#flood repair near me

[waterdamagerepairhutchinson]

The Water Damage Restoration Process

At Service Restoration, we have a specific approach to restore your home effectively. Our certified professionals have the experience and knowledge to get the job done right. Here is our step-by-step process for disaster restoration services:

The first step is to assess the damage. We will take a look at the affected areas and determine the extent of the damage. We will also identify the type of water that is causing the damage. This is important because different types of water require different approaches for treatment.

The next step is to remove the water. This is done through a process called extraction. We use high-powered pumps and vacuums to remove the water from your home.

Once the water has been removed, the next step is to dry the affected areas. We use state-of-the-art drying equipment to remove any remaining moisture from the air and surfaces. This helps prevent mold and mildew growth.

The final step is to clean and sanitize the affected areas. This includes cleaning all surfaces, fixtures, and personal items. We also treat the area with an antimicrobial solution to kill any bacteria or viruses that may be present.

Conclusion: If you are dealing with water damage, it is important to call a professional right away. Service Restoration Hutchinson has the experience and knowledge to get your home back to normal quickly and effectively. Contact us today to learn more about our water damage repair hutchinson process!

[georgebanton]

Welcome to Restoration Masters Renovation And Remodeling for kitchen restoration services. As the affordable Water damage restoration service in Round Rock TX, we specialize in swift, efficient, and reliable solutions to restore your home. Our expert team also provides comprehensive dry out mitigation to prevent further damage and ensure your property is safe and secure. Additionally, we excel in fire damage cleanup and repair services in your area, transforming your spaces. As a trusted floor restoration company in Round Rock TX, we bring your flooring back to its pristine condition. Trust Restoration Masters Renovation And Remodeling for all your restoration needs and experience unparalleled quality and care.

[aqua-fast-water-damage-clean-up]

Emergency Water Damage Cleanup by Aqua Fast: What to Do

Experience the reliability and efficiency of Aqua Fast Water Damage Clean Up and Mold Remediation when you face water damage emergencies. Our dedicated team stands ready 24/7 to respond promptly to incidents such as burst pipes or flooding, using advanced equipment to extract water swiftly and commence the water damage restoration process without delay. We emphasize thoroughness in every step, starting with comprehensive assessment and followed by meticulous drying and dehumidification to prevent mold growth and structural deterioration. At Aqua Fast, we understand the urgency and stress of water damage situations, which is why we prioritize quick response times and effective solutions tailored to restore your property to its pre-damage condition.

Trust Aqua Fast Water Damage Clean Up and Mold Remediation for comprehensive water damage restoration and mold remediation services. Whether you’re dealing with a sudden pipe burst or extensive flood damage, our team is committed to delivering prompt, professional, and reliable service to restore your peace of mind and the integrity of your property.

Aqua Fast Water Damage Clean up and Mold Remediation

Encino, CA

(747) 208-0861

[homeremodelingcontractorsworld]

Asbestos presents a major risk to human health because it is a carcinogen. When inhaled or ingested, asbestos fibers can lead to serious illnesses such as mesothelioma, asbestosis, and other health complications.

[marlingswaterremoval]

If you are searching for a water damage clean-up service near me. Here you search to finish. We at Marlings come with the best-class water damage restoration company and offer premium service to customers. Your house could support major water damage as an effect of a storm, flood, or plumbing malfunction. To mitigate the damage, water removal must be done as soon as doable. Water removal, water damage cleanup, and ensuing water damage restoration are specialties of the Marling team of professionals. So book an appointment right now to fix the water damage click on the given click...

[daniswoso]

Short sight. (part 2)

Summary: Leah and r reconcile, but can they repair what’s broken?

Warnings: Use of Y/N, angst and fluff, happy ending, overthinking and hate on social media.

*******

Leah’s thumb hovered over the call button, tears welling in her eyes as she pressed it. She could’ve sobbed when she heard your voice, meek and tired on the other end.

“Hello?” You croak, phone shaking in your hand as you saw Leah’s name pop up on the screen.

“Y/N! Fuck, I- Can we talk? I know now. I know why you broke up with me. You’re so much more than good enough for me, please please don’t overthink that baby-“

“Lee-“

“Y/N I love you for fucks sakes nothing will ever change that and-“

“Lee!” You shout at her, trying to get her to listen. “We can talk. Tomorrow at our- your place?”

“Uh, yeah. For sure, absolutely.” She breathes. And without another word you hang up.

And sure enough, the next afternoon, you were at the front door of your shared- her apartment. Though you did not have the flowers you’d picked up on the way, as you had tossed those into a park bin on your journey there, realising it was silly and neither of you were, in fact, in secondary school.

She answered within a matter of mere milliseconds. She was breathless and the wispy bits of hair around her hairline were stuck to her face with a light sheen of sweat dusting her sunkissed skin. God, she was gorgeous. Presumably, she’d been working out, evidence supported by the numerous weights and freshly used treadmill in the corner of the living room.

“Shit, uh, that time already? Damn, sorry, Y/N, I- I totally forgot,” she sighs, sweeping a hand over her face and gesturing for you to come in.

“I’m gonna cut to the chase, ‘s that alright?” you swallow, guilt and a few emotions you shouldn’t be feeling for an ex swilling around bitterly in your chest.

“Uhm, oh, right, yeah,” she hums, seemingly somewhat… dejected? You’d have thought she’d have been thrilled not to have to deal with floods of ‘Y/N’s not good enough!’ in her comments now.

“I- I ended things, obviously, to uhm… to make it easier on you-“ you attempt to explain further but upon hearing the words ‘for you’, Leah’s temper seems to flare and her eyes narrow.

“And was I ever going to get a say in that?” she snaps, almost bitter at the revelation you weren’t even planning on letting her be even a minor part of the conversation.

“I figured that-” and she cuts you off again.

“No. No, dammit, Y/N! You don’t get to decide things for me! Because if it had of been up to me? I would’ve told you I think you are the most beautiful, incredibly talented person to have ever graced the fucking Earth!” she rants, her hands moving theatrically; a habit you had noticed previously and had always found ridiculously cute, though now the movement left a bitter stinging behind your eyes.

You force your eyes away from her form sheepishly, unable to look your former lover in the eye. Maybe you had been too hasty in your attempts to rid her of the plague you labelled as yourself. In your mind, you were just that: a plague… A burden. A pest that was to never leave someone alone. It was what you had been told, so by proxy, it was what you believed.

“I’m not good enough for you,”

“Yes, you fucking are.”

“No, Lee. I’m not. I’m not as pretty as your exes, nowhere near as good at footy as you… You’re- You’re perfection incarnate, and I’m… Me.” you spit, your words coming out in a flurry of apprehension and hate.

Leah’s heart broke as she realised you did well and truly believe that.

“Ask me,” she inhales sharply, cupping your face. “ask me what I think you are.”

You roll your eyes, a warmth in the form of red, scalding hot tears bubbling behind your eyes, “What do you think I am, Leah?” you whisper, as if afraid.

“Perfect. Talented. The axis my world spins on, my world in general, actually. My moon, my stars… I would sooner swallow lava than let you believe otherwise,” she chuckles, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks as she rubs a calloused, yet somehow still oh so soft, thumb over your cheekbone.

“Please don’t swallow lava,” you chuckle, your voice breaking slightly as you attempt a joke.

She chuckles briefly before letting the joke go, “Do you get what I’m sayin’? Because I’m saying that you are everything I’ve dreamed for and more.” she whispers, pressing her forehead to yours, enjoying the intimacy she had longed for since you departed.

The house hadn’t been the same since you left. Everything bright was drained of its colour and everything that was the same shade of your favourite colour you loved was so painfully you it made her break down.

“I think so,” you sniffle, flinging your arms around her desperately, seeking solace in her. Her scent, warmth, toned arms around you. Anything her, really. You had just missed her.

You had missed her so much.

“God, I’m an idiot, I’m so sorry,” you choke out, your voice lodged in your throat uncomfortably, as if you’d accidentally swallowed a tennis ball. Your tongue felt dry, your eyes, however, did not as they allowed hot tears to be streamed down your face, mascara streaking like fresh chalk being washed away on a rainy day.

“Don’t you dare apologise. You let your anxiety get the better of you, I get it. But next time… just… just talk, okay? Talk to me, to anyone, as long as it means you don’t pull this bullshit again.” she chuckles, kissing the top of your head, burying her nose in the crook on your neck, craving your scent.

“Okay, I promise I will,” you sighs, wiping at your eyes and kissing her softly, your hands cupping the defined contours of her sharp - yet somehow simultaneously soft - jaw.

“Okay. Thank you,” she sighs shakily, wiping her own tears away.

“No problem, Red.” you smile weakly, the emotions you faced today proving to be quite taxing.

“I love you, Blue.”

“I love you more, Arsenal.”

“Fuck off, Chelsea.”

“You first.”

“Never.”

**********

A/N: figured that i need to write and use that as a coping mechanism before i just spend the rest of my life curled up in a ball sobbing my heart out! 👍🏼👍🏼

[thegatesofsilverandbone]

Dylan followed his dad into the small hardware store, the familiar jingle of the bell sounding as they entered. It was quiet, with only the hum of the fluorescent lights above. They were just grabbing a few things for their weekend project—a new fence for the backyard—and Dylan was already zoning out as his dad grabbed a cart and started picking out supplies.

After wandering through the aisles for a bit, they headed to the checkout counter. But when they got there, it was empty. No cashier, no employees in sight.

"Guess they’re short-staffed today," his dad muttered, tapping the bell on the counter.

No one appeared.

"I’ll check the back," his dad said, glancing toward the storage area. "Stay here and see if anyone shows up."

Dylan nodded, leaning against the counter as his dad disappeared into the depths of the store. He glanced around, waiting. Still, no sign of anyone. The place felt almost abandoned.

As he stood there, a woman walked up, holding a couple of screws in her hand. “Hey, do you know where the wood filler is?”

Dylan was about to tell her he didn’t work there, but instead, the words that came out were, “Aisle four, just past the paint supplies, near the caulk guns.”

The woman smiled, giving him a quick “thanks!” before heading off.

Dylan blinked. How had he known that?

Before he could think too much about it, an older man approached, holding a small toolbox. “Excuse me, son, what’s the best way to fix a squeaky hinge?”

Again, Dylan felt an answer bubbling up from somewhere inside him. “Graphite powder, or silicone spray if you don’t want to make a mess. Both are in aisle seven, just past the hand tools.”

The man smiled and nodded appreciatively. “I’ll try that, thanks!”

As the man walked away, Dylan suddenly felt strange. His clothes felt tighter, his shirt straining across a broader chest. He looked down and noticed his arms were thicker, more muscular, and dusted with hair. His reflection in the glass door of a nearby display case showed his face aging, his jaw squaring off, a shadow of stubble forming on his chin. He looked at least five years older.

Before he could process what was happening, a couple approached, holding a paint roller. “Any idea what kind of paint works best for the bathroom? We’re trying to avoid mildew.”

Without missing a beat, Dylan replied, “Go for a mildew-resistant paint. Satin or semi-gloss finishes are best. You’ll find what you need in aisle two, with the specialty paints.”

As they thanked him and walked away, Dylan felt the transformation deepen. His body grew bulkier, his shirt straining even more as muscles filled out his frame. Tattoos crawled up his arms—intricate designs he suddenly remembered getting over the years. His beard was now fully grown in, thick and neatly groomed. His scalp tingled as his hairline receded further, leaving him mostly bald.

Memories that didn’t belong to him started to flood his mind—long hours spent working in this very store, not just as a worker, but as the owner. He could see himself stocking shelves, advising customers, learning every detail about hardware and home repairs. He remembered years of pride in running this place, but those weren’t his only memories.

He remembered Tom. The warmth of his husband’s laugh, the way they’d worked side by side to turn this store into something successful. The quiet nights at home after long days at the shop, the two of them curled up together, talking about everything and nothing.

Dylan—no, he wasn’t Dylan anymore. He was Ben, and this hardware store was his life. He owned it, ran it, loved it. And he shared it with Tom.

When his dad finally returned from the back of the store, he wasn’t Dylan’s dad anymore. The man walking up to the counter was now just another customer—one Ben vaguely recognized as a regular. They’d probably chatted a few times over the years, but there was no deeper connection between them. His father was gone, replaced by this new reality.

“Hey, thanks for waiting,” the man said with a grin. “Looks like I found what I needed after all.”

Ben nodded. “Glad to hear it. Anything else I can help you with?”

The man shook his head and walked toward the door. As Ben turned back to the register, the world around him felt settled, solidified. This was his life now. The store was bustling again, customers browsing the aisles, and Ben had a mental map of everything in stock, every aisle, every brand. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

A familiar voice broke his thoughts, and he looked up to see Tom walking toward him, wiping his hands on a rag. “You holding down the fort while I fix that shelf in the back?”

Ben smiled, his heart warming at the sight of his husband. “Yeah, you know it.”

Tom grinned and leaned in for a quick kiss before heading back to work. Ben’s heart swelled with contentment. This was where he belonged—running the store with the man he loved.

And as he glanced around at the customers he’d helped today, he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

[fuckyeahisawthat]

I was thinking about the Voice, and how much people outside of the Bene Gesserit actually know about how it works, and how much Chani understands about what's happening to her while she's being controlled by Jessica, and now we have fic. (pspsps more Paul x Chani here if you like this.)

Just imagine this is one of the times they come back to the sietch, some time before Paul drinks the Water of Life.

"What is the Voice?" she asks, trying to keep her tone casual.

They're sitting in her yali, both of them with their battle kit spread out on the floor around them, cleaning and repairing and restocking what's needed after weeks in the desert.

Usul has his own rooms, in a branch of the sietch near his mother, but there are always...hangers-on lingering outside, waiting to catch a glimpse of the Mahdi. Those people have learned by now that she won't hesitate to draw a knife on them if they come around here.

His gaze flicks up when she asks the question. But he doesn't ask where she heard about it, or why she's curious now.

"It's a Bene Gesserit skill," he says, eyes focused on the rip in his stillsuit he is mending. "A way to control people. Make them do what you want."

"So your mother can do it?"

"Yeah. She's a master at it."

"Is that what...all this is?" She gestures vaguely around her, to the corridors where increasing numbers of people keep wanting to bow to him.

"No." He gives a rueful smile. "That's just good old-fashioned propaganda. The Voice doesn't work on large groups of people. It's individual. Everyone has a specific pitch that reaches them."

He seems to know a lot about it. "Can you do it?" she asks.

For a moment he doesn't answer. Then he says, "Yes. Sometimes."

"Let's see it, then."

"What?" He looks up sharply this time.

"Go on, I'm curious," she says, leaning back on her hands. "Voice me."

"No." He has that little half-smile on his face, the one he gets when he's nervous or embarrassed about something.

"Why not?" she asks, because now that he's refused so flatly she is curious. He is usually so eager to share, to teach and learn. She's not sure why this is different.

"You'll hate it," he says, and now she has to make him do it, because she'll decide that for herself, thank you very much.

She goes straight for the argument she knows will convince him. "If it's a weapon, I should know how it works. Right?"

After a minute he sighs and says, "Yeah. All right."

He sets his stillsuit and the patch kit aside. Sits with his hands on his knees for a long moment, watching her with an unreadable expression. She holds his gaze, because she's used to other people finding him a little uncanny by now, but he's always seemed like just a person to her.

The longer she watches him, though, the more it feels like there's a charge building in the air around them, like the crackling feeling on the wind that tells you a sandstorm is coming before you can see it.

"I'm going to tell you to stand up," he says, his voice quiet and even.

"Okay. Can I resist?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "You can try." He exhales a long breath and lets his eyes drift closed.

She's ready to be indignant about that, but then he opens his eyes and says, "Stand."

His voice is hardly louder than a quiet conversation, but it reaches into her like a physical force. Her muscles simply move without her input. She is on her feet before the thought of resistance occurs to her.

The jarring feeling of foreign control is gone as instantly as it arose. She stares down at him, and the surge of sick horror in her gut must show on her face, because he winces.

"I told you," he says. He shifts uncomfortably, pulling his knees up to his chest, turning his face away.

Her heart is pounding, adrenaline flooding her bloodstream, like her body knows something hostile has been done to it. She forces herself to take deep, calming breaths. There is no danger here, just Usul sitting on the floor looking miserable next to her.

She makes herself sit back down, landing heavily on the low step up to the bed platform behind them.

"Have you been able to do that this whole time?"

"Kind of." He's still not looking at her. "It doesn't always work for me. It takes years of study to learn to use it the way my mother can, at any time on anyone."

She shivers at the thought.

"It was easier with you because I know you." His voice is low and guilty. "I knew the right pitch."

"How?"

He shrugs. "I can't really explain it, I just knew."

She realizes now that his hesitance hadn't been secrecy or false modesty, but fear.

She gets up off the ledge and moves over to sit down next to him, her shoulder bumping against his.

He turns toward her suddenly. "You know I would never...for real--"

"I know," she says. He's still searching her face urgently for reassurance. "I know that," she says again.

His hair has fallen in his face. She tucks an errant curl behind his ear. "I know you would never hurt me," she says. Even though, for the first time, she's convinced that he could.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for wanting my mother to stop making so much noise in her own house when I’m staying here?

So me (22M) and my mother (62F) have a complicated relationship. She is very very toxic and always has been - she used to induce illness in me and make my pre-existing disorders worse so that she could keep me with her when she separated from my father, she never let me leave the house because she would tell me I would be harmed or something would happen to me if I was away from her, she would control everything I did and what I ate or drank, where I went, etc. The house she and I lived in was an incredibly bad environment for me. It’s not taken care of, it’s dirty and unhygienic, I was constantly ill and having allergies set off, she would try to feed me dirt-covered food I watched her pick up off the floor, the shower didn’t work and she wouldn’t let me go elsewhere to bathe. I kept talking about moving out, especially once I got into a serious relationship with my girlfriend (26F), but it would always devolve into an argument with her telling me I wasn’t going anywhere, that my girlfriend would leave me, that she’s the only person who’ll stick by me, and so on.

All of that is basically background context to counterbalance the (fair) preconceptions of “you’re guests you’re imposing on her you can just leave” etc you’re about to have.

So I finally moved out this year and in with my girlfriend and it was wonderful. However, my mother was blowing up BOTH of our phones 24/7 telling me to come back, and it reached the point she was contacting Other people (family, our friends) to get Them to tell me to move back in with her and asking where I was at all hours of the day, who I was with and what I was doing. I was ignoring her as best I could. Then a couple of weeks ago mine and my girlfriend’s house flooded after our upstairs neighbour burst a pipe in the building and water began fountaining through all our electrical sockets and lights and pouring from the ceiling. We had nowhere else to go except to stay with my mother until the house was repaired and made safe again, especially because so many of our belongings were ruined.

So we’ve been back here since. We’re forced to sleep on the couch together in the living room because in the time I was gone she somehow let bugs infest my old room and her cat pee all over the mattress of the bed.

Now, my girlfriend and I are both very non-confrontational and I’m usually super hard to annoy, but I’m also autistic and highly sensitive to noise. And my mother is. Very noisy. She blasts the TV at full volume all day even when she leaves the room and gets angry if you turn it off even if she’s not watching it, she’s a chainsmoker who’s constantly hack-coughing, she’ll have the radio playing OVER the TV, she shouts out the windows to her neighbours, she keeps all the windows and doors open, she’ll play music at full volume without headphones on, etc. I have noise-cancelling headphones from when I still lived here but she’s often so loud it doesn’t muffle it at all.

Recently it’s reached the point where she’ll wake up during the night, say 2-4am, come through to the room we’re sleeping in where the TV is, and just turn the TV on, turn the radio on, start singing along to music, slam doors, VACUUM. For the past 2 weeks she’s been waking me and my fiancée up every single night, often several times, and we’re at the end of our rope with it.

We can’t afford a hotel and have nowhere else to go, when we try to ask her to keep it down at LEAST during the night she says she can do whatever she wants because it’s her house and says we’re being ungrateful, and when we’ve offered to try to clean up my old room so we can sleep in there she snaps at us not to touch anything of ‘hers’ and gets mad because we’re implying her house isn’t clean, that we don’t want to be near her, that we must be telling everyone her house is shitty, etc.

Yesterday I got into an argument with her because I was having an extremely bad sensory day, my girlfriend said she had a migraine, and my mother responded by turning up the TV. When she saw I was holding onto my headphones and my girlfriend was near tears, she turned it up even louder and smirked at me. The argument basically ended in her screaming at me that if she was so bad we could leave, I impulsively said okay we would, and then she got physically aggressive and barred the doorway and told us I wasn’t going anywhere because she’d make sure of it.

It’s just. Exhausting! GF and I are constantly sleep-deprived, drained, grumpy, tired, and dealing with headaches on top of the stress of trying to financially recoup from the house flood and deal with getting everything fixed, and half of me is mad at my mother for not having even basic respect for us sleeping or our issues when half the time she is not even watching the damn TV or in the same room as it, while the other half of me feels conflicted because it’s her living room and we’re sleeping in the TV room and she’s putting us up when we have nowhere else.

AITA (/are we the assholes) for wanting her to accommodate us despite being guests?

What are these acronyms?

[angelyuji]

lost keys

william afton x afab!reader warnings: noncon sex, kidnapping, creepy boss, gross power dynamics, william afton is a murderer, ooc-willy, henry lost charlie, william lost evan, this story follows my own personal canon abt fnaf :) violence, williams a sick sick freak and i want him bad sawry, she/her pronouns for reader

MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY!

william afton sucked. he was an asshole and a creep, but he was also your boss.

“god he’s so awful.” your coworker whispers as you both wipe down tables. the pizzeria was closing and you both watch as he stalks around, watching everyone. “i miss henry. i hate when ass-ton’s around.” she sighs and you agree. henry emily had taken the last couple weeks off, and rumors spread around that there was a death in the family. you stay silent, eager to finish your work and leave. both of you wince as you hear william shout out orders to one of your coworkers. william comes near you both to inspect your work. he places a hand on your lower back, leaning in to check. you feel a chill go down your back at his touch. you resist the urge to creep away, but as he rubs his thumb against your back, you immediately jump away.

“finish up quick.” he gives you a stare and walks away to the others. your coworker grabs your arm.

“ew, what the hell was that?” she looks at you panicked.

“god, i hate when he does shit like that.” you whisper to her. she whips her head to look at you.

“he’s done that before?” she whispers.

“yeah, like i forgot my hat once and he called me into his office and put the hat on me and like… called me his good girl.” you shudder as you recount the situation. you friend stares at you, jaw dropped.

“what the actual-” she raises her voice, but you cut her off.

“shit, let’s finish up and get out of here.” you panic as he looks back at you both at her voice. everyone finishes their work and chat as they head out. you stand at the front, fishing through your pockets for your car keys.

“what’s wrong?” your friend stops to look at you. you sigh, exhausted.

“i forgot my keys, man…” she laughs at you, before patting you on the shoulder. you turn to head back inside.

“you want me to wait for you?” she calls out as you open the door.

“nah, you can go. i’ll see you tomorrow!”

“you sure? i know ass-ton’s still here. i don’t want to leave you alone with that creep.” her eyebrows furrow as she remembers what happened earlier.

“don’t worry, i’ll be okay. he won’t even hear me come in.” you wave her off. she, hesitantly, waves goodbye and you head back inside. the pizzeria was creepier that usual as you stand alone in the front. you turn to wave to the animatronics, but they weren’t on stage. “he must be doing some repairs…” you mumble to yourself before calling out, “mr. afton? i just wanted to ask if you’ve seen my keys?” silence follows and you sigh, thankful. you head to the employee room to see if you left them there. you walk down the silent hall, your footsteps echoing. you feel the hair on the back of your neck raise as you walk down the dark hallway. you pass ass-ton’s office and you see the light on. you quietly pass by his office, not wanting to get interrogated by him. you turn the knob to the employee room and quietly go in, the door squeaks and you wince. you spot your keys on a table and grab them. you feel relief flood your veins, happy to go home.

“(y/n).” you jump, startled at the voice. william stood at the door, an edge to his tone.

“mr. afton! ha, i don’t know if you heard me, but i- uh- i forgot my keys.” you lightly slap your forehead, nervously laughing. he doesn’t move from the entrance. you don’t move either, feeling something wrong.

“if i had known that all it took were some keys to get you alone…” your boss chuckles darkly. he starts to walk closer to you and you back up, panic setting in. you notice something in his hand, glinting in the darkness.

“oh god…” you see the knife and put the pieces together. you realize that as he walked to you, he stopped blocking the door and you make a break for it. you try to sprint around him, but his hand lashes out and wraps around a chunk of your hair. you scream and he pulls you to the ground, your head throbs. he’s on top of your legs, holding you down. william cackles as you scream, he tries to bring the knife down into your stomach, but you hit him as hard as you can wherever you could reach. shocked, william stumbles off and you run down the hallway.

“THERE’S NO WHERE TO RUN, (Y/N)!” he screams after you. you hear his thundering footsteps follow and you run into the first open room, slamming the door shut. he bangs on the door for a couple seconds before stalking away. you breathe out a sigh in relief. you turn and hold back a scream as chica and bonnie stares back at you. the smell hits you suddenly, the stench of iron. you notice the blood dripping to the floor from the cracks in the robots.

“oh… oh god…” you cover your mouth with your hands, feeling tears drip down. you inch closer to the blood, but before you could inspect the scene, something smashs against the door. the doorknob falls off and you stare, unable to move. you watch as the door slowly creaks open. your boss stands in front, staring at you. he’s gripping a knife in one hand and you notice a hammer dropping to the floor with a thud. you try to move, but knowing you could step in blood stops you. swallowing, you choke out, “blood.”

william smiles, warmly, “a means to an end… though, i did enjoy hearing them scream.” you choke out a sob, paralyzed as he steps closer to you. he stands, looking down at you, inspecting your face. he takes a hand to brush strands of hair behind your ear. his hand was cold as it grazed your face. you flinch, feeling the tip of the knife poke your stomach, and his smile widens. “so pretty…” he whispers as he leans in, close to your ear. his hand grips the back of your neck and he pulls you close to lay his head in the crook of your neck. you stand stiffly against him. “i’ve had my eyes on you for so long. cute little face, so… innocent.” you can feel his breath on your skin and your skin crawls.

you hiccup and you feel him chuckle, “what- what do you want from me?”

“what do i want from you?” he pulls away, “(y/n), i want relief.” he brushes his hair back and puts a hand on your waist, affectionately. you don’t respond, looking for a way out, and he continues, “i’ve lost so much… i need something for myself for once. these kids…” he gestures to the suits, bleeding out onto the floor. you feel your stomach drop.

“k-kids?” you feel like throwing up as you see a tiny tuft of golden hair peeking out from chica’s suit. “you- you killed these kids?” you back up, but step into blood. “oh my god…” you feel yourself gag as you feel the squish of your shoes. he comes closer to you and you’re forced to back up into the desk. william grabs your arm, tightly squeezing. you look back at him.

“at first, it was just supposed to be one… a test. but, it was just so… fun!” you see a manic grin crawl up his face. his pupils were blown wide, “hearing their screams, how easy it was to make them shut up, how satisfying it was shoving them into the suits. that was a last-minute idea by the way.” horrified, you try to move, but his hand tightens. “i mean, when i killed henry’s brat, i had just left her out there in the rain. i didn’t think to hide her somewhere, which was my mistake.” he shrugs, “but these two?” he gestures to bonnie and chica, “i planned better.” william laughs. you break down. you were going to die, just like these poor kids, alone and afraid.

“are you going to kill me too?” you whimper out as you sob. william had taken a breath, so he could continue his speech, when he heard you.

he coos as he cups your face, “oh no, sweetheart. no, no. i couldn’t kill you. i mean, if you had just not ran earlier, we’d be at home, but… plans change.” his hands drift down to your waist before it travels under your shirt. you panic, realizing what was happening.

“no no no, please, i’d rather die.” you try to shove his hand away, sobbing harder. william rolls his eyes and waves the knife in your face.

“would you really rather die? cause i can make that happen for you and ill keep your corpse warm to fuck.” he shrugs.

your eyes widen, “you’re insane.” you sob and he puts the blade to your neck.

“if you really want to die, than go for it.” he presses the blade into your neck and you hold your breath. a moment of silence passes between the two of you as he waits for you to kill yourself, before he tilts his head, lowering the knife, “that’s what i thought.” his hand moves from under your shirt to your head and yanks your hair. you yelp, and william turns you to face his desk before shoves you down to lay flat on the table. you wheeze as you hit the table and william trails the knife down your leg. you lay, afraid to move, as william tugs your pants down to your ankles. his knife traces your skin, before cutting into your underwear, and you feel him press himself against your ass. “so beautiful… i knew you’d be perfect for me.” you can hear the smile in his voice and you feel a chill of disgust go down your body. you hear him unbuckle his belt.

“please, mr. afton, i’m begging you. i won’t tell anyone, you can just let me go.” you sob as you feel his fingers slide over your slit. he hums, disappointedly, seeing how dry you are. he tosses the knife to the side and you hear it skid across the floor, before hitting an animatronic.

he ignores you, “i wanted to make this feel good for you, wanted to feel you clench around my cock, but i’m not gonna waste anymore time.” ��he pulls you back using your hair and taps a finger on your lips, “open.”

“fuck y-” he shoved two fingers into your mouth before you could finish. you gag as he pulls you back against his chest, shoving his fingers deeper. you choke around his fingers and he moans. he pulls out his fingers and see them slick with your saliva. you take advantage of the new position to try and elbow william but without missing a beat, he grabs your arm and twists it against your back. he pushes you back down. you scream, pain throbbing from your shoulder to your arm. he keeps his hand pressed against you, keeping your arm held back, as he drags his fingers down your slit. his rough fingers sent tingles down your spine and you grit your teeth to hold back any sounds. you feel his fingers push into you and you choke out a moan.

“all that running and screaming just for you to be clenching around my fingers.” william pulls his fingers out and you whimper.

“you’re psychotic.” you grit out, arching your back.

he laughs, “i know.” you hear his pants hit the ground and you press your cheek against the desk, sobbing. you feel the tip of his cock rub down your slit before he pushes in. you moan, unable to hold back, and william moans with you. “you feel so good, sweetheart.” you feel a warmth spreading throughout your body as he thrusts into you, pausing for a second. his other hand rests on your hip, squeezing.

“fuck.” you choke out as he fills you, his pelvis pressing against your ass. you feel him lean forward and pull your shirt back to expose your shoulder. his lips press against your shoulder, lovingly. without thinking, you lean back into the soft kiss and hear a soft hum in your ear, before teeth pierce your skin. you scream as william bites down into your shoulder, he lets go and pulls out till the tip of his cock is still in. his hand leaves your hip to rub his thumb on the mark he left.

“you’re so good to me, (y/n)… i should’ve done this the moment i saw you.” his hand goes back to your hip and he lets go of your arm, before snapping his hips back against you. you moan, unable to hold back as he pounds into your sweet spot. you feel your toes curl as the pain of the bite and the pleasure he’s giving you starts swirling. you grip the desk as it shakes, he fucks you with no care for your pleasure, but you feel something building up inside of you. “my good, good girl…” william moans as he feels you squeezing his cock.

“feel… feel so good…” you moan as you feel the pleasure numbing your head. you feel a wave of pleasure rush through your body and you let out a silent scream, vision blacking out. william feels you gush around his cock and he pushes in once more to the hilt, before filling you full. you lay there, exhausted, feeling his cum drip out onto your thighs. you shiver as william takes a finger to scoop it and push it back into you.

“cute.” you feel a jacket cover you up and you let yourself drift off. you feel him left you into his arms and murmur into your ear, “i’ll wake you when we get home, sweet girl.”

[foundtherightwords]

Love, If You're Near

Pairing: Michael (Hoard) x OFC

Summary: With a troubled past and a hopeless future, Gwen is just trying to survive on the streets of London. When she meets a man named Michael with a rather strange request, she shrugs and goes along with it, never dreaming that she will find a soul just as broken as hers, or that sometimes broken pieces can fit together perfectly, to bring healing and hope when one least expects it.

Warnings: discussions of prostitution and domestic abuse

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: I've had this idea for Michael even before "Hoard" was released, and after watching the film, I was happy that it was still viable. I don't condone Michael's actions, but I can see where his desire for love and affection comes from, and I hope that after what happened with Maria, Michael could start his own journey of redemption and healing. It is what I based my idea on. I also took some inspiration from "Frankie and Johnny" (the 1991 movie with Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino, not the song).

"Hoard" takes place in 1994, and this is about 4 years after that.

Also, big thanks to @wheels-of-despair for sending me a transcript of the movie. It's helped me tremendously in deciphering the East London dialogue!

Gwen dropped down on a bench outside Dalston Junction Station, slipped her right shoe off her aching foot, and gingerly touched the raw red spot on the back of her heel, through her fishnet. "Cheap piece of shit," she grumbled. Except the shoes weren't exactly cheap. Twenty quid down the drain and they hurt like fuck, even after she'd tried every trick in the book to break them in. But her last pair had broken beyond repair, so it was either this or go barefoot, and she didn't want to step on broken needles and used condoms and whatever garbage that littered the backstreets of Hackney. Plus it was freezing. She'd met a stag do the previous night, and they had kept her out until the morning, eventually straining her all the way over in Chiswick. It was almost noon by the time she crawled back to her flat. It was too cold to sleep in, so she'd whiled away the day in coffee shops and pubs, waiting until it was time to go back out on the street. At this rate, she would take a five-quid blowjob in a car if it meant getting somewhere warm.

Across the street, the Hackney Carnival Mural shouted at her with its peeling musicians and protestors waving their "Unite for Peace" banners. Gwen turned away, annoyed. Idiots. What good is peace, when one is cold and tired and doesn't even have a decent pair of shoes?

It was almost Christmas, and a slow night. The nights had been slow for a while now, not like when she first started. Ten years on the streets, she thought she'd known how it worked. Then three years in the clink, and when she got out, it was like Brave New World out here. Foreign girls flooded the market. The pimps and the punters liked them because they were younger and easier to control, but the local girls knew that naïveté was just an act. These newcomers were tougher and meaner, and they wouldn't hesitate to pull a knife on those that dared to encroach on their territory. That was if they were still on the streets in the first place. It was all indoors now, and they didn't even have to rely on the old tart-card-in-phone-box method of advertisement. The Internet had that covered.

Gwen readjusted her long blonde wig and sighed. Sometimes she felt much older than her thirty-one years.

She put her shoe back on with a grimace. Perhaps she could try her luck up the road, near the Shacklewell Arms. Her friend Medusa worked that corner, and sometimes she would let Gwen stay with her so they could team up against the new girls.

Medusa's real name was Melissa, but all girls needed some exotic street names. For Halloween one year, back when they were both younger and sillier and full of hope, Gwen had even helped her attach plastic snake's heads to her dreads, both giggling like mad.

Gwen took the backstreets to avoid the twinkling lights, the sound of Christmas music, and the scents of evergreen and cinnamon that spilled out from every door and shop window. They depressed her. Her feet would not thank her for the detour, but her heart would.

By the time she reached the Arms, she was sure her blister had burst and was bleeding. Some indie band had just finished their gig, and the front of the pub was crawling with people. Gwen peered into the crowd, trying to make out Medusa's statuesque form. As she spied Medusa's dreads swinging to and fro, Gwen opened her mouth to call her friend. Her eyes fell on the man next to Medusa, and the call died in her throat. It was Medusa's boyfriend and pimp, Nico.

Despite Medusa's insistence that Nico was "not that bad", Gwen knew better than to face him. At best, he would cajole her into coming to work for him, and at worst he would threaten and force her. Gwen knew what it was like to tie yourself to a man. Usually, she could chase Nico off with a few choice words, but in her current state, cold, exhausted, and irritated, she had no strength to deal with him. She beat a quick retreat.

And collided with someone.

It was a man coming out of one of the cheaper and seedier establishments that lined the back alleys behind Shacklewell Lane. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

"'s alright," Gwen said. And, because he was a man and she was working, she added, out of professional habit, "You looking for company?"

"No, thank you," the man said, a little too quickly, and started to walk away. A few steps, then he seemed to have second thoughts and turned back. "How much?" he asked.

Gwen gave him the once-over. He was probably in his mid-thirties, medium built, dressed in old jeans, an older jumper, and sturdy boots. A working man, then, not a tourist or an out-of-towner looking for some cheap thrills. Not her ideal client, but beggars cannot be choosers.

She told him her hourly rate. "Forty quid and I'll do whatever you want, darling." It wasn't high, all things considered, but it wasn't cheap either. She had her dignity.

The man shook his head. "That's—that's out of my—sorry." He turned away again.

Gwen slumped against a brick wall with a sigh. Maybe she should call it a night. The prospect of her cold flat with its empty fridge was not very welcoming though. Maybe she could find Medusa again. She was desperate enough to even risk Nico.

As she struggled to her feet, she staggered backward and collided, for the second time that night, with someone. This time it was a little girl who was coming out of a doorway with her mother. The girl was holding to the hem of her mother's coat with one hand and in the other was a teddy, which she dropped to the ground.

"Sorry," Gwen said. She quickly picked up the teddy, dusted it off, and handed it to the girl with a smile. "Here you go, love."

The girl stared back at Gwen with enormous eyes but said nothing and made no move to take her teddy. The mother snatched the toy back. "Why don't you watch where you're going, you slag!" she snarled. "And stay away from my kid."

"You watch where you're going!" Gwen spat. "What are you doing, dragging a kid out on the street this late anyway? She should be in bed!"

The mother's nostrils flared. "Don't tell me how to raise my own kid! What does a slut like you know about being a mother?" With that, she snatched the kid up in her arms and stormed off. Swallowing her anger, Gwen walked away in the opposite direction.

A moment later, a wail from the little girl caused Gwen to turn back, just in time to see the woman yank the teddy out of her hand and toss it into the nearest bin.

An inexplicable fury prompted Gwen to chase after them despite her blister, not even knowing what she would do if she caught them, but the woman turned down a side street and disappeared. Only the teddy stared up at Gwen from the bin with a rather mournful look, or so she imagined.

She picked it up and straightened up the bowtie around its neck. "I know more about being a mother than that bitch," she said to the teddy, and, without knowing why, she put it in her bag.

Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see the man who had rejected her still standing at the mouth of the alley, watching her with a strange expression. Something in his dark eyes made blood rush to her cheeks, and she growled, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

He approached her slowly. "Forty an hour, you say?"

She stood up a little straighter. "Yeah."

"And you'll do whatever I want?"

"Within reasons," she said warily.

"Where can we go?"

"You have a car?" He shook his head. "Well, then that depends on what you have in mind," she said. "Even an alleyway would do, though I have to tell you, I'm not keen on getting any more blisters tonight." He colored slightly, and Gwen found herself wondering if this was his first time. She glanced at his hand. No ring. But then again, this type always takes care to leave their ring at home, don't they?

"My flat's not far from here," he said. "Do you mind—?"

Gwen hesitated. She made it a point never to go with a customer to a place she was unfamiliar with. Too risky. But she was cold and tired and just wanted to get this done.

She scrutinized the man, more carefully this time. He had dark hair pushed away from his forehead in soft curls, and a face that, had she been feeling better, she would have found quite handsome. What really struck her, though, were his eyes. They were dark and large, fringed by ridiculously long lashes, which made him look almost boyish. Gwen, who had to rely on false lashes and mascara to get such a doe-eyed look, stared at those lashes enviously. Noticing her scrutiny, he glanced at her briefly and looked away again. That shy, beseeching look finally cinched it for her.

"Alright," she said. "But cash up front."

"Fair enough." He opened his wallet and handed her some crumpled fivers and a tenner. Gwen counted them carefully before stuffing them into her bag. She also checked that her pepper spray was still in her bag—no matter how unassuming the man looked, or how sad his eyes were, she had to be careful. Technically, it was illegal to carry pepper spray, but Gwen never let a small thing like legality stop her.

Her fingers brushed across a little card, and Gwen paused momentarily. She'd been given that card by a group of women who roamed the area in twos and threes, who might be mistaken for working girls at first glance. She supposed that was their disguise. They were a non-profit helping to get women off the streets, they said. Give us a call anytime, they said. Gwen had scoffed at their optimism, yet for some reason, she still held on to their card. 

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"What do you want it to be?" she said, again out of habit, too tired to actually be coquettish. The man raised his eyebrows at her, and Gwen relented. "You can call me Queenie." Medusa wasn't the only girl with a ridiculous street name.

She didn't ask his name. She didn't care.

They went down Shacklewell Lane, away from the bright lights and loud noises of the Arms, crossed the A10, and through some side street lined with terraced houses. Then the houses gave way to chippies, greasy spoons, Laundromats, and off-licenses. Gwen was whimpering by the time they reached a block of council flats, its brown brick façade the color of dry blood under the dim streetlamps.

"You all right?" the man asked, glancing at her.

"How far up?" Gwen managed, looking up at the looming building, trying to calculate how quickly she could run out of there, if necessary.

"Fifth floor."

She let out an involuntary groan. The man looked at her for a moment. And then, before she realized what he was doing, he scooped her up in his arms in one smooth movement and carried her up the stairs, bridal style.

"Do you mind?!" she protested. The man said nothing, only kept walking.

Gwen tried to wriggle out, but she was too tired and his arms were too strong, and after a moment, she gave up and leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of soap and sweat and rollies, and she found herself pressing her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in his human scent, to purge from her memories the stench of piss and stale beer and rubbish that had assaulted her all through the night.

For all his strength, the man was panting a little by the time they arrived at his door. He set Gwen down on her feet and fumbled with the lock. The moment they were through the door, she collapsed on the nearest available surface, which happened to be an old, rather threadbare sofa, and pulled her shoes off.

"Take it from me," she said. "Never wear heels."

He seemed amused. "OK, I won't." He went about flipping on the lights. "Do you want some Epsom salt for that?"

"Nah, I've had worse."

The man disappeared behind a door down the hall—the bathroom, she supposed—and emerged a second later with a plaster. He then knelt in front of her, rolled down her right stocking and lifted her foot into his lap, not in a sensual or seductive way, but rather matter-of-factly, and stuck the plaster on her heel, like a parent cleaning up a child's skinned knee. This done, he pulled out the sofa and made a bed on it, still in that same matter-of-fact manner.

Something rolled out from under the sofa—a piece of Lego. Gwen's eyebrow went up. Following her eyes, the man saw the Lego as well and turned red. He quickly kicked it back under the sofa and went on making the bed as if nothing had happened. Well, if he wasn't going to say anything, then she certainly wouldn't either.

"Right," she said, rolling down her other stocking. "Let's get started, shall we?"

He turned toward her, looking alarmed. "No, no, no," he said and put his hand over Gwen's, stopping her. "Clothes on, please."

Gwen tilted her head. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked to keep her clothes on, though it was rare enough that it still came as a surprise. She wasn't keen on having her dress all wrinkled and stained. It would be a nightmare to get it clean. But she pulled her fishnets back up anyway

The man sat down next to her on the sofa bed, sheepishly avoiding her eyes. "I'm Michael, by the way," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Gwen said, because that's what one is supposed to say when someone introduces themselves.

"Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?"

If he'd offered her some wine or whiskey or even beer, she might have accepted, but tea was probably the least erotic drink Gwen could think of. "No, thanks," she said. She didn't trust him not to slip her a Mickey—hey, Mickey and Michael, that's rich, she thought, chuckling to herself. When Michael didn't say anything, she reminded him, "You only paid me for an hour."

"Could you—" he began, looking down at a spot on the scuffed floor. "Would you mind—could you just hold me?"

Is that it? Gwen had to stop herself from grinning. This really was his first time then, poor lamb. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "Like this?" she whispered into his ear. Michael nodded and eased them both down on the bed until they were spooning, with her behind him, so she couldn't see his eyes. "What else do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just this."

Gwen frowned. "What?"

"Just hold me like this, please."

She sat up to look at him properly. He was lying on his side with his eyes open, staring not at her but at something or somewhere else, miles away.

"You're not going to make me put a giant diaper on you and breastfeed you, are you?" Medusa had once met a punter with that request. It had been part of the reason why she'd decided to work for Nico, so she could avoid another awkward situation like that, though, in Gwen's mind, it was rather like out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Michael turned to her. "What?"

"You don't want to tie me up, and you don't want me to tie you up?"

"No."

"You don't even want to have sex?"

He blushed again. "No."

"So let me get this straight," she said. "You're paying me forty quid to—spoon you?"

"Yeah." He sat up as well. "Look, if you're not comfortable with it, I understand. I'll pay you for your time, and then you can go."

She considered. As far as requests went, it was an odd one, but certainly not the strangest she'd had. And it sounded innocent enough—perhaps the most innocent of all. Still, she would not be lulled into a sense of safety. She pulled her bag a little closer to make sure she could reach inside and get the pepper spray if necessary. Her shoes would be a write-off—she could run faster barefoot anyway.

"Just—hold you?" she asked again, wanting to make sure. "For an hour?"

He looked up at her with those dark eyes, imploring, infinitely sad, like those of a lost child or a dying animal, and Gwen felt her heart stumble. "Yes, please," he said.

"I'm not charging you the full rate just for a bit of cuddle!"

"It's OK, really. I don't mind."

"I do," she insisted. "It's about being professional. What do you do for a living?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, but he answered anyway. "I'm a cleaner. At St. Mary's Hospital." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "Used to be a bin man. But I couldn't take the stink anymore."

Something in the way he said it made Gwen think that there were other reasons besides the stink for him to give up being a bin man, but it was none of her business. "You wouldn't take the full wage for cleaning half the hospital, would you?" she asked.

Something like a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I guess not."

"OK, so let's say twenty an hour, and we have a deal."

A moment's hesitation, and he extended a hand. They shook on it. His hand was warm, his grip strong and steady, and Gwen wondered why such a man could be so alone, and so lonely.

She made to give him back the twenty quid, but he pushed her hand away. "Keep it. I may ask you to stay longer."

"All right," she said, tucking the bills into her bra. "No funny business, mind."

"No."

She lay back down and put one arm around him again, leaving the other free so he couldn't easily pin her under him. "Is this OK?" she asked.

"It's fine," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Just—be natural."

Natural. Gwen wasn't even sure if she remembered how to be natural in bed anymore. She knew how to be enthusiastic, how to be dominant or submissive, how to be seductive, even how to be afraid. But natural? She no longer knew what that meant.  

The minutes ticked by.

While they lay there, Gwen let her eyes wander around, trying to find some clues that might point to danger. She saw a sparsely furnished flat, similar to her own. There were only the sofa bed, a coffee table, and a TV taking up the front room, a kitchenette to the side, and two closed doors, one leading to the bathroom, the other she had no idea. She saw more evidence of a kid—childish drawings on the fridge door, a small toothbrush, a bowl of half-eaten cereal on the coffee table. If he had a kid, she certainly hoped the kid wasn't locked in that spare room.

Her wandering eyes returned to Michael. He had taken his jumper off and was now in a vest. There was a tattoo on his bicep. "Who's Billy?" she asked.

"Mate of mine, from school," he said in a small voice. "He OD'ed."

"Shit," she said. And then, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." His hand found hers, clasped it to his chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Your hand's cold. I was just trying to warm it up."

"I would've worn a coat, but unfortunately it doesn't go with this outfit," she joked. Her only warm coat would've covered up what she was trying to sell. She left her hand in his, feeling the heavy thump of his heart under her palm. He nestled into her with a sigh, but she remained stiff, keeping some distance between her chest and his back, so she could bolt at the first sign of danger.

But it never came. Instead, his breath evened out, and soon he was asleep.

Gwen must have dozed off as well, for she remembered jolting awake. Michael was still sleeping, holding her hand to his chest as if afraid she would fly off if he let go.

This could be her chance. After making sure Michael was sound asleep, Gwen carefully slid her hand out of his grasp, got out of bed, and tiptoed down the hall. She opened two closed doors. One was a bathroom, just as she suspected. The other was a bedroom, a kid's bedroom, painted in bright, buttery yellow, with a frilly little bed and cheerful toys and books piled on the shelves, a complete contrast to the sad, gray flat outside.

Gwen's feet took her into the room almost of their own volition. She gazed about, a strange melancholy washing over her. No, there wasn't anything strange about this sadness. She knew exactly where it was coming from; she just didn't want to think about it.

There was a framed photo on the bedside table, and she picked it up—it was of Michael, smiling a big, happy smile, carrying on his shoulder a little girl of about two or three years old, who had his same brown curls and his chocolate button eyes.

"What are you doing?" said his voice behind her.

She jumped and dropped the picture, which landed safely on the bed.

"Sorry," she said, fumbling to pick up the frame. "I was looking for the—uh, bathroom. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's OK." He didn't look angry, only a little awkward, like she had stumbled on an embarrassing secret. It emboldened her.

"This your kid's room?" she asked.

"Yeah." He took the picture frame from her and set it back on the table. "She lives with her mum. I only have her on weekends and when her mum has to work nights, but I try to keep the room nice and clean for her," he explained.

Gwen let out a small breath and reminded herself to stop watching so much The Bill. From the way he had been so secretive about it, she was expecting something tragic. She was glad it wasn't.

"That her?" She nodded at the picture.

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Michael's lips. "Her name's Amelia."

"Pretty name. Suits her."

"Don't let that face fool you, she's a little terror."

"How old is she?"

"Turning four soon."

"Oh, that's a great age," Gwen said without thinking. "That's when you can start to have a real conversation with them, and it's so fun."

"It is." Michael looked at her sharply. "Have you got a kid?"

For a moment, Gwen considered telling him the truth. It felt so nice, so normal, to talk in that cheery little room, as if sunshine had been stored in its bright yellow paint and the warmth of it was seeping into her, chasing away the cold of those long, lonely nights out on the street. She wanted to hold on to that feeling a little longer.

But she was here to work, not to have a heart-to-heart like she was on some bloody chat show.

"No," she lied.

"Because you sound like you know kids," he said.

Anger pricked at Gwen's insides. Who did this punter think he was?

"It's none of your business," she snapped. Michael continued to stare at her, and the intensity of his eyes forced her to look away. The flat was closing in on her, suffocating her, like her old prison cell. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of here, get away from this strange man whose eyes seemed to penetrate her very soul.

She grabbed her bag. "I have to go."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised. "But I paid you for two hours."

"Here." She tossed the money on the bed, picked up her shoes, and all but ran. He caught her at the door.

"What did I do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just have to go."

"Don't do this," he said, clutching at her arm like a child afraid of being separated from its mother. "Don't leave. Please." The pleading note in his voice now sounded more like a command. That voice, the hard grip of his hand, and the dark glint in his eyes awoke something savage within Gwen, a cold fury she hadn't felt in years.

"Let me go," she said quietly, "or I'll kill you."

He dropped her arm in an instant. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes glistening with what looked like tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—I just don't know how to—"

As suddenly as it appeared, Gwen's anger vanished. She couldn't afford to lose her temper like that.

"It's fine," she said. "Just let me—"

Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. "Michael?" said a voice on the other side. "You in?" A woman's voice.

Michael turned to Gwen, his eyes enormous on his pale face. "Hide," he mouthed to her.

A part of Gwen wanted to be defiant and face whoever was at the door—a wife? A girlfriend?—so she could watch Michael squirm, but another part of her took pity on his panic. Rolling her eyes, she made her way into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

"Leah," she heard Michael say, as he opened the front door. "What's wrong? Is Amelia all right?"

Peeking through a crack of the bedroom door, Gwen saw a woman standing in the doorway. She had auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a scowling, disapproving expression that seemed terminal. A little girl was asleep in her arms.

These must be his ex and their daughter then. Gwen retreated into the shadow of the room, feeling strangely embarrassed, like she had intruded on an intimate scene. In some way, she had.

"She's fine," Leah said, and Michael let out a breath of relief. "It's my mum," Leah continued, looking harried. "She's had a fall. I have to go to Cardiff to see her. Don't know when I'll be back, so I can't take Amelia with me—" She looked around the flat, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the bills scattered on the sofa bed. Michael looked away, his cheeks flushed. "Is this a bad time?" Leah asked.

"No, not at all," Michael said quickly. "I'll take her. Call me when you get to Cardiff and let me know how your mum is."

With a curt nod, Leah handed their daughter over. She brushed a curl away from the sleeping child's forehead and went downstairs, but not before throwing another suspicious look over her shoulder.

Gwen waited for another moment or two until the coast was clear, and emerged from the bedroom. Michael, with his arms full of a sleeping toddler, gave her an apologetic look.

"Well, I'll be off then," Gwen said, trying not to show how the sight of the little girl was affecting her.

Michael hesitated. "Listen," he said. He tried to take her hand, but his arms were too full to reach. "You don't have to run off like that. I'm sorry about earlier. Stay for a bit. It's cold out."

"I'll be fine," Gwen said lightly. "And you're busy. I should go." At the door, she paused. "Good luck, Michael."

At that moment, Amelia lifted her head from her father's shoulder. "Daddy?" she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Michael said, and the tenderness in his voice made Gwen want to cry. She knew she should be going now, but some invisible force was rooting her to the spot, making her watch Michael with his daughter as if hypnotized. "Mum has to go to Grandma's," he was saying, "so you're staying with me for a bit. Is that all right?"

The little girl rubbed her eyes with a chubby fist. "Where's Snappy?" she said.

Michael looked around. He patted the pockets of Amelia's coat and came up empty. "You don't have him with you?" The girl shook her head. "You must have forgotten him at home then."

"I want him."

"We'll get him when Mum comes back—"

"I want him now!" Amelia demanded. She no longer sounded sleepy.

Michael gave Gwen an exasperated look over his daughter's head. Despite the twist of pain in her heart, Gwen couldn't help but grin back in rueful sympathy.

"What's Snappy?" she whispered to Michael.

"Her crocodile." Turning to Amelia, he said, "Don't worry, Snappy will be fine—"

But Amelia was not having it. "No!" she shouted. "I want Snappy! I'm not going without Snappy! Give me Snappy!"

"Let's just go to bed first, and then I'll find Snappy for you, yeah?"

"No! I don't want to stay here without Snappy!" The little girl started kicking and wriggling to get out of Michael's arms, and there was a shrill note in her voice that Gwen knew well would be followed by a tantrum. Wincing, Michael set Amelia down on the floor. The little girl pushed at her father, shouting, "I want Snappy!"

"Hey, hey, stop," Michael gently admonished her. "I don't have a key to Mum's place, so we can't get in. You have a lot of toys here—"

"I don't wanna stay here! I wanna go home! I want Mum!"

At that, something seemed to break within Michael. Without saying a word, he dropped Amelia on the sofa bed and went over to the kitchenette, where he plopped down at the table with his head in his hands. All the while, Amelia kept crying for Snappy.

Gwen looked between the despondent father and the wailing toddler. None of this had to do with her. She did not need to get involved. She should leave now.

She didn't leave.

She sat down in front of Amelia, who continued to sniff and snuffle. The violence of her tantrum seemed to have passed into a sulk.

"Hi," Gwen said. "You're Amelia, right?"

The little girl wiped a sleeve across her runny nose. "Who're you?" she asked.

Gwen glanced at Michael. He was still sitting with his head in his hands. Odd, that. Why was he acting like a tantrum was the end of the world? "My name's Gwen," she said. Michael raised her head at this, but made no comment. "I'm—I'm a friend of your dad's. Amelia's a very pretty name. Have you ever heard of Princess Amelia?"

At the mention of a princess, the girl's large brown eyes, so like her father's, widened in interest. "Who's she?"

"She was the youngest daughter of King George III. She was very nice and kind. Her father loved her very much, and so did her mother and her brothers and sisters." Gwen paused. Perhaps she shouldn't mention that it was Princess Amelia's death that drove her poor father to madness. "And there's also Amelia Earhart," she said. "She was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic." Again, Gwen paused when she remembered that Ms. Earhart disappeared while trying to fly around the globe. She looked at Michael to see if he'd noticed her bungled attempt to cheer his daughter up. He was still at the table, watching her with an inscrutable expression, just as he had when they first met in the alley. She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Amelia. "Now, can you be kind like Princess Amelia and brave like Amelia Earhart?"

Hesitantly, the little girl nodded. Gwen smiled. "Good. Tell me about Snappy then."

Amelia's little mouth screwed up, and she blinked rapidly, threatening tears again. "He's—m-my croc-crocodile," she hiccupped. "He's gold and has black teeth and he's very scary and he protects me."

"Ah, so that's why he has to stay home then," said Gwen, as if she'd just made a great discovery. "He has to keep it safe for when you and your mum come back."

"Really?"

"Yes. He knows you'll be perfectly safe here with your dad. And"—here Gwen pulled out the teddy from her bag and handed it to Amelia—"in case you're feeling lonely, here's Teddy. He may not be as scary as Snappy, but he can keep you company until you see Snappy again, all right?"

Amelia took the teddy, turned it this way and that, and held it experimentally. Finally, satisfied that the teddy was safe, she hugged it to her chest and smiled at Gwen through her tears.

"Now there's a great big smile," Gwen said, smiling back and giving the girl's nose a little bop.

"My dad always says my smile's as big as Christmas," said Amelia.

"And he's right."

As if on cue, Michael appeared next to them. He nodded at Gwen gratefully and took Amelia into her room.

Gwen was still sitting on the sofa bed when he came out a few minutes later and sat down next to her. "You're really good with her," he said.

"So are you."

"No, I'm not. You heard what she said. She didn't even want to stay with me."

"Michael, she's four," Gwen said. "She's knackered. A four-year-old would say they hate you one minute, then turn around and kiss you the next. That's what they do."

"How do you know?"

Gwen rubbed a hand across her eyes. Amelia wasn't the only one who was tired. Gwen felt like she could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. "I lied earlier," she said. "I do have a kid. Her name's Emma. She's six—no, seven now."

Michael tilted his head, looking at her more closely. "Where is she?"

"She lives with a foster family in Croydon. I haven't seen her in three years." The foster mum sent photos, and Gwen tried to call when she could, but it wasn't the same. "Sometimes I'm afraid she's forgotten me."

"Why can't you see her?"

Gwen didn't answer. It was a wound she wasn't ready to open yet.

Michael went back to the kitchen and fiddled about with the kettle. He came back a moment later with two steaming cups, and handed Gwen one. It reminded her of the tea she used to make for herself as a kid, too sweet and milky for her liking now, but she said nothing. They sat sipping their tea in companionable silence.

"Do you believe some people just can't be loved?" Michael asked.

"What?"

"Some people always seem to end up alone. It's like they can't be loved."

Gwen took a moment to answer. The punters all liked to talk. They would complain to her about their jobs, their wives, their girlfriends, their mothers. She could hear Medusa now, telling her, "We're like trick cyclists, darling"—Medusa was not Cockney, but she'd heard that slang for "psychiatrist" on The Bill or EastEnders and liked to slip it into her talk because she thought it made her sound cool—"except we're cheaper and they get some sex on top of that." So when a customer talked, Gwen would just nod absently and say "Is that so?" while thinking of something else.

Now, having been brought closer by the talk of their kids, she asked Michael, "Why do you think that?"

"Everybody in my life is gone," he said, his voice bleak. "My parents—well, they weren't fit to be parents, really. I lost count of how many foster homes I lived in. None of them wanted me. My brother took me in, but then he moved to Australia with his wife and kids. Maybe it's my fault." His head drooped. "I met someone once. I loved her. Or I thought I did. But I fucked it up. I didn't see what she was going through, and I made it worse."

"Was it Amelia's mum?"

"No." He sighed. "But I fucked it up with her as well. She's too good for me. They're all too good for me."

"Is that why you hired me?" Gwen asked before she could stop herself. Michael turned to her, and the look in his eyes went through her heart like a pin. It was the same look he'd given her when they first met, so lost and vulnerable, the look of a lifetime of hurt and loneliness. Now she understood why she had been so taken by it. It was a look she knew well, for she had seen it plenty of times when she looked into the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—"

She shrugged. "It's alright. I'm used to that."

He put a tentative hand over hers and closed his fingers around it. "Thank you, Gwen," he said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for helping me with Amelia."

"Hey, my pleasure." She grinned. "She's a good kid."

"I was frightened to death when she was born, you know," Michael said. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't. What if I fuck it up like I fuck up everything else in my life?"

Gwen squeezed his hand. Finally she understood his despair earlier, just as she had understood his loneliness; understood it because she saw it in herself.

"Want to know why I went to prison?" she asked. "Why I haven't seen my daughter?"

He looked at her, not with morbid curiosity as most people did when they learned she'd been to prison, but with interest and sympathy. She pulled off her blonde wig, and, turning her head, spread her mousy brown hair over her ear to show him the ragged scar just above it, which the hair couldn't quite cover.

"Her father, my piece-of-shit boyfriend—he gave me that," she said. "And worse. Then one time, he pushed me too hard. I pushed back. He hit his head on the kitchen counter." Her voice trembled. It was the first time she spoke of this in three years. She steadied herself, and continued, "I could've called an ambulance, but I didn't. I just stood there and watched him die. Got me three years for that. Involuntary manslaughter." She lifted her eyes to Michael's face. "Think you can fuck up your kid's life worse than I did?" she asked. She tried to laugh and began to cry.

Michael reached out and drew her to him until she was in his arms with her head on his shoulder, just like how he'd held Amelia. He said nothing, but in his embrace, she could feel her fears quiet down, if not fade away entirely. She thought of Emma, and herself, of Amelia, and Michael, of the frightened child inside all of them, waiting only for someone to reach out and hold them and tell them that it's going to be all right.

She buried her nose in Michael's neck, taking in his scent of soap and sweat and smoke, and let out a breath she had been holding for three years, or perhaps even longer. "This is nice," she said. "I can see why you'd pay for this."

Michael's shoulders and chest rumbled pleasantly with laughter, and Gwen smiled as well.

"Can I see you again?" he asked.

Her smile faltered. Somehow, his question made her sad. It brought her crashing back to reality, a reality in which she would have to go back out on the street soon, back to the cold and the loneliness and the emptiness.

But professional habit won out in the end, and she didn't even sigh as she gave him the answer she'd always used with all her customers, "You know where to find me."

"No, not as Queenie," he said. "I want to see you again as Gwen. And without the wig. Can I?"

She lifted her head to look at him. He didn't let go, only slid his hand up her shoulder and her neck to cradle her cheek. As the warmth of his gaze and the tenderness of his caress enveloped her, Gwen made a decision.

Tomorrow, she would go and buy Emma a Christmas present. And bring it to her in person.

Tomorrow, she would ring that number on the card of the non-profit group.

But today, tonight, she would stop running away.

"Yes," she told Michael. "Yes, you can."

THE END

Yes, "Snappy" is the crocodile that Maria gave to Leah.

And of course, it wouldn't be my fic without a Snow Patrol song to accompany it (the title comes from the first line of lyric):

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What dreams know about love?

Chapter 14

Dream of The Endless/Morpheus x Love!OFC

Summary: The Queen of Love has grown used to the absence of her husband, the Dream King. After banning her from the Dreaming, they only saw each other when Morpheus summoned her for social or marital duties. He would go decades without calling for her, enamorated by a variety of mistresses. It broke Love's heart. Not that her husband cared. However, after being imprisioned for a century, The Dream King wants to regain his Queen's love. She doesn't believe him, not after centuries of neglect. The question is: Can dreams repair a broken heart?

Tag: Established relationship, arranged marriage, regency romance, eventual happy ending, angst, morpheus is a dick prepare to hate, love is eoster from west germanic mythology, typos are to be expected

As soon as they returned from the parade, Eoster confined herself to her quarters, making Elijah run through her everything that was missing to the Solstice.

The Spring Queen made every little detail her business, a perfect excuse to avoid her husband. She would check the invitation list, rearrange seats, make final decisions on decorations, and even details about the reception for her court that she previously left under Elijah’s supervision, such as the color of napkins and the setting of the table, the queen took upon herself to make the final adjustments.

Anything that would make her husband less inclined to interact with her, she took it upon herself to do it. She knew from Elijah that Dream wanted to talk to her, that he asked Lucienne to ask Elijah if she was available for a luncheon or tea. The Cupid apologizes for his queen's full agenda, but she did not have time for “anything nonrelated to the Solstice” which translates into “anything related to Morpheus”

Of course, he could summon her by the bound, but after their night together, she knew he wouldn’t dare. Both of them crossed paths in the palace halls, but, if he even thought of starting a conversation, she lowered her head, pretending not to notice and being too far busy with her tasks.

But there is only enough table setting a queen can choose for a solstice festival, and it’s not near the amount necessary to avoid a husband.

And so, she escaped the Dreaming.

It was complicated. He knew about Desire. He knew about innocence, Love was now as a victim as him, trapped in the most sacred of unions with him. Love should feel relieved. ‘He can finally forgive me. We can be happy.’ She repeated to herself, although the words were bittersweet.

She should be relieved, of course, she should. It was what she had always wanted: Morpheus to believe in her, seeing her devotion and adoration were true. But instead, she felt conflicted and suffocated.

Yes, he now believed in her, but not because of her words but because he could visit her memories, and feel her feelings. It never happened before, and Eoster suspected it did happen because of their proximity. They never stayed together in the vulnerability of sharing a bed. Their bed, his bed, was duty, obligation, as everything in their marriage was. They never shared a bed for more than an hour, until the parade. The bond must have felt the permissibility of their souls, the proximity of their bodies, and let one visit the other’s memory, or he visited hers, because Love didn’t see anything.

He would never believe her word otherwise, would he? He believed what he saw. It was two very different things. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe she wants him to suffer a bit more before giving herself to him. A few centuries might do the deed. Love chuckled to herself. Who was she trying to convince? She hates those games. But wasn’t her marriage a game from the start?

How did their marriage become so complicated?

So she escaped. Hiding in plain sight at her favorite park. Hoping the flooding of Cupids arriving at the Dreaming would be enough to make no one look for her.

Although “hiding in plain sight” is quite a stretch, after all, if Love’s beauty was already the talk among entities, even in casual up-to-date clothes, trying to mix with mortals, she still caught a lot of attention, her presence magnetic, and every single mortal gravitate towards her. Men, women, and children are all in awe.

How could one not fall in love with love itself?

“You just made a mortal meet his soulmate before I collected him.” The Queen jumped in her seat, completely lost in her thoughts, gazing at the people living their ordinary lives around her. When she looked up, there was Lady Death, her sister-in-law, with a disapproving look that broke down in a warm smile.

Love gave her a weak smile, moving on the bench so Lady Death could sit with her. Death knew it wasn’t intentional on Love’s part. Unlike the Cupids who had to bring arrows, study perfect matches, and wait for perfect situations, Love’s presence was enough to make mortals fall in love left and right. It was not as nearly as precise as the cupid's work. It was pure spontaneity, not to say chaotic (just ask anyone who lived during Henry VIII's reign) that relied entirely on mortals' feelings.

The park was blossoming in it. Mothers at the children's park noticed how much that tiny copy of them meant the world, friendship that would last a life being made by the kids, and especially lovers. Couples deciding to get married, travel the world together, move in together. One could look left and right and would see the park immersed in pure love.

“Couldn’t you give them more time?” Love sighed a complaint with not much enthusiasm to insist on it, said out of habit.

The first time it happened, Eoster would do everything to stall Death. She would ask about every single sibling, the next reunion, and would create a thousand stories from the Garden that she simply must urgently share, just to give a family or two lovers more time.

If it was their day, a mortal would die independently, but with the presence of Love, they wouldn't go without meeting either their soulmate or being in the company of loved ones. A tragedy for most, but what would one expect with Love and Death at the same place?

But now, Love said the words without any meaning, as that hope that she could save those mortals, meant nothing more. It became ordinary, a habit.

Just like Lady Death repeating to her younger brother that he needed to give attention to his wife. Before his capture, every time they met he sulked by her side and she would scold Dream, saying that feeling sorry for himself would not help anyone, that his biggest problem was having a sweet devoted wife who would do anything he asked, a problem that any Endless or not would love to have. “Promise you will take better care of Love, Dream. You know that she doesn’t deserve it”, Death would say, and he would keep looking at his feet, until mumbling an upset "fine".

He wouldn't do it, and she said it more out of habit than anything.

She remembered the first time Love joined them for a family reunion, she was radiant, eagerly wanting to talk to the siblings, listening carefully to Delirium’s antics, and constantly looking for Dream’s approval, like a puppy trying to please its owner. She was the living propaganda for her marriage.

Praising the Dreaming and its folks, telling how delightful everything was, exaggerating how marriage life was even more perfect and Dream even more of a gentleman than she could have expected, excusing her husband for having yet to come to meet the Garden. Love thought that it was what Dream wanted to hear.

And she was desperately trying to please him, everyone could notice. They thought it was sweet. Death, Destruction, and even Delirium thought that her charms would eventually get past their brother's stubbornness.

How little did they know?

“I thought you would be busy with the Solstice, what are you doing in the mortal realm sulking on a park bench?” Death tried to change the subject, as the brunette didn’t make any attempts to continue the conversation, which was odd since Love was the conversationalist between them.

“Hiding in plain sight. Are you going to tell on me?” Love kept picking her nailbeds, before looking hesitantly to Death with her doe-eyes, over her eyelashes. The way her sister-in-law furrows her brows is a sign that she does not understand. “Your brother.” Love sighed, looking down again, as she was somewhat embarrassed by saying it.

“Is he being a dickhead?” Love smiled at Death’s question. ‘Dickhead’ what a childish but at the same time perfect way to describe her husband. Love watched the game happening a few feet away from her, without paying any attention. She loved her sister-in-law but, Love just wished to be anywhere away from her problems.

“I wonder if he was ever not a dickhead to me” The queen admitted shrugging off in an unlady-like manner. “It is ironic when I come to think of it. I spent years trying to get Dream’s attention, make him see me, want me, and now that he does, I am hiding in the mortal realm.” She laughed humorlessly. Does her marriage ever stop being an unfunny joke?

Death didn’t know what precisely to answer at Eoster’s confession, unless what it was the truth. “You were young.”

“Yes, I was. And eager to please and to be loved. I did what my older sisters taught me: Carefully watch him. His taste became my taste. I only read his favorite books, learned his favorite songs on the pianoforte, played them whenever I felt him close by, visited his favorite dreams, and cared for his perfect nightmares. I even dressed-" A sad smile and a hint of color reached her cheeks, full of the embarrassment of a desperate young self “-like his mistresses, if you can believe it, because maybe it would be enough.“

“Did it work?”

“If it did, we would not be having this conversation.” ‘Of course’ Death thought, cursing herself for asking such a stupid question. This was new between the two. And if she dared to guess, it was new to Eoster talking about it, because she threw the words quickly, like if she didn't spit them out as fast as she could, she might never do it.

“The muse, the fairy queen, or any other that I simply can't force myself to remember now. Every single one had the upper hand on my husband. I was not even a runner-up in the race for dear Lord Dream’s heart.” The brunette furrowed her brows, looking over to her sister-in-law, “I forged myself to him, to be what he wanted, and it angered him even more.”

Death listened to her quietly, after all, she did not know what to tell Love, she never heard the brunette speaking so clearly ill about her marriage, let alone her position in it. Dream's sister knew she was somewhat unhappy, even if they always arrived at the family reunions, arm to arm, his brother pulling the chair for her, both sitting side by side, Love in stunning gowns, complicated hairstyles, and adorned in jewelry. Even if they looked perfect together.

Love would always already be drunk or get drunk at the dinners. Dream would always try to stop her from pouring more wine or more champagne, but she always snapped away from him. And there would always be some antic Love would pull out of her drunk self. Dream would get furious at her. Everyone pretended not to notice when they would storm off, but, it was difficult not to hear their heated argument as they walked away.

Love never spoke of problems, well, not directly. While drunk, her complaints always were around lack of attention and cheating, but Death always assumed they made up. After all, next week they would be at a social, together, having polite conversations. And since her brother never let anyone sniff around his marriage, what Death assumed was that her brother could be neglecting Love from time to time, but they would patch things up. The expected consequences of being married for too long.

“It is fine. Really. I got used to that, no need to give me the pity look. I urge you not to. I simply can not take more of those.” Love shook her hand as to physically dismiss the pithiness. Loneliness becomes comfortable after one gets used to it. But pity is something she would always detest.

“After a while, I’ve stopped thinking of his love, and after his capture, I’ve never imagined, hoped, or planned that he would return with a newly found fondness for me.” Quite the opposite. Remember, Love thought Dream was courting another. Naturally, she thought that after the inevitable breakup, he would be in an awful humor. She had nightmares with it and woke up feeling guilty for having nightmares about her husband's humor, and then feeling stupid because he would not care if she was scared or not. Love did not matter in this marriage. But this was before. Now…

The brunette shifted in her seat and Lady Death noticed she was nervous, wetting her lips, looking to both sides, and speaking a tone lower than before “ And if I can be honest, it is awful.” It felt shameful to admit that Dream’s fondness was awful, but at the same time, it felt like she was discarding an enormous weight off her chest. Love took a deep breath, eyes wide in desperation to her sister give her some guidelines “I don’t know what to do with it. We don’t know how to be in the same room without going at each other’s throats. Carefully selecting words to hurt one another, waiting for a small slip so we can attack. For so long I craved to be with him, and now I do not even know how to breathe the same air he exhales.” The brunette rests her back against the bench in defeat finally taking all of it off her chest. Death took a few minutes to process that abundance of information. Love was beginning to worry and planning to apologize for having thrown all of it at her, that it was not her initial intention when she spoke.

“What about trying from the beginning? You two were tossed into marriage with very different ideas of it. Maybe-” Love shook her head interrupting “We tried, and we ended up in a room in the House of Mysteries" Or was it House of Secrets? If she would be honest, she didn't even remember which one was the nice one, and which one was the short-tempered. "Sharing a bed. He violated my dreams.” This time, Death's gaze widened. “On purpose?” her brother, the brother that she knew, would not violate his wife's private thoughts like that.

“No, I mean, I do not know. I felt him nudging in there, like a shadow on the corner of my eye. And that never happened." Death signed, relieved "Not even when he was suspicious of some improper behaviors of mine.” She had Aunt Temperance to thank for that. “He put Lucienne to sniff around my dreams.” Death nodded silently, even Love was somewhat admitting that her brother would never actually invade his wife’s private thoughts. But their bond, maybe he was pushed there by it, after all, no one knows for certainty how the sharing of souls of True Marriages affects the couple, what are their limits, their boundaries.

“Anyway, he got his proof that I didn’t plot with Desire.”

“Well, that is good news!” Death grabbed Eoster’s hands in celebration, but seeing Love’s cranked face about it, Death had to ask “Is it good news?”

“It is supposed to be. But it’s bittersweet. He didn’t believe in my word, his wife. I did nothing over the years to have him question my loyalty, but it wasn’t enough. He had to see it. If he never invaded my dreams, would he know? Would he ever believe my innocence?” Although Death wished she could say yes, both of them knew Dream too well, and the Endless sister respected Love enough not to lie in her face.

The couple seemed to be trapped in a web of complicated and delicate knots full of ramifications. Love was right. Her marriage became a game of who could hurt each other more. She made herself the perfect bride for a husband who at first didn’t want one and now doesn't know how to be the husband she needs.

“You two need to start from the beginning.” Death said after a few moments pondering how to put it in words. Love signed a hint of impatience in her voice, thinking that her sister-in-law wasn't listening to her. “I told you, we tried-"

Death abruptly interrupts her clarifying what she meant, and what it was true. Honestly, who gave Dream the idea of a parade? She couldn't fathom the idea that her anti-social and selfish brother would want to be around loud subjects who wanted to steal his wife's attention. “No, you two went on a parade. Public parade, with smiles and flowers. You two did the theatricals of a reconciliation. You need to talk. Privately talk." She sighed smiling throwing her back at the bench "You two are the most similar anthropomorphic personifications I have ever known.” Love was opening her mouth to protest that she and Dream couldn't be more different, when once again, Death showed her why she was older and wiser “Loyalty means everything. You want to forgive but hold grudges, The Dream is the same. You want to believe but your awareness doesn’t let you. Isn't your husband the same?”

Love got up from the bench, facing Death, and at the same time, she theatrically threw her hands to the heavens. Was Love ever this dramatic? Death couldn’t help but wonder, if this was her with some sparkle, some anger, rather than her usual apathetic and compliant self. Although she kept speaking politely, it was obvious that what started with a conversation was turning into a disagreement. “Oh, sister! awareness of what, pray to tell me? When did I ever have my husband-”

Death smiled internally. She purposely engaged in a rhetorical philosophy to see if Love understood where she was going. The Endless had to hold a laugh. Like Dream, Love was not receptive to ideas and opinions contrary to what she already made up her mind. Death kept her posture and a neutral tone. “Never! I am not telling you he is right. He is not. I never thought Dream could be more wrong about someone. But you two are not far apart.” Love ignored her, continuing her rampage. How could her dear sister who, a minute ago, seemed to understand so clearly, become so antagonistic to the truth? “All I ever did was forgive him! All the time…” She emphatically repeated, her muscles tensed and Love seemed to use all of her strength to not scream like a crazy anthropomorphic personification in the middle of a park.

To which Death simply shrugged, and gave her the simplest answer ever: “Then take him back.” The response took Love by such surprise, that she froze, and Death thought that she might have broken her sister-in-law. Instead of poetries of couples, tragedies, and the sad life of Stepford smilers, Death offered her such a simplistic, obvious but at the same time impossible. Wasn't she listening? “I beg your pardon?” Love said as she heard the most gushing suggestion of all mortal existence.

Death raises herself, posed in a cool manner, with hands in her pocket. Love always thought that she was the definition of what mortals called a ‘cool girl’, and this demeanor made Love for the first time in forever, want to strangle her. “If all you did was forgive him, then forgive him one more time. Grant him pardon for all his transgressions, coldness, his mistresses, and his son born out of marriage. You put that behind you. If he is repent as you said, you can finally have a worthy husband and live happily ever after.” Love let a strangled laugh escape her mouth. In utter disbelief. “No, you don’t understand, it is not that simple-”

Death gave Love a knowingly smile “No, it is not.” Now, the Love Queen was more lost than before, her brows furrow and her eyes searched Death’s for any sign of logic. She felt a migraine and cursed herself for coming to this park. Peace, was that too much to ask? Was Dream the only one allowed to sulk alone? Love let herself fall on the bench in defeat. “I don’t understand why-”

“It is not simple, Love. Reasonable or not, both of you have a hard time forgiving, you didn’t, because if you did, you would not be holding so much pain in your heart. I know this because mortals constantly cross to my realms with hearts full of pain that they never will be able to resolve, lying to themselves that all is forgiven.”

Death reached to hold Love’s hands, caressing the soft skin as the lady of spring started to see the meaning behind what her sister in the law meant. It is not “enjoying a honeymoon” “punishing him” or even “you must do your duty as a wife and take what he is giving to you, it is just their ways”. It was something else. “I am not saying that you need to forgive Dream, that you need to take him back, accept him into your bed. That is up to you to decide. But, you need a resolution. About your marriage, about both your past... About his son.”

Love repeated her words, not understanding the emphatic pause at the mention of Dream’s offspring. “ His son?” Death first thought Love could be sarcastically repeating her, in a way of saying that she had no intention of talking about Orpheus, but as the pause continued, she realized that Love might have forgotten, not that Death understood how could she “His son died for a mortal girl.” It didn't seem to recall his brother’s wife anything since she kept quiet, seemingly waiting for anything that would explain, “He died because of love”

As soon as Death spoke those words, and Love quickly understood what she meant by that, Love took her hands away, feeling like a witness who suddenly became a suspect in a murder trial. Unprepared and too stunted to react besides trying to make sense of what Death just said “And you think-”

But the sister was quick to disperse any new arguments Love wanted to start, although if she was taken aback by this, she completely could understand why the need to defend her innocence. Although, as Death explained, she should not waste her breath “No, I don’t think. I am just explaining how his tale is known.” Which was true, a love tragedy of Orpheus and Eurydice. It was well documented “Whatever happened, may belong in a conversation between you and Dream.” “I did not-” And as Death was starting to regret mentioning it, cursing herself for speaking so much, an angel descended from the heavens to her aid, or better, a cupid in his lilac robes, shirt, and pants, and brown curly locks, appeared. He did not bother to change his usually 18th-century nobility attire to up-to-date clothes, different from the two women. He respectfully bends his head to Lady Death who gives him a warm smile.

“Hello, Elijah.”

“Blessing from the Garden, Lady Death.” He turned to the queen, who was still trying to find arguments for her innocence and only actually noticed her cupid when he called her “My queen” bowing his head. Even though her head was spinning from Death, she also had some questions about the cupid, after all, was everyone aware of things that she wasn't? “How did you find me?” The cupid looked confused. As the answer was obvious. “My lady, Centennial Park is your favorite park.” She nodded slowly, for a moment thinking that maybe Morpheus sensed her through the bond and made Elijah come all the way to make her return. “Is my lord husband looking for me?”

Elijah held his tongue not to answer that he never wished more for Lord Morpheus to appear from his sand and send half of the court cupids to the darkness. Maybe there, they would give him peace. “I have not seen our lordship yet.” Which he never thought would be an unfortunate truth.

Just by the morning, he had to scare away three Eros cupids that tried to woo Lucienne with the same line in the spare 2 minutes. They made very dramatic declarations using Romeo and Juliet “But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.” Thankfully Elijah managed to intervene before they started dueling for her hand, shushing them away like a pack of annoying crows, as they cacked explaining that their hearts never knew love until they met Lucienne (Or their ‘Dreamy Lady Librarian’ as they called her).

He also had to save some dreamfolks from being indoctrinated by Agape cupids, so they could leave the life of being dreams or nightmares and devote themselves to the spirit and soul. That didn’t even make sense. He finally managed to shove them all into some candlelight room with a strong smell of incense and dense fog where they could entertain themselves, reading their holy texts and meditating. Agape Cupids love nothing more than their sacred scriptures and candlelight rooms,

When he finally manages to stop a cult and the duelings, he is granted a visit by the Seamstress, who was already in a foul mood thanks to the number of cupids surrounding her and begging to glimpse at Lady Love's dress or a slot in her busy schedule to make new garments in the “Dreaming fashion”, which did not exist. After escorting her to Lady Love’s quarters, he took a minute to breathe, thinking of the Emissary. He didn't even have the time to miss his lover, but the absence of his jests and his don’t-care attitude in the middle of a chaotic event, like this, was starting to make the cupid’s heart hurt.

But just as he was daydreaming about his lover, the Seamstress began to poke him with her cane, asking about Lady Love, where she was, when she was coming, saying the dress would not be ready, she would make a fool of herself, lord morpheus would be angry, and the whole dreaming was going to collapse because of a simple dress.

Of course, he did not say any of this to Lady Love. She had problems of her own to deal with, hence why they are in a mortal park and not in the Dreaming. “ The Seamstress is in a funny mood because my lady’s dress is yet to be finished.” Love knew that ‘funny’’ was a very polite way to say she was being a demonic hag, although Love would not admit to ever thinking that of the Seamstress. Duties always come first. And since bringing the court was her idea, she had no way other than going back. “We will finish this conversation, sister.” She said in a warning tone to Death.

Death knew Love had nothing to do with Orpheus's death. But just the possibility of others considering it might make her sister-in-law approach the subject with Dream, and knowing Love she would be careful with the topic, after all, losing a child, was suffering too terrible to be named. Love may not harvest any affection for her long-dead stepchild, but she knew the love of a parent to a child enough to proceed with caution and respect.

And if Dream proceeds himself with caution. There might be a conversation.

There might be a way.

“See you at the solstice, sister.”

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