#carpet cleaning after water damage

[whitehallcarpetcleaners]

Prevent Mold Growth

Whitehall Carpet Cleaners helps prevent mold growth with thorough carpet cleaning services!

[aquaticmercy]

Bloodstains and Daydreams

Summary :You and Bucky fantasize about starting a family while tending to each other’s wounds.

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Injury, Blood, non-sexual nudity. It’s a teeny bit angsty with lotsa fluff!!!

Requested by : myself lol

Word count : 1.8k

Note : I’ve had this idea for a while now. Enjoy!

Requests are open!

○support my ko-fi○

You opened the door to your and Bucky’s apartment with a loud creak. The lack of sound in your home was a little too quiet compared to the chaos you had both just escaped.

You were lucky that none of the neighbours saw you. Last time you saw Mrs. Jones from downstairs this bloody, she had called the ambulance. You had to assure her that you had everything you needed in your apartment.

You heard the soft click of the floorboards under you. Sometimes, you found that the little sounds in your home annoyed you, but you’d take it over the gunfire and shouting that still echoed in your ears. You and Bucky staggered inside, utterly exhausted, bloodied and bruised. The dim living room lamp was just enough to frame Bucky’s features. Just enough for you to recognise the love of your life limping in after you. 

You dropped your gear by the door, wincing as a wheezing pain shot through your side. Your fingers came away slick with blood when you pressed against the wound, dripping down to the white carpet you just bought last week. Great, another one ruined.

You've lost count of how many rugs, welcome mats, and blankets you’ve needed to replace.

Bucky closed the door behind him, his movement sluggish despite having accelerated healing. He had it bad, since he threw himself on the line of impact to shield you from the debris of an explosion. He was lucky to walk away from that one with a only few cuts and bruises. 

He slumped against the wall for a moment, eyes closed as he let out a long breath. You heard a thud from his head resting back on the wooden panel of the living room. 

His tactical gear, like yours, was torn in places, stained with both his blood and the blood of others he had gotten in contact with. Despite a cut along his cheekbone and a bruise already forming on his jaw, his focus was still on making sure you were alright.

He eyed your side, the torn fabric gaping where a blade had sliced, thankfully not leaving a deep enough cut to cause permanent damage to your insides. It was deep enough to stay with you forever, though.

“You’re bleeding,” he said softly, his voice rough and dry. He needed water.

You slowly made your way to the kitchen, ignoring all the pain receptors in your body telling you to sit down.

You walked back and gave him the glass. He devoured it, but left some for you to finish.

“You too,” you nodded toward the gash on his forehead.

It had been a close call— too close. You both knew it.

You did what you always did after these particularly rough missions. You unzipped his jacket as he did yours, helping each other get undressed, leaving all the gear by the door.

Bucky was a specimen of a man, you couldn't deny that. But times like these, when you were naked and vulnerable after taking one too many hits, none of your thoughts were sexual. You only wanted him to love and to hold. For comfort.

You both made your way to the bathroom, turning on the shower to clean the injuries before you could tend to it. The two of you spent five minutes there, embracing wordlessly.

After rinsing both your wounds, Bucky picked up the medical kit, while you managed to fill up a clean bucket with water and grabbed a couple of washcloths. 

Bucky huffed grumpily, staggering himself toward the couch, his metal arm hanging a little too stiffly at his side. You followed closeby.

“You first,” he murmured, sinking onto the edge of the fluffy couch with a groan. The cushions squeaked under his weight as he tapped at the seat beside him, motioning you closer.

You hesitated for a moment, looking down at the wound on you that was still bleeding. “We’re gonna ruin the couch,” you said with a sigh.

“Doll.” The word left his lips like he was begging for you to listen to yourself.

It was always like this with him— no matter how bad he had it, no matter how much worse he was than you, he always insisted you went first. 

No one had ever cared for you the way Bucky did.

You finally relented, sitting beside him. You felt the familiar warmth of his presence extending to you. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the busy outside, people living their peaceful existence, a luxury neither of you can afford.

Bucky’s hands were gentle as he studied the scar along your bare ribs. His lips pressed into a tight line, worried.

“I should’ve gotten you out sooner,” he muttered, opening the medical box that had seen more use than you liked to admit.

He first used the washcloth and pressed it to your scar to stop the bleeding.

You winced when he began to clean the wound with antiseptic. “I’m fine, Buck,” you reassured him, though the sting of the cut made you bite your lip to the point where it was swollen. “It’s just a scratch.”

“You say that every time,” he said, shaking his head. His fingers were gentle, working with the skill of someone who had patched up countless wounds, both of himself and of others. “I’m scared that one of these days,” he stopped, hesitating before continuing, “You’re going to go where I can't follow.”

You met his eyes, knowing that if your wound had been just an inch deeper, you probably wouldn't be here. “I could say the same for you.”

He didn’t say anything and just resumed tending to you, though his touch was a little more careful, trying to make sure he didn’t cause you any more pain than necessary.

There was a deafening silence in the air from something that had been hanging over you both for a while now. It wasn’t just about the injuries or the blood on the couch. It was the exhaustion. The non-stop fighting. The feeling like no matter how many times you stopped a threat, another would emerge.

When Bucky finished bandaging your wound, he leaned back and wiped his hands on the already bloodstained towel. “All done.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. You sighed, eyeing at the dark red spots on the cushions beneath you. 

He squeezed your hand in his human one. “Guess we’ll just have to get a new one.”

It seemed like an easy solution, but this was your fourth couch in six months. Definitely not sustainable.

Bucky smiled faintly as he continued his little bit. “Maybe we should just buy one of those ugly plastic ones that doesn’t stain.”

You chuckled. “I’m not living in a 90s sitcom with plastic-wrapped furniture.”

As you reached for the first aid kit, you motioned for him to sit still. “Your turn.”

Bucky sat back, his head tilting against the back of the couch. His eyes shut as you worked on the gash on his forehead, one just above his eyebrow. The bleeding has stopped, but it still needed to be cleaned a little more thoroughly.

“You should’ve ducked,” you teased gently, trying to bring a little laughter to the room.

“Yeah, well, no one warned me of a flying brick,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifted slightly.

“You are such a hero,” you said, dabbing at the wound with a damp cloth. “Trying to keep everyone safe.”

“Not everyone,” Bucky murmured, his voice a little more serious. His steely eyes fluttered open to meet yours. You both knew what he was talking about. There were too many people you couldn’t save. Too many you couldn’t protect. 

Of course, he tried. But if he could save just one person, it would have been you.

You sat back, letting your hands fall into your lap helplessly. Exhaustion crept into your bones, finally catching up with you. “Do you ever think about stopping?”

Bucky’s gaze softened.

“The missions. The fighting.” You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “It feels like it never ends, Buck. I’m tired.”

He sat up a little straighter, the pain in his body forgotten for a moment. His human hand found yours, his thumb rubbing your palm in slow circles. “I think about it all the time,” he admitted quietly. “Every time we go out there.”

This was the first time either of you ever spoke about this. There were hints of it from time to time, but it was never really mulled over the way it was now. Tired and afraid, you were both as vulnerable as you could be to each other, all the skeletons in your closet aired out.

“I want to believe,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “that one day the world will be good enough for us to stop.”

“We’ll get there,” he said. “Maybe not tomorrow, or soon. But one day. No more missions. No more blood on the couch.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “If we survive long enough to even replace it.”

“We will,” he promised, his voice firm despite the tiredness in his eyes. “And when we do, we’ll get out of this life. We’ll find somewhere quiet. Somewhere far away from all this. Maybe… start a family.”

Your throat tightened before you could speak. You both have been through so much, you both have seen the worst of the world. You both, especially Bucky, had survived horrors that most people couldn’t even begin to comprehend. But here you were, sitting together on a bloodstained couch in your apartment, fantasising about something so fragile, so precious. Something that would require so much love and care and time to build. 

The idea of starting a family together seemed so far removed from the violence that dictated your lives. But both of you had a spark that no amount of bloodshed could extinguish.

“I want that too,” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “One day.”

“Do you know what I want to name our daughter?” Bucky asked as you taped up his would.

Your heart swelled with insurmountable adoration. “Mmhm?” you willed him to go on.

Bucky said your name, and it felt so comforting coming from his lips. “I want her to be named after you,” he continued.

Your heart felt like it could explode. “Only if we can name our baby boy James.”

Bucky chuckled, pulling you closer into a loving embrace, feeling his bare skin on yours. “Deal,” he agreed, pressing his lips to yours gently, as if he was afraid to hurt you. 

His hands found yours, intertwining your fingers together as if you were one unit.

The city outside grumbled with life, but in the quiet of your apartment, there was peace. A fragile peace, but peace nonetheless.

One day, you told yourself. One day, we would both be free.

-end

[ur-mousey]

Cross My Heart and Hope to Die~

-Yan!Andrew Graves x F!Reader x Yan!Ashley Graves-

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Part 2 (coming soon) chapter one The Addition

summary Your parents didn’t give two shits where you were. But they made sure to leave you somewhere with someone. And, you found yourself in the care of Mrs. Graves -she was no better.

Upon arrival Ashley despised you and Andrew kept his distance for your sake.

warning parental neglect/familial abuse.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Friends never came easy to you. But, older brothers proved harder to navigate. They say that blood runs thicker than water but everything ran clear between you and Jared. He despised you. He'd hightailed it on his skateboard, pocketing the cash meant to feed you, the minute your parents left him in charge. It happened all the time. And within a few steps of your lazying fathers slumped form over the suede brown armchair, Jared snuck cigarettes from his pocket and burnt the buds on your inner arm. When your mom caught glimpses of the marking, she would sit to herself on her bed cursing your father's name in vain.

You never corrected mommy and she never said a word to daddy.

One day, Jared left you with a bowl of animal crackers. You scoured the fridge for a juice box after the door slammed and the lock slid in place. But, groceries ran slim, and spoiled milk sat nestled behind a few cans of Corona. You stood on your tippy toes, peaking over the shelves, and nothing resembled juice.

With your tiny fingers stretched out, you try to obtain the carton of milk. You knocked cans down which rolled over the edge, bursting upon impact. You flinched. Tears burst as you fell on your knees. A puddle kissed your tights and clung to your skirts. You kicked the fridge and smashed the bottle under your fist.

Before Jared could see the damages of a four-year-old, hours after your little accident, and before he could clean up to save face, your daddy returned home.

Daddy's rage broke whatever: Jared's skateboards, Mommy's pearls gifted from her mother, and he tore your beer-reeked clothes off.

You were never left alone again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Say hello to your new friends," Mommy used your hand to wave at the two older kids. "The girl is Ashley. She's in the fourth grade and she's eight. Then there's her older brother Andrew. They wanna play with you. Right?"

The little girl scowled but nodded. Mrs. Graves smacked the back of an uninterested Andrew. "Feel free to drop her off whenever. Andrew is such a responsible boy. He's practically raising Ashley."

Your mom giggled. "I wish my son was more like that. He's a mess. I don't know what to do with him. He takes after his father. This one... she's my little mini-me."

Mommy poked your nose with hers. You heard Mrs. Graves quip, "If that's true, she'll be quite the doll."

"She is! You can even dress her up as one too." Mommy's eyes lit at the mention of fashion. You sulked further into the fur lining of her jacket as she tried to parade you around. She pinched your butt as you scufted your Mary Janes on the dirty carpeting. "Don't be shy now. Go on and introduce yourself."

You put your thumb in your mouth and batted tears from your eyes. "Mommy, can't I go with you?"

"Dear..." She brushed her fingers through your hair. She adjusted the burgundy beret until the plaid bow attached framed your face, "It's a busy night, love. Mommy's sorry."

"Daddy-"

"Isn't. home."

"Fine! What about Jared? I'll be home with him," You whined.

"And he'll leave you again. I don't want you alone. Mommy thinks Mrs. Graves and her kids will take good care of you. Don't you trust me?"

You nodded. And with mommy's efforts, you introduced yourself. You were almost seven in a lion's den. But, you'd survived hyenas' quarrels before. What's the worse two siblings can do.

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Mrs. Graves excused herself to the bedroom, claiming fatigue. She muttered under her breath, "Your father should be home soon. He's bringing home takeout. Leave me alone till then."

Andrew whistled in response. The door shut and silence infiltrated the space. You sniffled - once, twice, even a third time.

Ashley erupted, "What are we supposed to do with that!? She's being a huge crybaby! I can't take it, Andy!!" She clung onto her brother and hissed at your watering eyes. Your cheeks redden at the attention.

"Leave me alone," You whimpered. "I'm not crying."

The siblings stared at you. Andrew twiddled with his sister's barrette-filled hair. Ashley wore green overalls a tad too large on her that they looked more like Andrew's size. Both siblings had the complexion of vanilla bean ice cream and their hair was as dark as licorice.

"You so are!" Ashley whined. "Why are you dumped on us? This is so unfair Andy."

Andrew tried comforting his younger sister, "Leave her alone, Leyley. It's only for tonight. Let's just watch a movie or something."

"Why are you defending her? I'm your sister, not her. You do this all of the time!"

"Do what exactly? I'm not defending her. I don't want to hear either of you whine." Andrew stood from his seat on the couch. "How about we get snacks? I'll pop some popcorn."

You tilted your head, watching as the girl sprung to his back, the boy reluctant, relented to giving her a piggyback ride. Your brother would never dare. "I'll act dead. I won't exist," You whispered. You hopped in place, hicking your backpack higher on your shoulders. A little louder you spoke, "You and Andy ca-"

"Don't call him that! He's my Andy. And don't you dare call me Leyley. It's not for a common hussy."

Andrew's eyes, a brilliant kiwi color, flashed towards you. You shook like a leaf in autumn. Yet, you dressed solely with winter in mind. It's mid-March where the breeze kicked at one's legs. He wondered if, in summer, you'd be dressed in the finest floral outfits suited for Easter day.

"Finish your thought," Andrew encouraged.

"I don't want to watch a movie. I'll wait for Mommy by the window." You pointed. And he nodded, walking off with Ashely swinging her legs in the air.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Daddy's gone. So is brother. Mommy's alone. She still has you. You aren't enough. You are a burden. That's what you think perched on the windowsill. Snow White sang at the water well. She must have thought the same as you. You peeked over at the screen where her Prince Charming caught Cupid's arrows with his chest fully bared.

And as destined, he'll kiss her awake.

Your tummy rumbled and you felt too stubborn to leave your vantage point. Mommy could whisk you away from the rude siblings, and you didn't want to miss the moment. You had taken out your violet cotton bunny plush, waving it side to side between your feet. His floppy ears rolled into his round button eyes. And his belly bore pink with bloat.

He must be full all the time.

Mr. Graves had greeted you with a box in hand of gooey cheese pizza and lemon-peppered wings, which he left on the counter. It's been 20 minutes since the family gathered at the table and you didn't move.

Nor did they ask you to come.

Footsteps pattered from carpet to tile. The TV paused as Ashley left to set her plate in the sink. Mrs. and Mr. Graves continued in hushed voices at the dining table while Andrew sat in front. He scratched at his oversized grey sweater and he used his index finger to poke at his food.

"When is her mom picking her up?" Ashley leaned over the table.

"That woman's a dancer. She'll be out all night. Andrew, you'll have to walk her to school and Nina's getting dropped off in the morning."

Andrew huffed, "Since when were you popular? I gotta get three girls to school now?"

Mrs. Graves hummed. "Sorry kid, that's how it'll be for a while. People are in tough times so they flock to the one not hurting the most. Bare with it."

"You could've said no." Andrew pouted.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading! Request rules are here! Follow my ig = lil.thoughts.xo!

This will have multiple parts and smut. Be ready. Please leave suggestions in the comments! I will be taking ideas for this fic! This will be a slow burn but in the next chapter, I might add a glimpse of the future. A.k.a the events of the game.

[eloquentlytired]

the survivor chapter 2

pairing: the winter soldier x fem winter soldier! reader

MDNI, NSFW WORK

word count: 1.7k

summary: you're left to die with no recollection of your past life and what has precisely happened to you. when the last spark of hope fades within you, he appears. in the end all you remember are four words; james,autumn,winter soldier and hydra.

chapter warnings: gentle soldier at the beginning, pampering, tension, intimidation, sudden switch up, toxic behavior, brief forced vomiting, trauma mentions, he's cruel in the end, he feeds you but at what cost, fingers in mouth

chapter one is here

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When you wake up, you're in a room that you do not recognize. There's a window by the right side of the bed you're sleeping on while the left side is just the empty space of the small room, barely occupied by a messy desk,the door and a dirty carpet. While the room itself might be a dirty mess, the bed isn't. You can smell a fresh lavender scent on the bedsheets and pillows; it's inviting and it helps with soothing your momentary worries until the jerk of a metal door startles you.

You sit up on the bed and turn your head towards the source of the sound. He stands there, silent and intimidating, with those blue eyes observing your form like a hawk. His mask makes you feel even more frightened. Your gaze immediately falls to that metal arm which shuts the door before setting something on the floor. A backpack. When he approaches you with heavy steps, you feel frightened. You were never supposed to feel as a soldier but they had failed in taking your emotions away from you, or rather you had failed them. The man towers over you and you try to crawl away from him, desperately tugging at the soft bedsheets. A soundless noise leaves your throat as his hands pull you back by your ankles and you realize that your throat is too dry and damaged to actually produce any sounds.

“Не двигаться.” Don't move, he tells you and you barely manage to translate it in your mind. Sure, you've been HYDRA’s experiment but only for a short time of utter failure.

Those hands of his move again and you force your eyes shut, bracing for pain. For anything bad. You just end up panicking when he uses the strength of his metallic arm to rip all of your clothing — from your shirt to your jeans and finally your undergarments. The condition of your malnourished and dehydrated body does not help you defend yourself, and you stare with horror as the masked man begins inspecting every inch of you. Firstly, his eyes observe every inch of skin that's exposed to him — and even parts your legs to stare between — something that causes a weird churn in your stomach. Then he flips you around and does the same inspection to the back of your body until he's confirmed whatever he needs. “Вам больно?” Are you in pain? You raise your head from the bed to stare at him, dumbfounded. After a moment, you nod. The stranger hums to himself and suddenly gets up, heading to a different corner of the room.

There's a wooden circular tub that your eyes have missed, big enough for a human to fit into. You watch silently as the man rips a few wooden planks off the floor and takes out something that was obviously hidden underneath — a large water tank. He fills the tub with it silently and once he's done he blindly tosses the empty tank aside.

You're alarmed when he approaches you again and this time he doesn't give you any time to react as his arms wrap around your bare body and pick you up effortlessly. Many protests gather in your dry throat but it doesn't matter once the man has helped you settle in the tub of cool water. It's cold but it doesn't matter — it's damn clean and it washes away every disgust you felt those past days. More cool water splashes on top of your head and you realize that you're being pampered at this point as the stranger washes your hair — another faint scent of lavender shampoo gliding down your locks. Your eyes catch a glimpse of a bathing rug draped over the tub and you slightly turn your head to stare at the intimidating man. He understands what you're asking of him and he nods silently while rubbing more shampoo into your combed hair. You take the rug and begin scrubbing yourself after wetting it. Your movements are sloppy and desperate as you feel frustration over the “dirt” but it's more than that — you can still feel the things that happened not too long ago. The needles, the knives, the blood, the torture, the pain. You scrub harder and harder at your legs, at your arms, at your stomach, at your back. Everywhere. A hand stops your furious scrubbing moments later and you look back again to meet the man’s unreadable gaze. “чистый.” Clean. He tells you and you eventually drop the rug in the water. The man seems pleased with your obedience. You help yourself out of the bathtub as he searches for something in the drawers of the messy desk. He pulls out a simple gray shirt and offers it to you before you wear it. It's long enough to protect your lower body but not that safe to wear without undergarments; yet you do not tell him.

A water bottle is suddenly pushed into your hands and you down it without effort. It makes you cough and splatter a little but it doesn't matter — your throat is slowly getting relieved.

“Идите сюда.” Come here. The raspy voice nearly startles you and you look where the man is sitting on his desk chair, legs slightly spread as his normal hand is wrapped around a small plastic package. You quickly realize it's yogurt and your stomach rumbles loudly. “Я сказал, иди сюда.” I said, come here he demands again and this time you react by walking towards him. Once you're in arms length distance he uses his metallic hand to grab you by the elbow and forces you to sit on his thigh. You'd protest if not for the intensified hunger that consumed you at that moment.

One of your hands unconsciously reaches for the yogurt but the man swats your hand away, making you wince. You stare at him with both fear and confusion as he lifts the yogurt cup near your lips and waits. Did he want to feed you himself? Whatever it was, it didn't matter. You hold onto the man’s wrist as your mouth devours the yogurt messily, no elegance poised in your actions. You're hungry and there's no spoon but you get by as your tongue tries to tuck the food inside your mouth. The man watches as you eat messily in his lap like a starving cat. “какой беспорядок.” What a mess. He says feeling amused when you look up at him, because it's simply endearing to have you feeling so confused about what he says. You tongue at the bottom of the plastic cup and feel sad to find it empty.

When you pull back, the man is still silently observing you with glinting eyes. “более..иметь..?” more... have? you ask but he doesn't reply.

He sets the empty yogurt cup on the desk and you notice the yogurt you've spilled on his bare fingers. It's not much but it's enough and you're starving. Your stomach protests harder. His fingers are in your mouth before he can register it. He stares as you suckle on them and use your tongue to collect any food remains— swirling it around his digits without care. “не хорошо.” not good, the man rasps in your ear and before you can pull away he's using his metallic arm to push the back of your head forward, forcing his fingers deeper into your mouth. it's bad and you can feel the wretch rising. you should have never acted without permission; he was so good to you moments ago but now he's forcing you in this position — forcing you to gag on his fingers as your unfulfilling meal threatens to reverse its course.

“no please—” you attempt to beg but the man shoves you harder by your head, forcing those fingers down your sensitive throat. your eyes water while your fingers try to tug his hand away by his wrist but he's strong — stronger than you will ever be.

you move around, kick your legs and arms but nothing really helps as he finally gets what he wants. you collapse on the floor along with your meal that is now staining the wooden planks. the man kneels by your side as you weep, stomach hurting and your own vomit dripping down your chin.

“If you work hard, you will be rewarded at the end of the day.” His masked lips hover near your ear as he whispers cruelly but the switch of language doesn't impress you. It's the choice of words that makes you look at him and judging by your shocked expression he confirms his suspicions all along. “Вы начинаете вспоминать? Моя осень..” Are you starting to remember? My autumn. Excruciating pain cuts through your head and you clutch your temples, your hands vibrating against them. You can see a few glimpses beneath your eyelids — like short cutscenes of movies that are sadly your reality.

You have failed another test while the rest move on and once again you're thrown in the pit. A cold dark room with the haunting noise of nothing.

They pull you out a day later and the man from your nightmares is towering over you as you're forced to kneel.

There's emptiness in your eyes just how they usually like it but it doesn't please him this time; you've failed so many times in a row.

Your eyes follow him silently as he paces around the room while holding a red notebook. You know what it is but you're never prepared for it. He opens his mouth and the Russian words come out, one by one. Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.

By the time it's done, you're barely conscious. The man the scientist towers over your limbless body and whispers. “If you work hard, you will be rewarded at the end of the day.”

It's possible that you've gone from one nightmare to another as the masked man carries your half conscious body and places it on the bed again. He cleans up your vomit silently and while he scrubs the floor, you hear him murmur something familiar repeatedly until you fall asleep.

“when early autumn comes, we can eat plums.” he says again and again and again.

Somehow, you feel like you know that phrase way too well. But sleep overtakes you.

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author’s note: new chapter is out! I wrote this while I was sick bc I suddenly felt inspired after weeks of not doing anything lmao as always likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated ^_^ ps once again I used google translate so I apologize to the ppl who know russian, I tried y'all

[dilfguzzler]

john price nsfw headcanons!

i'm currently hyperfixated on john price and want to write more for him. i always like to do an nsfw alphabet to get a feel for the character in my little bird brain

enjoy! open to requests (price and ghost only atm)

f!reader

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

his form of aftercare is definitely quality time. he will have just obliterated you, your mind is in outer fucking space. he'll pull you on top of him, not even cleaning you up yet, just wanting to give you time to come back to yourself.

sometimes the feelings are so much and you'll be crying, just feeling the feels and he'll stroke your back, murmuring how good you were for him, how you're his best girl. once you're fully back to your right mind, he'll get you some water, clean you up and cuddle you until you have a sleep

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

john price is an ass man. nothing else to be said.

he likes his hands. out in the field they cause damage and destruction. but they also keep you safe. they're also the hands that can make you scream and cry in pleasure. he also knows that you have a slight hand kink, so that's a bonus.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

INSIDE. the only time mr. breeding kink will ever not cum in your cunt is if he's coming in your mouth.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

he wants to share you. wants to watch you be fucked by his boys while he watches. wants to place you in any position he wants like he's conducting his own porn shoot. he doesn't know if his possessive streak would ever actually let this happen though.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

this man has been around. hoowee he knows exactly what he's doing, knows things about your body that you didn't even now

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

honestly, he's up for pretty much anything. he likes to be in control so even if you're riding him, be sure he's the one really in control.

he loves missionary, seeing your face, and command you to keep your eyes open and on him. he can get some real power behind his thrusts in missionary too, so much that you're limping a bit for a few days after.

also, doggy. see B, ass-man

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

definitely more serious. like he might crack a dry-ass dad joke, but he takes his fucking seriously.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

this man is HAIRY. he keeps it under control but he's a very hairy dude

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

this one is a tricky one because i definitely think he has two sides.

one side is the feral, dominant man who just wants to FUCK.

the other is this old-fashioned guy, definitely still dominant, who wants to be romantic and charm the pants off you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

over his years in the army and the SAS, he has gotten pretty close with his hand. the only difference now when he's away, he has some abso-fucking-lutely delightful polaroids of you. he particularly loves the ones you sneak into his pockets before he leaves. those are always a nice surprise.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

this man is a kinky old boy. as mentioned before he is mr. breeding kink. defo daddy kink vibes although i cant decide if he likes to be called daddy or sir more. i think he has certain moods for each.

like sometimes he's in the mood to wreck you and wants your total obedience, this is when he likes to be sir.

sometimes he feels a little bit softer and wants you to be his good girl, and is willing to allow you a little bit of leeway and let you mess around a bit more or whatever

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

he's a traditional guy. he likes to take you in bed as it's easiest (and god, does he hate to admit it, but his back can't really take anywhere else anymore)

he loves to take you soft and slow on the couch though.

oh, and he'll never forget you sitting on his lap for 2 hours straight, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. he was so proud of you for your minimal squirming and whining.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

simply, you. you literally just wake up in the morning beside him and he wants to fuck you into the middle of next week.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

i don't think he'd ever want to hurt you. like he's not against a bit of slapping, bruising you and being rough but he's always very controlled and knows what he's doing. he would never want to genuinely, seriously hurt you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

he's a certified pussy eater, i know it. the beard adds so much. but when he eats you out, he's running on his time, he won't stop after one, two, three times. he goes until his jaw hurts.

and while he loves eating you out. fuck it if he doesn't love your mouth on his cock. sometimes he'll just leave you there while he watches the match and smokes a cigar. it's his favourite way to relax.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

as i said above, i think he definitely has two moods. so it depends

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

he's a busy chap, so yeah he's up for quickies. it's not his favourite of course but sometimes he just needs to be inside you, and he'll take what he can get.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he's up for experimenting. but he will never put your safety at risk. also, his job requires a certain level of discretion so he can't be doing anything that could jeopardise that.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

he hates to think about it, but he can't go like he could in his 20s. he can last ages but he needs a bit more time between rounds. but that doesn't mean there's no time for fun in while he's regrouping himself.

if he's feeling mean, he'll pull out your toy collection and use all sorts of fun stuff on you, not giving you a chance to recover

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

yes. you have a toy box full of all sorts of goodies. he loves scouring the internet looking for different things he can use on you

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

he does NOT like to be teased. but he will tease you omg.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

he's grunter lol. he'll say some nasty, sweet things to you.

although, you'll never forget the time you made him almost squeal when you did something with your hips while riding him. that was fun

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he's kind of a meanie sometimes and he's so glad you love it and love his grumpy side. he never thought he'd find someone he'd align with so well, not only sexually, but in every other way too.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

6.5in, uncut, thick but not too thick y'know, kind of curves upwards

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

not as high as it once was. he loves to fuck but he's also 100% content to sit and watch some shite tv with you or watch you make dinner or some other domestic stuff

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

won't fall asleep until he knows you're happy and fully back to yourself. he's also gotten into the habit of needing a cigar after sex. he can't sleep until he ticks certain boxes

[dirtyvulture]

Natasha Romanoff x Male!Witcher!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Requested by Yuni on Ao3: (Translated from French on Google translate, original request below) Hi, I really like your work and was wondering if you can do a The Witcher style male Natasha x Reader covered in scars (one of which is across his face) and tattoos, a mass of muscles and the rest as a result 😳 😅, who returns from the fight and finds Natasha. To this follows a well-deserved part of legs in the air 😆😜. Thank you if you accept, good continuation. (My apologies for so many details)

AN: I've never watched The Witcher, so thanks to @mostlymarvelsstuff for educating me lol.

Original request: Bonjour, j'aime beaucoup votre travail et je me demandais si vous pouvez faire un Natasha x Reader masculin du style The Witcher couvert de cicatrices (dont une lui barre le visage) et de tatouages, une masse de muscles et le reste en conséquences 😳😅, qui revient du combat et retrouve Natasha. À cela suit une partie de jambes en l'air bien méritée 😆😜. Merci si vous acceptez, bonne continuation. (Mes excuses pour tant de détails)

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You shove your shoulder into your door one final time that almost knocks it off its hinges as you stumble into your room. You throw your sword onto the carpet and have the urge to fall with it until you see Natasha Romanoff waiting on your bed for you.

"Nat?" you ask, fighting against the exhaustion seeping into your bones. "What are you doing here?"

"Here to congratulate you after another successful battle," she says. "I already got your bath ready for you--"

"You didn't have to." While part of you is grateful for her help, you also like to maintain your independency and don't like to be waited on very much.

"Come on," she beckons, standing up and offering her hand. You have no energy left to argue and follow her into the bathroom, where true to her word, the enormous wooden basin is filled with steaming water.

You turn around to let Natasha help you remove off your several layers of armor and clothing. Some of it is splattered with your opponents blood, some of it yours, although you had hardly been injured in the fight. Natasha's hand lingers on your chest, tracing the shell of the wolf medallion hanging around your neck. Her hand travels down your ribs, where you have a thin slash from a sword.

"Let me get you a bandage for that," she says, darting off while you stand there naked, taking a moment to admire your reflection in the mirror. The years of hunts had taken a visible toll on your body, with scars littering your torso and limbs. There is a ragged chunk of missing flesh on your left thigh and claw marks raking across your chest to your stomach. Your most prominent scar could not be easily hid with clothing because it was on your face, crossing your left eye from your forehead to your cheek. But despite the damage from an innumerable amount of fights, you were of good health and strongly built, with sculpted muscles that put most men to shame.

Natasha returns with a bandage and some ointment, but requests that you wash off the blood and dirt in the tub first. You are happy to oblige, slipping into the warm water and closing your eyes in bliss as the heat loosens your muscles.

Natasha conjures up a rag and a bar of soap, wetting both and rubbing them together until a white lather appears. You sit back and let her wash your face, arms, and chest, taking the washcloth from her to finish what's left under the water. She eyes you hungrily as you wash yourself, almost like she's jealous she doesn't get to do it herself.

"You'll get your turn," you promise as you drain the tub of the dirty water. Natasha fills a bucket to present you with clean water to rinse off with, and when you're done you stand up, dripping water onto the ground and Natasha not-so-subtly clenches her legs together.

You go back to the bedroom, allowing her to clean and bandage the cut on your side, and even after that she's still looking at you like she wants to devour you.

"Nat," you say, finally ready to give in to her.

"Hold on. Drink this." Out of nowhere, she conjures up a flask carrying a bright-red liquid and holds it out to you.

"Will this heal me?" you ask, hesitant from the potion's flashy color.

"Yes," Natasha says with a grin, "And it'll help you last longer."

It takes a moment for you to understand what she's referring to, but you eagerly down the potion, cringing at the harsh taste. It doesn't make you feel any different at first, but then a hot warmth spreads to your groin and you realize it's because Natasha's taken your cock in her hands and starts stroking you slowly.

You crawl back on the bed, spreading your legs to allow her to join you. She takes off her own multiple layers of clothing, climbing on top of you and rubbing her bare chest against yours. Her nipples are already hard and you grope her breasts roughly. She arches into you and moans, and you hike your hips up to rub your cock along her smooth thighs.

"Fuck, Y/N," she murmurs, her hands roaming your body as much as yours are on hers. Natasha loves the way your muscles shift and flex under her touch. She can practically feel the individual muscle fibers in your chest straining and popping and your thighs are rock-solid underneath hers.

Her nails dig into the curve of your biceps, trying to keep you pinned down, but of course her strength is no match for yours. You wrap your arms around her waist, flipping her over in one motion and kissing her fiercely. You feel her hands grab at your medallion, then going down your sides and gripping onto your muscular butt to guide your hips.

"Inside," she begs. "I need you."

"Not yet," you tease, rolling your hips slowly so the tip of your cock teases her entrance. But you don't think she's wet enough for you, and with your size, you don't want to hurt her by pushing in too early. Besides, it's fun to tease her.

"Please, please," she begs, widening her legs until you can see her glistening center.

You push two fingers into her and curl them against her front wall; she moans loudly and drops her head back into the pillows. Your cock hardens even more at the thought of her walls clenching around you like that. You roll your thumb over her clit a few times, pumping your fingers in and out, until her thighs are trembling and she's panting and gasping for your cock.

"Now you're ready," you announce, taking her thighs in your large hands and pressing them into the bed, holding them wide apart. You position yourself at your entrance and slide right in, moaning at the heat that clenches at you.

"Oh fuck, Nat," you grunt, overwhelmed by the urge to cum immediately, but you feel something in your stomach tighten, preventing you from release. Knowing this is the work of her potion but not sure how long it will last, you start thrusting in long, hard strokes, filling Natasha and pulling out until you see your tip wet with her juices.

"Yes, yes, just like that," Natasha moans, squirming on the bed as you hold her down and jack your hips into hers.

"You feel like perfection," you say, savoring the feeling of her silky walls dragging up and down your throbbing cock. You know when you finally get to cum, you're going to fill her to the brim.

"So do you," she says, trying to sit up and grab onto your broad shoulders to steady yourself with as the bedframe starts to shudder violently from your motions.

"When can I cum?" you ask, as if she holds that much control over you.

"After I do," she replies with a sly grin.

"Okay." You start to thrust even harder, your abs starting to burn from the effort. "Tell me when," you add, noticing her tensing up beneath you. You feel like you're ready to topple over the edge, but no matter how deeply you thrust into Natasha, you just can't reach the peak.

"I'm gonna cum!" Natasha squeaks, her nails digging into your muscles.

You don't stop thrusting even as she's gushing around you, the slickness aiding your strokes, and finally when her body stops convulsing, your cock pumps cum straight into her womb. The orgasm is so intense and sudden you think you pass out for a moment, finding yourself lying on top of Natasha in a sticky heap.

"Oh no, I am so sorry, Natasha--" you say, trying to push away from her but she locks her legs around your hips so you can't pull out.

"Stay," she says, enjoying the warmth of your body on top of her and the fullness of your cock inside her.

"As you wish," you say, in no mood to argue with her now and shifting to get comfortable.

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AN: This was fun to write! Thanks for the request!

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[yuechicake]

a wound like yours doesn't know how to close.

summary: li always shows up at mhin's door unwanted and unexpectedly, bringing nothing but problems.

notes: 1k words, oc/canon, depictions of injuries and taking care of said injuries

It’s the smell that alerts Mhin to Li’s unexpected presence in their home as they push open their uncooperating door: rusty copper and old coins, sharp and nauseating on their tongue.

It’s the blood that lets them know their guess is correct, slick and shining like an oil spill in the moonlight, matted into the carpet and splashed across their scant wooden furniture. 

They take a step into the foyer, pinching their nose. “Li,” they say flatly. “I told you to stop coming here.”

She lopes out of the darkness, eyes floating like pale, yellowed lanterns in the darkness. Already, they can see the source of the blood: lacerations on her arms, torn flesh leaking scarlet, soaking into her ragged clothing. More wounds on her legs and possibly under her clothing, but Mhin can’t bring themself to look closer.

“Welcome home,” she says easily. A hot flare of annoyance lances through them at her tone. At her intrusion or her audacity, they can’t be sure.

“Sit down,” they snap. “You’re getting blood everywhere.”

She acquiesces, settling on a wooden seat with a soft sigh. Mhin is already striding towards the kitchen, snatching whatever medical supplies they can think of. Medicine: it’s everywhere in their house, bandages slumbering next to books, jars of herbal ointments resting below spices. Alcohol, perched in the cabinets, doubling as disinfectant and intoxicant depending on circumstance.

They fist the handle of a bottle of rice wine, pungent as an infection as they bring their haul to Li. “Drink this,” they instruct. “It’ll dull the pain.”

“I don’t need it.”

They purse their lips. From anyone else, they would take it as a sign of useless bravado. But from Li, they know it’s nothing more than bald, honest truth, her words as clean and white as bones. She has a remarkable pain tolerance. They know this, because they’ve stitched her flesh and set bones together while she was completely sober, hardly making any sound as they put her body back together.

But it’s not that she can’t feel pain. She’s still human, after all, and her pain threshold might be above average, but it’s still well within the range of a human’s. It’s just that she’s good at tolerating the things she feels, even when her body is falling to pieces.

It pisses them off.

“Drink it anyways,” they say curtly, bringing the bottle to her lips.

She parts her lips, and drinks their offering, the wine sloshing as she swallows.

“It’s not going to do much,” she says, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. And she’s reasonable, for once. For someone like her, it might not do much more than dull the barest hint of her pain.

“It’s proper procedure,” they say, reaching for a cup of warm water and old, clean rags.

It’s not as if Mhin wants to do this. 

It’s not as if they’re particularly attached to her in any way, not when she gets blood all over their floors and lounges carelessly in their home like she has every right to be there. But she comes, and they admonish, and she smiles, and still they bring out their city of bandages and disinfectants and ointments. 

Li is a law of nature, and so Mhin is helpless: it’s like how the tides are pulled by the moon, and the sun rises in the east each day, and the planet revolves ever so slowly on its axis. It’s simple cause and effect, unchangeable scientific relationships that govern their world. 

If Li is a wound, then they, by all means, have to be a remedy.

So they clean her injuries. They assess the damage. They wrap bandages and sew flesh and dab ointments to prevent infection. They heal, and it’s strange to put their hands towards a task other than ruining others. 

To remember that, a long time ago, this is all they believed their hands to be capable of. Li offers them plenty of opportunities to remember.

They’ve come to know her body so well. The familiar melody of her heartbeat, the rigid lines of her bones, the smooth shift of her muscles. Every wound, every scar, every inch of blood pumping through her skein of veins, every layer of nerve and sinew, every slick, shining organ. 

To know someone’s body like this means Mhin could break it apart as easily as sew it back together. 

They press two fingers against the crescent scar curving around her neck, touch alighting on her pulse point. Strong, steady, alive. She feels so infallible at this moment. 

“Any more wounds?” they say, as if they haven’t meticulously checked every inch of her themself. 

“Nope,” she chirps. 

“Good. If you’re done, then you can leave.” 

Her arms drape loosely around their waist. “I don’t want to, though.” 

“Stop bothering me.” 

Her head falls against their abdomen. Even through their shirt, they can feel the heat of her body, a miniature summer sun. 

They bring one hand up and ghost it over the end of her curls of hair. Not enough for her to feel it, but enough that they can feel the barest silk in their hands. 

“At least clean up your own mess,” they say. 

“Okay!”  

“Not right now,” they grumble as she begins to stand. “You’re going to rip open your wounds again, and ruin all my work. So just… sit there.” 

She nods, settles back into her seat like a dog turning over and over before it can rest. 

Mhin wants to tell her never to come here again. To run to Kuras instead. To stop throwing her brute strength at things without a care.

But she won’t listen to them, the damnable fool. And if she won’t, then they should be forgiven for continuing to do what they want, too. 

[fruitcoops]

Bedsheets and Broomsticks

Day 7: the journey continues! Characters inspired by @lumosinlove's Sweater Weather, header by @noots-fic-fests.

Halloween movie #6: Jennifer's Body (2009), because who wouldn't want to hear Finn drop the "I go both ways" line next?

“It makes no sense.” Lily knelt and laid the map out, smoothing the creases with a few careful passes of her hands. The new angle did nothing. Patterns, clues…mystery, inked in dark lines.

The floor creaked beside her. “I dunno,” Remus said nervously. “Maybe that’s the point.”

The middling green of his shirt made him look sickly in the dank, low light of the house. James was still traipsing about the attic above them, no doubt. She had outright refused to even look at the ramshackle stairs leading up. The living room would be just fine, even if wool and tiny hardwood splinters threatened her knees through her thick stockings. She didn’t want to think about how long it had been since this carpet was cleaned.

The map was some sort of parchment, thin and brittle. Remus crouched beside her; Lily drew the candlestick closer, though she was hesitant to bring it near enough to risk any damage.

“I’m just not seeing it,” she murmured. Defeat was bitter and dry in her mouth. “There has to be something I’m missing.”

“The front door is here.” Remus tapped his index finger on the line-break closest to them. “And we’re here.”

“There’s no basement, just the second floor and the attic.”

“And the attic’s marked on the back,” he confirmed, finally sitting with a huff of breath. His knees and elbows cast spider-shadows on the far wall. The cuffs of his khakis were ragged and stained from trudging through the overgrown yard, where tall grass snuck in through the empty first-floor windows.

Lily chewed the inside of her cheek and pushed her headband back to clear her periphery. “Right. Okay. We’re missing the second floor, then.”

“Mhm.”

“So it’s lost.”

Something shifted. A faint mist of plaster puffed down from the ceiling, too close to be movement from the attic. Remus swallowed thickly. “Or it got taken.”

A shout split the gentle groaning of the house.

Lily flinched herself to standing, already reaching for Remus with both hands by the time the first drop of beeswax hit the map’s east corner and bled over the ink. “James!” Remus called as he backpedaled toward the front door. Footsteps pounded overhead—Lily dove for the map, abandoning the candle to its dead wick and wax oozing into the carpet’s tassels.

“Holy shit!” James’ voice echoed down the stairs. He was coming closer, closer, and Sirius was right behind him paws pattering bodies hitting the old walls they were running, coming full tilt at Lily and Remus.

“What is it?” Lily couldn’t breathe, could hardly speak. They tore through the house in a tumbling pile, through the dining room and kitchen and a parlor that stank of water damage.

“I don’t know!” James answered, equally frantic. “Something—it was white, it was near the stairs!”

“I told you not to go up there!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

His eyes were massive and blown dark behind his glasses. His hair was a mess. Lily let him grip her elbow and pull her down the hall after the others, past closets and the pitch-black sunroom.

The front door was still open. They just had to make it there.

In and around and out and down—she hopped over miniature staircases that she hadn’t even known were there, over thresholds to rooms that blurred into one another until it felt as if they were running in circles. Secret passages that would have fascinated her an hour ago only sent plaguing terror into her belly. She kept ahold of Remus’ knobbly wrist and tore after them, cursing the light heel of her shoes.

“The yard!” Remus hollered over his shoulder. The dark shadow of Sirius bounded ahead in two long strides, shoving a fallen chair out of their path with a scrabble of paws and a push from one massive shoulder.

The dog vanished out the door, cutting a path through the overgrowth with his body. Lily’s pulse muted any other sound but the one-two-one-two-one-two of her feet searching for purchase on the slanting floor of this endless hall.

One-two-one-two-one-two—

One. Two. Onetwoonetwoonetwoonetwo.

Sirius barked. Her heart tripped over itself. Footsteps, growing loud and close.

Lily planted her heel and wheeled around, already reaching out. For what, she didn’t know.

James was right—the thing was white.

And cottony, when she grabbed it by the face and yanked with every ounce of her strength.

The sheet billowed outward with a startled yelp and a burst of dust. Lily wanted to choke on it, but her lungs refused to do anything but suck in desperate gulps of air.

Severus’ grab for the sheet was futile. He froze. Lily stared.

“Lily!” he wheezed. “It was a joke, I’m sorry, I—”

She dropped the fabric and swung.

Severus hit the ground harder and faster than his stupid fucking bedsheet.

Sirius was sitting in the doorway when she turned again, his head cocked to the side and ears pricked up. He was the perfect height for Remus to bury both hands deep in the dark fur around his neck and hang on against his shock-wobbled legs. Lily narrowed her eyes at him. He blinked big silver eyes at her and whined softly. “Aren’t you supposed to be able to smell the difference between a ghost and a human?”

“You’re amazing,” James breathed.

Lily gave him a quick up-and-down look. “Nice costume, Potter. What are you going as? A dusty corner?”

James’ lopsided smile made her chest tight all over again. “Maybe.”

“You have cobwebs in your hair.”

“Sure.”

“And dust on your nose.”

“Whatever you say, Evans.”

He was ridiculous. And warm, when she threw her arms around his neck and let him dip her back for a kiss that stole her breath away more than any false ghost or skipped step. She twisted one hand in the front of his thick white sweater and the other in the orange cloth tied around his neck. He tilted his chin; the kiss deepened. Lily sighed and let herself melt.

--

Far away, curled up in her bed, Lily rolled onto her other side and buried her nose in the soft place of her husband’s jaw. No dreams could hurt her here.

[bts-hyperfixation]

Outside of the Fox

Chapter 31 of 35

2750 words

Y/N longs for a new life when the one she’d been living comes to an abrupt stop. Without much thought to those she is leaving behind, the little fox packs a backpack and disappears. She stumbles across the shelter and makes an interim home for herself while she works out exactly what she wants from her second chance.

Last

You unfurl your legs as everyone around you clambers from the back of the taxi. Seokjin extends a hand out for you, and you take it gladly, using his leverage to climb free. You stumble a little as you free yourself, and he takes the opportunity to catch you in his arms and hold you close, making you giggle as you wriggle to free yourself and help unpack the luggage.

"Aish... hold still, let me enjoy one more cuddle before I have to return to my own empty home," Jin complains.

You do as you're told. You cease your movement and instead encircle your arms around his waist. He gives a satisfied hum as he stretches his neck to rest his chin on your head. 

"Maybe you should just stick around doc," Taehyung suggests wiggling his brows.

"Yeah, that's what we did," Hoseok laughs, "The invite to move in really is just a formality, not a necessity here..."

The taxi drives away after Namjoon finishes paying, and the others gather up the bags from the driveway to lug back inside the house. 

Jungkook is the first to the door, excited to be back in his own home again. Unfortunately, that means he is also the first to see the brunt of the water damage. 

The rabbit whimpers and drops his bags on the porch, running into the living room and digging through the sodden scrap to try and find some of the things he deemed valuable. Namjoon and Yoongi sprint in behind him. Yoongi dives for the utility to turn off the water and electrics, while Namjoon pulls Jungkook to his feet away from the wreckage. The leader coddles Jungkook to his chest and assesses the damage.

"Looks like it hasn't been broken for too long," Yoongi says, "Maybe a couple of hours? Lucky really," He sighs.

"It's definitely going to be expensive though," Namjoon grumbles.

"We will have to get someone in to see if the damage goes into the studs or not," Hoseok points out as he walks through the door, "I know a guy,"

"Call him," Yoongi agrees "Jimin-ah can you help me get the valuables and see what we can salvage from this mess."

"What can we do?" Jin asks as you and he enter the room.

"Can you try and get some of the water out? It isn't too deep, maybe an inch or two? a mop, bucket, and lots of time should do," Yoongi suggests.

You and Jin nod and get to work. He opens all the windows as you open the cleaning cupboard. 

The cold winter air wraps around you as you go about gathering buckets of water, a far cry from the tropical paradise you had all just returned from. You would’ve thought March would bring some spring warmth but apparently not today. Jin works faster than you, scooping up less at a time for sake of urgency. Namjoon returns to the living room, having taken jungkook upstairs and in to his bedroom. None of you seemed to be addressing the fact that Jungkook’s room was downstairs and therefore likely flooded too.

The door to his room was shut and you were planning to keep it that way until you clear as much water out of this room as you could. You just had to remain hopeful that the door staved off most of the damage. 

The bear drapes a coat around each of your shoulders before taking hold of a mop to help you clean out the water. It takes just under an hour of the three of you going back and forth to chuck water out of the door and wring out the mops. Looking at the floor, you are suddenly very grateful for the lack of carpeting. The rug was easy to roll up and throw out into the garden. The wooden laminate had warped in some places, but was usable for now.

Hoseok’s guy said he could be round later in the afternoon, and Yoongi had spent sometime calming Jungkook down by showing him all of the valuables were okay. He even helped to dry them all off with Jimin.

Luckily it seemed Jungkook’s room was mostly unscathed. A little bit of water had started to wear at the door but it was a snug enough fit to only allow minuscule cracks. 

You all huddle into the master bedroom, lounging around to talk about your current situation.

For the time being though the plumber had suggested over the phone that you stay in a hotel or something until he could work out the extent of the leak. 

Taehyung had happily offered to pay for a place for you all to stay as well as the repairs necessary, but the vein in Namjoon’s neck had almost ruptured at the thought. A holiday was one thing (that he still wasn’t thrilled about), but necessities were something he was unwilling to let others take care of. Namjoon really couldn’t afford for 7 of you to stay in a hotel until repairs were complete

Hoseok asked if his old landlord had found a new lodger yet, he’d had a good rent deal that would’ve been cramped but doable. Regrettably the landlord had already signed a new lease.

“My place it is then!” Jin announced to the room.

“We can’t ask that of you.” Namjoon sighed.

“Then what exactly do you think you’re going to do? Live in this sodden house until you finally have the funds to fix it, in like what? Six months? A year?” Jin levels Namjoon with his most sarcastic look.

He is right of course. They didn’t know the extent of damage yet but it wasn’t going to come cheap. If Namjoon accepted all of your help it would take maybe a couple of weeks. On his already tight salary alone? It would be almost impossible. 

Namjoon looks a mixture of insulted and just plain sad as he processes the true extent of what he is going to have to overcome.

“Come on Joonie, let us help you.” Jin says, a lot softer this time, “Stay at my place and we can talk about the financials of it all at a later date.”

You all nod and Namjoon relents, agreeing that it really is your best and only option. You set about unpacking your summer clothes and packing your essentials instead. Yoongi remembers to grab the airbed from the airing closet too, between that and Jin’s bed you should all have a place to sleep, even if it’s a tight squeeze.

________________

Jin’s house is gorgeously decorated, clearly a professional had been in. There were random artworks dotted around, decorative rugs that pulled the room together, and actual coffee table books on the coffee table. It looked straight out of a beautiful home catalogue. What it didn’t look like, though, was lived in. 

Even the touches that were clearly Seokjin’s were so perfectly put away that it may as well have been a show home. Shoes were all in a neat row and coats were hung and pressed.

“Make yourselves at home,” Jin says, ushering you all through the apartment. 

“Someone should,” Yoongi mumbles, glancing around at the pristine surroundings. 

“Are you okay with us moving the furniture around to fit the blow up bed in?” Namjoon asks.

“Absolutely, change whatever you like. I’m not fussed. I’m barely here anyway,” Jin shrugs. 

That makes sense, he had told you as much when you’d been to the hospital with Jimin. It didn’t make it seem any less sad when you thought of him coming home to somewhere so devoid of that familiar warmth of a messy house. Even in your husbands house you both had personal touches scattered through his expensive estate, in fact, he encouraged you to decorate to prevent you from getting too bored cooped up their. 

You place your suitcase in a corner under the window and the others follow suit getting them out of the way. Hoseok helps Yoongi to move the sofa backwards while Namjoon and Taehyung displace the coffee table leaving a space large enough for the air mattress to fit. It’s reminiscent of when you came home to the nest Jungkook had helped Jimin to construct after your first date with Yoongi. As they squabble about directions and beddings, Jin’s house already starts to have a more homey feeling. Even Jungkook is visibly starting to unwind, his shoulders rolling down back into place.

“Can I sleep where you sleep?” The rabbit asks, sidling up to you. 

He bends so his chin is lay on your shoulder. You tilt your neck so that you can rest your head on top of his. 

“Don’t you want to sleep with Yoongi and Namjoon in this new place?” 

He shakes his head, tickling you in the process. 

“I want to sleep in the blow up bed with my blankets, and you, and Jimin… and Taehyung.” He says the last bit quietly.

“I’m sure that should be fine. Although Jin better have a big bed to fit his shoulders, Namjoon’s arms, and deal with how much Hobi wriggles in his sleep. Yoongi could be in for a long night on the floor,” you chuckle.

Yoongi overhears and groans but makes no moves to protest the arrangements Jungkook has requested. The jackal just gathers his and Hobi’s luggage, taking it in to the bedroom. Jin follows behind him with his and Namjoon’s luggage. 

In the meantime Namjoon has gone from looking sad to looking downright miserable, the weight of the world seemingly forcing his shoulders down.

“What time is the plumber coming?” You ask Hoseok.

“Someone should head back to the house to meet him with in the next hour or so, I would say,” he responds.

“ Great, come on then Joonie, I’ll drive.” 

You take the sullen man’s hand and grab a set of keys.

____________________

Namjoon sulks the entire way to the cottage. Every time you try to talk to him, he grunts in response, eventually you give up and focus on the road. Hobi sent you a text to tell you the plumber was going to be a little later than planned but should still be with you before it got dark. 

In the meantime it gave you plenty of time to try and improve Namjoon’s disposition.

“Do you want to hang around upstairs until he gets here? Or shall we get some lunch?” You ask cheerily.

“Whatever,” he grumbles in response.

You sigh and roll your eyes at the man. He has the wear-with-all to look at least a little bit guilty about his behaviour but it doesn’t seem like he plans to correct it any time soon either.

“Namjoon, you are going to have to get over this,” you huff.

You walk away from him, leaving him alone in the driveway staring up at his home as you storm inside. You don’t wait to see if he is following you.

 You march up the stairs and into your room/the office and slam the door. You’ve long since had enough of Namjoon shutting down every time something upsets him, and it wasn’t your job to baby the man. A man that wanted to lead a pack should be far less petulant about it anyway.

You shiver as you finally notice the chill that has settled through the hovel. Having left all the windows open, and with no electricity, the outside air had made it freezing inside. You crawl onto your futon and wrap the covers around yourself although it did very little to shield you when you had very little body heat to assist in warming the blanket in the first place.

 You wriggle and writhe trying to warm the air around you but it only succeeds in making you see just how uncomfortable your temporary turned permanent mattress was. The lumps and bumps stick out a lot more than you remembered. Your mood soured further the longer you sat but you refused to venture out and deal with Namjoon.

A short while later, there is a soft knock on the door and a sheepish bear poked his head in.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You take one look at him and remember how warm he always is and decide to forgive him instantly for his attitude. You open up the duvet wide enough to invite him in and he takes the chance immediately, diving into the empty space beside you. He swings his arms around your shoulders and pulls you into his lap. He still seems unwilling to have a conversation but it’s an improvement. And you get to be warm.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but we really need to,” you start.

Namjoon buries his face into your shoulder and doesn’t respond, so you continue.

“I don’t understand why you are so opposed to everyone actually contributing to the household now. There are seven people that live in this house, potentially soon to be eight if the others get what they are going for… We cannot live on your author salary alone, it’s not feasible.” You comfortingly stroke at the arms he has wrapped around you. 

He sighs deeply into your shoulder. His arms tighten around you and he breathes you in.

“None of us are even pack animals Joonie, this desire of yours to be so in control makes no sense. You’re just going to work yourself to death for no reason,”

Finally he unburies his nose and speaks.

“Did you know my father is a wolf… my mum is a bear, it’s where my features come from. But dad left a much bigger impression on my instincts. It causes me to need to provide, I can’t really control it.”

So many things about him finally click into place with his admission. Wolves were known to be overprotective, to an almost aggressive degree. As with most scientific or technological advancements the hybrid experiment was originally  an act of war. So when hybrids first came into being wolves had been mixed into the DNA a lot to try and make loyal and fearsome soldiers. As hybrids became more common place, wolves became less common because their instincts were too strong, although obviously those that already existed were breeding.

So all of Namjoon’s possessive quirks and aggressive reactions suddenly made a lot more sense.

“I understand on an intellectual level that we would be far better off if I let you all chip in. Taehyung’s like a millionaire or something for fuck sake!”

He pushes you away a little as he becomes annoyed again. You shuffle on to the futon and face him. He buries his face in his hands to not look at you.

“I hate this part of myself, it’s why I get so angry. I’m never angry with you guys… unless it’s about Jungkook, but that’s a separate issue.”

You put a hand on each of his knees, drawing slow circles to try and comfort him. 

He goes on to explain how his father had drilled into him that he should always be in charge, that he needed to provide, that he would one day be an alpha of his own pack. His father would be disappointed whenever Namjoon displayed less than what he thought of as perfect alpha behaviour. A disappointment that left clear marks on his subconscious 

He still won’t look up.

You reach up and pull him into your lap. He allows it, laying his head on your thigh. You stroke his hair and shush him gently.

“Maybe we should talk about getting a therapist for you too…” you suggest.

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“And I really think you should let me, Taehyung, and Jin handle this emergency.”

“You? Y/N you’re a secretary. You shouldn’t be using your little salary for stuff like this, it should be used on nice stuff for yourself,” he complained.

“Joon… I’m the widow of a very very rich man, I’m also worth a fortune,” You point out.

“Then why did you move in to the shelter? Or with 4 almost perfect strangers for that matter?” He stares up at you confused. 

“I wanted to see if I could make it on my own… and I guess I failed miserably,” you shrug “but I’m much happier where I am.”

“I’m so glad you stayed with us.” He says. 

He twists in your lap and pushes up your shirt, kissing your stomach and making you giggle.

Next

Masterlist

Send me asks - doesn’t have to be fic related. Can be smutty, thirsty, fluffy, angsty, whatever you’re feeling regarding BTS. Can be literally anything doesn’t have to be BTS

[whitehallcarpetcleaners]

Carpet Cleaning For A Healthy Home

The Importance Of Regular Carpet Cleaning For A Healthy Home

Dirty carpets don’t just look bad; they can also make your home feel less healthy and comfortable. Our research shows that regular carpet cleaning can improve indoor air quality by up to 50%.

This article will explain why carpet cleaning is essential and how to keep your home fresh and clean.

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A professional cleaning every 3-6 months extends carpet life by removing deeply embedded dirt that wears down fibers.

Deep cleaning techniques, such as hot water extraction, remove tough stains, odors, and allergens that regular vacuuming cannot reach.

Expert cleaning is crucial after water damage or pet accidents to prevent mold growth and eliminate harmful bacteria.

Clean carpets create a healthier home by reducing allergens, dust mites, and VOCs that can cause breathing issues.

Why Regular Carpet Cleaning is Essential

Regular carpet cleaning keeps your home healthy. Clean carpets improve air quality and last longer.

Clean carpets mean cleaner indoor air quality and fewer allergens floating around our homes.

Enhances Indoor Air Quality

We know carpets trap dust, pollen, and pet dander. If left unchecked, these particles can harm our health. Clean carpets help us breathe more efficiently by removing these harmful elements. They also eliminate chemical residues and VOCs that build up over time.

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Then, it sucks out the water along with trapped dirt and allergens. This process cleans carpets thoroughly, leaving them fresh and hygienic.

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Whitehall Carpet Cleaners utilizes specialized tools and solutions to break down difficult stains from spills, pet accidents, and heavy foot traffic. Our techniques also target odor-causing particles trapped deep in carpet fibers.

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The outcome is a fresher, healthier living space for you and your family.

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Regular well-cleaning can extend the life of our carpets. Professional services remove deep-set dirt and stains that home methods can’t reach. This keeps carpets looking fresh and prevents wear from ground-in particles.

Proper care will prolong the life of our carpets, saving us money in the long run. Routine maintenance also helps preserve the carpet’s texture and color, maintaining its appeal for years.

When to Seek Professional Carpet Cleaning

Professional carpet cleaning is vital after water damage, pet accidents, and challenging stains. Keep reading to learn when your carpets need expert care.

Following Water Damage

We must act fast after water damage to our carpets. Water can seep deep into the fibers and padding, creating a perfect spot for mold to grow. If left untreated, this poses serious health risks.

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Our carpets need expert care to prevent long-term damage from water. Professional cleaners use special tools to extract water and dry the carpet thoroughly. They also apply treatments to stop mold growth.

This thorough process helps maintain a healthy home environment and extends the life of our carpets.

After Pet Accidents

Pet accidents demand swift action. Our furry friends can leave behind more than just stains. They create odors and potential health risks. Professional carpet cleaning becomes crucial after these mishaps.

Regular cleaning methods often fall short in tackling deep-set pet stains and smells.

Timely expert intervention prevents stains from setting permanently. It also eliminates harmful bacteria and allergens left behind. For pet owners, frequent professional carpet cleaning is a must.

It ensures good carpet cleanliness and a fresh and healthy home environment for humans and pets alike.

To Address Stubborn Stains

Moving from pet accidents, we now turn to another common carpet issue: stubborn stains. These stains can make carpets look old and dirty, even when they’re not.

Our experts use special tools and products to tackle these tricky spots. We have methods to remove surface dirt beyond what store-bought cleaners can do, and our deep cleaning techniques can remove set-in stains that have been there for a long time.

Whitehall Carpet Cleaners also uses safe, robust solutions that won’t harm your carpet fibers. Quick action on new stains helps prevent them from becoming permanent. But even old, stubborn stains can often be improved or removed with our professional care.

Conclusion

Regular carpet cleaning is essential for a healthy home and a healthier indoor environment. We’ve observed how it enhances air quality and prolongs carpet life. Professional services provide a thorough cleaning that eliminates stubborn stains and odors.

They also address hidden allergens and dust mites. Clean carpets create a safer, more comfortable living space for everyone. Vacuum often and schedule professional cleanings as needed.

Your home and health will benefit from this practice. Contact Whitehall Carpet Cleaning today for all your floor, rug, and upholstery cleaning, disaster restoration, tile and grout cleaning, and disinfection services!

[ronearoundblindly]

Warning Signs

um, I've had a miserable day, so I wrote angst that absolutely no one asked for. Partly hurt/comfort, too. Totally unedited. No descriptions of injury. Just feels and sweet, protective Steve. WC 1.7k

Summary: Your first bad mission shows Steve how you handle tragedy.

Silence.

The quinjet is flooded with it, thick and suffocating. You'd never know there were eight living souls on board.

Plus two bodies.

Steve's worked with everyone around (alive or dead) for a long time, but not you. He watches you follow the pattern of everyone else's grief. As much as he hates to be dismissive, this is standard stuff for the team.

If he had to guess, he's looking at the numb phase. They'll touch down at the base and go through the motions. You'll make it to your quarters, take an absurdly long shower, possibly have a meltdown, maybe blow off steam at the gym, and emerge 'feeling better.'

It won't actually be better. It doesn't actually get easier. He knows that very, very well.

He hears a sniffle and starts, thinking it's you, but in fact, Sam's broken first. That's not a bad sign; it's actually good. Sam Wilson likely broke on purpose, to set an example, to show it's okay to not feel okay, to begin the mourning properly so that you all can heal. He's a good man that way.

Sam wipes his eyes. He makes no moves to step away for privacy.

Your face is blank as you stand from your jumpseat. Steve watches with fascination while you gather bottles of water and the med kit. You make rounds to everyone, completely expressionless. You look over every person for injuries, cleaning every single cut before moving to the next. You walk a tight circle around him and, seeing no damage, step back without a word, handing him his water like a prize lolly at a doctor's visit.

Finally, you go to Sam, and he obediently stands to be inspected, holding out his wrist and forearm crusted in blood.

Arms clamp around him. Your hug is brutal, strong, and a push that sends Sam over the edge of 'example' into the deep end of reality. One by one, each member aboard breaks. Steve's never seen anything like it. They are all close. They are all comfortable enough to see each other and be seen by each other this way, but not around you.

Not yet, Steve would have thought, but he takes a seat and buries his face in his hands, too. He lets himself drown for a few minutes.

Collectively, the flood of emotion drains away, and it's a shocking difference. By no means has everyone healed, but they've vaulted several of the usual hurdles all on a single ride home.

You're still hugging Sam when Steve collects himself for touchdown. The door lowers, breaking another seal of silence, and you let go.

Steve stiffens.

Your face is still blank, eyes distant and unfocused, cheeks dry.

You let nothing go. Not a single tear. It looks like you drank down the grief of seven war-weary soldiers and are just holding it inside.

You walk out first after letting the med crew come in. Steve can't follow because the nurses fuss over everyone and bombard him with questions. You're gone by the time he looks back down the ramp.

He's only able to come to your door hours later.

You don't answer. F.R.I.D.A.Y. confirms you are inside. Still no answer.

"Dammit," Steve whispers. He doesn't want to have to do this, but since you've never been on a mission like this one with him, he has no standard for how you process.

"Override the door. Authorization gamma four foxtrot."

"Override accepted, Captain," the AI gently announces, and the magnetic latch pops open.

Slowly, Steve's eyes roll over the whole room, trying to remain as calm as possible.

The place is trashed. Mattress flipped against the window, squishing and bending the blinds. Chair upsidedown on the unaligned boxsprings. A dent in the headboard above shattered lamp pieces. Dresser and nightstands face down on the carpet. You're nowhere in sight.

He can hear water running, so he immediately goes to the closed bathroom and knocks, shouting your name.

Nothing happens.

He tries the handle. Locked.

Steve's way past being nice about this. His shoulder cracks through the hollow wood easily, and he bursts in.

There's no steam.

Through the glass doors, he can't see you standing. There's a dark streak above the rim of the tub basin.

He leaps forward, careful not to grab the glass so hard he shatters it (and he knows he can because he's done that twice).

You're curled up, facing away, drenched and letting cold water run all over you, fully clothed.

Steve says your name gently, heart racing now with concern. He uses a grip at the back of your neck to check for a pulse as well as turn you.

Blank. Your face is still devoid of...anything. You're completely catatonic.

He reaches over to turn off the water.

"Okay," he soothes, "okay, sweetheart. It's okay. Here we go."

He slides an arm under your legs, supportive hold still at your neck, and lifts you out of the tub and straight onto his lap, soaking himself and the bathmat.

"Come on, sweetheart. I got ya."

Steve scurries to yank two towels from the rack above him and covers you loosely. Your eyes don't meet his. You don't appear to see him at all.

He's seen all sorts of versions of shell shock--poorly treated and well handled alike--and he knows several things he can do.

But he just waits. He watches you blink and breathe, and that's it. That is the sum total of what your body can muster for who knows how long.

Your hair is half dry and the pads of his fingers are wrinkled by the time you turn your head in towards the crook of his elbow and shut your eyes.

Steve sighs, wrapping the towels a little tighter and adjusting you closer in his hold.

"We're okay. We're going to be okay." He pets strands of hair off of your face. "You did everything right. You did everything you could. We all did."

Steve keeps saying aloud what he thinks to himself after each mission, except when he says it to you, he means it. He's proud of you, and he says it. He promises to take care of you, and he will. He keeps talking, slowly rocking back and forth until his own heart has calmed and you're sleeping.

He keeps holding you but stretches out his legs because they've fallen asleep, too. He can't carry you while his lower half tingles painfully. Soon enough though, he's standing, adjusting you to allow him to maneuver past doorways easily.

He can't get any of your clothes from the upended furniture and there's nowhere to lay you down. Steve barely thinks before heading straight to his own room, towels still dangling from you and his arm, but he finally hesitates when his twitching fingers remind him of your wet tac suit.

The whole point was not to take you to the infirmary while you slept, but he can't possibly change you without waking you.

He makes an executive decision. You have to rest, and the best way to get started on a proper rest is to get you comfortable and dry first.

Steve sets you down in his chair, leaving the towels bunched under you as he steps away to find a shirt and shorts for you to wear. He returns to see you awake with heavy eyelids, sitting up but slouching.

The blank face is back, so he asks you to change. You don't move.

He asks you to stand up, and you look down at your feet before pushing up off the chair.

"Can you give me those wet clothes?"

He turns around when you start to unzip the suit, waiting for the squelch of fabric hitting his floor to stop.

Offering the stack of clean things without looking, Steve says, "these are for you."

Nothing happens.

He peeks over his shoulder to find you staring at the wall, and he knows he'll have to do this himself.

T-shirt first, he bunches it open and ready while still turned away.

"Arms up."

He looks only at your hands to align the sleeve, lets it fall and drape to cover as much of you as possible, and then pops your head out. He sweeps away the hair that pushed over your face again.

Next, the shorts.

"Left leg, please. Good. Now the right. Thank you, sweetheart." Steve's kneeling, pulling the elastic wide enough to not drag his thumbs up your legs, but he still grazes the swell of your hips before releasing the band.

"Are you tired? You can sleep some more here."

You look over at the bed, his bed, completely unfazed. You don't even nod. You shuffle over and lay atop the covers, facing in, hands between your tucked-up knees, still staring.

Steve takes that as a win and sets about short tasks to get himself settled as well, checking on you after everyone, eventually laying on the other side of the bed.

Your eyes are closed, so he thinks you've fallen asleep and turns out the lights. He tries not to move around too much and disturb you until you speak.

Your voice is so small, so flat.

"Why them?"

Steve turns back to face you in the dark. "I don't know," he offers as honestly as he can. "I don't know."

Your breathing comes a little heavier for a while. "Why can't I feel anything?"

Tentatively, he lifts a hand to the dip of your waist, hiding his heartbreak deep down in his gut.

"Because you'll feel too much every other day--" his thumb sways back and forth over the worn cotton of his shirt over your skin "--and sometimes you need a break. It's okay. I'm right here."

"What are you gonna do?" The words choke you, laced with fear of having failed in some way so soon. He knows that judgment. He judged himself that way until the day he realized: mourning doesn't make him a better soldier but it does make him a better man.

Steve can give you the same gift. He can give you space to mourn.

"Watch over you, sweetheart," he mutters, "just like I promised."

[Sequel: Yield]

[Main Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[deceptive-daydreams]

The Under-Ground

Chapter One - Welcome to The Under-Ground

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 |

Modern!Barista!Eddie AU - In which you work at the local Hawkins coffee shop where you thought you'd be able to escape the horrors that were high school a few years after graduating. Until one of those horrors lands a job in the closing shift with you...and you have to train him.

Enemies to Lovers, Modern!Barista!Eddie AU, Eddie x Fem Reader

5K Words

Warnings - Eddie is an asshole, eventual smut, I don't think there's anything else but please let me know if I missed anything

Author's Note: I finished this sooner than I thought I would...pls let me know what you think, I am having so much fun writing this so far and I can't wait to keep going

Masterlist

Next ->

The chill Autumn air infiltrated the apartment and left you shivering, the wool blanket atop your comforter did little to aid you in getting warm.  That’s what five hundred dollars a month got you in small town Hawkins, it's what you could afford.  Old striped wallpaper that alternated a faded baby blue and pale yellow that seemed to have been glued to the wall since the 70’s barely clung to the walls, a majority of it peeling and begging to be torn off.  The stained white linoleum throughout the kitchen had seen better days and the carpet in the living room and bedroom was dingy, so dingy that no vacuum could possibly come close to cleaning it.  The lock on the door was on the verge of breaking and almost didn’t work–almost.  And of course the heater was definitely broken, the creepy landlord would take his sweet time to fix it, leaving you with a freezing apartment as the seasons changed and Hawkins welcomed the fall.  A broke college student by day and a barista by night, these are the cards you were dealt for now.  

Classes at the community college had finished for the day, rotating to the night courses.  A few papers were due next week, one for your business class on the effects of product promotion in business growth that happened to be stressing you out extra.  Your fingers tapped away at your laptop from your mattress nestled in the corner on the floor of your tiny bedroom.  4:30PM, the time in the corner of the screen read, just half an hour before your shift at The Under-Ground.  With a groan, you click save on the document and shut the laptop which was certain to be opened later tonight after your shift only to continue the torturous essay.  Begrudgingly you began your pre-work ritual of grabbing whatever snack or meal you had in the fridge, scarfing it down, and then tidying your appearance a bit while listening to your daily playlist named “Eh” on Spotify.  Today’s vibe was set by Dreams by Fleetwood Mac.  

The rusty bathroom faucet sputtered water before allowing a full stream to flow into the sink.  You splashed some water on your face to feel more alive although it may have been a mistake in hindsight since the apartment was already cold and rather than feeling refreshed, you felt like a wet dog.  Dabbing your face with a towel hanging from over the rod where the tie dye shower curtain hung as well, you collected any leftover mascara from the previous night beneath your waterline and around your eyelids.  Moving to the compact closet in the bedroom, a simple outfit of jeans and a maroon knitted sweater you’d ‘claimed’ from the lost and found at the college were chosen and paired with your only signature docs.  Lastly, your apron was tied around your waist in a neat knot.  

Grabbing your keys from the laminate countertop and shoving your laptop in your bag, you make your way through the damaged and scratched up wooden door that was the entrance to your apartment, the number seven nailed to the front of it.  “God dammit.” you jam your key in and out of the lock, twisting and repeating until it finally clicks in place.  The door leads right outside into the biting air and you scurry down the concrete stairs while avoiding touching the nasty railing, Mrs. Harrison’s chubby cat, Raphael is perched right at the bottom like he always is.  His large green irises stare up at you, giving the appearance that he was just a fluffy ball of black fur with eyes.  “Ralphy” you mumble your nickname for him affectionately as you steal a pat from his head on your way out of the apartments, a small meow chiming through the air.  

The Under-Ground wasn’t a far walk but it sure did seem that way the colder it got.  You’d been working there since the Spring and so far had no issues with weather but you knew it would bite you at some point.  The walk through downtown Hawkins is crisp and cloudy, leaves blowing delicately from the trees and laying perfectly in the street, colors varying from red, orange, and brown.  It was mid September.  Patrons wander about the streets attending to their daily errands.  Teenagers mess around at the entrance of The Hideout, no doubt attempting to use their fake IDs only to be turned away by the bouncer, Stan.  

Joyce Byers cleans the storefront window of Melvald’s, taking care to not miss a single streak.  Her face lights up as her son, Will approaches the store.  Max Mayfield skateboards past you down the sidewalk at lightning speed, the only reason you know it's her is a flash of her flaming red hair as well as Lucas Sinclair trying to keep up with her on his own board, a nervous expression written on his features as he carefully maneuvers.  Nancy Wheeler hurriedly gets into her car, wrapping up her workday at The Hawkins Post while Jonathan Byers gives her cheek a kiss and heads over toward Will and Joyce.   

The Under-Ground comes into view as you round the corner, the brick building vacant of customers at the moment from what you can tell through the windows.  The evening rush hasn’t picked up yet, usually kicking in at around six when the college students like yourself would make themselves at home and study over lattes and espresso shots.  The bell chimes above the door as you pull it open, the smell of coffee beans and pastries flooding your nose and some upbeat jazz playing through the speakers.  Robin sits atop the counter much to the boss, Ronnie's dismay but he’s not around to scold her.  Her dirty blonde bob is freshly trimmed, bangs laying just right across her forehead while she has a lollipop sticking out her mouth and she skims through a magazine lazily.  One leg is hitched up onto the counter with her bright yellow converse on display, knee to her chest.  She’s wearing jeans with a few holes and a vintage tee.  Her bright blue eyes glance up and land on you, face lighting up as she greets you.  “Hey, Robin!” you greet back, making your way behind the counter to clock in on the computer.  

“You’re lucky, it’s been dead for hours.” she says while setting aside the magazine.  “Think it’s gonna rain too so it’ll probably stay that way.” she continues.  

“Good, I can probably catch up on some homework then.” you hum, punching in your employee number.

“Oh and some new guy is supposed to close with you tonight, I think you’re training him.” she mentions.

“So, no catching up on homework then.” you sigh.  Training someone new wasn't necessarily difficult however it was draining since you already knew how to do everything like the back of your hand.  Dumbing it all down always took a minute since you had to slow down and give them time to catch on.  

“Did Ronnie say who?” you ask, turning to face Robin.  Hawkins was small which meant that everyone knew everyone.  Which was unfortunate sometimes since that also meant everyone knew everyone's business.

Robin hops off the counter, hair bouncing as she does.  “Nope, I just know that it's some dude.” she crunches down on her lollipop and discards the stick in the garbage a few feet away.  

With a sigh, you head to the back room to put your bag in your locker only to find Steve lounging at the lunch table, his feet crossed on top of it while scrolling through his phone and two legs of the chair he occupies off the ground as he balances.  Today he sports some red corduroy pants and an ivory crewneck sweater finished off with converse, just like Robin’s, only black.  “What’s up?” he greets, not once looking up from his phone.  

“Scrolling through Tinder again, Stevie?” you mock while setting your bag in your locker for safe keeping, hooking the lock around the metal and clicking it into place.

“Actually, it’s Grindr.” he says matter of factly.  

“My bad, you find anyone cute?” you ask, peering over his shoulder, his aftershave smelling subtle and pleasant.   

He lands on a cute blonde guy with green eyes, most likely from a town over.  “Not really.” he exhales, running a hand through his voluminous hair.  

“Well what about him?  He’s pretty cute.” you encourage.  

“Dude, it says he likes to do Karaoke for fun.” he glances behind at you with a raised brow.  You shrug, unaware of why that would deter him.  

“If that's not a red flag, I don’t know what is.” he states, shutting his phone off and shoving it in his pocket while standing, making his way to the vending machine.  “What happened to me, Socks?  I used to pull 'em left and right and now no guy or girl will give me the time of day.”  Socks was your nickname given by Steve and Robin after the dreadful incident where a pipe burst from one of the sinks and you happened to be standing in front of it, the bottom half of your pants along with your socks becoming soaked.  The rest of the evening you worked your shift without shoes, only in your sopping wet socks with your jeans rolled up.  It had been an ongoing joke since, although you always reminded them how horrible it is to go around in wet shoes, the squeaky sound they would make against the floor and the squishiness of the soles.  They always disagreed, insisting that it would be worse to work in only socks and how they’d just opt to continue wearing the drenched shoes.  

“Steve, I think Grindr and Tinder and all the dating apps might be giving you unrealistic expectations.” you tell him truthfully.  

“Okay, but who the hell else am I gonna find in Hawkins?  Been there, done that, this is my only option."  He inserts a dollar into the vending machine and punches in his selection, shortly after a bag of pretzels falls.  

“Pretzels, Steve?  Really?” you taunt.  “How bland of you.” you deadpan.  He pulls open the packaging and tosses a pretzel in his mouth all while giving you his signature pout.  “Maybe that's your issue, you dumb yourself down for these people you don’t even know.” you continue.

“Wow.” he raises his arms in disbelief, a hint of humor evident.  “That…” he flings a pretzel at you, hitting your chest.  “...was mean.” he sasses.  “But probably true.” he finishes.  “Don’t you have a job or something?” his head tilts toward the door.  

“Yeah, and so do you.” you shoot back, grabbing his apron from where it hung over one of the breakroom chairs and throwing it at him.  

Exiting the room, you hear Steve chime in one more time.  “I’m off in like fifteen!”  Your shifts always overlapped with Steve and Robin’s, them usually taking the morning to afternoon shift and you taking over closing.  Ronnie would always hang out in the back office so you didn’t have to close alone but that was pretty much the extent of his labor.  The beans needed to be ground for the next day, chairs stacked on the tables, bathroom tidied, ingredients prepped, counters wiped down, etc.  And you were always the one to do it, not that you minded so much.  Ronnie never micromanaged and you had gotten good at closing so it became somewhat of a meditation time.  The town winded down and the dim lighting provided a relaxing glow, almost as if you were in a spa.  You could at least pretend anyway.

Robin was making herself a latte, carefully pouring the milk over the coffee in an attempt to make a design.  She’d been practicing for weeks with no success.  “Dammit!  Another wasted latte!” she slams the small pitcher of cream onto the counter.  

“That for me?” you question over her shoulder, spotting the blob of white draped over the coffee.  You ended up drinking them most of the time, always looking forward to your daily latte handcrafted by Robin.  

Letting a breath out, she hangs her head in defeat.  “It is now.” 

Steve saunters out from the back, stopping in his tracks right next to Robin.  “Another one?  Seriously?” he mutters before continuing to the espresso machine to make probably his fourth drink of the day.  

“When is the new guy scheduled to come in?” you ask as you pour yourself an iced coffee.  Everyone was allowed one free drink a day however it was never enforced unless the owner, Ronnie’s mom was around.  She owned The Under-Ground while her husband owned The Hideout.

“5:30, I think?” Robin answers.  The clock on the register currently reads 5:20.  Steve glances at you, trying to hide a smirk as he quickly looks in the other direction.  

“What?” you demand.  Shaking his head he continues pouring an espresso shot into paper to go cup.  A tug on his sleeve doesn’t get him to budge.  “Steve, why did you give me that look?!” you hound him.  

“Nothing!” he raises his hands in defense, a shit eating grin on his face.  

“Steve.” you narrow your eyes at him, brows knit in frustration.  

“Yeah, Steve.  What do you know that I don’t?” Robin steps towards him while crossing her arms in offense.  

“Nothing!” He lies, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Steve.” Robin glares at him.

“Y’know, this is already getting to me.” he points to his cup.  “I gotta run to the bathroom.” he rushes to the back once again, holding his stomach and pretending to grimace in pain.

“What’s up with him?” you look at Robin, the two of you left standing there without any idea.  She shrugs, handing you the botched latte she just made.  

Pushing aside your theories, you begin setting up for your shift, restocking the cups and making sure there’s enough whip cream in the canister.  The Under-Ground had a very cozy vibe, dark mahogany woods decorating the interior, little twinkly lights draped above the windows, and a snug book nook tucked away in the back corner with large shelves that took up the whole wall.  Accompanying it are a few tables and chairs, their wood matching the counter and on top of each table sits various houseplants that you’d have to remind yourself to water.  

Robin tops off the pastries as she always does at the end of her shift, adding some chocolate croissants, blueberry muffins, brownies, and a brand new lemon loaf to the case.  She finishes off by wiping off the glass with a rag and then ensures the display of gift cards and bags of coffee beans on the counter is dusted off and pristine.  

You busy yourself by restocking the to-go sandwiches in the open cooler at the front of the counter, making a note to also grab a few more parfaits from the back since those were running low as well.  A few books are scattered among one of the tables so you take it upon yourself to collect them and tuck them neatly back on the book shelf.  Other than that, nothing else is left to do and you should be ready to start training the new hire without any distractions.  You reward yourself by sipping on the latte, the bitter taste gracing your tongue and warmth coating your throat.  Robin disappears to the back briefly, coming back out with her bag while shoving her apron into it, ready to clock out the second it hits 5:30.

The roaring of an engine suddenly echoes in the streets, an obnoxious sputtering filling your ears as you glance up and out of the front window.  It comes to a screeching halt as a motorcycle pulls up into one of the parking spots horizontally rather than vertically like the rest of the vehicles.  Jackass, you think to yourself as the owner kicks the kickstand down.  He wears a standard black motorcycle helmet, a leather jacket, ripped black jeans, and some combat boots, a walking stereotype for some kind of punk ass kid.  

Jim Hopper catches him, his cop car parked a few spaces away while he does his crossword in the driver’s seat.  You can’t quite make out what's being said but as Hopper exits his car in a hurry,  you can tell they have most likely had run-ins like this before.  The jackass looks up in aggravation as he still straddles the bike, the sky reflected in the visor of his helmet.  Hopper appears to be telling him off but not giving him a ticket when he most definitely should.  Jackass reparks the bike correctly, gesturing to it as if he’d performed a magic trick, Hopper with a hand on his hip and a scowl on his face.  He points a finger at him, muttering one last thing before retreating back to his own car, eyes never leaving the guy.  

Steve emerges from the back again, carefully.  “Shit.” he mumbles.

Your gaze moves from the scene outside to behind you at Steve who is also now looking out the window.  This provokes you to look back outside.  Just as you’re about to ask, the jackass removes his helmet, revealing a head of wild brunette curls, his hand adorned in chunky rings as he grips the helmet.  Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention back to inputting some inventory in the computer.  Out of the corner of your eye you can see that he’s making his way toward the door.  “Are you kidding me?” you say under your breath.  

“Thought trendy coffee wasn’t his style.” you say to no one in particular.  Steve inhales as if waiting for some kind of impact.  

“Oh…” Robin says in some kind of realization.  

The bell above the door rings as he swings it open, striding across the shop and in front of the counter, his eyes are a dark abyss as he looks from you to Robin and then to Steve.  

“Munson.” Steve acknowledges him.

“Harrington.” he says back, a tinge of disgust rolling off his tongue.  Robin’s eyes are wide as they shift between you two.

“What do you want, Eddie?” you bite, voice full of malice as you glare up at him.

Bringing his hand to his chest, his face contorting into a mock pout, he sets the helmet on the counter.  “Ouch.  That make you feel better, sweetheart?”  Sarcasm drips from his tone.

You scoff about to tell him to leave but he just continues.  “Make you feel all big and bad?  Get it out of your system yet?” he taunts, a smirk playing on his lips.  

“Oh no.” Robin says quietly, leaning over you to clock out and then subtly making her way around the counter.  

“Why don’t you get the hell out of here and find someone else to dick around with?” you snap, grabbing his helmet and forcing it into his hands. 

A cocky look takes over his features.  “Well what if I’m a paying customer?” 

 “I have the right to refuse service so, I’m refusing.” you can feel anger coursing through your veins, blood running hot.  

“That’s unfortunate.” he frowns, moving to make his way behind the counter.  “For you.” his stare burns into you, two black holes nearly swallowing you up.  

“I don’t have time-” you begin but are cut off when he reaches over you and starts typing away at the computer, clocking in.  His cheap cologne and cigarette smoke flood your nose.

Steve looks at you apologetically as Eddie passes him on his way to the back.  A silence lingers as you process that you’ll be forced to work with the one person in this town you can’t stand.  Eddie Munson was the new hire and of course he had to be scheduled on the closing shift with you.  Life couldn’t get any worse than this, a shitty apartment, and now a shitty job that you used to love combined with mountains of homework.  Your eternal hell.  Work was supposed to be a place you could briefly escape.  Sure it was still work but you didn’t mind.

“Steve!” both you and Robin scold him at the same time.  He squeezes his eyes shut in preparation for more yelling.  

“You knew Ronnie hired him and you just didn’t tell me!” you seethe.  “You could have warned me!  I could have switched shifts or something-or, or–or tell Ronnie he’s a criminal or something!  So he wouldn’t get hired!” your eyes are bulging out of your head as you reprimand the poor guy.  

“Okay, see, the way you're reacting right now doesn’t give me any confidence that you would have reacted any differently if I told you earlier.” Steve explains while clocking out.  

“So you think springing it on her like that was any better!” Robin says loudly.  Steve contemplates for a moment.

“Look, Socks.  I’m sorry.” he apologizes sincerely.  

“Socks?” Eddie stands in the doorway that leads to the back, now free of his leather jacket and wearing a black Metallica tee.  “What kinda fucked up thing did you do for a nickname like that?” he asks, a smug grin on his face.

“Oh, kill me now.” you drag your hands down your face in agony.  Steve and Robin slowly make their way toward the front door, looking at you sympathetically.

“See you tomorrow?” Robin awkwardly points finger guns at you before they speed up and shuffle out the door.

You sigh heavily, dropping your arms limply to your sides.  Turning around, Eddie is about to speak up again but you cut him off. 

“I don’t wanna hear it.  You don’t talk unless it's about work.  I’ll train you today and then I’ll ask Ronnie to move you to mornings or something.” you tell him in one breath.  

He laughs before replying.  “You’d like that wouldn’t you?  Hate to be the bearer of bad news but you’re stuck with me, doll.” he chuckles lowly.  “I only work nights.” he says with that stupid grin.  

“Who did I piss off for this to happen?” you mumble to yourself, rubbing at your temples.  “Put this on.” you shove an apron at his chest.

He grunts at the impact.  “No.” he simply says, refusing to grab it from you.  His expression is blank.

Scoffing, you shove it against him even harder.  “This is work.  We work here.  Stop acting like a damn child.” you say sternly.  

Now taking the apron in his hand, you think he’s finally come to his senses until he bunches it up and tosses it onto one of the counters, eliciting a groan from you.  You were foolish to think he would play nice.

–

Trying to train Eddie was as useful as training a fly.  He didn’t listen and would purposely mess things up claiming he didn’t know any better and he almost charged one of your only customers that night double the actual cost.  It was like watching a toddler, you couldn’t take your eyes away from him or all hell would break loose.  The cherry on top was all the snide comments he would make which led to more bickering.  

When it came to closing time at 9:00, you were exhausted and could practically feel the eyebags hanging off your face.  There was not enough espresso in the world to keep up with Eddie’s antics.  You were counting the money from the register, making sure all was accounted for, Eddie watching as he was supposed to be learning when really he was zoned out.  

“Alright, Socks, are we done here?” he says with a bored tone.  

You glance between him and the cash, still counting under your breath while ignoring him.  Poking your arm, he tries again.  “Socks.  I got things to do.” he continues.  “Hey, I’m talking to you–”

“--Oh my god, just go.” you break, finally completing your counting and setting the money back in the drawer neatly.  

“Fuck yeah.” he whispers, rushing to the back to collect his things.  Pinching the bridge of your nose, you only hope he quits before you have to work another shift with him.  Eddie wasn’t just an asshole, he was the asshole who was partially responsible for your shitty high school experience.  You know it's dumb, there’s no reason to let something keep a hold on you for so long but it just does.  It makes you cringe, it's like the equivalent to peaking in high school but opposite, and yet you can’t seem to look past it.

Nothing but the twinkly lights and the dim overhead lights lit up the shop, a moment of peace taking over you while the town outside laid itself to rest.  Shutting off the music and untying your apron to drape it over your arm, you do one more scan to make sure everything is set for tomorrow.  Satisfied, you head to the back to retrieve your bag.  Eddie passes you, almost running you over on his way out, his stupid helmet in hand.  

“See ya tomorrow, Socks.” he salutes as he clocks out, shortly after you hear the bell chime signaling that he had left.  He was overusing that nickname but you knew it would only please him to call it out.  You had to keep your cool until he figured out he didn’t fit in here and quit.  Exhaling, you unlock your locker, grabbing your bag and tossing your apron in before exiting and heading for the door.  

The door is locked and double checked as you step out onto the sidewalk only to find that it was still raining.  Just my luck.  Eddie’s dumb motorcycle roars to life again a few feet away from you, a nuisance to the tranquil town around you.  Rolling your eyes, you begin your damp journey home.  It’s not until you’re in front of the movie theater that you hear that damn bike behind you.  You think he’s going to speed past you, maybe splash some water on you while he’s at it but the engine rumbles as if right next to you–which it was.  

“Are you lost?” you spit, continuing to walk.  

He rides beside you slowly, irritating you to your core.  “Need a ride home?” he asks, slightly muffled by his helmet.  

You huff before responding.  “No.  I don’t need anything from you.  Get the hell out of here.”  You keep your gaze straight ahead as you walk, him still following behind.

“Sweetheart–”

“--Do NOT call me that.  Ever.  Again.” you scold, taking a moment to point your finger at him, your face displaying disdain toward him.

“Look, I may be an asshole but it's raining.  I can give you a ride.” he coaxes but it doesn’t work.  You keep on, the rain drops collecting on your eyelashes.  

“Get bent, Eddie.” you say, now walking faster, hoping to evade him.

He lifts the visor on the helmet, now showing his eyes as he keeps up with you.  “Get on the damn bike.”

“Fuck you.” you snap at him.

Desperate, you start jogging across the crosswalk and that's when he gives up.  Glancing behind you, he flips the visor down and revs the bike before speeding off.  You weren’t stupid and you weren’t going to play into his little sadist games.  Life was already steamrolling you and you did not need some jackass to factor into it.  After a few minutes of walking, you finally rounded the corner and the faded powder blue apartments came into view, street lights illuminating the way.  The streets were sleek with rain and oil, giving off reflections of the traffic lights and buildings.  You were careful to scurry your way across the parking lot to avoid any of the creeps that hung around late at night.  It wasn’t exactly the best area, being notorious for drug deals and any other illegal side hustles.  

Raphael’s spot on the stairs was vacant due to the downpour which you frowned at, you always looked forward to seeing him upon coming home.  A few skeezy looking men stood nearby however they seemed to be involved in their own drama as they argued and took no interest in you.  Gratefully, you continued quietly up the stairs and hurriedly unlocked the door, jamming the key in the lock until it gave out to you.  

Slipping into your nightly routine, you begin to unwind as much as you can.  A quick shower awaited you since the hot water was limited and you couldn’t wait to munch on one of the sandwiches you snagged from work.  In your defense Ronnie had ordered way too many for the week and the back fridge was overflowing with them.  The local deli they came from, Anderson’s had some fairly good quality meats and cheeses so for that you were thankful as they pretty much kept you fed.  Tonight’s would be turkey and swiss with mayo on sourdough, your favorite.  The lights flickered on as you hit the switch, another quirk that came with the run down apartment.  The living room and entryway were now bathed in a warm and quite dim glow, or in other words if you wanted to read a book, it’d be quite difficult to see.  Shivering from being drenched in rain, you set your bag on the kitchen counter adjacent to the entryway and start taking off your damp clothes, peering into your room to toss them into the hamper and slipping into the bathroom.  It was a tight space, not a whole lot of room to do much but it was home.  

Turning the faucet to ‘hot’, you wait for the water to get warm enough to bear, the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom still bothered you no matter how long you lived there.  You stood on the bath mat feeling the water with your finger until it was to your satisfaction, stepping in and feeling welcomed by the sudden warmth you’d been waiting for all day.  In that moment you feel relief from the pressures of the world, the deadlines, bills, loans, essays, all of it.  Everything melts away for approximately three minutes and that's when the water starts to turn cold again, returning you back to the dreadful reality you wish you could neglect.  

But to your dismay, the cycle just starts all over again, keeping you hostage.

~end~

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tags - @mmunson86 @haylaansmi

[sustainabilitythoughts]

A stitch in time

“A stitch in time saves nine.”  This old saying is still very applicable and fits right into our sustainability mindset.  Making repairs as soon as possible not only saves effort but can also reduce the amount of materials you need for the repair and the amount of waste generated during the repair.  A timely repair can rescue something that would otherwise become trash.  Here are some examples.  I’m sure you can think of a lot more. 

Mend a tear or split seam in clothing while it’s small. A small repair might not even be visible.  

Leaks don’t get smaller if you ignore them.  An unattended leak can rot wood in walls and floors and could eventually result in major rip-out and replacement.  And leaks waste whatever resource is being leaked.  Check for water leaks under sinks and showers, in attics, around windows (air leaks can also increase your heating and air conditioning bill) and doors, and in basements and crawl spaces.

Repainting a building or item before the material under the paint is damaged will reduce effort and materials required for repairs.

Check your car tires for unusual wear patterns.  Proper tire inflation and wheel alignment will help your tires last longer and help your gas mileage.  Proper routine maintenance will help your car last longer.

Clean spills right away so floors, cabinets, carpets, and clothing are not damaged.  Regular cleaning with mild cleaners can prevent the need for harsh cleaners after soil builds up.   

[swabian-princess]

Domestic engineer tales - daily cleaning routine

Hey girlies,

as we all know - I'm a proud domestic engineer (aka SAHGF) and while this life is very soft I still have responsibilities. One of them is cleaning.

I grew up with a mother that wasn't about cleaning all the time. Sure, the basics were always done but she wasn't bothered if some pet hair was on the couch or if the kitchen wasn't cleaned until the next day.

Well, my bf is the direct opposite. He hates dirt, dust, stains, pet hair and the list goes on. Basically - he wants our apartment to look like nobody lives there. He's a perfectionist and he can't relax if he suspects the apartment is not clean. That's when I enter the game - it's my task to tidy the apartment every day, so he can come home and simply relax.

I'm not going to lie - it was really rough in the beginning because it seems like this man can smell a faint stain on a towel ten miles away.

Realize that maintenance is key!

It took some time for me to realize this. Just trust me - it's way easier to clean just a little bit every day than to spend hours cleaning once a week.

1. vacuuming

My first step is always vacuuming the whole apartment. I need roughly 30-45 min to thoroughly vacuum the apartment. My holy grail tip is to invest in a wireless vacuum cleaner. It doesn't have to be the newest dyson! In fact, bf and I have three vacuum cleaners: two dysons, one of them wireless and one Phillips, and I absolutely prefer the Philipps one over both the dysons.

2. dusting

I hate dust. It makes my nose itch and my eyes water - so there is a strong no dust policy in my home! I just grab an good old swiffer and simply dust off all my counters and all the surfaces in the apartment.

3. disinfect

I blame the pandemic for my urge to disinfect everything. I love sagrotan cleaning wipes and I always buy them in bulk when they're on sale. I wipe down my kitchen counters and every other surface in the apartment. I've been doing this for a few months now and I don't see any damage on our furniture that could be caused by the wipes.

I also wipe down my bathrooms - my sink, the water taps and the complete toilet. I also spray down the toilet and my door handles with disinfectantspray for extra protection.

4. polishing

We have quite a few glass surfaces that need to be polished every day because they tend to get grease stains very easily. I take a microfiber towel and a cotton towel and spray those surfaces with a special glass cleaner, rub it in with the microfiber towel and dry with the cotton towel for a streak free finish.

5. couch vacuuming

It was not the best decision to get two white/grey coated cats with long and fine hair while still having a black couch. You. can. see. every. single. hair. I'm very happy that our Philipps vacuum comes with a special attachment for pet hair removal. I use it on both of our couches and the attachment works like a charm. No more hairs!

6. making sure it smells good

A good smelling apartment is mandatory for me because I believe that a good smelling apartment makes living way more enjoyable.

I make sure to clean the cats' litterboxes frequently - I try to scoop the litter out immediately after they finished their business. Nothing is worse than the smell of cat shit or piss and I know way to many people that have their whole apartment smell like their cats litterbox because they neglect cleaning it.

I also spritz our couch and our carpets down with some Febreeze golden orchid cushion cleaner. It smells heavenly and the smell stays for hours! It's also pet safe, so don't worry.

Last but not least - candles. I like to light some scented candles in different rooms of the apartment to make sure that it smells nice everywhere. My current favorites are the yankee candles in vanilla cupcake and sunny daydream!

It takes me around 3hours daily to finish cleaning the apartment and that's only maintenance.

I deep clean different rooms on different days during the week. My daily tasks also include loading and unloading the dish washer, doing laundry, cooking and cleaning the kitchen after cooking.

lots of love

Selene