with a city name stretched across it on a trip abroad, and then add it to their collection. It’s just one of those things that keeps happening. A bookstore here; a street fair there; a pop up farmer’s market that sold homemade pepper jam and, incidentally, merchandise that could not be ignored.

He likes them. They’re convenient, and whoever had started the stigma against man-purses just had an agenda to steamroll practicality. As a child, he’d had the hardest time wrapping his mind around it— seeing his mother with a heavy purse perpetually slung over her shoulder, always assuming the practice was some normatively imposed hassle, rather than a beacon of functionality. As an adult, however, Harry can confidently admit, with full disclosure, that he was naïve, misinformed, and frankly, uneducated.

From the array, he has his go-to’s— a jute edition with a singular green sardine embroidered into the center (both a durable option and quirky in its minimal, offbeat design), and a cloth alternative with the word NO in plastisol ink. Simple, effective, all caps, midnight black lettering; it speaks for itself. The third option is another cloth variant, but it’s decorated with the outline of a steaming mug, and he’d picked the piece up from a poky coffee shop during a trip to France, years ago.

Most from the assortment, however, remain as untouched bundles of fabric stacked in the corner of his pantry as soft, vaguely judgmental relics of errands past. There are four tote bags that he hasn’t used in over a year. One is from a pop-up wine shop. Another has a sardonic quote about late capitalism on it, and he only ever reached for it when he was in the midst of a particularly antagonistic streak. One is too stiff to fold properly and therefore exiled. The last one— plain canvas, no print, worn soft at the corners— has inexplicably developed a smell he can’t quite place. Not bad, just faintly of old paper and maybe a foreign shampoo that’s never existed in his possession— something that feels achingly, too closely squeezed between nostalgia and a sense of impending existential upheaval. He keeps intending to throw the bag out, but there’s something threaded into its lived-in texture that feels a little too personal to discard. It’s been to all the best places with him. He once brought it on a third date with a girl whose name he can’t quite place anymore, and he suspects that’s part of the reason he’s held onto it for as long as he has; sentiment by proxy. The bag has stayed, for whatever reason, even as the woman it vaguely reminds him of has almost completely faded from memory— face, and name, and all. 

It’s the kind of thing Harry doesn’t notice has become a habit until he’s opening up his pantry door and discovering the tangle on the floor, shoved up under the lowest tier of the shelving unit. Something he’s reminded has calcified without his conscious awareness. The tote bags. The particular corner by the door where he deposits his keys out of muscle memory. The rhythm of casual consistency interacting with the other tenants carries: a nod in the hallway; cheerful smalltalk; one of those instances where one of the elderly ladies Harry has befriended in the complex— by the grace of God-given dimples and a sense of charm his friends scoff at— (Barb, who lives on the same floor, and Eunice, who resides on the seventh) ropes him into a conversation and ultimately hands off a plate of baked goods. It’s consistent— it’s comfortable. 

Which is why, Harry supposes, the shift in energy feels so loud. 

It’s been four days since Y/N had confronted him head-on with her grievous misconceptions— in the middle of the night, surrounded by a half-awake cohort of their neighbors, no less— and despite his upfront explanation, within those four days, the rumors have multiplied at a rate that defies science. 

Only a couple of days ago, he’d stepped out to water his plants and overheard a group of girls, unbeknownst to his eavesdropping— a circle of collegiate roommates, as far as he understands, given that he’s heard them discuss Kappa Sigma’s infamous Brett’s cock in disgustingly avid detail (is girth more important than integrity? The world may never know)— conversing out on the balcony right beneath his own. Once, he’d sat through four whole minutes of what sounded like an intervention about “the ethics of fucking your lab partner for Adderall.” The conversation wasn’t nearly enthralling enough to stomach more before he finished his joint and went back inside, but this time, the snippet he hears gives him pause. He stands still with his watering can in his hand, hovering over Monte (a bushy thing that’s tripled in size since he first acquired it from the plant nursery), and his pink mouth slowly settles into a grimace the longer he listens. 

“I heard he was on house arrest, but they removed the ankle monitor early.”

“No, no, he’s just in witness protection. But like, bad at it.”

“Wait, I thought he was an ex-cop?”

“No, he’s a dom.”

“…A what?”

“A dom. You know. A professional one.”

“Like a dominatrix?”

“Isn’t that just a woman?”

“I don’t know, I just know he runs one of those torture chambers and probably wears leather.”

“Holy shit, Jess.”

Oh, Jess. A 3.9 GPA— honestly, impressive, given that she’s spent more time scrolling GreekRank gossip forums and contemplating professor tier lists based on cuddle game than studying— and still, somehow, so, so off.

When someone else tacks on, after an awed pause, “…Do you think there’s a sign-up sheet we could hit?” and a peal of girlish giggles erupts, the man literally has to muscle down his eye roll. The last group of people he wants on his roster are a freshly-legal coalition of matching crop tops with vodka breath. It’s not exactly his ideal demographic.

Harry walks back inside off the balcony with a new understanding that day; according to the messy sorority circle in the apartment under him, apparently he’s a dom-for-hire. Which is also— he discovers in the oncoming days— probably one of the friendlier, more innocent assumptions.

It’s not overt; it’s not like anyone says anything to him directly, or plasters misdirected anger management flyers to the back of his door. It’s soft-burn, subtle things. Quieter than a simple dirty look pointed into his direction. 

For starters, the man in 9E, who unironically refers to him as buddy, in the way only a middle-aged dad does during a Superbowl party with an amicable shoulder-clap, doesn’t return much more than a brisk yep in response to some cordial, small-talky joke Harry makes in passing regarding a local sports team. It’s an instance that isn’t inherently suspicious, but when taken into consideration alongside the way the lady in 9G with the green glasses doesn’t smile back at him all of a sudden... well. It packs a little more of a punch. Even the yappy little pomeranian leashed around her knuckles— who typically opts for self-strangulation via collar in its pursuit to get closer to him and paw up at his knees— seems to hang back, sniffing at the air as he passes and choosing to chase its own tail instead. 

Harry doesn’t consider himself to be paranoid. Intuitional, contemplative— sure. Paranoia, though, that’s for the type of man that trims a duct tape square to stick over his laptop camera and tells someone that 5G will give them brain tumors. And yes, in theory, every semi-curt interaction he’s archived with his neighbors over the prior days could be chalked up to perfectly excusable coincidences in a collective bad experience, entirely unrelated to him, but Harry simply has awareness. It does not operate off of a tinfoil hat or a conspiracy rant posted onto a niche online forum— it involves that strange feeling in the pit of his stomach and dresses itself far better than delusion. A group of ladies stops and stares in the mailroom, huddled like an overly lip-glossed coven— all pristine acrylics, and Gymshark workout sets, and coconut dry shampoo— in a way where Harry can feel their eyes searing into the muscle along the side of his shoulder.

It’s not guilt. He knows that much. It’s not quite shame, though, either. No, he’s long past shame— that’s a mechanism he discarded a long time ago when he’d started wearing those tiny running shorts that ride high on the thigh and realized he didn’t particularly care who watched him haul a bag of frozen peas out of Trader Joe’s while donning them. 

It’s something worse.

It is a vague, creeping certainty that a version of him now exists that he can no longer control. 

It’s always existed, somewhere, at some point, he supposes. It varies— mutates— wears one face in a group chat somewhere, takes another shape in a soft-spoken recollection over a plastic coffee cup, one girlfriend to another. He’s been around— a… polite, genteel euphemism for the flyer miles he’s packing below the belt, Harry supposes— gotten around enough, to know that this piece of him lives like a shadow and occasionally reinvents itself through word-of-mouth. He’s self-aware. Probably alive as a screenshot and a one-sided story in a group chat or three.

The problem with this edition, though? It’s alive, and it’s false, it spores. It magnifies, and it reaches, and it’s current— it does not exist like a weak echo in a group text; it smears itself over his face like a clear film as he walks the halls, and he can’t wipe it. It is a version constructed out of silhouettes, and assumptions, and just enough circumstantial evidence to stick. 

He’s lost control of the narrative on a large scale, and he doesn’t know how to get it back. 

It’s not that he even cares what people think, not necessarily. He’s a grown man. He pays his bills on time and almost every lighting fixture in his home is bluetooth. He doesn’t crave approval from a bunch of twenty-somethings who, as far as he can tell, spend their nights screeching over which of their exes had the best dick game and arguing over whether or not a “real feminist” would get lip filler. He’s not interested in being a topic of conversation among girls named Kennedi and Tiffani with an “i.” He just… would prefer not to be accused of domestic violence in a vague, wafting way that only groupthink and mildly traumatic social media exposure can concoct.

The thing is, he can’t even find it within himself to be truly upset with Y/N for the fallout. Not in a sincere way, at least, like a burgeon of spite rooting in and gnarling into a grudge. He’s a little miffed, sure, (frankly, justified, given that having his reputation dismantled over adults exploring consensual bruising techniques was never exactly the ideal), but he doesn’t fault her for her vigilance. In fact, he would probably have similar assumptions and a similar moral dilemma; if only he wasn’t on the other end of the misinterpretation, and if he wasn’t aware that what sounded like violence was just a consensual implementation of a fairly aggressive fetish. 

He thinks he can pinpoint the incident that’d caused the spiral, vaguely, but really it’s a bit of a raunchy blur given the usual rotation, isn’t it? Really, it’s basically, probably Katy’s fault for being so loud in that session with the hairbrush over an overdue parking ticket (not quite short and sweet, but she’d literally asked for it, please and all), which in turn translates into it being his fault for not coaxing her to practice a little more restraint with her pipes.  

Anyways, he can technically retrace the steps and find the root of how a little agreed upon accountability has branded him into public enemy number one, but he’d at least like some benefit of the doubt (given that every unsmiling neighbor has entirely bypassed the fairly thorough explanation he’d given the girl). A little guilty-until-proven innocent action. It’s the bare minimum, really. 

The man stares up at the popcorn ceiling and a little frown envelops the pink corners of his mouth, tucking them down. Guilt is strange, he thinks, especially when he’s technically done fuckall wrong. It’s not that it’s a foreign emotion by any means, but so many times he’d resided on the other end of the equation, with the guilty party strung over his lap, or on her knees between his legs, or caught up between his fingers. He can’t fathom how the sensation coiling in the pit of his belly could ever be twisted into an aphrodisiac, but he supposes it’s a bit different when a power exchange is involved. 

Something taps his socked foot. Slowly, the man lifts his chin and blinks down from the angle where he’s craned his neck flat against the back of the couch. Snuggles climbs over his foot nonchalantly. 

It would blow over. Of that, Harry was grotesquely certain. Canceled Tuesday; forgotten by Friday. People, as a collective, mostly remembered rumors with the clarity of a windshield smeared in expired mayonnaise— foggy, patchy— and had attention spans mirroring all the longevity of a soap bubble in a hurricane. Right now, he’s become the unfortunate centerpiece in the monthly community scandal, but it would only take one yoga mom inevitably starting an affair with her personal trainer, and the spotlight would be diverted. Eventually, the soft-core cancellation would fossilize into one of those half-remembered stories, not nearly exciting enough to be retold, and the mythos rots. 

Besides, in a world where a man could get a sponsorship for reviewing moisturizer on TikTok while actively evading tax fraud allegations, Harry figures a mild spanking kink has ever been grounds for permanent exile. It’ll be fine, the man reminds himself. There is absolutely zero call for spiraling.

Y/N is spiraling.

As the days pass and the realization of what she’s done— what she’s managed to accomplish with a cracked moral compass and a sense of justice wired too tight— truly settles, the consequences, (uninvited, overdressed, in heels), anchor somewhere behind her ribcage. It does not crash. It glides in, quietly, like a cat with blood on its paws circling her ankles, and the young woman steeps in the tracks the longer she weighs it out in her head and picks it apart. Puts it back together. Picks it apart again. 

The little investigatory descent into his digital footprint had, shockingly, been for the worse after all— it’d only fostered a new dilemma. Because now, not only did she feel bad about the accusations, but she was catastrophically aware of his large hands and what they looked like doing pixelated, raunchy (terrible, horrible for whatever flimsy scaffolding of morality she was still clinging to, and his dignity, in that order) things.

It is with this vague sense of impending doom that Y/N decides she probably owes the man a formal apology. The only question— a daunting conquest she’s been left to unpack— is how. A note left stapled to his door, despite the efficiency, feels far too impersonal (given the… weight of her transgressions). A note slipped offhandedly into the envelope collection residing in his mailbox, on the other hand, feels downright intrusive and borderline stalker-ish. It’s soaked in the same energy of shoving love notes into locker grates in junior high, retreating with a whistling speed walk, and the sheer notion nearly puts a bad, familiar taste in her mouth. Surely if Zachary didn’t appreciate the method fifteen or so years ago, her next door neighbor wouldn’t, either. She doesn’t have his phone number, but sending a text would probably feel just as sterile as the first idea, chock-full of the same emotional sentiment as elevator music.  

Hey, so— sorry I accused you of being a felon! (cup-pong attachment). 

This conclusion, of course, is what leaves her clumsily following an apple pie recipe off of Pinterest on her day off, flour smeared across the crests of her sweaty cheeks and dusting the front of her Arctic Monkeys sleep shirt. The best way to express regret and make amends— the valiant, adult method— Y/N decides, is to confront the conflict head on, face to face, in the flesh; and the proper measures to decrease the likelihood of having a door slammed in her face would be the introduction of a baked good alongside her tight, awkward smile. A touch of sweetener.

The pie— honestly, as Y/N had pessimistically expected, despite the way she’d gingerly followed the digital instructions to the T— had dissolved into the kind of spectacular failure typically reserved for first-though tweets and mid-season AMC finales. 

The filling soaked through the undercooked base. The crust was too aggressively homemade— patchy in some places, too thick in others, with a venting cut-out that had vaguely resembled a uterus, or possibly a jellyfish. It was a shape that was hard to place. Ultimately, it was the kind of in-the-flesh reminder of her aggressively consistent inability to bake that had prompted her to opt for store bought treats. Namely, the cute little scones her cafe offered; partly due to the employee discount, and partly on account of how popular the menu item seems to be.

So, here she is; metaphorically twiddling her thumbs in front of his door on a Saturday afternoon with her knuckles curled around a paper bag of edible reparations, attempting to convince herself to just knock. 

Just knock. Just… knock.

She’s not entirely sure if the way she feels her pulse rabbiting (a steady, progressively intensifying thrum that makes her head feel a little light) in her throat should be credited to her general sense of apprehension addressing this, or the different lens she sees him through, courtesy of his video diary archive. She had always found the man next door attractive (it was unavoidable, really— she had a working set of eyes, after all), but the little research project had spun him up into a new light, and the lewd details still web across in the pit of her underbelly. For courage, Y/N puckers her mouth and blows out a deep breath, and then she lifts her free hand and raps her knuckles against the door. 

And for a long moment, there’s no answer. Shifting her weight from one knee onto the other, the young woman lets her eyes peruse over the crown molding that decorates the hallway. The only noise in the lull is the sound of the paper bag in her hand crinkling and the undeviating whir of the AC pumping along the floor. With all of the delicate, calm patience reserved for the waiting room in a dreaded dental appointment, Y/N casts a glance to her own respective door, only a few, short steps away. The stretch of lingering silence reminds her that he may not even be home at all, given that it’s a weekend, (and this whole thing is so impromptu, and strange), and—

Before the young woman’s paper-thin shred of courage inevitably combusts, the familiar sound of a door chain slipping open on the other side and then the door lock unfastening breaks through the haze of her thoughts. She freezes. 

As the door peels back to reveal her innocuous (tenderly sleepy-looking) neighbor— bare feet, sweats (the kind that cling to and hang from all the right places), conspicuously vulgar tee (Safe Sex!: two cartoonish, faceless lilac figures with their arms crossed and their hands fisting over the others’ phalluses), and gently sleep-mussed curls— Y/N can only blink up at him with all the words she’d rehearsed so meticulously lodged at the back of her throat. 

Finally, as if her sense of social awareness has kickstarted into recalibration, the young woman pastes a smile over her mouth, so flimsy she feels her lips wobbling as they curl around her teeth and so wide that her cheeks burn from the strain. The vague sense of anxiety coursing through her blood spikes, and the hammer behind her ribcage forces her numb tongue into motion off the roof of her mouth as her cheeks blister and her head swims.

“Hi. I, uh— I have scones. There’s, uh. Three of them, here,” Y/N launches, glancing down at the paper bag and nearly prying it open as she over-explains the unanticipated visit. “They’re not poisoned,” she tacks on, lashes fluttering as her nervous system forges on in overdrive, and the idiotic statement nearly has her gnawing her tongue in half the second the words slip off its textured, wet landing, “…don’t worry.”

With all the energy of a man limned in fatigue, facing a door dash delivery he’d never ordered, Harry blinks.

Y/N is a nice girl. Up until only a few days ago, in fact, Y/N had been just about the picture-perfect definition of Harry’s ideal next-door tenant; relatively reserved and just polite enough to bypass the awkward inconvenience that rode on the recurrent issue of their mail interchanging. There was, of course, the misaligned streak of vigilantism, but at her core, Harry’s sure that Y/N is still a nice girl. 

This theory in mind, the curly-haired brunette genuinely feels a little bad at the level of amusement swelling up within him as he watches her, with no apparent trigger, self-destruct in real time. Although, if he’s being entirely honest, it’s only a faint echo of a thought— all things considered— and is significantly outweighed by his mirth.

There’s a flavor of entertainment— a rare, emotional genre that lives in that exclusive umbra between secondhand embarrassment and morbid fascination, the kind that morally treads the same bandwidth as laughing at a video of someone getting hurt in an unpredictably ridiculous manner. And Harry— still fuzzy around the edges with the kind of creeping, misty stage of somnolence that dozing off midday entails (he’d been in the midst of a particularly important ritual; lying spread-eagled on the couch with one leg kicked up onto the back, half-engrossed in a documentary on luxury trains, eating dry cereal out of the bag when the drowsiness started settling like fog in the hollows of his limbs)— watches Y/N flounder with the same mild fascination he reserves for Youtube compilation videos of cats falling off of countertops. 

Her hair is slung up into a messy, haphazard updo, loose strands climbing out and stretching in soft static wisps to cup her cheekbones, and she’s wearing a short sleeve brown tee with a small Sip Happens logo embroidered over the left corner of her chest. It’s a coffee shop that the existence of vaguely lives in the dells of his memory, based on how often the man passes by it on his runs, and the wardrobe choice implies she’s either an avid punch-card user, or she works there. Tiny, almost imperceptible dry flakes of mascara cling to the soft skin of her under-eyes, like the layer of pigment has crumbled off her lashes over the course of the morning. Her cheeks are flushed as if she’s run a mile, and her grin (if it can even be called that) resembles trembling enamel more than friendliness. It’s cute in a way that probably shouldn’t be, doesn’t intend to be. Oddly endearing.

Apparently she has baked goods— scones, three of them, unpoisoned (which is a mildly relevant detail)— and she feels the need to announce it, so, based on context clues, he can only assume this element is related to her presence at his doorway. He thinks he can deduce what this is supposed to be (apology with a capital A; one that comes wrapped around café-sourced penance), but he hasn’t quite uncurled the warmth from the stretch of skin where his forearm had pressed into the couch for two hours too long, and her dewy pupils are cha-chaing behind her lashes like she wants something from him, so.

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, finally. His voice sounds thick (aggressively all too familiar to the kind of husky sounds she’s heard from the other side of the wall); vocal cords blatantly weathered in sleep, (verve cudgeled in sex, palm probably all sore and stingy from)—

The curly-haired brunette clears his throat, and Y/N simmers in the heat welling up under her skin. 

“Are these—“ Harry nudges with his chin, pointedly into the direction of the paper bag lodged under her clammy fingers, “…are you sharing?” 

“Yes! Yeah. They’re, well,” she holds the bag out to him, her tone laced with only the kind of over-enthused notes nervousness could conduct, “they’re for you, actually.”

Slowly, one of his hands reaches out, and as he locks his fingers over the side of the bag— right beneath where she’s got her own grip clasped over the haphazardly rolled top— the only thought that the young woman can conjure is a hysteria-laden mental-screencap of an image she’d rather not describe out loud.

As if entirely to dismantle Y/N’s sanity, the sheer size of his palms and the way they cradle the bag as she hands it off is enough to make her feel like something vile and wicked is clumsily somersaulting in her stomach. The indisputable fact is this: they are just hands. Long, delicately svelte fingers; colossal, massively, unjustifiably large hands, but hands nonetheless. 

The other irrefutable fact? These are hands Y/N has watched in incredibly obscene action. 

The thing is, by all technicalities, he is so soft, and his current state does no favors to dispute this impression. Right now, sleep-tousled and low-toned, words spilling like honeyed molasses in the languorous husk of his words, the whiplash spills through her like dense ink. Delicate tattoos reside over and under his kneecaps in fine lines, and in every other circumstance, a soft beam chisels dimples into his cheeks as he casually toes the line between real, alive man and fresco escapee. Behind the door somewhere, he’s got a rabbit called Snuggles, and that’s the brutal anomaly, Y/N decides. It is the foundation to which the geometric edges of her brain refuse to bend around. Because there is a fine, fine line in the way his soft, indigo-lacquered hands stretch out to accept an olive branch sown from overly-processed carbohydrates, and the way they move on camera; the way they plant flat, open-palmed blows on warm skin like bruising kisses, the way they trace the pink welts smacked alive in their wake with a delicacy reserved for reverence. They’re strong, rugged, steadfast, mean—

The young woman’s molars squeeze into the smooth, gummy lining along the inside of her cheek. There’s a little vein that runs up along his wrist, and that tendon bracketed by that jut of bone flexes in a manner so heavenly when he pauses to shake his fingers out. The bag, by no surprise, is dwarfed in his grip, and Y/N stands there with his eyes feeling like sticky, heavy inkpools drilling her into place. 

“How thoughtful,” Harry responds, eventually, faux musing, and an undeniable, little smile teases at the corners of his mouth on the latter fragment of the statement, “thank you for the… unpoisoned scones.” 

Sensing the man’s amusement at her awkward introduction, Y/N restrains the vivid sense of embarrassment that buoys to the surface, instead opting to tell him, “Right! Yeah. You’re welcome,” as her face flushes. With the original point of the delivery in mind, the girl clears her throat. “It’s… well, it’s actually, like, an apology-slash-please-don’t-sue-me gift,” she admits, gnawing into her lower lip. 

He leans a shoulder onto the doorframe then, brows shifting (rising) just a smidge, as an almost imperceptible symbolism of intrigue, before they settle back into place. “Is that hyphenated?”

Y/N stares. 

“Apology-slash-please-don’t-sue-me gift.”

“I— maybe?”

For a moment, her neighbor doesn’t say anything. Meaty arms crossed, paper bag hanging out from the hand that’s tucked under inky, smooth muscle, dark, cherubic ringlets coiling around his forehead. He purses his pink mouth like he’s biting back another simper, and then he sighs theatrically. 

“I won’t sue you,” he murmurs, faux-rolling his eyes playfully, as if the notion involves him being the bigger person and shedding a grudge, rather than letting her settle into a rightfully earned consequence. “Do you wanna come in, then? Miss Hyphens. I’ve got tea.”

His teeth— the front two, blocky and just a tad longer than the others— gently lodge over his plump lower lip expectantly. “Or coffee,” he tacks on, casting his gaze briefly onto her workwear. “Whatever goes with… scones.”

Y/N, for all the time she’s spent living next door to this man, despite sheer proximity, has never actually, fully held a conversation with him beyond simple mail-swap pleasantries. And for a man she’s so thoroughly defamed— a man she’s practically publicly sacrificed on the altar of assumption— he’s almost unexpectedly forgiving. Sure, the sweeteners are working just about as brilliantly as expected, but the invitation, unanticipated nonetheless, throws her so heavily that for a long beat, Y/N can only wordlessly blink at him from the hallway. That is, until her social awareness mechanism, sculpted by a handbook of socially acceptable etiquette rules hammered in from her from kidhood, kickstarts for— what? The third time? Maybe the fourth? In all honesty, she’s lost track, and frankly, it’s by no fault but her neighbor currently interacting with her. The thing is— he’s not even inherently doing anything. Just standing there, propped up against his own door frame, curls tufting around his ears, dewy eyes vibrantly taiga-like. And in all honesty, perhaps the only thing worse than dragging his good name through the mud, like a public medieval ritual, is the way she’d turned around right after the fact to sexualize him behind his back. That part? The softcore porn part? The way something low in her tummy had swirled, seeing him like that, rings denting faint shapes into skin? That’s something she will not— will not— revisit contemplating while standing in the radius of his jawline. It’s not even a jawline, she thinks. Not really. It’s a weapon. 

And despite however shitty of a person Y/N believes herself to be in this particular moment, libel and objectification and all, the rational fragment of her mind (chiseled by those social expectations), considers that accepting a warm drink from her neighbor when prompted— as opposed to wordlessly gawking— is the right choice. The normal option. Something a normal person would do. The alternative is spontaneous death on his welcome mat, and frankly, she doesn’t have the social stamina for that kind of posthumous legacy. There are only so many seconds a person can stand there, sweating through their coffee-stained work shirt, before offbeat, maybe semi-endearingly awkward takes a sharp pivot into the direction of downright strange.

And right now? He’s looking at her like she’s still in the former. 

So, with her face hot and her hands cold, Y/N blinks and nods, anchoring as much nonchalance into her voice as she can manage given the circumstances, “Yeah. Yes. Sure.”

The young woman is not entirely sure what she expects of Harry’s apartment. Not anything in particular really, beyond the fact that the layout should, in theory, be a mirror of her own home right across the drywall. What she discovers, inching quietly across her neighbor’s living room, is that while the general floorplan is almost a precise duplication in terms of spatial organization (that, while they share the same, pasty painted walls and worn beige carpet), the actual integrity of his design sort of puts her own to shame. On the granite peninsula that juts from the wall in the little kitchen beside the living room, in place of where Y/N has a stack of half-sutured envelopes— various bills, coupons, credit card offers, that one cancellation notice from her car insurance she’d received months ago (now resolved, but something she’d forgotten to bin)— there’s a stack of apartamento magazines with a half-burned Le Labo candle on top like a paperweight. In place of the barstools she’d picked up from a garage sale, there’s a record stand: wide, wooden, sleek, and by educated hypothesis, probably full and meticulously organized behind the doors. A tall shelf lined with books resides beside the sliding glass door to the balcony; classics, topics on philosophy, fiction, and self help. One book is all about failed utopias of the twentieth century, and another is on the cultural significance of soup. A hardback edition of the Kama Sutra is crammed into the corner. 

Y/N’s couch was a hand-me-down from a cousin. A ratty, jet black recliner that looked like it withstood the tale of time, surrendered over into her possession when said cousin’s wife finally convinced him into a new one after their ugly little maltese scratched up the leather. Harry’s looks like it’s a direct derivative from an Eames design catalog page. It stands facing the flat screen on the other side of the room, and beside it, there's a floor-level chair that, paradoxically, manages to somehow look both comfortable and like the stiffest resting invention to ever exist. In the center, there’s a dark, wooden accent table and on top of it there’s another pile of magazines, as if for the sole sake of decoration, and a stack of ceramic tile coasters with mismatched mid-century patterns, each one seemingly a different retro motif— abstract fruit, vaguely psychedelic squiggles. Beside the handful of other eccentric decorations Y/N notes (a framed architectural drawing on the wall, a marble fig with a chipped stem on the bookshelf, a tray with exactly seven multicolored lighters— three of them are red— an arc floor lamp with a tan paper-shade that dramatically arches over the couch), she can’t help but recognize that the apartment is painstakingly clean. Organized. Enough for her to gingerly toe off her non-slip sneakers by the door before she makes her way further into his home. 

Instead of immediately taking a seat, the young woman hovers. 

The first words out of her mouth are: “Where’s your bunny?”

“Probably off eating cardboard, somewhere. He’s a very… independent sort of bloke.”

Y/N nods, as if the admission is entirely in the ordinary. The man turns toward the television, operating on low volume, currently detailing some sort of video inside of what looks to be a carwash, with a close up of a mechanism being the shot that plays as he acknowledges it. His brows furrow. “Care to learn about the… wonders of carwash mechanics— I dunno what the fuck this is actually, I was watching something about trains.”

He looks up at her, a lopsided smile ticking the edges of his lips when he recognizes that she’s just lingering by the coffee table like she’s unsure of what to do with herself. “You can sit, you know.”

Y/N blinks like a deer in headlights as she’s called out, limbs unraveling from the way they’ve caged over her chest in universal symbolism of apprehension. “Oh. Thanks.”

She’s kicked her shoes off, and she’s standing in his living room in a fashion that implies she’s afraid to touch something (lest it break), and it’s a sight that’s still, from a morally dubious standpoint, sort of deliciously entertaining. But, he’s a decent host after all, and she did go out of her way to bring him baked treats, which is a considerate notion, so he’s not going to let her literally stand there and stew in her own awkward hesitancy, no matter how amusing the view is.

“You brought scones,“ the curly-haired brunette twists his chin over his shoulder as he passes into the kitchen, quipping playfully, “That’s at least fifteen minutes of hospitality.”

When Y/N takes a seat on the couch, hands gluing to her knees— opting for the safe choice (she’s not quite ready to discover whether the leathery, pillow-looking togo chair on the other side will sculpt to her posture or annihilate her tailbone)— she discovers that this seat, at least, is more comfortable than she’d anticipated. She’s still not quite sure what to do with herself though. What to say, whether she should launch into an apologetic monologue on the misunderstanding (given his unexpectedly cheery disposition, she supposes she won’t have to grovel for forgiveness, which is a reassurance). Meanwhile, her neighbor busies himself in the kitchen, picking up an electric kettle from the counter and propping the lid open with a button on the handle, filling it with water from a filtered container beside the sink, and then setting it back onto the heating base that’s plugged into the wall. The process takes an entire, silent fifteen seconds.

“I like your place,” the young woman settles on, eventually, her eyes still wandering over the expanse of his decor. Her gaze ends up resting on a little bear statue on the TV stand. “It’s… nice. Like, quietly cozy.”

“Surprisingly no screaming women,” Harry responds nonchalantly, still turned away with his back in her direction. 

The comment catches her off guard, and the squeezy, sick feeling coils up her stomach at the reminder. Right. The monologue was… probably the correct choice, after all.

“Oh, God.”

“You said ‘quiet,’” Harry pivots, still only half-facing her (granting her the sight of his hulking shoulder), but he sounds far more amused then disdained, like he’s muscling it down and teasing, and a dimple presses into his cheek like punctuation before it fades out, “Not me. Tea? Coffee?”

“Yeah, please. Tea. I’m… sorry. That was— I don’t even know.”

Y/N wants to bury her face in her hands. She doesn’t. She keeps them very politely sealed over her knees, because that’s a new level of self-pitying pathetic she won’t let him witness, but she can’t bridle her grimace as she contemplates what had happened, nonetheless. It’s like a… bad memory she can’t burn out from behind her skull. 

Pulling open the kitchen cabinet across from him, Harry retrieves a plate alongside two mugs. One is a deep shade of blue, hand-glazed, with just enough imperfections to insinuate he’d either picked it up as one of those hand-made junk-donations from a thrift store or wheel-thrown it himself. The origin is the latter; he’d sculpted the creation in a little pottery shop downtown with a group of friends, years ago, and, admittedly, the shots the cohort had taken before taking on the crafting experience shows through its craftsmanship. The other is a white mug with a little doodle of an orange jellybean on one side, and it has a chip on the rim. Not sharp enough to cut, but just misaligned enough to require constant lip navigation. From the same cabinet (different shelf), he also culls a sealed cardboard cylinder of loose-leaf black tea that he prefers to order online. He reserves the chipped option for himself and carefully shakes out a serving into each cup.

“Hm, yeah. Horribly offensive,” Harry murmurs offhandedly, his voice laced with faux-disappointment as he twists the lid back on, “You should be flogged. But I’ll accept the scones as a plea deal.”

Despite the way the joke is delivered with no openly coy motive, spoken with the same energy as a jesting “jail” comment (no intended innuendo), something twists deep in Y/N’s belly when it lands. Something distinctly different from the shame that’s been bubbling. 

A nervous bark of laughter squeezes at her vocal cords, scraping its way out from the back of her throat before she clears it and pivots the topic of conversation sharply. She is not going to soak in that inadvertent double entendre or attempt to dissect what the suggestion means. 

“What do you do, um, for work?”

As the kettle continues to heat to the required setting, with the tea stored back into its spot and the cabinet door softly closed, Harry turns back to face his guest and reaches for the bag of scones he’d set onto the peninsula.

“I’m a videographer.” For a moment, his features crinkle up, green irises skating to the ceiling as if in brief thought, then smooth, “Well. Kind of. I was, now I just mostly stick to the editing side. I do, like, real estate listings for social media.”

“Oh,” Y/N says, genuine notes of intrigue coloring her tone, “that’s awesome.”

One of his shoulders rides up in a shrug, like the job is what it is, as he one-handedly spills the packet’s contents out onto the plate he’d earlier set aside— scones, three of them, unpoisoned. Although the job itself is comfortable and remote, with a wide spectrum of clientele (courtesy of his networking abilities), it has its difficulties as much as its perks. The man sets the plate up onto the peninsula as he discards the bag into the bin. “It’s alright. I used to do weddings and I always thought groomsmen choreography was tragic, but I’ve learned that you don’t know despair until you’re working with a realtor that looks like they’re being held at gunpoint because there’s a camera in their face.”

Last week, he’d been sent a collection of files in which, in the most polite terms possible, no clip was any better than the last. While technically filmed well (given that he partners with other reputable videographers he’s worked with before, usually borderline unemployed college kids looking for gigs, comfortable taking a cut of the profit— Harry had realized early on he couldn’t handle directing camera-shy gen x-ers without feeling incredibly drained by the end of the day, and honestly preferred the almost entirely remote work), it was the behavior of the agent being filmed that had made him cringe. He’d sat there, one hand dug into a bag of Hippeas and the other on the mouse, with the monitor screen providing the only light source as he watched through the attachments on the drive. It genuinely took so little effort to forge some drive into whatever pre-scripted spiel they were giving— check out these custom cabinet handles! or this gorgeous flooring, genuine wood, dates back to…— and flash a few smiles into the direction of the lens that Harry was sure just about anyone could do it. And watching some of the horror-show clips he’d received back left him slightly unsure of how exactly some of these clients managed to make a living to begin with. In theory, these people should already know how to sell a house, and the entirety of the process should be even easier given the fact that there are no limits on exactly how many clips are taken. And still, somehow, Harry had sat through about nine of the same— similar enough— recordings of an agent completely demolishing what little hope Harry had for the industry. 

Some involved long pauses and mispronounced words. Others involved awkward body language through the delivery— hangs swinging nervously, eyes lingering to the side where he imagines cue-cards were held up. Every clip involved the same lifeless tone and the same uncomfortable posture. A genuinely dismayed, semi-disgusted sound had spilled from his mouth as he witnessed the fallout before he’d plucked another puff from the bag and chewed. The thing is, yes— Harry can alter the footage. Cut any awkward breaks, sew clips together seamlessly enough if anything doesn’t work. But he can’t actually alter whatever the person is doing on the clip, and when every sentence sounds like someone is threatening them from the other side of the camera, he can’t even opt for voice-overs over b-roll. 

Needless to say, sixteen hours of editing later, Harry had a semi-presentable product to send off, but he also had a headache and a distinct mental note to never work with that man again. 

“That sounds… unreasonably bleak for a job involving marble countertops and voice overs.” 

“It is,” Harry admits, deadpan, “It’s like if HGTV and a hostage video had a baby.” 

He turns back to the kettle as it chimes, signifying the water has heated to the optimal temperature, and then lifts it off the base to pour water into both mugs and let the tea steep. 

“And I’m gonna assume,” he says, twisting his chin over his shoulder at her in acknowledgement as the water trickles, plumes of steam seeping up from the tops of the mugs, “you’re a barista? Lucky guess?”

Y/N blinks, batting her lashes at him from the couch at the assumption. “Why do you think that?”

With the kettle back in its spot, Harry turns slightly, one hand planted onto the counter and the other situated on his hip. The one on his hip motions out as he pretends to mull it over, brows furrowing, “Well, you’re either the Sip Happens unofficial brand ambassador, or you work there.”

He blinks and nudges his chin pointedly at her choice of wardrobe, a slow smile unfurling over his lips as the girl glances down and the realization hits her. She’d forgotten, for a moment, that she was still wearing her uniform from the morning shift, and she blinks back up at him with sheepish recognition swelling in her features, a little half-smile cresting her mouth. 

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

“Milk?” his pointer taps against the granite, “Sugar?”

Y/N takes a deep breath. “No thank you and yes please.”

As the man turns on his heel and picks up a jar of sugar situated beside the kettle and then pulls a spoon out from a drawer, Y/N swallows and clears her throat again. The sound of the metal spoon clinking against the edges of ceramic overlaps with her inquiry as he mixes the sugar into her respective cup. “How did you get into videography?”

“I went to school,” Harry answers once the sugar’s been mixed into the hot beverage, and the leaves are in the process of settling to the bottom, swirling around in the liquid. He sets the utensil into the sink, and takes a mug in each hand. “And then I realized that law felt like a… very expensive way to slowly rot from the inside out. Just about as soul-sucking as everyone promised.”

The proximity between them decreases as he explains, and by the end of his statement, he’s stood ahead of her in a way that has her chin tilting up to meet his gaze. His fingers are cupped over the rim of the mug in a purposeful way— to have the handle readily available for her to take. She glances down at the offering, gingerly curling her fingers over the curved attachment so as not to burn her skin on the heated ceramic, murmuring a quiet thank you as he hands the tea off.

“Don’t worry,” he assures, voice low and teeming with low grade playfulness, “It’s also not poisoned.”

“Ha,” Y/N responds flatly. Despite the molten heat spilling through the ceramic and the way it stings at her fingertips when she touches it, she takes the mug by the handle and grazes the other side with the opposite hand. The heat, to some extent, grounds her. 

That same nervous edge itches into her veins as she watches him pick a coaster up from the stack on the accent table and set it down ahead of her. Then, he sets the plate of scones into the center, on top of the magazines, plucks one up, and takes a seat on the togo chair with his own respective mug. 

“What about you?” Harry asks, motioning out with the treat between his fingers before he takes a bite, “Caffeine always been your calling?”

It’s a good scone, he’ll give her that. He can almost taste the notes of apology sewn into the blueberry flavoring as he chews. He watches her shoulders sag as she breathes, her gaze skidding to the side in thought before it settles back on him.  

“Surprisingly enough, it’s incredibly hard to find anything besides museum curating or glorified church janitor work with a bachelors in anthro,” Y/N nods, a little simper gracing her mouth before she cups the mug up to her mouth and puckers her lips into a soft ‘o’ to blow over the heat. 

He takes another thoughtful bite, chewing slowly as his brows furrow before he swallows the mouthful. “Church janitor work? You need a degree for that?”

As Y/N takes a sip of the beverage, she raises her eyebrows over the top of the mug in response before she answers softly, “It’s technically a historical monument.”

“Hm.”

The third bite is the final one, and he works it over for a longer, quiet beat. And he looks so sexy like that, is the thing, Y/N thinks— carved jaw flexing, thighs split wide, gaze pensive, off to some corner of the room as if in deep thought. It has her head swimming, and simultaneously, the self-awareness has her pulse thumping heavily in her throat. She peels her gaze away from him, opting to sling it onto the television instead, where some stocky male is discussing something about car washes, and she buries her mouth against the mug as she tips it for another drink. It burns her tongue a just a tad, but the way the warmth spills down into her chest is a solid enough distraction from whatever is going on in the chair beside her. 

The silence, of course, doesn’t last. 

“The girls downstairs think I’m a dom-for-hire,” Harry comments with little to no warning, and the admission is so sudden that it catches the young woman off-guard mid-sip and causes her throat to close up around the heated liquid.

She presses the backs of her fingers to her lips as she chokes on the mouthful of scorching liquid, all to prevent coughing and spewing tea all over his carpet and his nice accent table. Summoning every morsel of strength to inhale through her nose and swallow the rest down, Y/N clears her throat as she glances over at him. She thinks he might be fighting down a grin, but it’s hard to say.

“I’m… sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Harry tells her as she clears her throat again, lifting a shoulder. She thinks he might be done. But then he says, offhandedly, like he’s just nursing this odd icebreaker and not currently wringing her guilt like a twisted wet shirt, “I reckon it’s a nicer thought than what some of the others must think.”

Y/N frowns, glancing down at her tea, where her own shiny, wounded-eyed reflection meets her over the burnt umber depths. Sincerity bleeds into her cadence, and she meets his gaze earnestly to repeat the words, “I’m sorry. I really do feel so horrible about it.”

There is, typically, something so oddly delicious in hearing a pretty girl say sorry. Watching it; in the right context, of course. It’s a strange predilection, really, and sort of sounds oddly cruel, but in all honesty, it’s because of how doughy they get. Because they become all doe-eyed, dewy; soft. It doesn’t have anything to do with some weirdly misplaced remorse in actuality, or genuinely negative emotion. Of course, that’s only in the right context, and seeing Y/N, truly frowning, a little ruckle creasing its way between her brows— the posture of her shoulders folding in just slightly as she holds his gaze and then apprehensively casts it down to the hot tea cupped between her palms— has a little burgeon of… not pity, it’s not quite that. It’s more cautious, and it blooms apart in that soft space between his lungs and his ribs. As misguided as his neighbor had been in her assumptions, his intent wasn’t to pestle her down over it, or contrive some sort of revenge by any means. Really, his intention was only to tease the girl, and he tucks as much earnestness as he can manage into his soft tone as he blinks and meets her eye, ducking his chin a bit.

“I’m just messing, yeah?” Harry tells her then, shaking his head, “It’s all good, really. I understand where you were coming from. And I’ve already accepted your scones as a plea deal,” his lips twitch, “remember?”

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond, and for a moment, Harry thinks she might start crying— God forbid— or something equally as uncomfortable, and then he’d probably truly be fucked, because what does he even do in that situation besides awkwardly side-glance? He’s already starting to mull it over, he remembers he might have a pack of tissues still tucked into the coffee table somewhere, courtesy of… things (whichever direction one would like to think in: probably yes), and—

“Do you think,” Y/N’s soft voice breaks him out from his thoughts, and he redirects his sight from the corner of the floor he’d reluctantly driven his eyes into to avoid the fallout in its full, uneasy glory. She’s looking at him from under her lashes, her short nails scratching over a divot in the sculpt of the mug, “they could work as a rebrand? A mass baked goods handout?”

The quip catches him so off guard that it takes him a second to respond. And then he recognizes that she’s attempting to jest— he pauses, intrigued, settling with his back fully against the backrest as he pretends to ponder. 

“Damage control in the form of a baked goods giveaway… I like it. I figured we let the press cycle cool down, first.”

“Right,” Y/N ducks her chin into a nod, “Standard protocol. Lay low. Tasteful radio silence. Avoid the balcony.”

A slow-splitting grin shapes its way around his teeth, dimples engraving into his cheeks, “Exactly,” and then he schools his features into a mask of mock-seriousness, draping himself in fabricated contemplation once more, “Maybe leak a blurry photo of me donating books to an underfunded library.”

“We can give you a rescue dog to hold,” Y/N offers, holding one hand out, palm up. 

“You’ll need to be seen crying on a bench,” Harry muses, raising his eyebrows and directing his index at her, before he rubs his palm down his jaw in consideration. “Something tasteful. Cashmere coat. Glossier skin tint. A latte you’re too tired to drink. Public remorse, but chic.”

“Strategic vulnerability,” Y/N nods, chock-full of agreement, as if they really are on the same wavelength, and then her brows pinch together, “What about a pinned instagram post? Empty chair, caption starts with something like, ‘I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but—‘“

“No, that’s too deflecting,” Harry waves out with his hand, reciting the plan as if he’s got the whole thing figured out to the minor details, “We draft a joint Notes app apology. Story post. You take full responsibility. I forgive you graciously.” 

“And I’m assuming…” one of her brows climb as she talks, “I’m writing this?”

“You’re head of PR,” Harry deadpans, blinking, “It’s literally your job.”

To stifle her smile, the young woman buries her teeth into her lower lip. She clears her throat and then asks, “Do I get health benefits?”

“No,” Harry responds, eyeing her over the rim of the mug where he’s hiding the beginnings of his own grin. He takes another drink, swallows, and then asserts, like it’s all common sense, “You get tea.” 

The duo settle into a comfortable silence, then. The kind of comfortable neither would have really anticipated, but with Y/N’s feelings on the matter clearly regulated and with the man’s (Y/N has assumed) issues on the manner squared, both parties feel as though they can breathe and just co-exist. Tentatively, Y/N is the one to shatter the lull this time.

“How did you, um. Get into that?”

A gust of air spills out from his nostrils, something like an almost-laugh. “Fake press management or the alleged spanking enterprise?”

Y/N raises an eyebrow once more, this time pointedly. “…Alleged?”

Behind the mug, a little smirk paints over the man’s mouth. “Very delicate segue.”

Harry had never really been a fan of labels. Titles. 

Roleplay-adjacent nomenclature; whatever the grand performance of slipping on a new skin before climbing into bed (or worse, therapy-scented kink discourse spaces) is called. Labels— well, those are cementing. Not in the warm, anchored, adult-in-therapy sort of way, but in the slowly-filling-sandbag-on-his-chest kind; the kind that wouldn’t let him wriggle out even when he’d decide he changed his mind.

They’re too serious. Too official altogether, and there was always something about the label-happy subculture associated with kink, in particular, that made him a little itchy. Acronyms, micro-identities, moniker-wrapped semantics, all to take the form of raunchy, glorified LARPing, clad in latex knee-highs, bull-whip draped around a nape like an explicit rendition of a loose winter-wear accessory, specifically tailored for those who liked to edge others just to see them cry— 

He just didn’t identify with it. Dom-status. Disciplinarian— he doesn’t like that one. It’s a word that, in his opinion, belongs more to the musty back corner of a Catholic prep school than to anything involving arousal. Something with chalk dust in its teeth and a ruler clutched in one authoritarian fist, the kind of persona that comes with polished oxfords and an aggressive disdain for late homework. It wears a waistcoat and has strong opinions on proper trouser ironing techniques (he doesn’t particularly care how many people say it’s hot— there’s nothing remotely erotic about a title that sounds like it comes with a pocket watch and a library card).

It just wasn’t him. Isn’t.

And still, somehow, he now exists, tangled several years deep into an increasingly absurd, niche pattern of carefully arranged connections with women who want one very specific thing from him: structure, and the inevitable sting that follows when they break it.

He likes spanking. That’s the clean-cut version, at the very least, that doesn’t devolve into the complexities surrounding why arousal and red-hot bruises go hand in hand. That’s all. That was how it started, and how it remains— more or less— though the logistics have evolved into something far more complicated and softly bizarre, the way simple shrubbery mutates into a crawling jungle over time. And the way it all began? It wasn’t even his idea, really. It hadn’t been a lifelong compulsion, or some neatly traceable fixation formed in adolescence that sharpened over time into a clean-cut kink identity. It wasn’t that profound. Or that romantic, or nearly as organized. He didn’t find kink through an orphaned copy of the Story of O left on a bus seat, or through anything nearly as intentional as looking for it. Instead, looking back, it was something that had settled over him slowly, then all at once, until he couldn’t remember a version of himself that hadn’t been holding the reins. He’d fallen into it in college, the way people fall improv groups or casual coke habits in that weird semi-adult stage where nonchalant self-destruction masquerades as self-discovery. Accidentally; socially. 

It started with an ex, naturally. One of those shitty apartments he was renting on the outskirts of his university with mold along the bathroom ceiling and a sink that groaned like it resented being used. The air always smelled vaguely of canned soup and boyish delusion, and the windows didn’t shut all the way, which meant everything— relationships, tea, existential spirals— happened against a soundtrack of distant sirens and someone else’s Spotify Premium echoing through the wall, including the throwaway comment about whether he’d ever considered putting someone over his knee. 

The ex in question was a second-year film major with a horizontal tongue piercing. She wore thrifted leather boots year-round, almost perpetually had this little patch of chipped red polish on her index finger that drove him weirdly mad, and once insisted she could tell if someone had divorced parents based on how they held a cigarette. (Apparently, Harry was obvious. He still refuses to comment on what kind of emotions that psychoanalysis stirred up). 

There were exactly three tattoos on her body: one was a poem for her mother, another was a joke no one else understood, and the third was just the word reminder in verdana font, tiny and delicate in that soft spot along the inside of her elbow. She claimed that last one literally served as a reminder for whatever trivial detail she needed to remember in the humdrum of a day, and offhandedly commented that the pain getting it done had felt strangely good, which in hindsight, should have been… an indicator.

Harry’s usual type had always been a tragic amalgam of self-titled tender parasite and art-soaked amateur philosopher.

Usually at least mildly broken. INFP’s, typically, because— yes, MBTIs carry more rational bearing than star signs. There was something vaguely magnetic about their (usually) self-imposed torment, the way they pressed into an old, metaphorical bruise on themselves like they wanted to feel the ache again. Creative types with unresolved emotional turmoil. It’s not that he has knight syndrome— he doesn’t feel the need to be needed and he’s never been compelled to fix anyone. Maybe it’s the fascination. Maybe, without ever acknowledging it, he has more in common with them than he’d ever be willing to admit. But maybe? It’s just easier to justify the fallout when it was always partway broken.

It’s always worked like this: he chases, coaxed by some deep itch inside of him he hasn’t quite ever been able to dissect, and they meet him halfway. And for some reason or another, he’d always seemed to gravitate toward something usually halfway to collapse. 

Emotionally battered baristas with bite, who’ll flirt by mocking his order and blushing when he tips; the Etsy shop entrepreneur with an anxiety disorder, hand-stitching lingerie as she watches true crime. Bookstore clerks with a collection of expired bus passes, calmly annotating erotica with a pencil behind the desk. Music school girls with frayed cuticles and a pack of nicotine gum next to their crumpled sheet music. 

And back in the day, a film major with snake eyes and a bruised peach of a laugh? She went right in the drawer of Harry’s mental taxonomy marked bad decisions with excellent legs. There was this trick she had with the tip of her tongue during oral (probably courtesy of the snake eyes— apparently wildly controversial in the piercing community) that, without fail, made his toes curl into the carpet like he was grappling to keep himself physically grounded. It was euphoric. 

They’d been seeing each other for a few months. Maybe less. Time was slippery in college—measured more in backlogged assignments and 2 AM curry fries than any real emotional awareness. It didn’t happen during sex, which— statistically speaking— would’ve made more sense: a bit of rough play, a tap that landed harder than expected at an awkward angle, a moan into his mouth in response. No, when the actual conversation happened, they were sharing a tea bag between two chipped mugs, and she was still waiting on the third coat of polish to dry on her toes with two of those stupid-looking foam-spreader things on her feet, and she’d asked the question the same, nonchalant way someone might ask for a stick of gum.

“Would you ever spank me? Like, for fun. Or, well— like, not for fun, too.”

It was spoken politely, offhandedly, like it was just another item on the grocery list. Eggs, coffee, a handprint across her ass. It was asked like this particular inquiry wasn't about to rearrange the way he saw sex, power, touch, and trust in the span of one aggressively under-furnished semester. Harry genuinely doesn’t remember the exact reaction he’d had, but the word spank had hit him square in the dick like a cartoon piano falling out of a third-story window, and logically speaking, he was probably weird about it. He was twenty. He still got flustered when someone made eye contact while eating a popsicle. He was weird about everything. He was still getting off to whatever suggestions existed in the first three queues of the Pornhub homepage, and had no sexual creativity, and he thinks he might have settled on something eloquent like, “Uh.”

He probably tried to be cool after that. Said something like, “Define spanking,” in that insufferable way he was just learning to mold flirtatious, which was an important development considering he’d only recently learned how to avoid burning scrambled eggs and still called his mother with a debrief of how his week was going every other night. 

He’s not entirely sure what it was even about him that didn’t just make her scoff and roll her eyes, but maybe he should give his past self more credit. 

Anyways, he did it, despite the entirety of the awkward preamble. He was careful, moving through the motions wearily, like he thought he might break something. Which, to be fair, was entirely the right, justified instinct— only the thing is, he’d missed the mark a bit by assuming it was her body that needed caution. It wasn’t. It was his own.

Because something in that moment short-circuited. Not in a cartoonish, lightning-strike way. More like a slow-burn short fuse in the recesses of his brain, something cellular, and ancestral, and alarmingly simple— he liked it. Maybe too much. More than he’d anticipated. It didn’t feel dark, or deviant, or devouring. No. It felt… focused. Singular. 

Harry didn't plan for it to become a recurring motif. It was never intended, from his perspective, to anchor him, and it certainly wasn't there to define him. At the time, he'd thought it was a one-time thing, like waxing his chest, or trying hot yoga, or letting someone gaslight him into believing that olives don't just taste like someone preserved despair in brine. At best, he'd figured it would be a strange, mildly entertaining story to pull out after drinks with a select, close-knit group of attendees. It'd fall in line somewhere between the one about the dentist with the singular nipple piercing and the time he'd mistakenly crashed a wake because the GPS rerouted him through a church parking lot.

And then she called him Sir.

One minute he was perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed he'd snagged off of Facebook marketplace (suspiciously low price tag— maybe haunted), wondering if tilting her too far would result in blunt force trauma via nightstand, and the next, she was twisting her chin to look at him over her shoulder, voice low and syrupy-sweet, eyes half-lidded as she was saying it— Sir— with this kind of reverence that made him feel like someone with gravity. Purpose. Like he was something more than a financially unstable, sleep-deprived undergrad sporting a semi; like something cracked open in her ribs every time she used it, and he was the only one who could crawl inside.

He remembers the sex was really good after. Her on top, nails digging jagged, rosy pink lines into his pectorals, her warm ass in his hands. Somehow, it made him cum harder, holding onto that; the warmth there. Feeling that. And after, she fell asleep on his chest, like she didn’t short-circuit the last decade of his sexual development in the span of a singular afternoon. 

Retrospectively, that was the beginning of the end.

A kind of slow-brand over the pit of him that he wouldn’t recognize had fundamentally changed his outlook until it was just… his norm. 

Anyways, of course he went to the party. 

Not a sex party— he wasn’t that interesting yet. Party was a form of loose, glorified nomenclature for the impact play mixer said film major later dragged him to. A very specific, curated event deep within the subgenre swamp of the kink community was a fairly unconventional idea for date night, but at the time, most of their dates consisted of glassy-eyed coffee stops between study sessions or makeout intervals on a creaky couch with something random on the TV in the background. He thinks it might have been called Spankapalooza, or something equivalently tragic, and it was held in a borrowed warehouse that smelled like spilled spearmint lube and leather conditioner. There was a registration table and color-coded wristbands. There were demo tables and a table spread of gluten-free baked goods.

He didn’t play. Just watched. Took mental notes while people negotiated scenes like they were unionized actors: pacing, tone, tools, aftercare methods. Someone got lectured in a New Zealand accent about not cleaning the kitchen counters. Someone else got paddled, smiling and bound, with a toy that was being handed around a group of three other people. It was all very adult in a way that felt mildly deranged and weirdly beautiful.

It was also, oddly enough, incredibly peaceful. Everything negotiated. Everything explained. Nothing creepy, or secret, or shameful. Just people with wristbands, and name tags, and decades of learned wisdom about which parts of the body bruise best and why it matters whether someone uses a bath brush or a frat paddle. One man— Gene, possibly the most soft-spoken person Harry had ever met— casually mentioned that he typically tasked his submissive with picking out a switch from the backyard if she forgot to charge her phone overnight, and (wow! Okay! moment) Harry had to physically sit down for a second just to process that reality (it was the only incident, to date, that ever managed to top the first time he’d had a threesome and had just ended up starfished on a beanbag afterwards in a state of catatonia).

And here’s the thing: he liked it. Not the performative bits. Not the leash-wielding, collar-clanking theatricalism of it all; it was the honesty. The focus. The moment of contact, the sting, the way a breath hitched when someone realized they were being paid attention to, thoroughly and with care. It felt like the kind of intimacy no one admitted to craving. It felt like holding something steady while the world spun stupid around him.

What struck him most wasn’t the spectacle. It was the precision. The ritual. The unblinking sense of acceptance, because this was normal, and attainable, and safe, and something that made him feel like he was on fire and so strangely serene all at once. The structure didn’t take away the heat— it was the heat. Like edging, but emotional. Like someone had found a way to turn boundaries, and sadomasochism, and niche methods for conflict resolution into foreplay. It made everything feel deliberate. Made the intimacy feel earned. 

It was an intimacy in and of itself.

When he and the film major broke it off, eventually, inevitably— blocking each other on social media but staying logged into the same Netflix account for the next three years— she was gone, but the idea of it, of this, had already imprinted itself somewhere deep in his wiring.

And the rest? Well. That’s as they call it, history. 

The blog was an offhand thing. Not entirely intentional. He’d launched it a year later with another girl he was seeing, and it was her idea, yet again. They filmed it (without their faces) because watching it back made her wet. It was grainy, and shot on his old iphone 4S with poor lighting. There was some animal documentary on in the background and the camerawork was shit in his shaky hands when he picked the phone up off the dresser to film the color her skin bloomed into. But then came a comment about branding sex in a cinematic light, something-something authentic kink education— her words, not his— and he’d laughed and said something noncommittal. They put it up. 

Eleven million profile views later it's just a thing. Another collection, like the totes, only this one is intentional— personal, and feels far more like an art form than a pile of cloth sacks in his pantry. It’s a folder of observations. A quietly color-corrected archive of records. Documentation of the way someone melts when they’re understood through restriction like it’s softness. The quiet smugness in knowing exactly what someone needs and how to deliver it in increments of five. 

When his casual flings rotated out like seasons, the blog stayed, and so did the growing name. The brand. The requests. Women kept showing up. People he’d meet at events, or friends of friends, recommending him through the grapevine like a sordid new lunch spot to hit up: “Have you tried Rings&Paddles? They have really good… service.” Although that analogy sounds far more prostitutional than it’s ever been, and he’d like it to be known— officially, on the record and all— that orgasms are not an actual menu item, readily available for order. More of a secret menu arrangement type-deal. What he does, according to the fact that the only currency he takes is obedience and punctuality, is basically just civic duty. 

Charity work, practically, according to the young woman who once messaged him on FetLife to say his videos made her feel "more emotionally regulated than therapy," which was both flattering and a sign that the world was very, very deeply broken.

He never labeled himself a dominant. Still doesn’t. The title feels too large, too performative, like a costume two sizes too big, even with an excel spreadsheet detailing his usual churn of dynamics, rules, preferences, timestamps, and all. The more rule-heavy type stuff, the kind that leans into that prep school punishment cosplay he’s actively disavowed? That didn’t come until later, and wasn’t inherently by his own volition, anyways. It escalated, as these things do, somewhere between a girl getting a recommendation from a friend for a method of mild catharsis (because she had a shitty receptionist job and little to no coping mechanisms) and the way he’d let her sit on his lap after and cry into his hoodie for twenty minutes like his loungewear was baptismal cloth for her emotional exorcism. 

Despite his inflated reputation and the nature of the hobby, less of these things were actually sexual than not. Not every session led to something carnal. Not every dynamic cracked something open beyond this deeply intimate genre of connection and, ironically enough, casual politeness afterward. Some girls showed up, got spanked, said thank you, and left like they were clocking out of a very niche part-time job. Some messaged him twice a month like it was a recurring dental appointment. A few never made it past one session, deciding— respectfully— that it just wasn’t their thing, or that Harry wasn’t their particularly-sought flavor of authority, and that was fine.

He didn’t push it. He didn’t chase it. The structure (or the psychological purge, depending) was what most of them came for. The sex, when it happened, was entirely incidental. But he did make friends along the way. Eventually, he’d sit with a repeat visitor after and discover they both liked the same music, or had the same disdain for couples matching roman numeral tattoos, or some equally surface-level interest that whittled a genuine bonding moment. 

And that? Those evolutions, probably alongside the whole mechanism of aftercare paired with vulnerability— incredibly important step to the whole process, in his opinion— started to foster something new. Just an… unacknowledged softness. An edge of rawness that started showing up in the way they wrote to him.

More emojis. More thank you’s. One of them left him a voicemail once— completely unprompted, completely uncalled for— just to say that he was helping her feel like a person again, that no one had made her feel this safe in years. That she didn't know how to explain it, but it mattered.

Harry had listened to the recording exactly once, standing in the cereal aisle at Trader Joe's, staring down the shredded wheat like it had personally wronged him. He'd paused it, locked his phone, and then bought two boxes of something sugary and chocolate just to reassert control over his own autonomy. It didn’t help.

Initially, Harry didn't like the feeling. It was strange, being mistaken for someone capable of that kind of generosity. He wasn't safe— he was consistent, and that was only because he was a stubborn creature of habit that was allergic to change. But the girls kept coming. Kept asking and saying things like, "Would it be okay if I told you when I mess up?" and "You don't have to reply, I just like knowing you're there."

And what was he supposed to do? Say no? Say, "Sorry, I'm only emotionally available when someone's bent over my lap with their skirt hiked up and a very clear safeword system in place" or, "Actually, I'm more of a benevolent pervert than a real support system, but thanks for the vote of confidence"?

He just said, "Sure."

And then he added a new tab to his spreadsheet, and then he re-sorted it by name and infraction type and timestamp. He never meant to become a fixture in anyone’s story, but apparently, structure— when delivered with a calm voice and a little spectacle— sticks. Even when the rest of it doesn’t. He was good at it. That was the problem. He was too good at it— too good at tone, at pulling someone across his lap and delivering a scolding that made them blush before he ever lifted a hand. He was the type of person who didn't make things weird. Who could calmly say things like that's ten for the attitude and two more for being late, isn't it? and could make a girl feel like following some arbitrary rules was the fun part, but breaking them, just a little, just enough to get his attention, was even better.

It’s sort of a bit like very hands-on therapy, in a way. Nowadays, only a handful of them, if that, are rule-heavy (and looking back, it was always that way— a full spread kind of catering project, instead). Not all of them are punishments. He tailors. Sometimes someone wants routine emotional regulation. Other times, a girl he’s been fucking basically asks for glorified lovetaps and his nails lightly trailing over the backs of her thighs before his fingers find their way between her legs. It’s not about control. It’s about closeness, the quiet calm that settles into his bones. The way he knows he’s giving the other person the same.  

But he likes spanking. All kinds. Silly, giggly bratting that ends in threats and cherry-red skin. Lazy, indulgent swats between kisses. Stern, structured correction with lectures, and safewords, and someone blinking up at him like they need to hear it— that what they did mattered, that someone’s paying attention.

And when it is disciplinary— when it’s not about sex, or flirting, or fun— he expects to be called Sir, because every man needs a little gravitas to offset the fact that there is a hungry holland lop roaming the same living room, between their feet, like an equal shareholder in every square foot of the property. It’s not about the title. It’s about the shift. The mutual recognition that they’re stepping into something together, something that requires structure, presence, follow-through. Something that says, I will hold you to this, because you asked me to, and I care enough to do it right.

So, that’s the story. There’s no deeper meaning. No psychosexual backstory he’s ready to unpack in therapy. And sometimes… 

Harry sits up and stretches over the table to reach for the next coaster available, setting his mug on top of it as he gives his palms room to motion. Folding his hands and his lap and pursing his lips as he stares down at a piece of the carpet across the room, he chews over where to begin. Eventually, he meets her eye. “So, there’s this girl in uni, right?”

Sometimes, when it’s late and the room is warm and someone’s looking at him like they trust him to know when enough is enough, he lets himself think that maybe that strange little corner of connection is the closest thing to intimacy he’ll ever not run from.

Next part here

[simpxxstan]

seventeen and their love languages!!

hyung line version (read the maknae line version here!)

seungcheol

to him: words of affirmation (he just wants to be called sexy, cute and know that he's doing the right thing)

from him: gifts (he will shower you with them whenever you want anything, even if you don't explicitly tell him)

jeonghan

to him: quality time (jeonghan is a giver, emotionally. so you have to recharge him by spending quality time with him.)

from him: gifts (the way he just buys stuff for others whenever he thinks they'll like it. it's rare but with you it'll be often.)

joshua

to him: quality time (prefers having you close all the time without any distractions so that he can focus fully on you. probably also likes going out a lot for dates, like amusement parks, theme parks, theatre shows.)

from him: acts of service (he takes care of you without you even knowing it. need food? he's sending deliveries. need to run an errand? will do it for you.)

junhui

to him: physical touch (will cling like a koala if you let him. and you often let him.)

from him: acts of service (junhui will take care of you in every way possible!! he wants to make sure you're focused on him and work and not bother with menial chores to distract you.)

soonyoung

to him: physical touch (man is so clingy he NEEDS YOUR TOUCH 24/7 or he will perish)

from him: physical touch (will not let you go. would prefer to hold onto you to show you how much he wants to keep you close.)

wonwoo

to him: quality time (like when you watch anime together. or movies. or play games together.)

from him: acts of service (he doesn't overboard with his displays of affection. so it's the quietly thoughtful ways he takes care of you that steal your heart)

jihoon

to him: physical touch (man will deny it, but cuddling will cure him of all his worries. there's a reason why he lets dk kiss him so much duh.)

from him: words of affirmation (through the lyric of a song, the words of a poem or just him speaking out his mind, he will always comfort you.)

[seoulmatez]

𝒻𝓇𝓊𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓁𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓇

a trip into town with the not-so-new farmhand forces you to face some feelings you've been trying to bury.

• boothill x f!reader ﾉ 2.3k wc ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ non-canon compliant ﾉ farmhand!boothill ﾉ teasing ﾉ petnames (darlin')

previous part ♡ masterlist ♡ next part

“One more stop and we should be good to go,” Boothill informs you, closing the door behind him after joining you in the front of the truck. His presence makes the vehicle feel twice as hot and you find yourself scooting closer to the window to widen the gap between the two of you. The task proves to be a bit difficult in the two-seat cab.

Maybe you can chalk it up to the fact that you’ve gotten used to the convenience of grocery delivery services, but you’re really starting to feel like Boothill is going out of his way to make this the longest, most convoluted shopping trip simply because you’re here with him. If you knew you’d be spending such a large chunk of your day with the farmhand, you wouldn’t have so easily agreed to accompany him on the errands.

It was another request, or suggestion, rather, from your grandpa. You’ve been cooped up in the house since you arrived for your getaway and the man thought it might be a good idea for you to go into town, reacquaint yourself with the locals. You couldn’t argue—your trip is currently indefinite and you’re sure you’ll end up driving yourself crazy if you refuse to go out and are only left with the company of Boothill.

He may still be in your presence now, but having others around to buffer your interactions has made all the difference. The farmhand is a lot more tolerable when it’s not just the two of you—less teasing, easier to talk to. You’d even go as far as calling him… charming. Though, you’ll take that with you to the grave.

And, being trapped in a car with him is a different story. You silently hope that your next destination is in the same direction as home because you aren’t sure how much longer you can take being confined in such a cramped space with him. Other than his unrelenting pestering, you’re angry at yourself for stealing glances at him—the way he steers with one hand and lets the other hang out the window and how the toothpick he’s chewing looks all too natural between his lips.

You focus your eyes ahead, scolding yourself for so shamelessly enjoying the sight of him. You should be glad he doesn’t catch you looking; you’d never hear the end of it. Without turning to face him, you ask, “What’s the last stop?”

“Produce stand,” he speaks around the wooden stick in his mouth, slowing to a stop at the red.

You frown, confused. “We were just at the market, why didn’t we just pick some up there?”

“And betray Miss Alma?” The name rings a bell, you recognize it from when you would spend summers with your grandpa. He must still do business with her if Boothill is familiar, and loyal, at that. “Absolutely not. Better quality here, anyway.”

You don’t argue because you have a feeling that he’s right. And you wouldn’t mind catching up with Alma. She was always so nice when you were a kid, excitedly asking you about your time here and offering you free carrots to feed the horses back home. You’re surprised to hear she’s still running the stall after all these years.

It only takes a few more minutes to make it to the roadside stand. There are a couple of cars already parked when Boothill pulls off and you can see the owners of them picking out their desired fruits and vegetables. You don’t waste any time getting out of the truck when Boothill turns it off, the gravel of the makeshift parking lot crunching beneath your boots as you make your way over to the little table that houses the register.

Alma is seated behind it, head lifting up from the book in her hand at the sound of car doors closing. She readies to greet another customer but her eyes light up in pleasant delight when they land on you. “Look who it is!”

Her voice, though slightly changed by age, is familiar and brings an immediate smile to your face. You all but run to meet her at the table she comes to stand behind. The woman holds her arms out for a hug and you reach over the table to wrap your arms around her. It’s comforting in the same way hugging your grandpa is, like nothing can go wrong while you’re safe in their hold.

“Your grandpa told me you were in town,” she tells you, pulling away and slowly taking a seat in her chair. “I was wondering if you’d stop by.”

You don’t want to tell her that you’re mostly here because of Boothill. “How have you been, Miss Alma?”

“Good, good.” She beams and gestures toward the multiple cartons and crates of colorful produce. “We’re still going strong.”

You smile at that. You don’t find many places like this in the city and the small businesses that you do come upon back home don’t foster this type of community. It’s nice to see that her livelihood is still thriving. Alma gazes at her work proudly before her eyes zone in on something—or someone—else. “You here with Boothill?”

“Oh, yeah. He works at the farm,” you tell her, though, you’re sure she already knew as much. She’s seen much more of him in the past few years than she has of you. Not that you didn’t believe him, but he really is a regular.

“Nice young man, isn’t he?” Alma asks, looking back at you. You’re not sure if you’d go that far but you nod in agreement regardless. He’s likely the perfect gentleman to the older ladies within town. She continues, “Hardworking and handsome, too.”

“Yeah,” you mindlessly admit. The hardworking part is undeniable, you’ve seen that much yourself. He’s always up on time and takes his responsibilities seriously, never half-asses his tasks and is consistently willing to take on more work if it’s necessary. You only concede on the handsome bit because Boothill isn’t around to hear you say so. You hope Alma isn’t a gossip.

“Are you seeing him, dear?” she inquires.

“Seeing him? Like dating?” you ask for clarification. Alma only raises her eyebrows. She does mean it like that. The question makes the tips of your ears grow hot, makes your heart feel like it’s beating against your ribcage infinitely faster. You quickly wave your hands in dismissal, smiling nervously at the woman’s assumption. “Oh, no. No, no.”

Alma laughs at your denial but something hidden in the sound makes it seem as though she can see right through you. She doesn’t push the matter and while you’re grateful to leave the discussion at that, you can’t help but wonder what gave her that impression—if it’s simply an old lady’s wishful thinking or if you aren’t as good at suppressing those confusing feelings as you thought you were.

“Boothill!” The call of his name gives you a start. You almost think Alma is calling him over but when you reassess the voice—how little and high-pitched it is—you calm down. Your eyes search the small crowd for the man and you find him quickly, though he isn’t alone. There’s a little girl at his feet, one who’s hugging his legs tightly and looking up at him with stars in her eyes. 

You don’t have time to wonder about who she is before Alma explains. “That’s my granddaughter. Sweet little thing. You should go meet her, she’ll love you.”

“Sure.” You offer the woman a short wave before making your way over to Boothill and the girl. You can pick up on tidbits of their conversation as you approach—Boothill asking how much she’s missed him and the girl telling him “this much!” while opening her arms as wide as she can. He laughs and takes the opportunity to bend down and pick her up, situating her on his hip. He even takes the hat off his head to place it on hers. It’s big on her, covers her eyes and requires her to push it back so she can see.

The whole exchange is cute, not something you’d expect from Boothill. There’s a lot that you don’t know about him, you think as you watch.

The girl must feel you looking because her head turns in your direction which causes Boothill’s to follow. You smile at her and wave and when you’re finally close enough, you greet her. “Hi there.”

“Hello.” She isn’t as excited as she was when she realized Boothill was here but she’s still kind, returning your wave with one of her own. Your conversation ends before it truly begins as she turns back to Boothill. There’s curiosity swimming in her eyes and she doesn’t attempt to lower her voice when she asks him, “Is she your girlfriend?”

Your mouth falls open in surprise at the girl’s bold question. Boothill laughs heartily, whether at your reaction or the question itself, you’re not sure. You don’t know if you trust him enough to answer honestly but before you can tell her no, the man is already speaking. “Nah.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. He meets your eye with his next words. “She’s real pretty though, ain’t she?”

He’s doing it again, putting you in a tough spot, one that urges you to run away rather than face the situation head-on. But this time, he knows that you know running away here would only cause a scene. You aren’t jumping at the chance to embarrass yourself in public so, even though you’re tempted to put as much space between you and Boothill as possible, you plant your feet to the ground and stay put.

The girl in his arms looks at you again before eagerly nodding. “Very pretty!”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” you tell her with a soft smile. You try to keep it in place when you turn to address boothill. “Are we ready to go?”

“Almost,” he answers, crouching down to return the girl to the ground. She doesn’t look thrilled at their time being cut short but Boothill, still at her level, playfully pinches her nose in hopes of cheering her up. “Look, I gotta finish shopping but we can talk some more another day. Maybe ask your mom if you can come ride the horses soon.”

“Okay!” She places the hat back on his head, gives him a goodbye hug, and waves once more at you before skipping over to her grandma—presumably to share her enthusiasm at the prospect of visiting the farm.

She reminds you of yourself around that age.

“So,” Boothill starts, rising to his full height with a half-full wicker basket in hand, “you only capable of accepting compliments when they’re not from me?”

There’s a grin stretched across his lips like he’s waiting for a thank you of his own. Perhaps it’s a little rude, a bit pretentious even, but you can’t find it in you to utter the two simple words. Maybe it’s strange and maybe it only makes sense to you, but not acknowledging the words is almost as if they never traveled through the air in the first place. Pretending like the words don’t exist is easier on you—your turbulent mind and your unsteady heart.

You change the subject. “What else do we need?”

“You are ice cold, darlin’.” Despite the statement, boothill doesn’t seem to be bothered by your indifference. He wouldn’t take it to heart if you were truly uninterested but the man is more perceptive than you give him credit for. He doesn’t miss how you can never seem to meet his eye following his heartfelt words, how you chew on your lip while you formulate an unrelated reply, and he certainly hasn’t forgotten about that stunt you pulled in the barn.

There’s something going on in that pretty head of yours and he’s determined to find out just what it is.

You pick out a few peaches and plums for yourself and a bunch of carrots for the horses while Boothill grabs the rest of the household necessities. The basket is full by the time the two of you are finished. You plan on paying for your share but Boothill insists that you wait in the truck, so, after bidding goodbye to Alma and her granddaughter, you make the short walk back to the vehicle. 

A couple of minutes pass before you hear the man putting the produce away with the rest of the items in the bed of the truck. A second later his door opens and he joins you, though, he isn’t empty-handed. There’s a bouquet of flowers in his hand that he holds out to you. “For you.”

You eye them cautiously, not daring to reach out and accept them.

“Don’t worry, they’re from Miss Alma,” he tells you, lightly shaking the colored cosmos in front of you in a gesture for you to take them. “Put ‘em in your room or something, They’ll look nice.”

With his urging, you take the bouquet. Pinks and purples with pops of white make up the arrangement and, much to your chagrin, Boothill is right—you can think of the perfect spot in your window for the blossoms.

As he starts the car and begins to back out into the road, Boothill steals a quick look at you. There’s a smile pulling at your lips, soft and natural. It’s a rare sight, but one he could get used to.

He supposes that if he wants to see it for a while longer, he shouldn’t tell you that they aren’t actually from Miss Alma, rather, a mere suggestion from the nice lady to get him in your good graces.

manon here ( ≧ᗜ≦) thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[maigo-san]

What are your zolu hcs?

this is inspired by a scene from the anime during Luffy's flashback post Marineford. It's the way Luffy doesn't cross Zoro's boundaries. At first, Luffy sees a lot of himself in Zoro and that's why he finds that Zoro can take the way he treated him (i.e. the manhandling, flinging around, teasing him relentlessly) and he was right to some degree, Zoro seems to tolerate pain despite not made out of gum so he does sometimes still yanked Zoro when he ran in the wrong direction and stuff like that. Zoro also does the same thing as him, pinching him, bonking foreheads, using his full power to fight Luffy, scolding or teasing Luffy back. But Luffy realizes that Zoro is an immovable force when it comes to things like sleeping or training and he stops bothering him. Sometimes he still asks Zoro to play with him as a way to share his excitement but he doesn't disturb him or poke him or steal his stuff anymore and just tap on Zoro's shoulder or his weight. Luffy doesn't even need to say anything because Zoro already knows what he wants and he also knows that his "clingy" captain likes to do this just for the sake of seeking Zoro. Sorry, it's such a small gesture but I will die on this hill because Luffy cares for Zoro as much as Zoro does for him

they call each other aibous/partners LOL either in the final saga or post-canon or when they get together. Had this idea after a Sabaody arc rewatch and saw RayRoger call each other that. Also why I find a lot of parallels between ZL and KidKiller. I find it even more fitting than right-hand man or vice-captain (but he could be all of them)

Zoro has a weird way with PDA. He doesn't do that much because he gets embarrassed by it. But he can't keep himself away from Luffy's personal space. Probably because Luffy does the same. He likes to sniff him discreetly; swing his leg on top of Luffy, acting like he was just nonchalantly chugging his beer; randomly pin Luffy down with his whole weight and falling asleep on top of him while Luffy looks so confused at first; press a palm on the back of Luffy's neck and pulling him to press their foreheads together while staring intensely into Luffy's eyes; neither of them saying anything until Nami told them to get a room; Zoro likes to bite Luffy, on his shoulder blades or his cheeks, due to cuteness aggression. He is actually the one who started it before Luffy developed a habit of biting him.

In modern AU, I really like to HC kindergarten/daycare/preschool teacher Luffy. His jobs can be pretty diverse, ranging from errand boy, to sex worker, to sumo wrestler, to boxer or MMA, to child care, to delivery service, pet sitter, warehouse operator, oil rig worker, beetle expert/scientist, and (a moot suggested) animal whisperer. Did he get a degree? maybe. Did it take him multiple tries to get a degree? could be. Did Sabo or Nami hook him up with a fake certificate? also possible. He might not even need them, this and that offered him after he helped them or something. While Zoro for me is usually pretty straightforward. A kendo athlete or teacher, anything by Luffy's side, bounty hunter or a hitman, or he gets paid to do the math equations in his classmates' assignments. At one point he was offered a data analysis or statistics job where he didn't last for a week because he got bored, had a bad attitude, and was often late due to getting lost

I have so many zl hcs I have not made any fanwork of, but these are the ones I thought abt at the top of my head so I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think.

Bonus mature one to make this five hcs in total

Luffy bottoms, Zoro tops. Sometimes, Zoro is more of a side or touch-me-not, so they would use toys, hands, or tongues. Luffy looooves Zoro's mouth, almost more than getting dicked down. They either have quickies almost every day or they can go months without having sex so they don't have it planned out and they don't really experiment. One or both of them will just ask the other if they're horny or not, if they want to let off steam or not and just go at it. Zoro finds more pleasure in Luffy's reactions and looks than his own while in return, Luffy lets him in his most vulnerable state and gives him all his unbridled attention. Oftentimes, Zoro does it because he misses Luffy.

[postkodes]

Your Time, Our Task: Effortless Errand Service at Your Fingertips

In today’s fast-paced world, balancing career, family, and personal priorities leaves little time for daily tasks that quietly pile up. Errands like grocery shopping, parcel deliveries, pharmacy runs, and banking can overwhelm even the most organized person. This is where a reliable errand service becomes a lifesaver, helping you stay on top of your day without stress. At Postkodes, we believe your time is precious. That’s why our errand delivery service is designed to handle life’s little tasks so you can focus on what truly matters. Whether you need an errand service Sydney locals trust, or a flexible solution wherever you are, our team is ready to help. For more information, read the blog now!

[azaliyas]

could I recommend a venti x reader with anxiety and panic attacks?

summary : rude people are all around, and suffering from anxiety surely doesn't help, but your boyfriend does.

word count : [ to be added ]

genre : hurt with comfort.

cw / tw : rude people, cussing, panic attack, anxiety.

characters : venti.

note : first of all, i'm sorry anon it took me so long to write this, unfortunately when you sent the ask it wasn't the best period for me to write ;-; but i'm back!!! anyway i did some research before writing this since i never experienced a panic attack or an anxiety one, so forgive me if it's not the best, at least i tried ;^;

you had a gut feeling today was going to be off for you, but you dismissed it as your usual anxiety for social interactions, even the smallest ones like greetings when going shopping.

but now, now you regret not listening to your inside voice begging you to stay at home today. you could have stayed in your boyfriend venti's sleepy hug all morning, he wouldn't have minded one bit. in fact, he even begged you.

you asked yourself if he did perceive something, and again you regret not staying in bed.

you thought it was going to be fine, running small errands around mondstadt like buying groceries for the week and commission to wagner to repair an old heirloom.

after getting all the groceries you needed you were about to pay blanche, a couple of people standing behind you as you were searching in your wallet for the mora. you were feeling a bit dizzy, your vision blurring a little. you were feeling bad for making other people wait, but your trembling hands made it difficult for you to grab the coins.

the woman standing behind you groaned once again at your slowness, her patience running thin as she probably had other errands to do.

«if you don't have enough money to pay or you're just that stupid you can't even count the coins then next time ask for the delivery service! people can't wait for you, little princess!» she yelled, pushing you aside in such a rude way you almost fell on the ground with your bags.

the other woman standing in line and blanche looked at you with pitiful gazes. you felt tears pricking at your eyes as you felt your body petrifying on spot. you knew what that feeling was, but you had to push it through. with your hands still trembling you put the right amount of mora on the counter and took your bags, heavy feet dragging you along the streets.

your chest felt tight and heavy, every breath suffocating, gripping on your lungs in an iron grasp. you didn't know where your feet were taking you, but as long as you were away from the people's inquiring gazes that was okay. you knew people were looking at you, you could feel the bitter tears sliding down your cheeks.

you found yourself in a lonely alley. it was good, you thought as you slid down against a wall, the bags in your hands falling on the ground as you started sobbing. your tears mixed with the droplets of sweat running down your temples and neck. you felt the collar of your shirt dumping, but you didn't care.

the more you cried and the more the ache in your chest worsened, your quiet sobs turning into hiccups.

a gentle breeze hit your face, drying the tears on your cheeks. a shadow loomed over you before kneeling down to reach your eye level, and even through the tears the teal and dark blue braids were unmistakable.

«why is my pretty cecilia crying?» he whispered with that gentle tone that was reserved to you only, his beloved.

venti sat beside you, an arm wrapped around your shoulders and the other encircling your front, his hand resting on your tear-stained face. he pushed your head on his shoulder, not minding the tears and sweat staining his clothes, it didn't matter. your well being, now, was his most important thought at the moment.

you didn't talk, still feeling dizzy and nauseous, your throat hoarse from crying and the choking feeling from the worst part of your panic attack. a gentle wind brought fresh air in your lungs and you squeezed venti's hand in a silent "thank you". his lips left a soft kiss on the crown of your head.

you two stayed in the alley for a while, your boyfriend soothing your mind and your soul as you regained consciousness of your surroundings. the after effects of your attack left you with wobbly legs, but it didn't matter, since venti carried both you and the groceries back home.

in the warmth and safety of your home you felt much better, but your boyfriend's arms would always remain the safest of havens, sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace.

© azaliyas 2023 do not copy repost translate or feed to ai

[starry-sophrosyne]

giggling rn bc i thought abt making a TTOS self insert for myself and im just now realizing just how perfect my pfp is for this idea, it was basically meant to be XD

(info under the cut vv)

Starry is a catering bartender who's deep into the nightlife industry of the city, one of the biggest names out there when it comes to bartending. She runs a high price but will custom create drinks for events, and one of their top clients happens to be Leo, who pays for her service purely for the sake of good drinks, rather than using them in his film production (she would rather he not anyways, its a waste for such expensive liquor to go to waste soaking into mattress and linens..)

She's very closed off about her private life, never making small talk, especially not with the clients such as Leo. Their only technical interaction demanded by their job is to confirm delivery of the drinks, and while she runs all the errands herself, she chooses to maintain an extreme business-forward appearance within the industry. They don't know why they chose to go into this industry in the first place, "It's been a long time, I can hardly remember at this point, but it's not like I care. It pays well and it's decently clean, no dirty or grunt work."

One thing to note is that she'll never be seen without her mask. They only allow close friends or joint workers within the apartment she lives in to see her face. It's a way to mask herself and her true identity, and helps to separate their private life from their work, a physical reminder. Try to remove it, and you might end up with a heel to the face.

[roarsthunder]

hello all~ i'm kaio and i'm another roleplayer on the hunt for partners for some 1x1s or similar threads on discord! some stuff about me: i'm 21+, in the est timezone, go by she/they pronouns and my triggers are disordered eating and self harm! i'm fine with any ship dynamic, be it f/m, f/f, m/m etc. love is love and chemistry is chemistry! one thing i'm not comfortable with though are huge age gaps, so i likely won't go beyond a 5 year difference for romantic pairings (depending on the muse ages). some general plots or verse types i really enjoy are: light mysticism or studio ghibli inspired plots (howl's moving castle and kiki's delivery service are massive favorites), werewolf pack/vampire coven plots, apocalyptic or fallout inspired plots, mafia power couple plots and road trips or traveling/vacation plots! below the cut are some of my favorite fcs to play as well as some more detailed plots i'd love to do! and if you think i'd be a good rp partner for you, just interact with this post, message me or add me on discord at kaiocherry!

favorite fcs: minnie, jihyo, eunha, bibi, ningning, jennie, tsuki, yeji, sohee, aisha, chaewon, lily, irene, sehun, hyunjin, wooyoung, shotaro, heeseung, song kang, taehyung, eric, zhang hao, woozi and yeonjun (there are honestly more, so if you're curious about a particular face, just ask)

plot one: muse a, a resourceful petty thief, has just been released after a four year prison sentence for the murder of their partner, which they did not commit. just before they were killed, muse a's partner revealed to them the location of a safety deposit box, containing evidence of corruption carried out by a wealthy businessman whose goons then committed the real murder before framing muse a. muse b unknowingly works for the corrupt businessman and is engaged to his heir with a wedding rapidly approaching. now, they are tasked with ensuring that muse a leaves town now that they're out of prison. muse a begs muse b to help clear their name of murder accusations and get to the safety deposit box, something muse b reluctantly agrees to even though they are in the midst of a wedding rush among other errands set upon them by their underhanded boss. muse a and muse b begin falling for each other, complicating things even further, while neither of them yet realize their ties to the same man. (inspired by the 1987 film 'who's that girl'. i can explain this better if need be! i tried to condense it as much as possible.)

plot two: muse a and muse b have been together for four long years, and just as they thought things were progressing to the next level, a huge fight ends their relationship. the only problem is that they're both on pretty tight budgets, so neither of them can afford to move out of the apartment they share together right now. an awkward bridge forms between them as the forced time together makes them start reminiscing about the good times and whether they really want to throw it all away.

[fourthousandbooks]

How about I deliver you a review?

I promise this blog isn't dead, I just got stuck on reviewing one of the meatier books I read this year and that made doing any reviews a whole ordeal but that's a problem for a different day when I'm not talking about the most recent book I finished!

I got to read something really special, the book of a movie I loved as a kid and couldn't ever find because it wasn't translated into english at the time, but twenty some odd years later, a copy of Kiki's Delivery Service somehow managed to float into my hands and I devoured the whole book in an afternoon.

I will start by noting that the book and the movie are two very different animals, so if you go into either one expecting the same story, you'll be disappointed. But I've known this for years and was expecting to see something that would have shades of one of my favorite movies while still being a different story.

It starts in the same place, with Kiki being a thirteen year old witch ready to set out for her training, but it shifts very quickly, for one thing her parents have been pushing her to leave for a while and she has to ask her dad to buy her a radio. She takes off on a clear full moon night and flies south until she's able to find the not so little town of Kokiri by the sea and decides to settle down and try being a witch for a year.

Kiki is a delightful character from the getgo, she's sassy and determined and also so very sweet. Even though she's determined to be a more modern witch and not just follow tradition, her journey is more about discovering what sort of witch she wants to be, and finds that she's happy to keep some of the traditions around. She loves her black cat, and while she's not so pleased with the long black dress at first, she comes to enjoy it and her inherited broom too, all the while running a little errand system, doing deliveries for people with the idea that they'll share something in kind. Money isn't the concern, she'll swap delivering a birthday present for the chance to make a friend, she'll accept a knitted belly band for her cat and future knitting lessons to deliver a belly band to a sailor with a boat that's getting on there in years, her first delivery is an exchange of returning a pacifier to a baby and being given some delicious rolls. Her journey is less a journey of self discovery and more just... growing up. She knows most of the things that are important to her and picks up more of them as she goes.

Compared to the movie, the book is very relaxed, there's no plot with her losing her witch's power from overwork, there's nothing about having to leave behind childhood including being able to talk to her beloved cat, in fact Jiji has been her cat since infancy and the book makes it clear that they will be close friends till Kiki is completely grown up, and if they wish to live separate lives then, they can. What there is instead is a lot of little stories about her meeting people and getting integrated into the city of Kokiri, going from the strange girl who people are a little afraid of to their very own beloved delivery witch. At the end of the book she makes it through her first year and gets to go home for some time, but discovers that though she is happy to be home, she misses her work and her seaside city and the people there, and chooses to return earlier than planned in order to see them all again.

It was a really nice, soft read for a cold winter's day! It's a children's book, and one that could easily be enjoyed by a kid who's just seen the movie (as long as they're not a book purist snob who'll turn their nose up to any changes from the book, I speak from sad example here), but there's something to it for adults too. It's just such a nice whimsical read and I had a wonderful time and immediately added it to my bookshelves as a book to keep.

[monaalkhelewi]

Professional Birth and Postpartum Services by a Qualified Doula - Structured Learning and Support

Birth is a new chapter in a mother’s life. It encompasses dynamic emotions, sentiments, and feelings like joy, excitement, anxiety, and fear. You must optimize and control them. Moreover, you need physical support during pregnancy and labor, along with emotional assistance and confidence building. A trained doula is the right person to walk with you in your transition into motherhood. Let us understand the role of a doula and her services.

Doulas Assist in Birth Planning

A doula is a non-medical professional who helps plan a smooth, effortless, and painless delivery by structuring emotional and physical elements. Her birth planning session involves curating light workouts, stretching exercises, and water birthing techniques for anxious moms. She also mentally prepares a first-time birthing mother to overcome the ups and downs of emotions.

Prepares the Body

A qualified doula prepares the body of the new mother to deliver safely and easily. She educates the mother on deep breathing exercises and meditation methods that ensure effortless childbirth. A dual is the right person who understands the limitation of your body and prepares it for a healthy vaginal delivery.

Prepare your Mentally and Emotionally

A birth and postpartum doula prepares you to tackle the mood swings during pregnancy and after childbirth. Many new moms experience Baby Blues or Postpartum Blues after delivery, and it lasts for many weeks. A doula teaches you the strategies to stay relaxed and free of unnecessary anxieties. Similarly, a pregnancy doula helps a mother by preparing meals, running errands, and assisting with household work, especially caring for siblings.

Postpartum Doula Services

Offering lactation support by educating the mother on breastfeeding duration, interval, and the best latching position.

Postpartum doulas assist in baby diapering, comforting, burning, and helping the baby sleep.

Doulas also bottle-feed the baby while the mother rests.

She teaches the best baby bonding methods to the new mother.

She offers physical support to the mom after a C-section or Cesarean delivery.

A doula also prepares healthy breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks for the birthing family. It is an invaluable assistance.

She also does the laundry and takes care of the baby.

Final Words

If you live in Vienna and want a certified doula for birth postpartum services, contact Mona Alkhelewi. She is a highly qualified midwife, assisting new birthing moms with the best-in-class prenatal and postnatal care that helps a woman in her journey into parenthood with relative ease and comfort.

[magspy]

6, 20 and 25 for dandelion and kaia :)

Thank you so much for reaching out again with more questions! I've been having a lot of fun answering them<3

6) If your OC is in a fantasy setting, what profession would they be in the modern day?

They're both from a fantasy setting, with their current "jobs" being warlock and warlock patron.

Kaia was technically unemployed and still living with her parents when Dandelion first reached out to her and more or less offered her a job as his errand girl.

Translating that into a modern setting, Kaia would probably be working part time for some sort of delivery service while keeping up with studying, but I'd like to think that she'd be running her own little Etsy shop where she sells handmade trinkets made from pressed flowers.

I'm inclined to say that things wouldn't change all that much for Dandelion, since he's from the fey realm anyways, which seems much more timeless. He just heard that you can place delivery orders for pretty much anything nowadays and decided to push that to its limit.

20) If they fight, what's their weapon of choice?

Being warlock and warlock patron, they share the same magical powers (Kaia's being a bit weaker) and even Kaia's signature weapon (A blade produced by a spell) looks remarkably like something Dandelion himself might wield, taking the shape of an elven blade that looks like half of a stylized dandelion leaf.

25) Are they the kind of person who can't resist a good song? Can I catch your OC singing to themselves while they do the dishes?

Absolutely! Kaia will hum a tune at any opportunity, often without noticing, and even make up simple lyrics for recurring tasks.

Even Dandelion enjoys a good tune, although more as a listener than as an active participant.

[ao3feed-kiribaku]

Running Errands

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/WZMOVoG by cathycarzy The Bakugou family run a honest flowershop along the mainstrip amongst various other independant family owned busnessess, Katsuki was never one for customer service so he normaly makes the arangments and runs pick ups and deliveries. Kirishima Eijirou had always had a big stature with the muscles to go with it making manual labour more suited to him then most, he also hates to see people struggle, so when when an elderly couple with no family to help are struggling to keep with demands from their produce farm, Kiri doesn't hesitate to give a helping hand Words: 2940, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: my hero - Fandom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Bakugou Mitsuki, Bakugou Katsuki's Family, Kirishima Eijirou, Kaminari Denki, Ashido Mina, Sero Hanta, Cammie Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou, Bakugou Katsuki & Kirishima Eijirou Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Farmer Kirishima Eijirou, Deaf Bakugou Katsuki read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/WZMOVoG