#how to clean carpet at home without machine

[garciaasfluffypen]

comfort me please (it's all i need)

pairing: jemily x reader word count: 1.9k warnings: sub drop, reader feels unappreciated for a bit (not the whole time i promise), this could be classified as reader having a small crash out if you squint

you were tired. you were tired, the first one home, the apartment was messy and you were tired. logically, the apartment was as clean as it could have been after being called in during an impromptu girls night. but there was stuff strewn everywhere and it was bothering your brain. you hated when your brain made you feel like everything was messy and nothing was perfect. there were ways for you to cope with it, yes, but sometimes they didn’t work and you started to feel like only you were the one doing everything. 

which is how you currently felt. 

emily and jj stayed behind to finish the last of the paperwork, leaving tara to drop you off at home since you didn’t want to wait. she had offered to come inside with you but you had declined, just wanting to go and curl up in bed. what you didn’t expect was for your brain to automatically be repulsed at the state of the living room as it proudly showed off the remnants of saturday night. with an annoyed sigh, you dropped your go bag in the front hall, giving yourself approximately one minute to throw a small temper tantrum before you went to the front closet where you kept all the cleaning supplies. you zoomed around the apartment, leaving trash bags in your wake as the cleaning commenced. in the midst of emptying the dishwasher you realized you were thirsty and that there was old leftovers in the fridge so of course that had to be emptied. and just as you suspected… they were emily’s leftovers. with an angry sigh, you threw them in the garbage and continued your cleaning spree. 

meanwhile, emily and jj had pulled into the parking lot and were making their way up the drive, watching you pacing around through the window. emily had to hold back a chuckle at how animated you were being, flailing your arms around and screaming to the man on the tv who was playing some sort of horror game. emily and jj both jumped at the metal puppet looking thing that popped up on the screen, which you didn’t react to at all.

emily and jj stood in the foyer as you angrily paced to the closet, barely registering the two of them standing there in your… whatever was happening. they hadn’t seen you like this ever, and it was concerning to them. that’s how you felt? they shared a look as you walked by them again with the little green machine that you had gotten for christmas in your hand, placing it down and throwing the power cord in the direction of one of the many outlets. mumbling to yourself, you got down on your hands and knees to assess the damage, still unaware that your girlfriends were watching you pace around the apartment like a mad person. you walked over to the kitchen to grab the carpet cleaner, crouching down under the sink. emily and jj shared another look, trying to figure out if they should interrupt your tangent or not. 

jj squeezed emily’s hand, grabbing your go bag as well as her’s and emily’s, quietly slipping into the laundry room as emily continued to watch you. there were a few options that ran through her head about what she could do, and none of them were ideal. all of them ended with you freaking out because your routine was messed up and considering it was late at night, you would probably end up breaking down. you had gone a while without having a break down, but emily knew your meds had to have worn off by now and there was no way she would be able to get through to you without causing a catastrophic reaction due to the way you felt. you had been cleaning since you had gotten home, and the tracking app the three of you shared stated that you got home around 1am. you had to have been tired, considering the team had been up since 6am the morning prior. if jj squinted, she could see the tiredness in your eyes. she didn’t want you to, but she had a feeling if they didn’t stop you that you would ultimately end up pulling an all nighter.

finally, emily sighed and cleared her throat. 

“holy fuck-!” you jumped, dropping the spout of the green machine. “how long have you- how much of that did you see?” 

“enough to know you’re upset. lovey, you could have told us you felt like that.” 

you shook your head. “no.” 

“you need to communicate with us” jj piped in. “we can’t help you if you don’t talk to us.” 

“no.” you stared back at them, hints of your brat side starting to show in the flecks of your eyes. you moved past emily, putting the little green machine back in the closet. “i’m not done cleaning.” 

you walked back past your girlfriends, heading to grab the trash bag on the coffee table. jj and emily watched as you stumbled a bit, pausing a second before continuing to clean. doing some math, jj realized that it had been almost two days since you had taken your adhd meds. of course, the adhd rage was kicking in at one of the worst times possible- when you were tired. from what jj remembered, it was harder for you to regulate your emotions when you were tired and it typically left you drained more often than not. you were pushing yourself, it was obvious to her. emily kept an eye on you as you started to loose your steam, waiting for a break to say something.

“it’s almost four in the morning.”

“‘m not tired. i just need to sit for a second.” 

“you need to sleep.” 

“i’ll sleep when i’m done.”

you blinked a couple times, realizing how tired you actually were. the trash bag you were holding slipped from your hands as you fell onto the couch, the fatigue and events of the past week catching up to you. you rubbed at your eyes, forcing the tired feeling back as you pushed yourself up, holding onto the arm of the couch before you continued to pick up the trash. 

“my love-”

“i’m fine!” you snapped, staring at them. “everything’s fine. go to bed. i’ll come when i’m done. the living room needs to be clean. nobody took care of it so i’m taking care of it, it’s fine. just go to bed.”

“darling.” you locked eyes with jj, the look in her eyes the only thing you could focus on. “eyes on me. the living room is clean. give me the bag, we’re going to bed.”

within seconds emily realized what was happening as you started to bend to jj’s will, and it hit her. you had been going for so long, taking care of those around you that you hadn’t had time to care for yourself. between almost back to back cases, date nights with them and spending time with your brothers, you barely had any time to yourself. you hadn’t been able to sit back, relax and turn everything off. you were burning out. 

jj realized this at the exact same time as she pulled you into her arms, rubbing a hand up and down your back in a comforting manner. you wrapped yourself around jj’s midsection, clinging to her as your sub drop became more and more noticeable to your girlfriends. this wasn’t the first time they had witnessed one per se, but it was the first one they’ve witnessed in the absence of sex. you let the tiredness take over as she caressed you, your head falling into the crook of her neck as the tears that sometimes happened when you pushed yourself too far started to fall. 

“shh, darling it’s okay. we’ll get you to bed, come on.”

“shower?”

“when you wake up, okay?” jj ran a hand through your hair. “you’ve been up for almost two days. we need to get you to bed baby.”  

“‘m dirty. feel my hands.” 

it took jj a second to realize what you were saying. “you can feel your hands?” you nodded. “lets get you to the bathroom then, come on baby.” 

jj picked you up with ease and led you into the bathroom, emily following close behind as she went into the bedroom to get everything ready. jj went to put you down, but you were holding on to her so tight that it was practically impossible for her to set you down. she grabbed a washcloth instead, leaning so you were hovering above the counter in case you decided to let go. you sniffled a bit as she started to move the washcloth across your face, wiping off the makeup that had run down your face. you leaned into her touch, your arms slowly dropping as she continued to wipe you off with the washcloth. your eyes slowly fluttered as you attempted to keep them open, the tenderness of the situation on top of your tiredness truly taking a toll on you. 

you weren’t used to people taking care of you in this capacity. it had been so long since you had been cared for in a way that wasn’t people using you just because it was fun. you weren’t sure what exactly was happening in your brain, but you knew you felt loved and safe. something a partner hasn’t made you feel in a long time. you vaguely heard the door open and someone slip into the room, but you were too tired to try and figure out who was there. 

emily walked over to you two, rubbing a hand up and down your back as she whispered to jj. 

“i just talked to hotch, he said only one of us has to come in tomorrow so one of us can stay here with y/n. he’s the only other person to my knowledge who’s ever seen them like this.”

“not even garcia?”

“no.” emily shook her head. “from what he told me, they work really hard to make sure nobody on the team sees them like this. its why they get more time off than the rest of us.”

“reasonable accommodations.” jj nodded in understanding. “okay we got to get them to bed.”

“everything is ready, i have their pajamas here.” 

emily helped jj maneuver you so they could get your jammies on, switching you over to emily’s arms so jj could go get you some water and your morning medication. emily pulled you into bed with her, wrapping her arms around you as you snuggled into her. 

“fank you.” 

“for what, baby?” emily looked down at you as she scratched your back, resting her chin on top of your head.

“takin’ care of me.” you shuffled closer to emily. “lotsa… don’t wanna.” 

“you want to be told what to do sometimes,” emily started. “you haven’t had people who understood that like jay and i do.” 

your head turned as much as it could in your half asleep state to face emily. “i jus.. wanna be cared for.” 

“and we care for you, so much.” 

“more than that.” you mumbled. 

“then what do you want?”

“i dunno.” you curled into emily’s chest. “‘m sleepy.”

“go to sleep, lovey. we’ll be here for you in the morning.” 

“mm okay emmy. i love you.” 

emily blinked a few times as she registered what you said to her, watching you as you finally fell asleep. she’d definitely have to unpack this.

tomorrow. 

it was definitely a tomorrow problem.

taglist: @jayden-prentiss @idkwhatever580 @multifandomlesbianic @softestqueeen

[seat-safety-switch]

If there is one thing that unifies every adult I know, it's this: our vacuum cleaners are all shit. After decades of de-contenting, quality squeezing, and cheaper materials, it's no surprise that our vacuums are no longer as good as we remember our parents' ones being.

Now, I've done the responsible thing, and made my own. Not everyone around me can, either because they were raised by parents who were largely incapable, or simply present. Me, I learned how to do all this stuff in the backyard of my grandparents' house, where my folks would dump me on weekends when they went to try and interview for jobs with the circus. Even though I later found out they weren't actually my grandparents, but instead some senile old couple that my parents tricked into taking care of me through an interlocking series of ludicrous falsehoods, they never said a bad word about my tinkering. That let me grow into the kind of person I am today: wanted in five states, but with a very clean carpet.

I will help you become like me, but ideally without the abandonment trauma and hoarding issues (I don't need the competition.) All you need to construct your own SwitchForce® vacuum is an old V6 – even a 60-degree GM one will do, they're not good for much else – a tank of gas, and an old vacuum pump from whatever Mercedes got set on fire enough to end up in my kind of junkyard. Sure, it's a little loud, but it does a great job of getting french fries out of the back seat of the latest shitbox you dragged home. Just cover your ears, and don't rev it too hard (it's not great for the drapes to be repeatedly caught on fire – another sign of quality fade in our civilization.)

You can't buy a machine like this from the store. It has to be forged in your very own home. The nice thing about that is, even if it lets you down and you have to go buy a Home Depot vacuum, you'll be proud of what you did. Honestly, probably prouder than General Motors should have been of that V6. Woof.

[fawnsflowerbed]

♡ It's The Most Wonderful Time-out! ♡

A/N: is this late? 100% but it's time for some CHRISTMAS HYBRID TIMEEEEE!!! A HUGE thank you for the patience from my amazing sunshine anon for this commission <3 Personally I think the title is hilarious, do- do you get it- the most wonderful time of the year- plz laugh-

Warnings/content: 2nd person (you/yours), fem pup hybrid reader, puppy's first Christmas! Grumpy ol' man Vendetta Leon, Leon is referred to as daddy! Reader in time-out, visiting the hybrid park, angst and fluff, mentions and descriptions of gore, all gets resolved in the end!

Word count: 7,430 approx.

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December 23rd

Time out. Oof, those words. They were enough to take the swing right out of your tail. 

This definitely wasn’t your fault. On the scale of 1-10 you’re like, a -5 when it comes to being in trouble. Totally. It wasn’t your fault it had rained, or your fault you wanted to jump in the the new layer of snow and got all wet and muddy, the only part that might have potentially, potentially been on you was tracking said mud and sleet through the living room. The living room rug to be exact. The rather expensive, difficult to clean because daddy sometimes ‘truly can’t be fu- bothered’ rug. That was the one rule; he could deal with mess on the floorboards, the tiles, but not the carpet. The stains were just too hard to get out.

Leon could handle dirt and grime absolutely, he’d take it over guts and gore any day of the week, public holidays and Christmas included. But coming home from work after a long day, hands stinking of gunpowder and grease, only to find muddy streaks and pawprints all over the rug was his last straw. The coffee machine in the office had been broken, his magazine clip had taken three different attempts to click into place despite the million times he’d done it before, and the armoury’s practice range had been down for maintenance. This was just the gasoline flavoured icing on his flambe flaming shit excuse for cake. 

Woosh. Fire. 

So, there you were. Plopped back into your pen, favourite squeaky toy just out of reach sat beside Leon’s chair as he scrolled through whatever’s on his phone. Teddy was right there, all worn out fluff and stringy neck ribbon, you were being taunted! This was torture, punishment of 

the worst degree. The only thing that would make it even more awful was going to bed without a kiss goodnight. But even Leon wasn’t that cruel.

Don’t get it twisted, he was feeling guilty about this too. The face you made when he walked through the door told him plenty. Big, round eyes, head bowed and tail anxiously thumping. You knew you’d gotten carried away. But you also knew better. And it’d been so long since he actually disciplined you. This was long overdue, half chewed toys left sopping wet in the bath after tub time, weeks of chased squirrels and rabbits, staying up way past your set bedtime. This was what really sealed the deal though. So, you do the time, you do the crime.

Even now he could feel your eyes boring into the back of his head, like two teary, glossy lasers set to melt his old hardened heart. Every half-hearted thump of your fluffy tail, every scuttle of your nails against the floorboards as you got comfortable, every tiny whimper you seemed hesitant to let out. Not to mention your poor attempts at being ‘completely and totally cool’ with your timeout since he often caught you staring up at him through the bars, eyes following each swipe of his fingers over his phone screen. And when he craned his neck to check on you, you were swiftly looking in the opposite direction, swearing you weren’t just tracking each of his movements. How couldn’t you though? You were obsessed with your owner, Leon was your daddy at the end of the day no matter how many play pens or crates he had to put you in so you’d behave.

 His poor princess. You were killing him, really. He’d survived well over 15 years of bioterrorism just to die at the hands of his pup-hybrid’s big wet pathetic gaze. Could flood a village with the amount of tears you shed a week, but he loves you and that tender heart of yours.

The real question was how much longer could either of you take? Leon knew it was a ‘you do the crime, you do the time’ type of deal, but was this truly teaching you anything other than how to master your pouty bottom lip? You’re his favourite fluffball, fuzzed up and huffy, chuffing and rolling over onto your back like you’re ready to play dead if it gets you out. 

And honestly? He was caving. He was only a man after all.

You’d softened him, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Three years ago he’d have scoffed at the thought of even owning a hybrid, let alone being this attached. But now you were glued to his side. Now he just felt like an old man, worn and tired, your sunshiney attitude and warmth had thawed through him like no heater had. He’d been frostbitten before meeting you, whether he’d known it or not.

He couldn’t bear it. Yeah, time was up.

So his heavy footsteps muffled through socks padded across the floorboards to you, although you tried to act like you didn’t care (and failed miserably). It was pretty obvious how much this mattered to you, because your tail was whipping something fierce, so hard it had your hips wiggling. 

“C’mon, darlin’. Think you’ve learnt your lesson.”

Those big eyes pierced his very being and soul as you gazed up at him from behind your lashes, ears all floppy and face streaked with past tear tracks. God, you’d been crying over this too? Might as well just rip his heart from his chest and stomp on it. 

Even as he turned around and sat back down on the couch, looking over to you expectantly, you seemed to hesitate at first. Glancing at the spot where the rug had once sat in the centre of the living room, right in front of the coffee table, with guilty furrowed brows. Then it was back to looking at Leon, back to melting him with those heartbreaking watery eyes.

“Oh, my sweet puppy.” He couldn’t help but croon as you made guilty little steps over to him, every tap of your feet filled with shame, tail swaying with embarrassment. You were a walking heap of emotions, and he was ready to scoop you up and put you back together. “Here she comes, there we go. Tough day for our girl.”

You’d missed it, oh how you’d missed it. At your heart you truly were just a puppy, in need of the loving praise and sweet words that only he could provide. You weren’t the mushiest pup in the litter, but there was nothing like a good hug from your daddy. That much was clear from the way you melted into Leon’s body as soon as you were sat in his lap, your tail thumping delightfully against his knees while you burrowed into him. Paws kneading his shirt so you nestled into him just right.

“I know it was rough, honey. M’ sorry. But sometimes daddy has to discipline you, y’know?” the thick pad of his thumb encased your chin just enough to tilt your gaze upwards, his hand sliding over the curve of your face so he could wipe your tears away. “And it hurt, didn’t it?” “Yeah..” “So next time you think about stepping on the rug with muddy feet, you’ll remember how much we both hated this, and you won’t do it, isn’t that right?” “,,Yeah.”

“That’s right, baby. My poor girl.” That last statement came out as a small sigh, rubbing the soft fuzz of your floppy ears tenderly between his fingers. Even now as he gave you a talking down your tail never stopped thumping against his leg. 

No matter what, you loved him. That must’ve been why they called it puppy love. And it made his heart ache something fierce. You were too good.

Leon felt like the worst daddy in the world sometimes, he wasn’t gonna even try to lie about that. Sometimes he scratched behind your ears too hard, or you didn’t understand one of his jokes and ended up getting pouty and upset, sometimes he didn’t throw the ball right or pick out the right snacks. But all of that was nothing compared to the biggest issue.

His intoxicated escapades were at the very top of that list. 

Raids of the fridge and mumbling to himself, slumping his jacket off only to pass out on the edge of his bed. Leon knew you didn’t like when he got drunk, it was probably what hurt him the most about all of it. Not the gunshots echoing through his skull when his shot glass hit the table, or the recoil of a pistol wracking his shoulder when he ran into a wall too hard. 

No, it was the look on your face.

How you seemed to curl yourself back into your pen, watching with a lowered head and a hesitant gaze, tail somewhat tucked. The foggy memory of the face you pulled when he was too rough petting you or spoke too loud while sloshed. That’s what ached, what truly stung like a bitch. 

He was supposed to be the one protecting you, caring for you, and because of his own problems now you’d seen a side of him he never wanted you to. He’d made your hands awaken to the crack of eggshells beneath them when you stepped towards him, you were familiar with the shell’s powdering like that of bullet sulfur, and inner yolk gold as the streaks in his hair back then. Knew of the blood that sometimes hung in the middle of it all, and in the worst scenario the curling of bones left over. 

But still at the end of the night, drifting between a muddled haze of asleep and awake, he’d hear you make your way slowly towards his bed, the mattress dipping when you climbed up and curled up at the bottom of the duvet. Because, despite it all, you wanted to be close to him.

 Because, despite it all, he was your person. So he dumped what he could of the remaining bottles, stashed a few shitty cans for safe keeping in case things got too hard, and stopped being a regular at Jerry’s bar. 

He was doing it for you, maybe only for you.

Now he had you sat in his lap, buried in his shoulder and curling in as small as possible. Trying to become one with the skin of his arms and fabric of his shirt. You wanted to crawl up under his jacket and be carried as one with Leon, you’d do it if you could. 

He had to do something.

“What am I gonna do with you, huh?” Oh, that voice. Despite the icy weather outside, despite the cold that hung in his chest from time to time, his tone always tried to be warm with you. Soft. like those mutts learning to gentle their snarls and unclench their teeth, to stop growling. He was so used to the sneering, the sarcasm, snapping when someone got too close or said the wrong thing to him. But you were so fluffy, so fuzzy to the world, so unaware and loving. So he had to wear a muzzle, and he learned how to adjust.

Why? Because he couldn’t be a violent dog if he had his very own puppy. “I dunno..”

A lopsided smile spread across his cheeks at the look on your face, chin tilted and tail squirming as you look to him. There’s still the matter of that guilt still hanging in your face, stray strands like an unruly mop of hair.

“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna squeeze ya.” While you were still processing Leon’s comforting words and the lull of his voice, he was quick to gather you in his arms and press you tight to his chest. Immediately you were bathed in the scent of his shirt, the natural smell and comfort of his body. A warm blanket of safety had been draped over your blankets in the form of his presence. He squeezed your body nice and close until you squeaked out a yapped laugh, the fluff of your ear squished against his stubbled cheek.

“Oooo, good squeeze. Get all those nasty feelings outta you.”

“Daddyyyy, you’re smooshing me!” These were the moments he really cherished, ones where your tail swung and you squirmed in his arms with that smile of yours.

“Awww, well that’s how you know that it’s a real good squeeze,” His voice waved every time he swayed you slightly from side to side, bringing bubbly giggles from your throat that drifted up into the air and popped right at his heart. “It’s like juicin’ an orange, gotta shake and twist you till you’re all better.” “I don’t wanna be juice!” You howled out playfully, throwing your head back like the dramatic little thing that you were.

“Oh you don’t huh? Then you gotta keep smiling for me baby, it's just that simple.” He pushed his cheek up against your own. God, how he loved that smile, the sound of your tail thumping across the fluff of the sleek couch. There you sat, cute as a button, curled up atop his legs and snuggled in close like the sweetest, softest stuffed animal. “Tell you what, we get you one last snack, and then we’ll tuck you in, and tomorrow we’ll go into town. Catch everything before it all closes up.” 

You were already half asleep in his arms by the time he’d finished talking.

December 24th

Planning the day out was the easy part, executing it was hard. Not only because Christmas was right around the corner which came with its own chaos, but because you were- well, you. Overly loving, over committed, overly loyal and lovely you. Leon swore you must’ve been the cutest looking leech or tick in a past life.

You insisted on putting together an outfit that yes consisted of your favourite bows and daddy’s most comfiest shirt that smelled like him. But even his ‘I’ve worn the same blue shirt for 3 years’ ass could tell when things didn’t coordinate together. So he did the gentlemanly and not-wanting-you-to-look-like-a-disaster-oustide-ly thing and helped you into some cute fleecy stockings, complete with a soft sweater and your favourite skirt. Gloves of some sort were a must, you had a thing for pawing at whatever you could get your hands on no matter how cold it was, and you were in your fuzziest boots. Adorable. Like a Christmasy puffball, a fluffy ornament. All you needed was a pair of angel wings and a halo and you’d be ready for the top of the tree. 

“Look at her, look at that posture and stance. Look at that trot. That’s a well trained leash dog right there.” A smirk tugged at Leon’s lips as he watched you pad in step with him, the lacy trim of your skirt swaying whenever your foot met the sidewalk. This was the very same puppy who sat staring at him from her crate with the most pitiful eyes yesterday, rolling over onto your back like you might die from lack of attention. And now you were practically skipping, a bounce to your tail with every step.

You were lucky enough to live in a small enough part of the city. Not too urban, but definitely not rural. An outskirt area that was a nice walk away from the nearest hybrid park, long enough to get you warmed up for the real fun. And even after Leon had you off the leash you were staying in step with him, glued to his side with the sweetest smile on your face. In fact it took a little coaxing and the presence of some other pups for you to finally run around.

Leon knew you could be sociable when you truly wanted to be, but even for such a smiley little thing sometimes you simply preferred his company to anyone else’s. You could be skittish, a bit shy, and it truly threw him off guard when that part of you poked its head out from behind the warm rays of sunlight that radiated from your very being. It was adorable, really. Watching you curl into his leg with a slightly swishing tail of fluff, giving a small wave only to burrow into him. But today you were doing well, today you chose to shake out your jitters. And yes, he wouldn’t admit it, but he was proud of you.

No matter how many times Leon brought you out here, letting you experience the wonders of a normal domestic life, it never stopped being nothing short of magical to watch you shine. You had this magnetic aura that always seemed to follow you around, people were drawn to you and that sunbeam that clung to the smile on your face. The warmth that you spread to those around you. 

You truly were his sunshine.

“Leon?”

A voice he hadn’t heard in a few weeks thanks to his time off work caught his attention, and sure enough as he looked over his shoulder there stood Ingrid Hunnigan. Bundled up in a long overcoat with a recyclable cup in her hands, steam wafting from the lid in smooth swirls through the crisp cold air. Already her glasses seemed to be fogging up again, despite so clearly being cleaned only recently. Yeah, he didn’t realise how lucky he was to have decent vision despite all the bullshit he’d been through. Glasses on top of the trauma and broken bones might’ve done him in.

“Hunnigan? The hell are you doing out here?” It wasn’t defensive or aggressive, moreso confused. Intrigued, interested. It wasn’t often he actually saw her out and about. A little silly in all honesty for him to think that, Ingrid always had some sort of plans around Christmastime. Her holiday decorations, complete with lights and glowing reindeer atop a tiled roof, were nothing to scoff at.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen the snow in person, I figured I’d go for a walk to get a feel for it.” She shrugged, hands tucked into her pockets. 

He was listening, or at least some part of him was. The other part was blurring through his peripheral vision to make out the blob of colour and wagging tail that was you balling up snow as you ducked behind a tree, playing with one of the other hybrids. If you asked anyone in his line of work, they’d say Leon is a hardass. He’s committed to his work and gets his job done, and he’s passionate about what he does whether that’s good for him or not. 

But with you? With you he was just a man. Just your owner, your person. And that was such a relief.

“How’s she doing?” Ingrid asks out of habit. Every woman in the office can’t help but ask Leon about his perfect princess. And of course he laughs, shaking his head.

“Spoiled as ever. Really enjoying my time off with her.” Much needed confirmation, he knows he’d never hear the end of it if he dared tell Hunnigan about the time out incident. Best to keep it lighthearted now. Even as her face seems to.. Falter. What was that about?

“Listen, about the Phillis report..”

And then that lightheartedness was gone. If it weren’t for the icy chill that surrounded him, Leon would’ve gone a new shade of pale in the cool winter light. 

It never used to bother him. It never phased him on the outside. But now? With you?

The Phillis report. A family with a hybrid that had been a target for a bioterrorism attack. 

A hybrid.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw you smiling, the red tips of his ears pricking at your laughter, the soft crunch of snow beneath people’s feet feeling much louder now as they passed. Everyone’s footsteps were unique, every thud and crush that left a print. Evidence. Clues. Cases. Work.

A hybrid like you. Everything was muddling together into the nastiest shade of grey water freezing over into ice. He hated his job. If he could pull the pin on a grenade, jump on top of it and coat the walls of that godforsaken office in his blood and guts he would. Because that’s what they were asking from him. They were asking him to die for them. Jumping from subject to subject, he was playing jump rope and hopscotch with his morals and intrusive thoughts over one simple statement in the middle of the holidays. How the mighty so quickly fell beneath twinkling lights and atop brightly wrapped presents.

The pulse of his heart had managed to spike, thundering fast and heavy in his chest. Eyes half an inch wider, pupils shrunk.

It could’ve been you. It- “Please, don’t. I’m just- I’m trying to not think about all of that. Not with her here.” It came out a bit too rushed, like his body had forced each syllable from his lips to get a point across. A safety measure, a precaution for his well being.

Leon had already spent countless nights tossing and turning over the paranoia of you being caught in his work. Now it had gotten so bad that even the mention of a hybrid being involved in a case made him sick to his stomach.

Because what if that had been you?

His throat almost closed itself off to the world as he got his words out. Ingrid’s face was creased in worry at the state of him. How had one statement so quickly pulled him through a 180? “It’s our first Christmas together, I can’t ruin that. I can’t.” Swallowing felt like choking down gravel but he managed to nonetheless. 

Hunnigan’s gaze softened, because she knew exactly how much it would ruin a perfectly good day if she were to stretch this out. She knew you were bouncing around somewhere without even looking for you amidst the snow and differently shaped animal ears and noses. You were the centre of Leon’s world, even if he didn’t know it. But those around him, those like her and Claire and Rebecca, could see what a difference you’d made. “I get it. Just.. don’t worry about rushing it, okay? It can wait until next year.”

“Yeah.. Yeah, thanks.” Automated. Robotic. Leon felt like he was backseating his own life as he responded, hearing Hunnigan’s shoes click as she prepared to walk back to her apartment complex. The sympathy ebbing from her expression only made him feel more sick, and yes that would’ve made him feel bad if it weren’t for him being on the brink of what was most likely a panic attack.

“Merry Christmas, Leon. Take it easy.” He couldn’t get the words out, settling for a stiff nod. Work. Work, work, work. It followed him everywhere no matter how fucking hard he tried to escape it. Think of something else, he scolded himself through the deafening heartbeat in his ears. Anything else. Think of you.

Padding your way over the snow, he watched on in an attempt to calm himself down as you bounded around the park like a bunny. Maybe a fox, the type that burrowed deep under the flurries of fresh powder with yipping laughter. All he knew was you were enjoying yourself, and that was all that mattered. That was all he focused on as his breathing steadied. With a short, still somewhat breathless whistle, your ears stood on end. Immediately your head thwipped to him, and you were merely a blur of pink and white that came scampering towards him. Yeah, that got a snort. Good. He needed to laugh more.

“There’s my girl.”

And there you were indeed, practically barrelling into his leg so he let out a hoarse ‘oof’ at the impact. Complete with a whispered “Hi daddy,’ that somehow managed to calm his heart in ways no medication or therapy could. Maybe he could start you out on service hybrid training, get you certified. Nah, you were too cuddly for that. Plus the vest would have to be pink or you just might refuse to wear it. So for now, he figured he may as well treat you.

“How about some hot cocoa, hm? You were a good girl after all, took your punishment like a champ.” Lie. Big, fat lie. If the ladies at the office ever caught word of how Leon had put you in timeout he’d be getting the most gruelling of death glares. His grave would be trampled on as they sprinted their way over to comfort you. He couldn’t really blame them, though, how could you not run someone over to pet someone as precious as you. You, currently sticking your little tongue out to catch the delicate snowflakes floating down from the sky as you approached the cafe. That’s what he had to keep reminding himself of in this moment. He did all of this for you. Trying to drown out the sinking ache in his stomach as if he’d swallowed an anvil, that son of a bitch must’ve been hidden between the bubbles of his saliva, or maybe the frost that dripped from the roof. 

So yeah, he was using you as the most sweet looking distraction right now, watching your wide eyes take in the wood grain and sleek walls of the coffee shop tucked into a corner of the park. On your best behaviour as you both stood in line until you got to the register. The metal tang in the back of his throat definitely had nothing to do with the gut weight still lingering after talking to Ingrid. Nope. Must’ve been the cold.

“Yeah, can we grab one long black and one.. Hm.” For a moment Leon caught himself rethinking his decisions. Was it really the best idea to give you something that had ‘cocoa’ in the name? You guys had yet to test how you’d react to chocolate after all. Taking the time to test and breakdown what food and beverage you could eat or simply didn’t like was a meticulous process, but better safe than sorry. “Wait, that was on our testing list..”

“Daddy?” Sorry puppy, daddy’s too busy having a small crisis over whether or not you can actually drink what he was ordering for you.“Is it- It should be safe for you to have hot cocoa, right?” “Daddy.” This time it was flatter. Unimpressed.

“I mean you haven’t had a bad reaction to anything yet despite being part puppy but, it’s technically chocolate to some degree so-

“Daddy!”

The tugging at his wrist was enough to get his attention back on you, the draw of your big dewy eyes and scrunched nose luring him in like a fish to bait.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” “Turn brain switch off.” 

Sometimes he thought you were pretending to be as curious and innocent as you are, because you so easily sensed when he was anxious or worried. Like an instinct. Sure, he loved you to bits, but you weren’t the brightest bulb in the- light store? Batch? He’d come up with a better analogy later. Either way, the point stood. And yet you always did that little head tilt when something seemed off. That bulb flickering to life.

“Right, puppy. Daddy’s turning the overthinking switch off.” Leon reassured as best as he could. And it seemed to satisfy. “Good daddy.”

He couldn’t help but snort again at that. “Thanks, baby.” Being praised for his minute efforts in managing his thoughts by his very own puppy hybrid. By the time you hit the register he was still smiling despite the storm in his head. “One long black and a hot cocoa, please.” 

But oh, how quickly it faded into thunder clouds. Even as he gave the barista his name for the order and walked over to wait for your drinks, it lurked over him. A sickening thickness in his throat, like tar tobacco and nicotine had clogged his windpipe. He was on auto pilot when he collected the recyclable cups and placed one of them into your eager hands, not recognising his own voice as he warned you about it being hot.

Leon was stuck between reality and dissociation, his feet leading both of you on the path back home that you’d taken enough times to have memorised. And even as you blew on the surface of your cocoa through the spout of the cup’s lid, you could see it in his eyes. That distant look. Deflated, the same as when you chewed on your favourite squeaky toy too hard and it popped.

“Daddy? You’re all droopy.”

Your voice was high and puzzled, all floppy ears and arched brows in confusion. Did he not like the park? You’d had a wonderful time making snow angels and bounding through the white powder like sweet icing sugar atop a winter cake. Maybe daddies just didn’t do parks well, like how you didn’t do the vet too well.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Daddy’s just thinking about things.” It had him staring out so far his eyes hit the end of the sidewalk, through the ice and snow to the cement. One hand held your leash, the other swiping past his lips. Hoping to wipe away the residue of his frown. 

It didn’t work. “But the switch..” Oh, don’t give him that tone. So heartbroken, so worried. It broke him.

“I know, I know the switch honey.” Already he was rubbing over the crease between his brows. This conversation couldn’t happen, not here and not now. “But sometimes- sometimes it’s not that simple, you know? Sometimes the switch doesn’t work.”

You supposed that made sense. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder. And pry, just a smidge. You could be a little pushy and shovey, whether you meant it or not. “Well, whatcha thinking about?”

What wasn’t he thinking about was the real question. It was all blurring together.

He simply shook his head. Made the bangs of his hair sway when he did. “Don’t worry about it, pup. It’s a conversation for another time.”

Well, that didn’t seem right to you. Usually Leon was so open with his feelings towards you, so you couldn’t help but nudge him. This time not with your nose or paw, but with your words. “But..”

And then his voice was lighter, as if he’d dropped the weight he’d been carrying over to one shoulder. Giving the illusion that things were better, that things were normal. But that shoulder still slumped. “Hey, weren’t you telling me something about Jill’s dog Carlos showing up on his own today? What was that about?” 

It still dragged.

At first you were very willing to tell him, the very concept of a hybrid on their own both bewildered, confused and excited you. Carlos was a big shaggy furred fella, he always played fair and shared the good treats Jill handed out.

But you knew this tactic. It was the same as when you’d ask him questions and instead of giving you an answer he’d pick up the nearest squeaky toy and suddenly you were playing fetch instead of talking. This time you were all the wiser.

“You’re trying to distract me! I don’t get it, when people say certain things you go stiff and wonky.” You couldn’t help but frown up at him. It didn’t feel fair, not knowing these things about him. A whole year together and yet sometimes he looked more like a stranger, dodging your questions and petting your ears so you’d move on. But you weren’t expecting him to furrow his eyebrows and sigh low in his chest, the way his forehead creased and nose flared. It was the same look you got before time out, only this one seemed more defensive than the last. 

“Not now, sweetheart. Please.” Leon’s tone was flat, no room for argument no matter how much your wriggled and squeezed your body between the cracks. Your tail’s wag deflated, slowing to nothing more than a slight sway. The snow felt a little colder after that.

December 30th

Christmas had been nothing short of a success in the Kennedy household, with Leon’s living room being covered in scattered wrapping paper and a whole new variety of toys in pastel colours. He was delighted. This may have been one of the few times he actually enjoyed a holiday rather than loathing it. Maybe it was because you were there, so he wasn’t spending it alone like he usually did. The way you’d spun in circles and yapped happily about it being Christmas morning.

It had been your first real Christmas ever. Your first Christmas not spent in a cage, where you got toys and ate warm meals with the man you loved, with Claire and Becca and Chris and Jill coming over for lunch under the fluorescent glow of the Christmas lights you’d insisted Leon put up. You’d sat by the tree unwrapping gifts with the fastest wagging tail Leon had ever seen, ears perked to attention and eyes wide and sparkling. He was glad, honoured really, to witness this moment of pure unbridled joy for you.

The two of you spent most if not all of Boxing Day lazing around the house in your pajamas, cuddling by the fireplace and bundling under blankets for more than a few naps. Lazy days, oh how you both loved them. Soon it was the 26th, then the 27th,so on and so on. 

Now, the christmas paper had been collected, the tree’s decorations were slowly taken down in day by day intervals, and you sat politely by the glass door to the backyard watching the snow. Leon figured if there was ever a time to truly explain to you the truth behind his career, it was likely now. A tough conversation to have, but one that needed to happen. He just couldn’t leave you in the dark like this, not any longer. 

“Hey, sweetheart?” “Hm?”

There it was. That innocent lilt, the curve of your neck as you craned to look at him. You were something too pure to be sitting on the floor of his home. You deserved mattress upon mattress like the princess and the pea, only he wouldn’t be an idiot like the ones in that book. Leon knew better than to leave under the bed unattended in case there were coyotes trying to nip at his sweet girl’s toes and tail.

Softening, that’s what he was doing. Cracking. This wasn’t going to end well and he knew it. “Y’know how daddy doesn’t like to talk about work?”

Uh oh, now you knew it was time for a serious talk. Not like when you dirtied the rug, this time you weren’t in trouble. Still you looked at him so gently, with such trust while that mountain of fluffy fur behind you swished. Because if it was serious, it was important. “Yeah.”

Leon patted the spot on the couch beside him, complete with a pretty pink bone print blanket for you to settle on, to which you trotted yourself over as dainty as could be. Hopping up next to him, a tail curled around your back. Getting yourself cozy under his arm with your head nestled right next to his chest. Listening to the steady thrum of his heart as his pulse picked up. Doing so much, yet so little, and it all comforted him.

 It was starting to sink in. He was telling you. He was opening the casket, dragging the corpse of his past through the dirt to pose for a real, living person. How was he supposed to break this to you? How did you even word his job without saying ‘I might die one day’?

“Well, that’s cause what I do is pretty dangerous, puppy. I don’t want to worry you with all the stuff I have to do.” The violence, the bloodshed, the screaming. Flashes of red that haunted his dreams, the ones you’d nudge at his face over until he’d wake up because you heard him muttering in his sleep.

“Why?” You were so oblivious to his little inner world, the one he made sure to hide from you. The one filled with guilt and shame. He wanted to keep it that way, but what choice did he have? How could he keep you safe if you had no idea what you were being kept safe from? You should be worried about what colour skirt to wear, or if your collar matches your outfit, not this bullshit. 

“Because it’s just better for you to sit and wait for me to get home at the end of the day, baby.” It was better for you to expect him home every day. 

It was better for both of you if you just always thought he was coming home.

 It made his heart break so hard his ribs snapped thinking about you sitting by the big bay window, tail flicking and throat weeping whimpers if he didn’t show up for a few days. Then weeks. Then eventually someone would have to take you in, pack up all your toys. They’d find the list he kept stashed on the top of the fridge just in case; instructing anyone who found you on just how you liked your food and which stories to whisper in your ear at night when the thunder got too loud. 

You’d never go willingly. Someone would have to leash you and tug you out the door to their car. You’d cry. You’d cry so hard your throat would die out hoarse. It would probably be Claire or Chris or Becca picking you up, he’d have to hope. The thought of some stranger from the DSO taking you from his home, your home, the home you shared together, had him swallowing down a lump. He knew you��d never recover from it. It would shatter you, after sitting in a kennel alone for so long and finally crawling out of your shell, just to lose the person you so clearly loved more than anyone else. Fuck, Leon could feel his eyes watering.

But he couldn’t do that to you. He just couldn’t. It would be the cruelest thing in the world for him to abandon you without any choice in the matter. If he were a stronger man he’d have retired by now. But he wasn’t stronger. He had no backbone when it came to his job, the government, the United States as a whole. Some fucking hero. He was more like a lapdog, breaking his neck for a board of people who didn’t give a shit about him. Taking the scraps he was offered.

“Daddy, you’re crying..” Your sad voice pulled him back into reality, where you were now taking those soft hands of yours to wipe away his tears. Wet streaks that lined the creases forming in his scarred over skin. He was getting too old for this. Too old to be bottling up these feelings for days on end. Wearing himself down for the sake of denying what he felt.

“Fuck, sorry sweetheart. It’s just.. It’s my job to keep you safe. But it’s also my job to keep everyone else safe, too. And your daddy’s been through everything, honey. Zombies, parasites, bioterrorism, war, the whole five yards. I’ve had so many people turn their backs on me or- or look to me for help for so long that it drives me crazy to even think of you worrying about me not coming home.”

How long had it been since he’d cried? Really cried? How much more could a man like Leon take? Sure he was strong, he had to be. Built up from broken beginnings on bloodied glass, shitty past relationships and world-ending catastrophes. But he was only human for Christ’s sake.

And maybe he was finally starting to sober up to that realization.

“I always think you’ll come home..”

Of course you did. Of course you, this sweet angel of a puppy girl, looked up at him with those watery eyes filled with confidence in such a statement. As if you loved him so much it almost poured from your lash line in heart shaped droplets. You had such hope despite where he’d adopted you from. Had he done that? It was odd to think about. How someone as shitty as him (in his perspective at least) had gotten you to blossom and bloom into the sweet thing you were today.

“Yeah, why’s that honey?”

“Cause you’re Leon, and Leon is the strongest person I know.”

The weight of your head now resting against his shoulder was like an anchor that stopped Leon from washing out on the beach of his despairs. He wasn’t left to drift off into oblivion, to drown in his sorrows and regrets. He had you. You had him. A hand came out to instinctively pet over the warm fuzz of your floppy ears, and he seeked out the comfort that came with your presence.

It was comforting, the quiet. Not tense or awkward. Like the waves of the ocean sloshing to a slow and serene sway after a tsunami or a tidal wave. To know you saw him as your hero, that you held him in such high regard. It made every grey hair and creased feature feel worth it. Everything he did, he did it for you. And for once it didn’t feel like a pressure, or a burden, it was a responsibility he was glad to shoulder. Like he were your knight in shining armour.

“Why’d you never tell me you went through all that stuff?” Even now as you spoke your voice was low and soft, sweet to his ears like a drizzling of warm honey right to his cochlea. Those homemade remedies for aches and pains.

Even now he found himself chuckling to get through this, an ache in his chest with each exhale. Someone had set a cinderblock on his chest, and you were mustering up all the strength in those little paws to ease it off. “And ruin what we’ve got going on right here? I wasn’t gonna risk that.”

Apparently that was the wrong answer, because now you were perked upright with the slightest of pouts perched atop your lips. Disagreement etched into your features. “S’ not ruined, dummy. It just means I get to say I love you a whole lot more.”

Now it was his turn to snort sincerely. Always so stubborn. Adorable, sweet, but stubborn. "Oh, is that so?”

“Mhm. So when things are yuck it’ll be easier to remember that I love you. Cause I’ll say it as many times as I gotta until you believe it.”

You ruined him, and not in a bad way. You took the world’s smallest pick to the world’s coldest iceberg and chipped back his layers sliver by sliver. Sculpting him back into what he once was before the world dumped cold water onto him and froze over the softness that lay within. 

Leon’s hand stroked aimlessly over the curve of your head, tracing over the edges of your hair gently. Even with the scrapes on his knuckles and bruises on his palms he always made sure to be soft with you. His voice, half cracked and brimming with affection, was quiet as he whispered back. “I love you too, puppy. You’re my best girl.”

Firewood crackled in a low, jagged white noise in the background, smoothing into a quiet simmer that cast a warm orange glow against the walls. Bathing the room in heat, one that you both let wrap around you like a safety blanket. You found haven in each other, because no matter what, you always came back to one another. Leon was your owner, after all. It was his job to ensure you had the best life, with all the comforts you could ask for and then some.

And he planned to do just that. Whether it meant dumping out all the alcohol in his house or not.

“So.. Do I get more presents?” It’s a teeny voice against his shirt that had him tilting his chin down to look at you.

“Well no puppy, the next holiday is New Years Eve. We don’t give presents then, only Christmas.” A pretty straight forward explanation, or at least that’s what it felt like to him.

“Why?” Another chirp.

His brow arched. “Cause Christmas is only once a year, sweetie.”

“Why?” And another. “Okay, we’re not starting this.”

God, just wait until you find out about birthdays. Then he’s done for.

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 9: Hollywood]

A/N: We're in the home stretch now, besties! Only 3 chapters left until the curse is lifted 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, Maroon 5, illness/death, angst, ice cream, Sunshine makes her red carpet debut! 😍

Word count: 6.5k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Time machine, walls like glass, the dial turned back to 2009. It’s Viserys’ funeral, and no one can even pretend they’re sad. They stopped being sad years ago, and only relief is left. No more long nocturnal hours of the deathwatch, no more hushed sympathetic updates from the hospice nurses, no more unrecognizable white-haired organic matter contorted in his hospital bed. The chains are broken and they are free, all except one of them, the nineteen-year-old son who believes—without proof, without logic—that the curse is not lifted but only transferred, living on in him like an echo down a long hall.

It’s 2005, and Viserys has turned mean: paranoid, volatile, lashing out with fury at his increasing limitations as his brain is hollowed out like a Halloween pumpkin, like a cored apple. He roars and he throws things. He forgets his family are not torturers. Alicent could shut him away somewhere, but she doesn’t, the guilt would eat her alive; and so while nurses are present at the Malibu mansion around the clock, the Targaryens are not spared his wrath. One night Viserys breaks a window and wields a shard of glass like a dagger, and when the nurses flee screaming, Aemond stops Alicent from entering the room and goes in himself to clean up the mess. Someone has to.

It’s 1999, and after years of anomalies that nobody knew were symptoms—mood swings, muscle weakness, difficulty making decisions, balance problems, memory lapses—Viserys has been diagnosed with a disease that must have been lurking in his forebearers for generations, unbeknownst to them without the longevity or genetic tests of modern medicine. And like so many absent husbands and fathers who experience a revelation of their impending doom, he is determined to make up for lost time. He bakes with Alicent in the kitchen. He walks with Helaena in the garden. He stops condemning nine-year-old Aegon for long hours spent with his favorite toy, a charcoal gray Nintendo 64, first edition; the Fire Orange console won’t be released until the following year, part of the Funtastic Colors series. And now that it’s too late, Viserys’ children learn to love him.

Viserys takes Aegon’s hand and asks the boy to show him how to play Nintendo 64, here at the very start like a mirage, already beginning to disintegrate around the edges.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Thursday, August 7th. You don’t have an appointment to see Aegon, but you’re here in Elysian Park anyway. You park on the curb and sweep out into the gilded morning glow, already mid-80s and rising, wrinkled goldenrod-yellow sundress that you left in the drier too long, flip-flops, bare-faced. You barely slept and ran out the door as soon as you clawed your way out of brief, fitful dreams, autumn leaves and endless corridors through apple orchards, distant stars and deep water.

At his desk, Brandon is on the phone and making notes with his flower pen. He gives you a smile; you can only manage a quick wave. You continue into Aegon’s office, where he is engrossed in Mario’s expedition into an ice world where snow falls in unhurried, harmless white spheres. The music is pleasant, but the pools of frozen water are so cold they burn. Mario is making his way towards a block of ice in which a star has been hidden, accessible by navigation through narrow tunnels. Aegon, his green Nike Killshots propped up on his cluttered desk as usual, is surprised but not disappointed to see you.

“Hey, sunshine!” he says, still clicking the buttons on his transluscent orange controller, still swiveling the joystick. “What are you doing here so—?”

“Your dad died of Huntington’s disease.”

He freezes, and on the television screen, so does Mario; a malevolent snowman entity appears and hurls snowballs at the abandoned avatar until he is dead. You wait for Aegon to say something—no, that’s not true, no, you’re wrong, no, that would be a death sentence—but he only sits there, jaw fallen open, eyes filling up his face…and then he jolts to his feet and goes for the door.

You whirl around to watch him leave. “Aegon…?”

He stops in the doorway to the lobby and calls out: “Brando, you’re done for the day. Bye.”

“Oh for cute!” Brandon replies. “Let me just send an email to that moving company and then—”

“No, now. You’re done right now.”

Brandon sounds perplexed. “Okay, literally right now, you got it.” You can hear him gathering up his things, the jangling of car keys, the snapping shut of a laptop, and you remember all the hours you’ve spent gazing into a small rectangular blue-light screen as you combed through Aegon’s filmography, inspired potential that came to a collision of a stop in his mid-twenties. From the threshold, as he waits for Brandon to leave, Aegon watches you with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes thrashing with dark choppy waves like the riptides of the Pacific. You stare back thunderstruck, and only now do you realize how desperately you were hoping you were mistaken.

Out in the lobby, the front door of the half-duplex opens and closes, and now you and Aegon are alone. He walks back to his desk—loose papers, manila folders, framed photographs, that ever-present bowl of Honeycrisp apples—and drops into his chair, drags his fingers through his slicked-back hair, gazes vacantly at the mint green wall and sighs deeply.

“Who told you?” he asks, like hardly anyone knows, like the few who do wouldn’t have said anything.

“Nobody,” you say, startled. “I just kept guessing different diseases, and I didn’t think it was cancer, and…and…Aegon, Huntington’s is genetic.”

He looks up at you. “Yeah. Yeah it is.”

“Have you been tested? Because if one of your parents had it then you have a fifty percent chance of inheriting the gene.”

“No, I haven’t been tested.”

“Why not?!”

“Because I just haven’t, okay?”

“Have your siblings?”

“Yeah, and they’re all negative. But I didn’t take the test.”

“I think you should take the test, Aegon.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you should know!” you burst out, and your hands are trembling like his do sometimes, dire adrenaline in your bloodstream and your voice frayed like someone has taken a razor blade to it. “Because if you’re negative then you’ll be relieved, and if you’re positive then you can…you can plan for it, you know? And there are treatments that can help manage the symptoms! I looked it up, I spent like four hours last night on Wikipedia—”

“But no one can stop it,” Aegon says. “They can’t even slow it down.”

“You think you have the gene,” you realize, horrified. “You forget things. Your hands shake. And that’s why you’re leaving Los Angeles and avoiding your family, and that’s why you’re marrying Becca—”

“Stay the fuck out of my head,” Aegon says, the first time he’s ever spat his venom at you, and his knuckles are unbruised and yet it feels like he’s hit you, a crack in a wall, bones that split and arteries that hemorrhage.

“Aegon, you can’t run away like that when you don’t even know for sure if you’re sick!”

“It’s actually really common for people in my situation to not want to take a test.”

You speak without any awareness of what you’re going to say. “I would take care of you.”

“You think I want to hear that?!” Aegon shouts. “You think I want to imagine you being there when I lose the ability to walk, and speak, and feed myself, and remember who the fuck I am?”

“I would do it,” you insist. “You believed in me. You helped me. I would help you.”

He shakes his head and glares at you, his eyes going slick and glassy. “You have no idea what you’re offering.”

“Your family has money, they can afford the best doctors and nurses. You wouldn’t be a burden on any of us, but we’d still get to be with you—”

“I saw what my dad dying did to my mom,” Aegon says bitterly, hatefully. “First he was himself, mostly. And then he was depressed, and then he was angry, and then he became a monster. He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye. You don’t do that to people you care about. You don’t inflict that on someone you love.”

“But what if you move to Texas and you’re fine, and you don’t have Huntington’s, and you don’t die and nothing terrible happens to you?!”

“Then it will be a relief,” Aegon says softly. “And I can always come back.”

“What about me?” you ask, your voice splintering. “If you’re sick, you’re just never going to see me again?”

Aegon smiles faintly, sad, resigned. “I would rather you remember me the way I am now.”

“Afraid? Avoidant? In denial?”

“Just get out,” he snaps, rubbing his face with his palms, wincing like he’s in pain.

“Aegon—”

“No, you don’t know what it’s like to watch someone die of this!” he roars, slamming his fist on the desk. Documents rustle; photographs fall over. “And if I don’t want a diagnosis, if I don’t want to live staring down the barrel of a gun, then that’s my fucking right and you don’t get to say I’m a coward for it!”

“You’re already living like you know you’re dying,” you moan, you plead. There are tears flowing down your cheeks and turning to salt on your lips; your face is hot with blood. “You don’t have anything to lose.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“But you’re making all these choices for the wrong reasons, and you deserve to know the truth, and if you take a test then you can make an informed decision about what you want your life to look like—”

“I would never pick you,” Aegon says, flat, direct, gutting. “So get that out of your head, because it’s not happening.”

You gaze at him helplessly. “Then what are we doing?”

He shrugs, like this is an idiotic question. “I’m your agent. I’m helping you get jobs.”

“That’s not what this is!” you sob. “It’s always been more than that, it’s been more than that from the very first day! Why did you sign me when no one else would? Why were you feeding me boneless spare ribs off your fork? Why did you throw me that apple?!”

Aegon is incredulous. “Why did I fuck you in this office, why did I fly to Minnesota to have dinner with your awful parents? Because I wanted to. Because I really like you, and I think I’ve been honest about that. But that doesn’t mean it’s serious.”

Never serious, you remember miserably. That’s how Aegon had described his affairs. “Does Becca know you could have Huntington’s?”

“No,” Aegon says. “But if she did, it wouldn’t change anything. She would still want to get married.”

“She would want to take care of you.”

“Yes, exactly. She would be upset for a while, yeah, but she…she needs someone to need her. Her parents were doctors, and they weren’t abusive or anything but they were gone all the time, and the house was like a museum, and now she’s…I don’t know, I guess she’s obsessed with creating warmth, and for Becca warmth means homemade bread and bento boxes and dogs and getting my suits tailored for me, and me being her full-time project…I think a part of her would enjoy that. Having me to herself, finally being the center of my universe. And when I get really bad, when I’m…” Aegon swallows noisily. “When I’m dead, she can move on. She can find someone else to marry and she can have kids, and she’ll always have that trophy on her shelf: I was a Targaryen, I was the perfect long-suffering wife. And Aegon loved me more than any of the others.”

More than me, you think. And then a ricochet of Aegon’s words: I would never pick you. “She’s not mad at you? Because of what we’ve done?”

Aegon chuckles uneasily. “I mean, I’m sure she’s not thrilled about you still being around. She’s been a little temperamental, she’s been suspicious. Right before we left for Minnesota, I woke up from a nap and she was swabbing my cheek for an STD test, can you believe that? But she knows this is temporary.”

What had Becca said the day she pushed you just outside this office? And if he was going to leave me, he has better options than you. You nod like any of this makes sense.

“Can we just be us again?” Aegon asks, and now he’s calm, gentle, exhausted. “We have a month left together. I don’t want to waste it.”

“Okay,” you say numbly.

“Don’t forget about the music video premiere tomorrow night. And I haven’t heard anything from the vampire movie people yet.” Then he adds: “That doesn’t mean you didn’t get it.”

“But it’s not a good sign.”

Aegon tries to soften the blow. “They might just be thinking it over. They might still be scheduling the callback for the other actress.”

You—unsteady, dazed, despondent—stare down at the scuffed wood floor and try in vain to smooth the wrinkles out of your sundress. “Sounds like we’ll both be leaving Los Angeles soon,” you tell Aegon; and then you walk until the walls disappear and only the city is left, sun glare, humming air conditioners, dogs barking, children laughing, engines revving, the immense metallic shadow of Downtown on the horizon.

At home in your apartment building, just as you are about to scan your keycard to unlock the front door, you hear Baela and Jace talking inside. The television is on and the microwave is purring—maybe Jace is making one of his favorite snacks, corn dogs or pizza rolls—and their voices are just barely distinguishable.

“What am I supposed to say to her?” Baela asks, sounding distressed. “That I’m officially too rich and famous to need a roommate? I can’t just kick her out. It would break her heart. She’s so sweet, and I know she’s trying really hard but it’s just…well…”

“No, I get it,” Jace replies. “She’s chill.”

“It sounds like her parents are going to make her move home soon anyway, unless she lands a big part, and…you know…I don’t really see that happening.”

“Yeah.” The microwave beeps and someone pops open the door to retrieve the contents.

“So just please don’t say anything, okay? And when she’s gone in a few months we’ll start looking at apartments in Venice or Santa Monica…”

You put your back to the hallway wall and wait long enough that they won’t think you’ve overheard anything, listening to the sounds of cars whooshing by outside, people coming and going from the places where they belong in the world, and you wonder what that feels like.

~~~~~~~~~~

You stay up too late watching YouTube videos of people with Huntington’s disease, and so the next morning at Cold Stone Creamery you are in a haze, dull throbbing headache, eyes bloodshot from crying, and the frat bro you’re making a Gotta Have It-sized Cookie Mintster for probably thinks you’re high but it’s the opposite: you’ve never felt lower, you’ve never been adrift like this, and you don’t know what to do next. You can’t unknot the threads fate has tied to Aegon. You can’t imagine a life for yourself back home. You can’t remember why you ever thought you’d be able to build something here in the City of Angels, glittering and golden and ever-rushing towards perfection, those who fall behind drug under the wheels.

“Can I get some gummy bears on that?” the frat boy is saying, but your gaze catches on someone behind him. The little metal bells on the glass door jingle and Aegon scrolls inside, khaki cargo shorts and a wrinkled short-sleeve white Oxford thrown over a pink tank top, and he’s traded in his Nikes for flip-flops, and his hair is gelled back from his face so you can see him clearly, vividly, and he leans against the window with daylight flooding in all around him and grins at you.

Why…?

“Can I please get some gummy bears?” the frat boy asks again.

Your manager Josh is blending up a strawberry banana smoothie and glowering at you. “Yo, what is wrong with you today?!”

But you don’t care what he’s saying, because Aegon pulls his black aviator sunglasses out of the pocket of his cargo shorts and slides them on and beams at you, and you hear the words as if he’s spoken them aloud: You are so bright, sunshine.

“I got the part?” you say from behind the counter.

Aegon nods. “You got the part.”

You scream and sprint to him, and when you throw your arms around Aegon he catches you, laughing and warm, and right now his hands are perfectly fine, steady and strong as they cradle the small of your back, the arc of your neck.

“Where the hell are you going?” Josh snaps from the blender. The frat boy, still waiting for his Cookie Mintster, is glaring at you impatiently. “I didn’t say you could take your break yet!”

“Hey,” Aegon says, taking a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet and waving it around so Josh can see before dunking it in the tip jar. “She’s quitting. Call someone else.” And then he pulls you, grinning and exhilarated, out of the Cold Stone Creamery and into the August air, moving swiftly beneath a cerulean sky full of cumulus clouds, 90-degrees and diesel fumes.

“Aegon, I can’t quit yet, I still have to pay my rent—”

“I’ll pay your rent,” Aegon says. He stops when you are under the shade of a palm tree and stands there with you in the oasis. His Sebring is parked illegally in a fire lane; it is adorned with a new malady, a massive dent in the bumper. “You’re going to have costume fittings and table-reads, and you have to learn the script, and you’ll have appointments with hair and makeup, and you’ll have a personal trainer, and promo obligations…you won’t have time to work.”

“You didn’t force them to hire me, did you?” you ask, the effervescent high dissolving away. “You didn’t threaten to blacklist them with your whole family or anything, right? Because I don’t want this if it’s not real.”

“What?” Aegon says, mystified. “No. No, I swear, I wouldn’t do that. And I don’t think it would have worked even if I’d tried. First billing is a huge deal. Not even Taylor Swift has managed to buy herself a starring role in a movie yet. They liked you. They wanted you.”

The hope quivers in your voice. “I’m going to be an actress?”

Aegon smiles. “You already are one.” He takes off your red apron and your grey hat and stuffs both in a nearby trashcan. “Are you parked around here?”

You point to your Honda Accord, 2003, Desert Mist Metallic paint that gleams under the sun. “I’m just across the street.”

“You aren’t bringing Jace to the Maroon 5 thing tonight, right? Because it’s in your best interests to appear unattached.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Unattached?”

“Yeah. Being ostensibly single makes you confident and alluring and mysterious. Dragging along your mop-haired boyfriend makes you look like a high school kid at prom.”

“And how does dragging along my sulky, disillusioned Targaryen agent make me look?”

“Like a star,” Aegon replies simply.

“I’m not bringing Jace. Or anyone else besides you.”

“Great.”

“Can we drive to the premiere together?” You don’t want to be away from Aegon; you are a little petrified of the fanfare that awaits you in Downtown tonight. You have no idea what to expect.

“Yeah,” Aegon says, outwardly casual, unmistakably pleased. “I have a driver booked. We’ll swing by your apartment in the limousine around 7 p.m.”

“Why aren’t we taking the Sebring?”

“Because people don’t drive themselves to premieres, sunshine,” he says, like he’s explaining to a child an obvious and fundamental truth: the sky is blue, the Earth is round. Then he gestures to his white convertible and its sizeable new dent. “And also I keep running into things and I don’t want you in the car when I’m driving.”

Because his hands shake? Because his reflexes are slowing until they inevitably stop? “Maybe you’re just stressed because of the wedding,” you say softly.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Or it’s psychosomatic. You expect to see symptoms, so you do. But really you’re fine.”

Aegon sighs as wind blows eastward from the Pacific Ocean. He wants to change the subject. You can’t stop yourself from talking. “It’s possible.”

“Maybe whatever’s wrong with you isn’t Huntington’s. Maybe it’s something else, like a vitamin deficiency or a thyroid disorder or lupus or fibromyalgia, or diabetes from all the super unhealthy food you eat. Maybe it’s something a doctor can fix.”

“I’ll see you tonight, okay?” Aegon says; and he kisses your cheek and climbs into his Sebring and speeds off towards the interchange of the 110.

~~~~~~~~~~

You told your parents you needed a dress for Clara’s bachelorette party so they wouldn’t yell at you when they saw the charge on the credit card. You will have to devise a new strategy for future purchases; you are running out of wedding-related excuses. The gown is electric yellow and less formal than the one you wore to the charity gala, sufficiently frivolous for a music video premiere, a V-neck and a high-low hemline. Your hair is down and your eyeshadow warm and smokey: Gilded Ganache and Semi-Sweet by Too Faced, Night Star by NARS. You drench yourself with sugary Shimmer Mist from Bath and Body Works, then realize that was probably a stupid idea. But there’s no time to try to scrub it off; Aegon has texted you that he’s five minutes away.

You click out into the kitchen in the yellow heels you found at T.J. Maxx. Jace is sprawled on the couch and bobbing his head as he sings along to a Charli XCX song pulsing out of his iPhone:

“You wanna guess the color of my underwear,

You wanna know what I got goin’ on down there…”

Baela, who had been getting a can of La Croix from the refrigerator, turns and is startled when she sees you. “You’re glittering. And that looks like a prom dress.”

You scrutinize yourself, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it bad?”

“No!” Baela cries, overcorrecting, not wanting to hurt your feelings. “No, it’s so cute. Jace, isn’t it so cute?”

“Totally,” he says from the couch, not looking at you.

“No contrast, huh?” Baela muses, glancing at your shoes and clutch purse.

“Doesn’t yellow go with yellow…?”

“Of course it does.” She beams, too broadly. “Have fun tonight! Walk really slowly on the red carpet. It will feel ridiculous, but that’s how they get good photos. And cycle through four or five different poses. Count to ten in your head and then switch to the next one. And don’t smile too much! You’ll look creepy and your cheeks will get tired and go numb and you’ll start twitching. Do a small smile and then laugh a lot when the interviewers make their dumbass jokes. It’s good television and they’ll like you and give you more airtime.”

You try to commit this to memory. “Okay.”

“Here.” She gifts you an ice-cold can of La Croix, coconut flavored. “Drink this on the ride over, then make sure you have a lot of water at the premiere. Stay hydrated. Keeps you peppy and glowing.”

“Okay,” you say again, a good little foot soldier.

Baela gives you a quick hug goodbye; but you catch the way she frowns at your carefree hair, the deep but not-so-revealing V of your neckline. Maybe she’ll reconsider the implants thing, Baela’s face reads. You can feel cold beads of sweat bleeding from your ribs, your spine. Then you are out the door, descending in the elevator, trotting onto the sidewalk to find the limo already waiting there, black and sleek under a sky that is slowly sickening from midday blue to dusk embers. The windows are tinted so dark you can’t see anything from outside.

“Hey, sunshine,” Aegon says as you slide into the back where he is waiting in the suit he wears to auditions and film shoots and, apparently, premieres: skinny black tie, slightly rumpled and untucked white shirt. He sees the La Croix. “Don’t you not like that?”

“My roommate gave it to me.” You set the can, wet with condensation, in a cupholder. Aegon hands you an iced vanilla latte to replace it. And as you buckle your seatbelt and the limo driver coasts east to hook into the 110 and then heads dead north towards Downtown, Aegon pulls a tiny spiral notebook out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket and reads off names to you: people who were involved in the production of the music video you filmed over a month ago, people to praise, people to thank. You’re trying to listen to him, but your thoughts are fuzzy and your heart is racing.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon asks, and you return to him and smirk guiltily.

“I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”

“Why? You’re not nervous when you’re acting.”

“Because I’ve acted a million times, but I’ve never done a red carpet before. Not even a mini one like this. What if they ask me something I’m not expecting and I freeze up? What if I accidentally offend someone? I’m always saying things that make people think I’m stupid.”

Aegon laughs lazily, peering through the window as the freeway takes you through Vermont Vista, Broadway-Manchester, Florence, blurs of houses and palm trees and graffitied concrete barriers. “Yeah, you are always saying ridiculous things. But that’s who you are, and it’s charming.”

“You think it’s charming.”

Aegon smiles at you. “I do.”

You stir your latte so the ice cubes clink together and you make a jittery little sound, half-sigh, half-whimper. Aegon puts a palm on your bare thigh, pushing the hem of your dress just above your knee; his hand is warm, and gentle, and heavy enough to ground you.

“You’re shaking,” he says, alarmed.

“Yeah,” you admit. “I’m fine. I think it’ll stop once we get there.”

Aegon lifts his hand away—no! you think, pathetically—and then unbuckles his seatbelt and crawls over to the window just behind the driver’s seat, which is all the way down. The limo driver is in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard, classic rock radio station. The opening notes of Dani California pump out of the speakers, the bass reverberating through the leather seats. “Hey,” Aegon says to the driver, thumping his fist on the window slot. “Roll that up.”

“Yes sir,” the driver assents immediately.

“Don’t park or unlock the doors until I tell you to.”

“Yes sir.”

The dark opaque window closes, the driver disappears, and Aegon comes back to you. He takes your half-finished latte out of your hand and places it safely in a cupholder.

You’re smiling as you ask: “What are you going to—?”

He reaches beneath your dress—tulle ruffles the color of unclouded daylight, or lemons, or butter, or sunflowers—and his fingertips know where to go, their corporeal memory is perfect, and they apply divine spiraling pressure over your panties, silk to leave no lines beneath your dress; that’s a trick Baela taught you. You gasp and clutch for the back of the seat, sweated skin on black leather, your spine arching, your blood cascading south as the freeway runs northbound.

“Are you nervous now?” Aegon whispers; and his words are taunting but his voice is hushed, and he’s in front of you, leaning in so close your lungs are filled with him, Juicy Fruit and sunlight and the heat and the city, and his other hand turns your face away from him so he won’t ruin your makeup. Instead of your lips, his mouth finds your throat and collarbones, and he kisses you there as his fingertips press down more forcefully beneath your dress, so insistent, so hungry, and you are blinded by the realization of how much you have craved him, how desperately you miss him each time you’re apart, and only being with him feels like this, you don’t belong anywhere else, and your chances to touch him are vanishing like sandcastles turned to ruins by the surf.

He’s getting married in a month.

But he’s here now, and you want him.

He’s choosing Becca.

But his hands are choosing you, and his lips, and the outline of his hardness that you can feel when he leans against your thigh, nudging your legs further apart, and surely even through the silk he can feel how wet you are.

“You shouldn’t have taken your seatbelt off,” you say breathlessly. “That’s not safe.”

Aegon laughs as if this is a ludicrous concern, and maybe he doesn’t think that dying in a car accident of a fractured skull or an aortic dissection would be the worst thing in the world. “Don’t worry about me.” He breezes the fingers of his left hand through your hair, nuzzling you, inhaling you, saccharine sweetness and young frenetic nerves, endorphins pouring from your bloodstream.

He’s good, he’s very good; but for you it can take a while, and how far is the limo from the premiere venue? “I’m not going to be able to finish—”

“Yeah you are,” Aegon says, drawing back to look at you, his eyes locked with yours; and you moan as his fingers move the strip of silk aside and sink into you, and you are filled with him as his palm keeps up the euphoric friction, and then it collides with you—knuckles, gravity, riptides, fate—and it takes everything left in you, worn wrung-out scraps, not to cry out, because you’re not alone now, and you’ve never truly been alone with him when this happens, and you know you never will be. The sweetness and the bitterness are coiled up together like threads of fabric, like the lines of a family tree.

You are still panting as Aegon sweeps his left thumbprint just beneath your eyes, clearing away the eyeliner and mascara that has begun to run as your eyes water.

“Don’t cry, sunshine,” he murmurs, concerned.

You chuckle shakily. “I’m sorry. You know I get like this.” When it’s good. When it’s with you.

“Are you still nervous?”

“No,” you answer truthfully.

“You’re going to do great.”

“What should I say?”

“Whatever you want,” Aegon tells you. “Be yourself. Be real.” Then he kisses you on your lips only once: feather-light, immaterial enough to not mar you. “Oh, we have to clean up,” he realizes, panicked, and he hasn’t thought this through.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

You open the can of coconut La Croix that Baela gifted you and soak a handful of napkins that Aegon gets from the driver. You erase the evidence between your legs as best you can; Aegon cleans his hands and gives himself a generous squeeze of hand sanitizer from a tiny travel bottle in your clutch. Then he uses the corner of a napkin to dab away stray flecks of mascara on your cheeks. You check your face in the mirror of your makeup compact: dewy, but acceptable. Natural. Lived-in. Aegon rearranges a few wayward strands of your hair. You slurp down the rest of your vanilla latte. The limo is rolling to halt. You reach for the door handle.

“No,” Aegon says, stopping you. And he gets out first and then waits for you, hand open, until you emerge from the limousine and into a new world: flashbulbs, video cameras, microphones, assistants dressed in black, screaming Maroon 5 fans. Aegon fluffs the train of your electric yellow gown and then leads you into the chaos.

The music video premiere is being held at the historic Broadway Theater. The red carpet rolled out for the occasion, in a nod to the name of the band, is not a bright bloody red but a deep maroon. People are shouting and waving at you, and you have no idea what’s going on; and yet in your ribcage your heartbeat is slow and measured and strong. Aegon has a hand on the small of your back, and you think: I want it to be like this all the time. I want it to be like this forever.

Now a young man in a teal suit is rushing up to you and Aegon has disappeared to the sidelines, and the man is telling you that he is from E! News, and although he says his name you immediately forget it. You don’t panic; you smile softly and try to listen through the noise of the crowd. Now Maroon 5 has arrived and is posing for photographs as the fans screech and beg for autographs.

“So how’s your day going?” the man from E! News asks, a microphone held to your lips.

“It’s been so exciting, this morning I got to quit my job!”

The man laughs hysterically. “What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’ve been working at an ice cream place for months, but not anymore!”

“And do you have a passion for ice cream?”

“Not really, I just had to pay rent, you know?”

“Girl, do I ever!” the man says, still laughing. “What’s your favorite kind of ice cream?”

You smile sheepishly. “Vanilla.”

“Oh, so you’re a vanilla girl, huh?”

“I am, I really am, and I know the joke. But vanilla can be great! It’s a classic, and it’s sweet and uncomplicated, and it’s not trying to be anything it’s not. It’s pure. It’s innocent.”

“Oh my God, that was poetry! I might have to give vanilla another shot. You’ve convinced me.”

“Cool,” you say. Aegon is watching you from behind the video camera that you’ve just noticed; he is nodding, he gives you a little thumbs-up.

The man from E! News asks next: “So, ice cream expert, if I was an ice cream flavor, which one would I be?”

You ponder this. “Well someone once told me that interesting adults like strawberry, and you seem really interesting, so I’d say you’re strawberry ice cream.”

“Adorable,” the man sighs, marveling at you. “What are you going to be up to now that you aren’t working at the ice cream shop anymore?”

“Well according to my agent—and I have the best agent in the world, he’s absolute magic—I just got my first starring role in a movie.” The E! News man shrieks in excitement. “And I can’t really tell you anything more about it just yet, because I don’t know what I’m allowed to say publicly, but I’m so so so excited and so grateful, and Los Angeles is an incredible place. I’m in heaven and I’m thrilled to be here with you tonight.”

Another E! News correspondent, a woman in a salmon-colored dress, dashes in to join the conversation. She has blindingly white veneers and so much Botox she can’t move her forehead. “Could you tell us what it was like working on this music video?”

“It was an amazing experience,” you say; and in this moment you believe that, and Dan doesn’t exist, and neither does the bathtub scene that almost happened, and neither does the terror that threatened to consume you before Aegon smothered the flames. Now, Aegon is watching closely as Dan navigates the red carpet. They make split-second eye contact, Aegon glares fiercely, Dan keeps a wide swath of space between you and him as if you are radioactive, a silent poison that cooks malignancies into blood and bones. “We filmed in this gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills, and everyone involved in the production was so imaginative and professional. I got to wear outfits designed by Schiaparelli and Rodarte, oh, and Phoebe Philo, and the actor playing my awful ex-boyfriend was fantastic, and there were these weird exotic cats that kept trying to bite me…”

You keep talking and interviewers keep descending, appearing out of nowhere, and then you are posing on the red carpet—you even take a few awkward photos with Maroon 5, none of whom remember who you are—and to your surprise, several fans even ask you for an autograph. Without thinking, you add a tiny sun after you sign your name each time.

“There, a little bit of sunshine,” you say to a preteen girl who beams up at you. “Not that you need it, look how brightly you’re shining!”

As you are about to enter the theater, you glance back to see where Aegon has gone. An interviewer has entrapped him, although Aegon clearly resents being caught on camera. He’s a good sport though; he forces a smile and answers the questions. He’s being asked about you.

Aegon says: “She has a great attitude about work, and about life in general. She’s very talented. And obviously she’s beautiful, so…yeah. I feel really lucky to have found her. She’s usually the best part of my day.”

“And are we going to see you in any upcoming films?” the woman from Entertainment Tonight asks flirtatiously. “We all know you have the chops!”

Aegon throws his head back and cackles. “No. You wish. Okay, thank you very much for your time, I’ll talk to you afterwards.”

“Thank you, Aegon!” the interviewer calls out, waving, and you think: He really could have been a star if he never left acting.

You and Aegon sit together at the screening, and he keeps feeding you pieces of popcorn—your lips brushing his fingertips, salt stinging on your tongue—and you have to resist the urge, no, the gravity, the effortless instinct to rest your head on his shoulder. Maroon 5 do a panel after the music video and take questions from the audience. They manage a few comprehensible responses.

Afterwards, Aegon doesn’t take you straight home to Harbor Gateway. He doesn’t take you to his office in Elysian Park either. Instead, he tells the limo driver to follow the 101 northwest to Hollywood, and he drags you out into the cool indigo night—veined with florescence and neon—and onto the intersection of Vine Street and Sunset Boulevard at the genesis of the Walk of Fame, a trail of 2,800 stars carved into the sidewalk, into eternity.

Aegon stands on a star of this earthbound constellation and says: “You’re going to have one of these someday.”

And here under the aisle of a streetlight with Aegon smiling like that, kind and radiant, you could almost believe him.

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things : chapter one

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. no porn in the first two chapters, sorry gang :)

masterlist | next chapter

Prome Medical Devices hired you as a personal assistant to the CEO, Toshinori Yagi, shortly after he was diagnosed with his second bout of prostate cancer and shortly before they learned it had metastasized to bone. It was a tragic, yet expected turn of events.The man had been sick most of his life, they told you, he's probably slept in hospital beds more times than he's slept in his own. It was, like most things, inevitable.

Over the following weeks, through chemo and taps and rotating hospital doors, he began working from home and handling only the absolute basics, and your silly assistant job evolved into more. You had only planned to stay for a couple months, but then another horrible thing happened.

You became Somehow Important. 

Days went from scrolling on Twitter between writing notes to juggling everything that no one else could handle. Sitting in for meetings, handling calls, scheduling reviews and system checks, running to the pharmacy midday: there's nothing you haven't done. It’s a lot, but in the grand scheme of it all, it's nothing-- especially compared to the things that everyone else gets done here. 

8:35am. The security man gives you a nod without checking for your badge. Engineers skitter around the office like cockroaches. It's always a good sign when no one immediately comes to find you; that means your boss is still alive and doing about the same as he was yesterday. No updates, you’ve found, are good. No one bothers to tell you when good things happen: you’re the fixer, the emergency contact. When you’re being informed of anything, it’s because someone else wants you to clean up the mess.

(The only exception is from the man himself. Toshinori sends you the best kind of updates; mundane things from his life that he needs to share, like pictures of his duck pond or his review of the new coffee shop in town. It’s enough to keep you going, even when the day absolutely blows. You only had a few months working directly with the man, but he was fond of you-- and everyone was fond of him.)

Outdated filaments thrum down the halls. Your heels click against the tile with every step, a slow march to another day of monotony, a kind of dread that not even your phone can distract you from. Because your position is rather undefined for the corporate world, your desk is in an awkward spot, sandwiched in the hall, equidistant from the engineering department, the CEO's office, and the coffee machine. In terms of convenience, it's lovely, but it also means you have nowhere to hide.

Before you can even make it to your desk, a young man pops into the way and heads straight for you, a bit too quickly to be passed off as casual. Your heart sinks, then you realize it's just one of the interns: a college kid who's clearly had too many energy drinks already.

“Hey,” Denki smiles with too much gum, so wide his cheeks almost swallow up his eyes. He’s a scruffy, dirty blonde, a patchy black streak on one side of his head. His button down is obviously unironed, so crumpled it almost looks like a pattern, matching perfectly with his untied tie. It’s a good thing that he’s cute; you doubt he’d have gotten this far in life if he wasn’t. 

“Good morning, how are you? Have a good night? You look so pretty this morning. MILF town over here.” he says, twiddling the toe of his shoe into the carpet. “I made the pot of coffee for you,so you don’t have to worry about that-”

You cut him off. “What did you do?” 

The interns don’t report to you. If anything, they run parallel to you. If there’s anyone they should be ass kissing, it should be the department head, not some personal assistant, but the group considers you an ally. Maybe even a friend.

“I wouldn’t say that it’s something that I did,” the boy explains. He sucks air in through his teeth. “It’s more like what I didn’t do.”

“Denki.”

“It’s just the reports! I have to submit them end of day and it’s just not--” He juts out his bottom lip. “Can you proof my work? Please? The Eraser’s going to have my head if I make another mistake.”

The lead engineer is infamous for deleting whole chunks of code that the interns have made and ruining months of their work. Last month it was Ochako's work, who then spent the rest of the day at your desk, sniffling. The four others  were equally terrified of the man, constantly fretting and bitching about the ‘cruel working conditions.’ If Prome wasn't so prestigious (and internships weren't necessary for graduating) there’d be no interns left. You’re sure Eraser would prefer it that way.

“Please?” Denki clutches his hands together in prayer. “Please, please, please?”

 You don't even pretend to hem and haw.

“Email it over before lunch.” you say and he lights up. 

“Aw, you’re the best!” He turns away and practically skips down the hall. “I’m gonna drop off Izuku’s stuff too, okay?”

There’s no chance to say no before Denki’s gone. You flop into your chair and kick off your heels, trying to convince yourself that you don’t already regret saying yes. You catch your own appearance in the black screen of your computer. Makeup doesn’t do much to cover up the fact you’ve been crying. You can see it in your eyes, in the creases of your skin that you wish weren't there.  Even as the screen lights up, you can still catch your own face, starting back with that sad, sad expression. 

It's been mostly sleepless nights since Touya left, but you push through and ignore whatever you can. You miss your travel mug, the one that matched the coaster on your desk. You miss your forks, the ones that weren’t the awful ones from the thrift store down the road, bought solely out of panic when you returned to an empty apartment.  Most of all, you miss him, how the apartment felt warmer with two bodies instead of one, and how secure you felt with someone who loves you.

Your screen loads and a big, red 24 flashes in the corner-- fuck, the works already piling up. You try to squish any thought of Touya’s disappearing act into the back of your head. Like a dog, Touya always comes back home to you. He just needs to be wild for a bit, play off leash, and then he’ll crawl back like always. 

You check your phone. He’s still saved under “AVOID AT ALL COSTS” and the last five texts you sent are all unread. Your thumb hovers over the delete button for a moment; it’d be easier to cut him off and end this cycle. You can stop pushing the boulder up the hill,  just for it to tumble back down again. You could pursue someone else, maybe someone nice or smart or at least not rude-

 Focus. Compliance is raising concerns about the new platform and manufacturing has CC'ed you into an issue about screw heads, two things that you know nothing about. You flip your phone over and push through. What’s the difference between a hex and a truss and why should you care?

..

11:59. You’re none the wiser about either topic, but the dust seems to be settling and everyone seems to be happy enough. Denki’s reports are an absolute mess, bad to the point you start to wonder if he even tried. The pages aren't even formatted correctly, so it’s going to take most of your lunch to iron out the wrinkles. Luckily, Izuku is a bit more competent and his tasks look great, so-

“Oh, baby girl!”

You stop typing and sit straight up to peer over your computer screen, hiding the remnants of your microwaved lunch. With arms raised high and dressed in his finest ironed button down, Yamada Hizashi enters. Tall, blonde, thin, and leggy: Hizashi would have been a Victoria’s Secret model if he wasn’t a man. His long hair is tied back into a messy bun, a couple of loose tendrils floating  around his face in an effortlessly, annoyingly charming way as he marshes straight for you. 

“Let me see ‘em!” he demands loudly, a smile on his face and his hands on his hips. “Come on, baby. You know what I want.”

If it was anyone else, you’d think the man was a creep, but Hizashi is just so earnest about the way he lights up a room. With a belabored sigh and a grin, you roll your chair back a bit and stick your leg to the side to reveal your pink, fluffy slippers. The man claps his hands together and laughs a deep, hearty chuckle, genuinely bemused. 

The bunny slippers had started as a secret. The original dress code had required women to wear heels to work, which was fine, until the back of your feet became nothing but blisters. To give yourself some respite during the day, you had hidden a pair of slippers under your desk, just a little treat to make it through the day. It seemed like a genius idea-

Until the day the fire alarm went off. In the surprise, you had forgotten to change your shoes back, and proceeded to spend the next half an hour outside with the entire company in your violently pink shoes.

Luckily, everyone thought it was pretty funny.

Especially Hizashi.

“Seeing my work wife is the best part of the week.”

You throw a hand over your heart and gasp, trying to hold back your smile. “Only your work wife?”

“Oh, babygirl, I’d marry you in an instant.” He leans over your desk with another sigh, this one heavier. “I’d make you the trophy wife you were born to be.”

“Cool it, Mic.” Your heart sinks a bit at the voice.  “HR is going to have your head if you aren’t careful.”

Aizawa “The Eraser” Shouta makes his third appearance at the coffee machine this morning. He’s an average sized man, if not slightly short, with dark hair and the beginnings of a salt and pepper beard. The muscles in his jaw flex whenever he looks your way, almost as if he’s chewing away his annoyance. The most notable thing about him is a scar on his high cheek bone, long healed and silver in the light. He sits his coffee cup - a beat to shit Stanley thermos from long before they were cool- under the tap and lets the java pour, that sour expression never leaving his face.

Aizawa has worked here since the beginning. As one of the founding members of Prome and a lead engineer, he’s had his hands in absolutely every machine the company has produced, and yet he carries himself with none of the pomp and circumstance he deserves. Instead of abiding by the strict dress code, he wears a bright yellow sweatshirt that has an obvious coffee stain on the pocket.  It’d be charming if he wasn’t an infamous dick. The two of you rarely interact, despite the fact he visits the coffee station next to your desk multiple times a day, offering you no more than a nod most days. The interns are terrified of him-- and rightly so. You’re also scared of him. You’ve never met anyone else as tightly wound or as obsessed with work as him; there’s a rumor that he even sleeps here some days.

“Don’t listen to him,” Hizashi says. “He’s just jealous.”

“I’m not jealous, I’m protecting the company from potential litigation when bunny slippers over here-” he juts a chin your way- “ decides your flirting isn’t fun anymore.” 

You knew he wasn’t jealous. It’s an open secret that Aizawa doesn’t like you very much. Unlike any other of the department heads, he never allocates you work or stops by to chat. There was even a rumor that he wanted to eliminate your position last year; you wouldn’t care so much if he didn’t have the power and sway to make that happen. 

Hizashi pops a hip to the side. He isn’t afraid of anyone it seems; he even claims to be the man’s friend after hours.“Would you rather me go back to flirting with you?”

Aizawa stares back, only the trickle of coffee echoing in the hall. Finally, when it almost reaches the top, he shuts it off and glares. “You’re not even supposed to be in office today, Mic.” 

Hizashi had always been the most notable salesman in the company, but once the CEO’s health went downhill, he had taken over a lot of the speaking roles as well. Interviews, speeches, and the like: Toshinori Yagi had dubbed him Mr. Microphone and the name had just stuck. From what you can tell, he’s actually pretty close with Aizawa and the other founding members outside of work as well.

“I have a quick meeting with the marketing gals in a couple minutes,” Hizashi explains. He brings his attention back to you, brows waggling. Fuck- you know what he’s about to say.

 “And I wanted to wish my wife an early happy birthday.”

Oh, god. Your face flushes with heat-- you had hoped he had forgotten that. You glance over to Aizawa, who seems more interested than usual.

“It's tomorrow,” you explain. He nods curtly.

“Our office darling is going to be thirty, flirty and feeling fine!” Mic explains further. Ugh. You wish he didn't sound so happy about it. When you think about it for too long, turning thirty feels like the end of the world, an evil you just can't avoid. It's better than the alternative, you guess. 

“Are you and the boyfriend planning on a romantic night?”

A second gut punch of a statement.

“Oh, no, I’m just-- he--” You almost get emotional for a moment. Thirty years old and single: it feels like the end of the world for some reason. Everyone else is getting married or having kids or living some dream life. Fuck-- even two of the goddammit interns are engaged and they're practically babies! At this point, you might as well give up and die alone; no one else is ever going to want you, are they? 

 The glimpse of Aizawa in the corner, watching you with those judgemental eyes, sobers you up quickly. 

“We broke up, so I’m just staying in.”

The two snap their heads towards each other. Mic waggles his eyebrows, not so subtly gesturing to a non receptive Aizawa. You know that look, the excitement and relief. It’s not a secret that no one really liked Touya-- people have been openly voicing their contempt for years. He wasn’t a bad guy, except for the times he was, but people only ever remembered the bad things. 

“Oh, is it…?” Mic bites back his words, debating how harsh he should be.  “Is it for real this time?”

Touya always comes back. Everyone knows the routine by now. 

“Yeah,” you lie. “I’m done with him.”

“Good.” Aizawa says. You grimace at that; even he knows? You didn’t know he paid attention to anything outside of work, let alone your shitty interpersonal drama.

“More than good. Amazing! Spectacular! I’m so, so, so proud of you!” Mic adds on and you pretend it doesn’t bother you. It’s strange; the more others despise him, the more your heart aches. Touya needs you and you need him; who else will have him?

Who else will have you?

“That means we can go out for drinks to celebrate!”

“Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to do that.”

“Too late, nope. We’re having a two-for-one birthday single bash tomorrow.” He’s on his phone, typing wildly. “I hope you have something pretty to wear because I’m going to show you how you deserve to be treated.”

Fuck. You’d rather be alone, sniveling and waiting for Touya’s return in your apartment, but Hizashi is smiling. His intentions are good; it’d be cruel to deny him. 

“Nemuri knows some awesome spots-” The man is a whirl, typing and talking and walking. “You better get excited, baby girl.”

“Oh, yay,” you offer weakly. Hizashi isn’t listening anymore; he’s caught up in his own plans, briskly walking down the hall. A breath you didn’t know you were holding sneaks out and you slump back down to your seat.

“You really don’t have to let him walk all over you like that,” Aizawa says. He swirls his cup slowly, watching the rim.  

You try to offer the man a smile, but you can tell it looks forced. Sure, Hizashi can be a lot, but he just wants to help, as misguided as that urge is. 

“It’s okay.” When he doesn’t look convinced, you add. “Really.”  

“Are you sure?”  he presses, voice tight. 

“Mhm.” You return to your keyboard and start typing, hoping that he understands the social cue. “Thanks though.”

Thankfully, he lets it go. Turning down the hall, he starts to sip his coffee, but then freezes mid stride.

“You make this?”

“No.”  

“I can tell,” Aizawa says, examining his cup. “It’s fucking dog water.”

That comment is so off kilter that you can’t help but snort. Aizawa watches you for a beat more, maybe bemused, maybe not, then nods. With that, he leaves, an empty coffee pot in his wake.  Another item to add on your growing list. 

-

The rest of the day goes by quicker than you need it to. Denki leaves a little bit after lunch for a doctor’s appointment and the rest of the workforce trickles out after. The head of development, Nezu, has you run through potential presentations before you follow up on compliance’s worries again. The coffee pot was refilled four more times, all by you, and your messages to Touya still sit delivered and unread. Two hours after the work day was supposed to end, you slip your heels back on. Denki’s files are pretty much unrecognizable now, but that’s a good thing.  All of the college students are intelligent and more accomplished than you’ll ever be, but you’re not sure why they can’t figure out basic busy work. There’s nothing hard about it, other than focusing.

With a final press of a key, your personal printer hums to life. A staple and a paperclip and you’re done: now it’s just a quick trip to engineering and you can finally go home. Your work isn't physical, but God, hunching at a desk all day takes a toll on your body. A flare of something eats at your lower back as you stroll the empty building and try to rub the grit from your eyes. You think there’s a frozen pizza at home or maybe some pasta-- though, you can’t remember if that was from this monday or last monday. Maybe it’d be safer to just throw it away.

The department itself  is a long row of cubicles, with miscellaneous machines and computers littering the other side of the room. You recognize old prototypes and parts of Prome's most famous product: a hospital bed. 

Before you had set foot in this building, you never thought a bed could count as a medical device -- or as something highly complicated and thoroughly engineered -- but this bed is different. It’s comfortable, lightweight, and durable, all while able to track a patient’s movement and comfort. It even records a patient's glucose, body temperature, SPO2, and many other medical things that go over your head. When used correctly, bedsores rates have been reduced to nearly zero and hospital related illnesses are caught significantly earlier.

In about three months, the newest model will be released, complete with full integration into electronic record systems. If everything goes according to plan, it’ll be revolutionary. Working here is a headache, but you do take pride that it's a company that does good. 

“Do you need something?” 

You jump at the sound of the voice, flipping around to search the room. Tucked at the end of it all is an open office door. Inside, Aizawa is perched at his desk, head in one hand, reading glasses in the other.  He’s illuminated only by the computer screen, his deep, dark eyes bouncing side to side as he carefully reads.

 Aizawa always looks tired, but now so especially; his heavy lidded eyes are drooped with fatigue and his skin is pallor, black stubble dusting his unshaved cheeks. There’s no bite or annoyance to his voice-- maybe even a little levity. For once, you don’t want to scurry away from him like a mouse, hiding in the shadows and corners to avoid his claws.  You still approach cautiously, heels sharp against the tile. The silence in between each hit makes your skin prick with an unknown nausea. 

“I thought everyone went home.” You say. 

“Everyone did. Just me-- and you, apparently.” He taps out a word or two. His office is devoid of personal items, desk covered in nothing but stacks of papers and illegible post notes, nothing to hint to his personal life. It’s been three years, yet you have no idea what his personal life is like-- if he even has one, that is.

“No slippers tonight?”

That was either a dig or a joke. You aren’t sure either way, but the way your shoes sound when you walk even closer feels like its own answer. When you reach the corner of his desk, he finally looks your way. It hits you that you've never actually been this close to him before. It's always been passes in the hall and distant conversations. His skin is smoother than you'd thought it'd be, with creases between his brow that fill themselves when he-

“Do you… need something?”

“Oh, uh-- Denki left these at my desk by accident,” you lie, sliding the file on to the corner of his desk. “I think they’re for you.”

He regards you again, more thoroughly this time. With a tilt of his head, he inspects your face, eyes flickering between your two. In the dim, they’re nothing but black dots, an inkinesss that you could fall into if you were any closer. 

He’s pretty.  And that’s an unsettling thought. You’ve never allowed yourself to consider that before. Immediately, you walk the thought back. No. Nobody with his personality is attractive-- hands down. Touya is the only dick you need in your life. 

“You should go home. It's late.” he says before turning back to his work. He types a couple things, then hits the backspace and deletes it all again. “Go home.”

Adjusting the bag on your shoulder, you sigh, the workday catching up to you. “You should too.” 

“Hm,” he grunts. He takes a long sip from his thermos, tipping it back to suck the dregs. You’d never noticed the sticker of the bottom before- a faded and torn image of an orange cat.  “Maybe.”

That’s a no. You don’t push the issue. You start towards the door, then pause. 

“Do… do you want me to make another pot of coffee before I go?” You’re not sure why you offer. Everything’s been put away and cleaned for tomorrow. It’d take at least 15 minutes to set up again. 

Aizawa slides his glasses back on, adjusting them by the bridge, only for them to slip right back down the flat bridge of his nose.

“You don't have to do that.” 

With that you leave, no proper goodnight dismissing you. The tap of your heels and the clack of his keyboard mix into some sort of soft, unbalanced rhythm. Despite yourself, you think of Touya, of where he is and where he isn’t. Is it also quiet there? Has he thought of someone else in the same way you just did?

When the doors of the building close and the security guard nods your way, the sound of percolation echoes behind you, the final drops falling into a freshly brewed pot.

[flurry-of-stars]

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼 𝓥𝓘𝓘

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 -𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓥𝕴 𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌: Child abuse (Implied) child neglect (non-graphic)

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6.1k

Jolting awake, your peaceful sleep is broken by the noisy chimes of a cuckoo clock, the sounds of its mechanical parts grinding in your ears. Its melodic coo sounds slower, weaker, like the clock is in need of repairs. Groaning, you squirm in the cushy armchair, the fabric rustling around you as you pry yourself off it. Grunting as you slide down, your small hands rest against the deep crimson fabric, your eyes lingering on the damp patch where you’d been sleeping. Sweat clings to your skin as an annoyed groan rolls off your lips. What happened to the air conditioner? It was on when you started to drift off. With shuffling feet, you move slowly through the living room, the carpet soft and pleasant beneath your bare feet. You rub your eyes, yawning as you make your way toward the brown leather sofa on the other side of the room.

Scooping it off the sofa, the remote for the air conditioner feels heavier in your hands than the television remote. The white plastic has begun to yellow with age, and some of the button labels have faded. There’s teeth marks, your teeth marks to be precise, on the side. You know which buttons to press to make the old machine work. Pressing the yellowing button, you wait for the beep that should have followed. Frowning, you press the button again and again, but there’s no response from the machine. Wiping the sweat from your brow, you glance up, noticing the fan isn’t spinning either, exposing the thick layer of dust on each rusty blade. Is the power out again?

Discomfort begins to wash over you, causing you to whine as you wondering if this is how those frozen meals feel when your mother puts them in the microwave. It feels like the sun is in the room with you, using you to experiment and see if it can melt humans as well as it can melt ice. You press the button a few more times and when you finally decide it really isn’t going to turn on, you toss the remote onto the torn leather couch, wiping your forehead again. You have to find some way to cool down, but with your mother away, you don’t have many options. You can’t reach the sink or the shelves in the fridge for water. You can’t even reach the shower dials. The doors are locked too. They have been since last night, so trying to use the garden hose isn’t an option either.

You suppose you could at least see if there's water in the fridge…

Leaving the living room, the eerie silence of the small home lingers over you as you shuffle down the hallway, hand running along the rough textured paint. The only sounds you can hear are your own soft footsteps, along with the gentle ticking of the cuckoo clock on the wall. Orange rays of light creep through the broad glass windows to your left, illuminating the unicorn suncatcher hanging outside, casting rainbow hues across the wooden floors. The scent of freshly cut grass mingles with the salty smell of your own sweat, making you feel even warmer in your skin...if that’s even possible. The high pitched cries of the cicadas vibrate in your ears, mixing with the trills of songbirds, creating a beautiful, yet rather noisy symphony of nature.

Turning the corner into the kitchen, your nose wrinkles at the unpleasant odor. Pinching your nose to try and block out the smell of the overflowing trash can nearby, flies buzz around the room, smacking into your cheeks as you swat them away. You shuffle toward the looming grey refrigerator, suddenly realizing your feet feel wet.

There’s a puddle on the floor, you realise, turning your gaze down to the black and white linoleum floor. You lift your foot, searching for the source. Maybe you spilled some water before your nap and forgot to clean it up? Without wasting a second, you rush to the oven, grabbing the old green gingham-print tea towel.

Dropping to your knees, you begin wiping up the water from the floor. You move the tea towel round and round, attempting to clear up the water. But it reaches a point where you’re just moving the water back and forth without wiping it up. Getting up, you rush over to grab the new tea towel your mother had bought.

This one was pure white, with a variety of beautiful flowers covering its fabric. You hurry back over to the spill, kneeling down and going about cleaning the water as best as you can. Your hands move back and forth, scrubbing at the floor, letting the tea towel absorb the water. Much to your relief, the puddle slowly disappears, the tea towel wiping away the mess like it was never there.

Once the puddle is - mostly- gone, you stand, holding the sopping wet, and now dirty fabric, cold droplets of water fall between your fingers and back onto the linoleum. You waddle towards the kitchen sink, unable to reach it. Even if you could, it’s full of dishes, caked with old food and unfinished drinks. Not daring to risk ‘Mount Smelly’, you stand on your tippy toes, reaching up and placing the wet fabric onto the counter top with a loud, wet slap. There. Now everything is just as your mother left it. Shuffling back to the refrigerator, you grasp the side of the door with both of your hands, pulling it open. Leaving the door wide open, you frown. You mother’s moved the water jug to the top shelf. Again. You stretch, trying to reach the shelf but alas, your fingertips barely reach the lowest shelf.

Another whine. The house feels like an oven. It reeks worse than the outside garbage bin the day before collection and now, you can’t even reach the water. This day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

The more you eye the tempting jug of filtered water, the more acutely aware you become of your parched mouth and dry throat. You lick your lips, gazing towards the low shelf that hangs just above your head, hoping your mother bought juice this week. And not just her special juice, either. Your hopes are quickly dashed when you see there isn’t even any milk on the shelf. Just three bottles of her special juice you’re not allowed to touch. Your eyes drift back to the water jug.

You need a drink. You need that water.

Scanning the kitchen, your eyes land on a small crate you could use as a stepping stool. Trotting over to it, you grab it, grunting as you lift the crate over to the base of the refrigerator, plopping it down with a solid thud. Scrambling up onto the crate, your hands only barely reach the bottom shelf.

Glancing toward the lower door shelf where your mother’s special juice is kept, you reach out, your small fingers wrapping tightly around the plastic shelf's edge, gripping it firmly. Tongue sticking out the corner of your mouth, you shift your gaze to the bottom shelf, piecing together the rest of your plan.

Lifting your little leg, your knee just barely thumps against the edge of the fridge before you try to haul yourself up. But you’re not as strong as you thought…and the shelf isn’t nearly as stable as you’d hoped. Your arms give out first. Then the shelf slips free, slipping from its spot on the side of the door. But you don’t notice that right away. Not while you’re falling toward the cold linoleum. You hit the wooden crate first, then tumble to the floor. Pain erupts on the side of your body where it smacked against the crate.

Before you can stop yourself, you burst into hysteric tears.

A second later, your mother’s special juice shatters behind you; green glass and a flood of reddish-orange spreading across the kitchen floor. It momentarily halts your loud wails as you stare at the broken glass and spilled liquid. You freeze… and then the shaking starts.

You rise unsteadily, cradling the sides of your face in your palms. Your chest heaves as you stare at the mess before you. The drumming in your ears begins to build as you step back, shaking your head softly. No… no, no, no. Not her special juice. You didn’t….you couldn’t have destroyed all three bottles.

You try to swallow, but your throat and mouth are even drier now. A ragged breath escapes as you take another step back, a broken sound catching in your throat. The drumming becomes thunderous, drowning out everything else. Your breathing quickens. The shaking worsens.

And then…you hear the front door open.

A snake coils tight around your insides, squeezing them so tightly, you can barely breathe. Tears erupt from your eyes as another sob breaks free; louder, more desperate. You run, grabbing the handle of the nearest kitchen cupboard. Throwing it open, you scramble inside, desperate to hide before she sees the mess. Grabbing whatever's inside that's in your way, you toss it aside, your sobs and wails of panic growing louder.

But it’s already too late.

You feel her presence long before you turn to look. Your heart squeezes tight in your chest, thudding violently against your ribs. Your lungs burn as heavy, ragged breaths escape you. You see a hand reach out from the darkness and—

Jolting violently awake, a sharp gasp claws free from your throat. Scrambling to your feet, the book that had been resting on your leg thuds to the floor with a soft, muffled thump. But even that makes your blood pressure spike. A strangled, terrified sob escapes as you cradle your damaged wrist tightly, stumbling back like a clumsy newborn deer.

The dull pain in your chest erupts into a harsh throbbing. Tears blur your vision as sobs wrack your body. You step back, nearly tripping over your own feet again, stumbling into one of the dining room chairs. Shallow, ragged gasps tear through you, each one scraping your throat raw; like the memories of your childhood still have their claws dug deep into you, refusing to free you from the grasp of your past.

Then your stomach lurches.

You just barely make it to the kitchen sink, clinging to the side of the counter like your life depends on it as you retch. The sour taste floods your mouth, your body convulsing with each heave. There’s nothing in your stomach, but your body keeps trying, desperate to purge everything out of your body. When it finally stops, you collapse against the cabinet door, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your forehead. Another sob tears out of you, followed by a sharp, violent gasp for air. Your hands scramble for your phone, your brain finally reminding you it’s in your pocket.

You pull it out with trembling fingers, clutching it between shaking palms. It takes a few tries to get it unlocked. Shakily, you tap into the messaging app, typing out a message, hitting send without a second thought.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

Fyodor's shoulders sag as he slumps into the window seat. Entertaining Nikolai until his departure for his hotel was exhausting, to say the least. He couldn’t believe his younger self use to be able to handle both his high energy moments and more serious, deep conversations so easily. Now he was left feeling like he’d just run a marathon.

The cons of not interacting with people as frequently anymore, he supposed. Surely it would return naturally with more interactions like this.

A low mewl comes from Tolstoy, the feline gazing up at Fyodor curiously, his tail flicking from side to side slowly. He grunts at the old feline, “Now you decide to show your face. Funny, you seemed to be deaf when Kolya was calling for you.” The old tabby lets out a soft chirp, his head turning away. Another more amused grunt escapes Fyodor, “Ah, so now I’m going to get the cold shoulder too? You better not be forgetting who feeds you.”

A soft ping reaches Fyodor's ears, causing him to look down at his phone plopped down beside him on the window seat. Scooping it up, he expects it to be a text from Nikolai, likely sending photos of the hotel room he’s staying in.

What he isn't expecting is...

Огонёк [23:12]: you there?? Огонёк [23:13]: pls pls Огонёк [23:14]: i need u please help

Confusion swells in his chest, his thumb hovering above the phone screen, the pale light casting a faint glow across his face. This was… unexpected. Just three hours ago, you’d left bouncing like a spring lamb, a grin so infectious he had to fight off a smile of his own. He could still hear your cheerful proclamation echoing in his head: “Tomorrow, I’m gonna bring my favorite book with me! You’ll see! You’re gonna love my dad's writing as much as I do!” He exhales slowly, shoulders gradually sinking. There's an ache growing in his chest, his heart throbbing almost painfully between his ribs. He doesn’t have a single clue what could’ve happened in the span of three hours to distress you like this. Still, his fingers move with purpose as he types out his reply.

Fyodor [23:16]: Go downstairs. I’m sending a taxi to get you.

Tolstoy curls between his legs, rumbling a soft purr against his ankle as Fyodor opens his messages with Vivian. He knows she’s not supposed to give out personal information. But this is different. Vivian will understand.

She has to...

Fyodor [23:17]: Vi, I need the address of my editor.

Vi [23:17]: Fyodor? What’s going on? It’s the middle of the night.

Vi [23:18]: You know I can’t give you that. It’s classified information.

Fyodor [23:18]: You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious.

A pause. The room falls still, save for the ticking of the clock and the steady purring at his feet.

Vi [23:19]: …Fine. Just make sure no one else gets their hands on it. Her address is—

With your address memorized, Fyodor arranges for a taxi to collect you from your apartment. Stepping away from the warmth of the old tabby cat, he moves swiftly toward the kitchen, snatching up his long cloak along the way, shiftng it into place over his shoulders. His shoulders tense as he sets his phone aside, his hands darting to gather what he needs; money for the taxi, a battery-powered torch, and a spare coat, dark blue in color.

As he prepares for your arrival, that aching sensation buries itself deeper into his chest, each painful beat of his heart encouraging him to move faster. You’d be here soon, he reminds himself, his feet moving as fast as his mind, heading for the front door. Unfortunately, that thought does nothing to soothe him. The ache in his chest deepens, digging it's claws in firmly, the weight of the situation settling like bricks on his shoulders.He tells himself again and again that you’ll be here soon; that everything’s going to be okay...but the uncertainty still gnaws at him.

He reaches the front door, coming to a full halt. His body goes rigid, eyes flicking toward the door knob, the cold metal taunting him silently. He reaches out, his fingers faintly caressing the door knob before slowly grasping it, his knuckles white as he turns it, the click of it echoing through the silent cottage.

When he opens the door, a frigid blast of air slashes through him, his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage. Snow falls lazily from above, speckling his vision with white dots, soft and slow; an eerily familiar sight. It’s snowing again, heavier than last time. He watches the snowflakes, hypnotized, each one an unwelcome guest to his door, until a loud mewl from Tolstoy jolts him from his thoughts.

He inhales sharply, the cold air tearing down his throat like ice shards with it's familiarity. The ice spreads through his chest as his grip tightens on the door knob, his fingers aching. A subtle shiver runs through him, slow and deep, as if caused by something else besides the blast of snow at his door.

Then, he takes a single step outside. His heart pounds in his ears, his breathing growing shallow, each step more difficult than the last. Come the third step, he forces himself forward, flicking on the torch with trembling fingers. He moves slowly, but with purpose, each step calculated while the snow continues to fall in perfect silence around him.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

The warmth of the taxi envelops you the moment you slip into the backseat, the leather creaking as you squirm into your seat. Dropping your sports bag filled with supplies for the night beside you, you click the seat belt in place with trembling fingers, still feeling the remnants of the nightmare lingering in your mind. You hated having to inconvenience Trixie like this but it was nights like this that reminded you just how grateful you were for her support.

You make a mental note to buy her something soon. Something nice, just to say thank you. Maybe if you’re lucky, some of that fancy fabric she’s always gushing about will be on sale the next time you get paid. As the taxi pulls away from the curb, you turn your focus inward, trying to steady your breathing.

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

You repeat it, over and over, like a hopeful chant, desperate to find even a sliver of solace in the rhythm.

Your fingers fidget with your phone, tapping idly at the lock screen or clicking the home screen on and off, each flicker illuminating the last photo you have of yourself and your father from the final birthday you got to celebrate with him. The panic has dulled to a heavy ache in your ribs, but it still lingers in the corners of your mind. It’s been years since you last had that nightmare, but it’s always felt like a shadow; never really gone, just waiting in the darkness to cling to you once again.

And now that it’s returned, it’s just as terrifying as the day it happened.

Fifteen years have passed since you were that small and defenseless; left home alone for entire days by a mother more interested in being anything but a parent. You hate remembering that day. It was both the worst… and the best day of your life. The worst because of that incident but the best, because if it hadn’t happened, your father never would’ve gotten the evidence he needed to finally win sole custody of you.

It didn’t make the nightmares any less traumatic, but it was better to be haunted by memories than to not be here at all, right?

The sudden jolt of the taxi hitting a speed bump snaps you out of your thoughts. A soft grunt slips from you as your body bounces in place, the top of your head narrowly missing the roof of the car. Blinking, you finally glance out the window. And immediately, your brows furrow.

Trixie lives across town, tucked in an upper-middle class suburb where every house was the same shade of white, had the same well loved garden out the front, and practically the same expensive car in every driveway. You knew the route like the back of your hand. But the streetlights here blur past tall, looming trees; thick and clustered, standing like silent sentries along the road.

Your frown deepens.

These trees… tall and mighty giants… you’d only ever seen them in one place. And it certainly wasn’t Trixie's minimalistic neighborhood, where the only trees were stunted, trimmed to perfection by the council, barely more than saplings forced into neat little rows down the center of the street. Your hands fly to your phone, unlocking it on instinct. You tap into your messages, heart suddenly thudding in your chest.

And there it is.

You didn’t send that message to Trixie.

You sent it to Fyodor.

Heat rushes to your cheeks as your gaze lands on his single reply—the one you had assumed was from your best friend.

Dostoyevsky [23:16]: Go downstairs. I’m sending a taxi to get you.

Staring at your screen, you reread the message until it’s imprinted in your memory for the rest of time. You blink a few times, praying that your nightmare has somehow made you delusional and that’s why you’re reading Fyodor's name and not Trixie's. As the trees blur by and the road starts to narrow, you silently beg the backseat to open up and swallow you whole.

How could this happen?! How could you text your boss in your hour of need?! What must he think of you now??

‘I can’t believe I made such a stupid mistake!’ You silently scold yourself, resisting the urge to slam your forehead against the back of the passenger seat. You don’t need two people thinking you’re crazy tonight… ‘God, he must think I’m insane, messaging him like this in the middle of the night!!’

‘It’s not too late….’ Maybe you can still message him and play it off as a joke. ‘Will he believe me if I say I’ve been drinking?’ Maybe it’s better if he just thinks you’re a lightweight. ‘Yeah… yeah, I’ll just tell him—’

Your mind freezes as the taxi turns toward the entrance of the overgrown forest. Your heart leaps, your cheeks flaring with heat as your eyes lock onto the familiar tall figure waiting just beyond the tree line, the taxi’s warm headlights illuminating the hem of his long black cloak and the neck of his black sweater beneath as he steps forward, the soft snow drifting around him like dandelions on the wind.

Fyodor lowers his torch as the headlights wash over him, the car rolling to a slow stop by the curbside. You watch as he steps toward the driver’s side, the window lowering with a quiet squeak, your mind still a swirling cacophony of thoughts.

There's the rustling of bills being passed between hands and you hear him thank the driver, but the words barely register. Your mind is racing at a million miles, the hamsters in your head running wild on their wheels, desperate to figure out what your next step is. You jump as the door beside you suddenly opens, cold air rushing in like a thief in the night, stealing away the comforting warmth of the taxi. Fyodor stands there, eyes catching the cab’s dim glow, soft and unreadable. He reaches in, picking up your overnight bag with one hand, and gestures with the other in silent invitation.

There’s no backing out now.

With fumbling hands, you unbuckle your seat belt and slide out of the car, the night air biting at your bare arms as you shuffle onto the snow covered pavement. Your arms cross over your chest as you close the door behind you, standing awkwardly before him. Before you can speak, Fyodor steps forward, draping the dark blue coat he was holding over your shoulders, the scent of lavender and old books clinging to it’s fabric. “Are you alright?” he asks softly, his hands lingering just a moment too long on your shoulders. His eyes only leave yours to scan your face, then the rest of you, checking every inch like he’s searching for wounds you haven’t mentioned.

Lord, what he must’ve thought, getting that pathetic message—

As the taxi pulls away behind you, your mind scrambles for a cover story. You fully intend to lie. No one else ever needed to know—not like Trixie, who only found out about the nightmares because of the frequent sleepovers when you were both kids. It was inevitable she would find out.

But you weren’t planning to tell anyone willingly…

“Ah… um… yeah, well…” you stammer awkwardly, the words tumbling out in a tangled mess before they can take coherent shape. Lying your way out of this is becoming impossible; all you’re doing is making yourself look like a fool.

“Can we… go back to the cottage first?” you ask, the words fragile but finally whole.

Fyodor's brows knit for the briefest moment, but then he nods, releasing your shoulders. With a flick, he brings the torch back to life and begins walking by your side, guiding you through the darkness enveloping the forest. Down the winding stone path toward Olga and Dmitry's humble home.

As the artificial light catches on the thin fence lining the walkway, you notice the flowers curled tight in their buds, preparing for the colder months ahead. There are no insects chattering in the silence but to your surprise, the orange tabby cat is out despite the house lights being out.

The tabby lifts her head mid lick, a soft mewl escaping her in greeting. Leaping down from her perch, she curls between your legs and Fyodor's, falling into step as if she belongs there. Unable to help yourself, you pause to kneel and scoop her up, hugging the warm, thick-furred feline close as you continue on toward the overgrown archway, now covered in a thin layer of cold white.

Fyodor leads the way to his cottage, the door creaking open eerily as he pushes it, stepping aside to let you through first. The feline leaps from your arms without so much as a thank-you for the lift and darts inside, vanishing into the shadows of the cottage. You step in after her and slip off your shoes. Behind you, the door eases closed with a soft groan, the lock clicking quietly into place.

The warmth of Fyodor's cottage blankets you, far warmer and inviting than the taxi. It envelopes you in a tight, warm hug, the dancing candlelight embers swaying on their wicks in greeting. Compared to your dingy old apartment that didn’t have any heating, his cottage was like warm paradise, coaxing the frost from your bones with delicate fingers, leaving you feeling cozy and pleasant.

You hover awkwardly in the entryway, feeling too sheepish to walk in and take your usual place by the window or at the dining table. It feels like you’re invading in his space, despite being more than welcomed here. You rub your arms beneath the old coat he’d draped over you, eyes drifting from the candle hanging on the wall to the archway leading into the living area.

“It’s nice and toasty in here,” you quickly say, eager to break the looming silence. There’s a small ‘thump’ as Fyodor puts your bag down. “This place has a real Gothic feel to it now that it’s night.” You look away from the arch, quickly adding, “I mean, I don’t mean in a bad way. Just…I mean, it feels like an old classic novel in here. All you’re missing is the dramatic thunder and an old vampire.”

Your laugh is far too forced for your liking. In an attempt to make it sound easy going and light, you’ve made it sound shaky and clumsy. Like you’ve just been told a joke by someone you know will be upset if you don’t laugh.

Fyodor looks unimpressed, his silence saying a thousand words. You stew awkwardly in that silence for a few moments, trying to think of something else to say when finally, he breaks it.

“Огонёк.”

He reaches out slowly, his hands settling back onto your shoulders. Gently, he squeezes, and your heart somersaults. His voice is calm, soft, but beneath the composed exterior, you hear it; concern. The subtle tension in the way his eyes harden just slightly as they meet yours. The strain in his voice, the tightness, is unmistakable.

Did you...make him worry?

The thought alone causes an unfamiliar feeling to echo with each beat of your heart; it's warm as an embrace yet sharp as a betrayal all at once. Internally, you shake it off. He shouldn't be worrying about you.

You're fine....you've...always been fine....

“I told you earlier to lean on me.”

Your throat tightens. You remember your apology from before; for your stubbornness, your refusal to open up and admit what’s been troubling you. You could do the same thing now. Shut down, brush off his concern, pretend you’re fine. It would be easy to clam up, to dodge the questions and deny the truths he’d almost certainly sniff out eventually.

After all, you hadn’t promised to accept his support.

As if reading your mind, he huffs softly. “I’m well aware you didn’t promise. But I do have some duty of care to you, both as your boss, and as your friend.”

He adds, a little more gently now, “So talk to me, Огонёк. What happened?”

His grip on your shoulders acts like an anchor, steadying you against the crashing waves of emotion and memories that swirl in your chest. The soft ticking of the clock and the crackle of the hearth in the other room fill the quiet space, the sound heavy in the stillness.

Slowly, you raise your gaze to Fyodor’s face, the candlelight casting gentle shadows across his features. You try to swallow the thick lump in your throat, but it doesn’t budge. Your voice shakes, hoarse and trembling, as you barely manage to whisper…

“Fyodor…”

His brows subtly raise as his name rolls of your lips. It feels unfamiliar on your tongue; far too soft and much too personal, like you’ve stepped across an invisible line. A name spoken not to a boss, not to a client, but to someone you trust. Someone you need.

Just like that, the dam inside of you breaks.

You shakily inhale, a few sharp hiccups escaping you. You try to speak, but your voice catches, fragile and strained. Your lip trembles and for a heartbeat, you fight to hold back the sounds attempting to rip free from your lips.

And then, the tears start falling uncontrollably. In a matter of seconds, you’re a sobbing mess. Raw, unfiltered sobs escape you with each sharp inhale, your knees beginning to feel like jelly. Before you even realize it, you’ve leaned into Fyodor, your forehead resting lightly against his chest, your hands still clutching the coat he gave you.

The words don’t come; not when you’re drowning in the flood of emotions stirred by that nightmare and the memories it dragged to the forefront of your mind. Everything catches in the thick lump in your throat, swallowed up by sobs and the ache you can’t name. You try to apologize between gasping breaths, but your mutters are incoherent, fragmented by the weight of it all.

At first, Fyodor doesn’t react. Your tears soak into the soft fabric of his turtleneck, your body trembling against his. But slowly, almost cautiously, his arms shift. One circles around your waist, anchoring you to him. The other finds the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

And somehow, that makes you cry even harder.

You don’t know how long you remain like this, soaking his turtleneck sweater with fresh waves of tears as he stands still, silently holding you through the maelstrom he doesn’t yet understand. The moment you start trembling, you try to straighten up. Clearing your throat, you murmur hoarsely, “I’m fine…”

You attempt to pull away, swiping at your face with the sleeve of the coat draped over your shoulders. “Sorry, I… this is all so stupid.” You sniffle, drawing a shaky breath. “I’m just… tired. That’s all.”

To your surprise, his grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, it stays firm. Grounding. His gaze softens.

When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Don’t do that.”

You tense, looking up at him as he continues, “Whatever it is that’s troubling you, you don’t have to carry it alone.” His tone is gentle, but sure. “You were the one who lectured me about self-care earlier. Maybe it’s time you took a leaf out of your own notebook, Огонёк." His arms tighten just slightly; not forceful, but reassuring. “Your mental health is just as important as your physical health. So please, Огонёк…let me in.”

“Let you in?” A bitter scoff escapes you, followed by a sarcastic, “You make it sound so easy...” You try to step away again, but his grip stays firm; unyielding yet gentle, silently refusing to let you suffer through this alone. He doesn’t speak. Just waits, patient and steady, giving you his full attention like you’re the only person in the world.

You swallow around the lump in your throat, your voice cracking as you whisper, “It’s not… it’s not that easy…”

A part of you screams to shove him away. To cry, to yell that he can’t help you, to ask why he's even trying. To run and hide from the world in the dim safety of your rundown apartment, curling beneath the dining table like you did when you were small.

But your heart aches with desperation, heavy with all the sounds you’ve carried in silence for so long. It begs you to stay. To cling to Fyodor and spill every last secret you’ve buried. To tell him about every moment you feared for your life. About every time you suffered at the hands of someone who once promised to protect you.

But you can’t. The words stab into your throat like shards of glass, leaving you helplessly mute. Swallowing roughly, you try to find your voice, overpowered by the pain of memories you’d tried to bury. Of ones you thought you did, leaving them choking on the dirt of the graves you dug from them in the depths of your mind.

The silence drags on, becoming deafening. Fyodor studies you carefully, his eyes scanning your face; then, he nods silently to a decision he doesn’t voice as he slowly lets you go. His hand lingers on your bandaged wrist, holding it tenderly.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Autumn Spice or Cream Black?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“The tea's you gifted me,” he says gently, his hand still resting on your wrist. “When you don’t know someone’s tastes, it’s common to give them something you personally enjoy, isn’t it?” His hand slides slowly down, fingers brushing yours before he gently squeezes your hand. “Based on your preferences, I don’t believe you’d enjoy the passionfruit blend. That leaves only these two. So?”

Silence falls between you again, your thoughts churning sluggishly. The teas you gave him as an apology for stepping out of line and telling him how to write his book...

You whisper, your voice barely audible, “You kept them...?”

Fyodor blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Of course I did. Did you think I would throw them away?”

You swallow, the sharp shards in your throat beginning to recede, leaving behind only pointy pink pricks. “I… I wasn’t sure you’d like them,” you admit, your voice trailing off as your eyes lift slowly to meet his. You pause.

Then, quietly you murmur: “Autumn Spice. Please.”

He nods once, softly. “Autumn Spice it is.” He turns down the hall toward the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, Огонёк. I won’t be long.”

Lingering by the front door, you toy with the idea of leaving. You could call a taxi, offer a polite thank-you, and vanish into the night like none of this ever happened. Like you’ve thought about doing since before you even stepped out of the car. Your feet itch to flee, as fast and unthinking as a cornered feral cat. But your heart flutters, fragile and insistent, pleading with you to stay.

Your eyes drift to the overnight bag at your feet, your hesitation tossing itself back and forth in your mind like a silent game of ping pong. You reach down and wrap your fingers around the straps. After a moment’s pause, you lift it and sling it over your shoulder, turning toward the kitchen.

Slowly, you step into the warm, familiar space. The scent of Autumn Spice greets you like an old friend from your youth; the smell of cinnamon envelopes you, the scent soft and grounding, mingling with a whisper of citrus that tickles your nose and clings to the air like memory. You set your bag down quietly by the doorway and glance up. In the corner, two fuzzy shapes catch your eye. Tolstoy, half-draped under the dining table, is grooming the small orange tabby, his tongue rasping gently over her head and ears. She’s curled tight into a soft little ball of kitty fluff, with Tolstoy kneading at her side with slow, careful paws.

It’s an unexpectedly tender sight that comforts you slightly. If your head weren’t so heavy, you might have snapped a photo. Instead, you let the moment pass unclaimed, sinking into the chair you always take up. The wood groans as you let your eyes closed, taking a slow, deep breath...

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

© 𝐹𝓁𝓊𝓇𝓇𝓎𝑜𝒻𝒮𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈-𝟤𝟢𝟤5

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[russellsppttemplates]

Omg the dad Oscar blurb was sooo cute can we have one of him being in the house with the kids on his own like his first full day of being in charge and the kids are like maybe we should ask mum when something doesn’t work out

Note: thank you for taking the time to leave a tiny message 🫶

"Can we play outside, daddy?", Lucas asked as he stepped into the living room with a football on his hand. It was the first full day that you had gone back to work after having baby Jack, and because Oscar was home still, he said he wouldn't mind being on his own with the boys.

Currently, he was lulling Jack to sleep, the little boy snuggled on his chest with the help of the sling carefully strapped around their bodies, "I'm putting the baby to sleep, buddy, how about I watch you score some goals on the net from here?", he suggested, knowing that moving around before he fell into deep sleep wasn't ideal and ensuring that he wouldn't wake up.

Lucas nodded as he went to the garden, putting on some shoes and kicking the ball on the grass.

"You could fall asleep too, you know?", Oscar touched his youngest son's cheek softly as big, wide open hazel eyes looked at him, "How is it that you keep me and mummy up all night and then don't sleep during the day either? It's time to sleep, little fella, yes it is", he cooed, tapping his back gently and walking around the decking, nodding and flashing a thumbs up at Lucas whenever he scored a goal.

By lunchtime, Oscar had managed to put Jack down for a nap, and considering the baby had been sleeping for just Iver twenty minutes, he had plenty of time to have some alone time with Lucas, keeping an eye on the baby through the monitor.

"Does pasta sound good?", Oscar asked the young boy, "yes, please!", he smiled, "with tomato sauce and cheese!".

Oscar giggled and got started on cooking, letting the pasta boil and grabbing one of the frozen jars of sauce you had batch cooked a few weeks ago for moments like these. Once it was all underway, he got back to the living room and helped Lucas with his Lego blocks, "I want to make a garage like yours", he smiled as he gathered the orange, black and grey block, starting to build it as they watched Bluey on TV.

"Time's up for the pasta", Oscar said as he got up, "can we eat here, daddy, please?", Lucas pouted as best as he could to convince his to have lunch on the living room coffee table.

"Mummy doesn't like it when we eat here, and we're eating tomato sauce, if it falls on the carpet, it won't be good, Lucas", Oscar reasoned, "but I'll be extra careful, I promise!", he nodded as Oscar finally said yes.

When Oscar brought the plates to the table, the monitor showed a fussing Jack in his cot, "I'm going to get him, be careful with the food, okay?", Oscar warned as Jack sat as close to the table as he could to make sure he didn't let anything fall or drip where it wasn't supposed to.

"You're really going through some sleep regression, aren't you, cheeky boy?", Oscar said as Jack as wide awake when he got to the bedroom. Changing his diaper and stopping by the kitchen to get a bottle for your son, Oscar got back to the living room.

"I didn't spill anything, daddy, see?", Lucas showed him, the carpet white and the table clean as he had eaten half of his plate already, "Good job, buddy!".

He should've seen it coming, but he still trusted his reflexes. Turns out a couple of nights without sleeping properly really puts a dent on your skills as he watched Jack grab the fork on his plate only to let it fall on the cream pillow he had to support his legs, "uh-oh, mummy is not going to like that", Lucas whispered.

"This needs to go on the washing machine, now!", Oscar gasped, laying Jack on carpeted floor surrounded by some blankets and pillows just in case he decided he wanted to learn how to roll over and cause even more trouble than his father was already in.

"Stain remover, then wash liquid", Oscar mumbled as he read an online forum about tomato stain removal, dumping all the products on the washing machine before closing it and starting the cycle, "do you think it will work?", Oscar asked Lucas, "daddy really hopes it will work".

"Shouldn't we call mummy? Maybe she knows what to do", your son suggested, "if we remove the stain on our own, it will be fine. Mummy won't even need to know this happened".

A washing cycle later and another futile attempt at getting Jack to sleep on Oscar's chest, your three boys stood in front of the washing machine, the originally cream pillow now various shades of pink and red depending how far the spot you looked at was from the stain.

"Don't worry, daddy, mummy won't be mad at you", Lucas somewhat tried to comfort his father, rubbing his hand on his back.

The minute you set foot in the house, you called for your boys, "mummy!", Lucas ran to hug you, "how was your day, my love?", you asked, "did you get up to anything nice?", you asked as you made your way to the kitchen, stopping by the laundry room when you saw the light was on.

"Let me just - oh", you said as you looked at the pillow inside the dryer, "it's was not my fault, it was daddy who let it slip!", Lucas raised his arms, taking on the fully innocent role.

"It was Jack believe or not, sweetheart!", you heard your husband say as he approached, your baby boy on his hip.

Making grabby hands at him, you rested him on your hip and kissed his cheeks, "what did you do, little monkey?", you giggled.

(Thank you for sending this in ✨️)

[peachymilkandcream]

Movie! William Afton NSFW Alphabet

(A/N: The NSFW Alphabets are their canon events I cannot stop this I'm sorry T-T Also please read the warnings, I don't care if it's fucked my guy literally stuffed children into suits he's fucked up.)

WARNINGS: noncon, dubcon, manipulation, domestic abuse, yandere themes, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, stockholm syndrome, violence, mind breaking, misogyny, age difference etc.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) William is surprisingly considerate, when he has the time to be. Most of his life is wrapped up in the chaos of covering up murders and coming up with new machines that sometimes sex just becomes stress relief and he doesn't have time for more. However when he can be convinced to take time away he really does try and care about his wife and make sure she feels clean and comfortable.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) Deranged psychos and their hands are a thing I'm telling you. The power in behind them is 100% a secret turn on they won't admit. And when you've made your career the work of your hands, (like child murders and a booming business) you can't help but pick that as the favourite. For her, he's not super partial but he really likes her hair, gripping it, pulling it, is what he daydreams about.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Let's just saw how else did they have four kids, cmon now. ;)

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) While it's not inherently sexual William really loves putting fear into others, and he 100% has a r*pe fantasy that he puts her through often. (Although for her he doesn't tell her that's what happening so it's 'authentic') This includes fake home invasions as well when he gets bored of vanilla sex and wants to "spice things up". Poor girl lives in fear daily.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) He has some before they met, mostly teenage mistakes when he had the time. After he started his career it was rare he did simply because of time. He knows enough of what he's doing, he knows how to make himself feel good and that's all that matters right?

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) My guy is a ride or die missionary, reverse cowgirl is the only other he'll consider. Anything else is just uncomfortable in his opinion, and again it's about what feels best for him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) William's very erratic so it really depends on the mood he's in, how his day has gone if this kids annoy him. He has been known to be more humorous on occasion but it's not often.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) Let's be honest William only gets his hair cut because his wife does it, he doesn't have the time to take care of himself like he should, those are precious moments that could go to his work. So no, he is not well groomed.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) This again depends on the occasion, usually it's just stress relief so it's quick and usually not very romantic, but if it's a special occasion like an anniversary or birthday then he'll be way more romantic.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Same as with his hair, he honestly just never has time XD

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Big somnophilia fan, probably a slight breeding kink, lingerie (especially stockings), hair pulling, choking, gagging, knife play 100% (he's a serial killer, I had to).

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Anywhere in the house really, anywhere he can get a moment alone. He used to enjoy when she distracted him in his workshop in the basement but now those old parts bring back haunting memories...

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) Her being a mother to his children, it warms his little black heart and gets him going. As well as any new sets of lingerie she buys or he buys for her.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) She wouldn't but if she tried to dominate him, he would nope the fuck out of there. My guy is an S tier misogynist and believes his wife should be beneath him literally and figuratively.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) He prefers receiving simply because it plays into the whole gagging thing. Her gagging on his dick as he face fucks her is so hot to him.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) As stated before it depends on the occasion, special moments require more slow and sensual whereas annoyance or hurry is fast and rough.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) His whole life is about quickies, having just enough time to get himself off is what he usually does.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) He takes too many risks, if he's not careful he's going to end up hurting her.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) Obviously when he was younger it was more, but now he's a one or two rounds at most guy.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) No no never, no matter what it is he's come to not trust machines around his loved ones anymore.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) If he's in a goofy mood he will, but most of the time he doesn't have time to sit and tease her.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) He's actually quite loud, groaning and even soft whimpers are his specialty.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) William has a thing for stockings because that's the first thing he saw her in and he started fantasizing how her thighs would jiggle in them while he was eating her out.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) I'd say he's above average, not too much but enough, he's slightly thick with a few smaller veins.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) His drive has really changed from wanting to have sex to wanted her to relieve stress. So because of all the stress he's under, it's pretty high.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) William is out like a light after, dreaming about his victims or how he disposed of bodies. Solid sleeper while his wife lays awake plagued by waking nightmares of her own.

[cwboyss]

WEST OF HERE~🏈

|| UNIVERSITY AU || ABBY & READER ||

||so far a one shot- possibly could turn into a slowburn if anyone wants it- keep in mind i’m not english speaking 😭|| also wanted to admire Abby’s character a bit instead of jumping into crazy smuts… sigh, have fun!

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The air hit different here- heavier somehow, even with the ocean breeze trying to sweep it clean.

You stood on the curb with your suitcase at your side, staring up at the squat gray dorm building like it might swallow you whole.

It was the end of August.

Summer wasn’t gone yet, but it was bleeding out- slow and quiet, under skies that already felt too soft around the edges.

Your parents’ goodbye still clung to you like second skin: your mom’s tight smile, the way your dad’s hug lasted a beat too long.

Boston was three thousand miles behind you now.

And for the first time, you were really alone.

The cab pulled away from the sidewalk.

You stayed where you were for a moment, shoulders stiff, feeling that hollow pit yawning a little wider inside your chest.

No turning back.

Inside, the dorm smelled faintly like dust and old carpet.

You dragged your stuff up four flights of stairs because you didn’t have the energy to look for the elevator, sweat sticking to your back by the time you found your room.

Empty walls.

Two twin beds, one of them yours. A desk by the window.

No roommate yet.

You dropped your duffel with a thud, the sound weirdly loud in the empty space.

Then you sat down on the bare mattress, elbows on your knees, and stared out the open window.

Seattle stretched out beyond the campus like a postcard you weren’t sure how to read yet- misty hills, steel bridges, the blue-gray smudge of the Sound in the distance.

The breeze slid past the windowsill, cool against your damp skin, carrying the faint, far-off sound of cleats hitting turf somewhere across campus.

Maybe football practice.

Maybe life just going on without you.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around you even though it wasn’t cold yet.

Somewhere below, people were laughing, dragging boxes into buildings, starting their own versions of this day.

You weren’t part of it yet.

You were just-here.

You swallowed hard, blinked once, and forced yourself up.

Unpack.

Breathe out.

Start over.

It wasn’t home.

Not yet.

But it would have to be.

Unpacking feels impossible. Instead, you dig into your backpack for the thing you know will at least make this place feel a little like yours: a battered, half-broken CD player. The people your age have long since upgraded to sleek vinyl players or clean Spotify setups, but not you. You pull out your stack of scratched CDs, mostly from the ’80s. Some of the labels are faded from the years, others cracked from overuse.

You pick one-”Crowded House"and shove the disc into the machine. It whirs, complains, and finally coughs out a track.

You collapse onto the creaky twin bed and stare out the window at the sunset spilling across the mountains. The air smells clean, faintly salty. You crack open the window wider, trying to let that feeling in. "Maybe I’ll get used to this",you mutter to yourself, voice low, almost like you’re trying to convince yourself.

Your hand finds the small, leather notebook tucked in your bag- a something you picked up before leaving home, deciding that if you were starting over, you needed a new place to pour the mess inside you. A fresh start, or at least a fresh place to write all the same old things.

You grab a pencil, rolling it between your fingers as you think. Then, almost absentmindedly, you start sketching the outline of the mountains framed by the window, the jagged edges contrasting with the softness of the sky. The music hums in the background, gentle and steady, as the lines on the page take shape. Your chest loosens a little. It’s like each stroke on the paper gets rid of some of the tension in your shoulders.

When you’re almost finished, you scrawl a line at the bottom of the page:

“Seattle-don’t let me down.”

The last thing you remember is the sound of the wind against the glass and the feeling of graphite smudging your fingertips before you fall asleep.

⫘⫘⫘

You wake up the next morning with a headache and your notebook still cradled to your chest. Your phone-an ancient black iPhone 6 that you’ve stubbornly refused to replace- buzzes weakly on the nightstand. 7:05 AM.

“Could be worse,” you think with a yawn.

You drag yourself through the motions of the morning: cheap breakfast bar, brushing your teeth in the flickering dorm bathroom light, stuffing the heavy backpack onto your already sore shoulders.

First class: Introduction to Psychology.

You tap your fingers against the desk, absently watching the professor’s hand gestures as they explain the basics of Pavlov’s dogs, filling out the first pages of a brand-new notebook-the one with a dog printed on the cover you picked last minute because it was the only one with a weird vibe that made you laugh. I might be the only person here who finds this notebook oddly comforting, you think to yourself. The day crawls, a slow drip of hours, but you survive it.

When classes finally end, you don’t go straight back to your room.

Instead, you wander- past the library, the coffee shop, the cluster of oak trees shading the quad-letting the sun soak into your skin, your body already rebelling against the dorm life. You’re already craving some space to breathe.

Then you spot it: the football field. Massive, lined in deep green artificial turf. It sits just beyond your dorm, practically calling your name.

Curious, you climb the bleachers, dragging your tired body up the metal steps until you can sit at the top and breathe. The weight of the day seems to lift slightly as you settle in. You pull out your battered notebook again, click your pencil into your hand. Old white earbuds dangle from your ears, patched together with an adapter because your ancient phone refuses to upgrade. At this point, it’s almost a badge of honor-the embodiment of a refusal to let go of what’s old, what’s real, what’s yours.

You glance toward the field. A group of girls is already out there, practicing-fast, brutal, relentless. The sound of their shoes on turf, the echoing orders of the coach, the crisp air, it all pulls you in.

And then your eyes lock on her.

“Anderson!” the coach shouts, her whistle slicing through the air.

You squint toward the figure standing stock-still, her presence commanding the attention of everyone around her. She doesn’t flinch.

The coach’s voice is sharp, cutting through the noise of the field, and she doesn’t hesitate: “Anderson!”- she shouts again. It’s not a call, it’s a challenge.

You watch as the girl-"Anderson"-freezes in her tracks. Her posture doesn’t falter, but the tension in the air is palpable. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t make a move, just stands there, tall and still, like she’s waiting for the storm to pass.

The coach strides toward her, her expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. “Focus up,” she growls, low but firm. Each word lands with weight. “Stop bumping into everyone on purpose. This isn’t just your game. Get it together.”

Her response is low, barely audible from this distance, but clear. “I’m not babysitting anyone, Coach. But fine. I’ll try to keep it under control.”

The coach doesn’t even flinch, just stares at her, knowing this isn’t the first time. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Focus. Or it’s not just the game you’ll be sitting out.”

There’s a moment of silence. Anderson doesn’t respond. She just nods once, sharp and precise, almost too sharp. No apology, no excuse- just acceptance. Without another word, she turns back to the field, her strides long and purposeful. The air around her shifts as she moves, like everything around her shifts, too. The team picks up the pace, but there’s a weight to the air now, something unresolved.

The coach stands there for a second longer, watching the blonde girl’s back, her gaze unreadable. Then, without a second glance, she turns and walks away, disappearing into the distance, leaving Anderson to carry the weight of her presence alone.

You watch as her posture changes. Her shoulders shift, her jaw sets, and she becomes the embodiment of focus. She’s taller than the others-easily five’nine—built like an ox, solid, powerful. Broad shoulders, sharply cut arms, moving like a coiled wire. Every step she takes is calculated, purposeful. Her dark blue jersey clings to her back, the number 8 stamped across it, like a badge of something earned, not given.

Her hair, dirty blonde and messy, is tied in a loose braid, strands whipping around her face like they have a mind of their own. She doesn’t seem to notice — or care — as they fall out of place. She’s used to being watched, used to being the center of attention, used to having control. Even when she’s being reprimanded, there’s something about her — a quiet power. She doesn’t back down.

You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on here than meets the eye. She’s not just another player. Not just another name on the roster. There’s something different about her. Something waiting to be uncovered

You find yourself staring, like you can’t look away. "God, that’s not weird, right?"-you think, but it’s too late. Your hand is already moving, pencil flying across the page, capturing the fierce way she moves-charging forward, relentless. There’s something about the way she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down, even when she doesn’t have to be the one leading.

Her nose looks slightly crooked, like it might’ve been broken once, maybe twice, the story of a past that hasn’t quite been erased. Her features aren’t “pretty” in the usual sense-they’re sharp, weathered, magnetic, like she’s lived a thousand lives in a few short years. But there’s something real about her, something that makes you want to draw her. Or at least-get this out of your head.

You smirk to yourself, jotting a lazy note under your rough sketch:

“The girl who looks like that ‘Maneater’ song. She’s kinda cool”

You chuckle softly at the absurdity of it, but honestly, it feels kind of perfect. She looks and seems, like she could break your heart and make you fall in love with her all at once. You can’t help it. You’re already thinking TOO much.

The sky bleeds purple and orange above you, the night starting to edge in. For the first time in a long while, you let yourself think:

Maybe this place won’t be so bad after all.

Not just because of the sunsets.

But because of whatever-whoever-you’ve just found.

And you know damn well-you’ll be here again tomorrow.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Lowkey wanna write more 🤿

[noctivagant-ghost]

The job was simple: Monitor the woman in Room 6. She’s been asleep for 42 days.

(an r/nosleep style story)

I took the job because I needed quiet.

I had just moved back into the city after a really bad year - breakup, job loss, a fire that took half of what I owned. I was couch surfing when I saw the listing. Overnight shift. Private sleep study. No experience necessary, just basic data entry and the ability to stay awake. I figured I’d get some peace, maybe save up enough to afford rent somewhere that didn’t smell like damp carpet and stale weed.

The company was called SomnoTech. I Googled them. Not much came up. One old article in a university medical journal talking about “experimental treatments in chronic sleep disorder recovery,” and a barebones website with a contact form. The building I was sent to looked more like an office for defunct insurance than a lab. Beige, windowless, buzzed me in through two locked doors. Everything inside was silent and clean. No logos. Just halls that didn’t echo.

They gave me a laminated badge and walked me to Observation Room 6. It had one long window, a chair, three monitors, and a clipboard. That was it. Beyond the glass: a white-walled room, padded corners, one hospital-style bed with a woman laying perfectly still on it. Wires across her scalp. Pulse oximeter. Blood pressure cuff. Breathing tubes. The usual. The kind of image you’d see in a medical drama.

Her name was Marla. That’s all they told me.

“She’s not in a coma,” the lead technician - Dr. Ellis - said. “She’s asleep.”

I asked how long.

He said, “Forty-two days.”

That was when I almost walked out. But the pay was too good, and I told myself it was harmless. Just keep a log. Note her REM cycles. Don’t go in the room.

They emphasized that. Over and over.

Never enter the room.

I asked what would happen if she woke up.

Dr. Ellis paused for too long before he answered,

“That’s… not expected.”

That first night, nothing happened.

She lay still, vitals normal. Every couple hours her eyes flickered beneath the lids. Standard REM activity. Once, around 2:30 a.m., her hand twitched. I logged everything. I didn’t sleep, didn’t even look away much. Just sat and stared, drank vending machine coffee, and listened to the soft beep of monitors that never changed.

It wasn’t until the third shift that she moved.

Not much. Just shifted in bed. Rolled slightly. Her breathing deepened. That’s when I noticed something strange - the audio feed picked up sound from her room, but it was... too clean. No background noise. No rustle of sheets. Just her breathing.

Then she said something. A whisper.

I hit replay.

She’d said a name.

My name.

My full name.

No one else at SomnoTech knew it. I’d used an alias on the application, something I did out of habit after a few years of gig jobs. But what she said - what she mouthed - was my real name.

The one I haven’t used since I left home.

I showed the recording to Dr. Ellis.

He watched it, twice, without expression.

“It’s likely a coincidence,” he said. “The dreaming brain replays fragments of memory. She may have seen you on the way in.”

“She’s been asleep for six weeks.”

“She’s responding. That’s good. Keep documenting.”

He walked out before I could ask anything else.

The next few nights, I tried to convince myself it was nothing. I told myself it was a coincidence. That it didn’t mean anything. But she kept saying it.

Night after night. Just my name. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow. No sound - just the shape of it, over and over. Her mouth moving in that same rhythm. I stopped drinking the coffee. Started staying stone-cold sober for every shift.

On the 23rd day, everything changed.

At exactly 3:07 a.m., Marla sat up in bed. Her eyes were still closed. She turned her head, slowly, toward the camera in the top corner of the ceiling. And then, without hesitation, she pointed at it. At me.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared as she pointed, waited five long seconds, then laid back down. 

I radioed it in.

“She’s dreaming about you,” the tech on call said. “That means it’s working.”

“What’s working?”

No response.

When I arrived the next night, I was given a new form to sign. It was labeled ‘Phase Two Observation Protocol.’

Most of it was boilerplate NDA language, but two lines stuck out:

Observer must not leave the premises until Phase Two is complete.

Observer must report all subjective experiences, including dreams, during or between shifts.

They were asking me to log my own sleep. When I pointed out that I wasn’t supposed to be sleeping on shift, the night tech said,

“You’ll understand soon.”

Marla began crying on Day 31. At first, it was soft. Then sobs - raw, broken, painful. Her vitals didn’t spike. Brain activity remained stable. But the sound of her grief came through the speaker like it was close. Not recorded. Not filtered. Like she was in the room with me.

I started sleeping in two-hour blocks. I couldn’t stay awake anymore. My body was shutting down. 

And then the dreams came.

First night: I’m standing in the hallway of the lab. Only it’s longer. The walls are too narrow, the ceiling too low. At the end of the hallway, there’s a door. Behind it, whispering.

Second night: Marla is sitting in the chair I use. Writing something. Every time I try to speak, she looks up and smiles. Her eyes are still closed.

Third night: I’m in the observation room, but the monitors show me, sleeping. Marla’s bed is empty.

I started documenting the dreams. Every detail. I showed them to Dr. Ellis. He didn’t even blink.

“You’re syncing,” he said.

“Syncing with what?”

He just said, “The bridge needs a guide.”

I stopped asking questions. I stopped pushing. I didn’t have much choice.

I started working double shifts. Eighteen hours on, six off. I slept at the facility. They put me in a bunkroom in a hallway I’d never seen. I thought it was just exhaustion, but when I tried to leave the building after that shift, my badge was deactivated. The front doors stayed locked. I went back to the observation room.

Marla was sitting up in bed, hands on her face, still crying. She’d been crying for nine days straight.

I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. I started taking the pills they left by the coffee machine. They didn’t help. My vision blurred. My hands shook. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw bags under my eyes, my face pale and gaunt.

I wasn’t there anymore. I was just in the room. Staring. Always staring.

And then Marla opened her eyes. Just for a moment, just a fraction of an inch, but they were open. Not white, not rolled back. She was looking at me. Her pupils were there. Focused. She held my gaze for a breath, then closed them.

I tried to call Dr. Ellis. My radio didn’t work anymore. The lights went out. The only thing left was the audio feed. Her soft crying. And then, she said my name again.

That’s when I noticed.

My clipboard was empty. Every log, every note, every dream I’d written down - gone. I grabbed for the stack of old forms from the drawer under the monitor. They weren’t there. Not even the signature pages. Just hundreds of blank sheets.

I looked up at the monitors. The leftmost screen was blank. I hadn’t noticed it. Was it always like that? It was dark. No vitals. No video. Just a black screen with a single white label - my name.

Marla pointed at it. The crying stopped.

She stood up and walked to the window. I felt cold. My blood slowed. My heart pounded in my ears. Then she reached out and touched the glass. And for the first time, the audio picked up more than her breath. It picked up mine.

I backed away. But there was nowhere to go. The door was locked. Marla stared at me through the window, and her expression changed. Her brow furrowed. Her mouth opened. I watched the shape of a question form on her lips.

Suddenly, I was in the room. Not the observation room. Her room.

My hand touched the bed. Cold sheets. The air smelled sterile. There was one window. No monitors. I was on the other side of the glass. I was in the bed.

I looked over the edge of the mattress and saw myself. I was sitting in the observation chair. Writing on a clipboard. My eyes were open but blank. The rightmost monitor showed vitals, but they weren’t Marla’s. They were mine. My breathing, my heart rate.

And on the leftmost monitor, just darkness.

Marla stood in front of the window in the observation room and pointed at me. She mouthed something over and over again. Not my name. Not this time. I couldn’t understand it. I tried to get up. To reach for her. But I couldn’t move.

She took one step back and turned toward the door. I heard it open. Someone walked in, someone I couldn’t see. Marla said something else and then walked out. The audio feed stayed active. I heard footsteps. A new set of footsteps, heavier, slower, dragging. And then a new voice. It wasn’t Marla’s. It was mine.

I tried to scream. The audio feed went dead.

The next time I woke up, the observation room was dark. The silence was too deep. It felt like the building had been abandoned for years.

I pulled the blanket off me. My legs were weak. My mouth tasted of copper. I stood up, slowly. The air was freezing. My breath came out in clouds. The window was dark. All the lights were off.

But when I looked at the ground, I saw I wasn’t standing on the floor. I was standing on glass. 

And on the other side - a new girl in the chair. 

Only, she wasn’t looking up at me.

She was looking at me - straight on - as if her world tilted at a different angle. As if she were seated upright in a room that existed sideways beneath mine. Her gaze didn’t drift. Her neck didn’t crane. She met my eyes like we were sitting across from each other, not separated by gravity and glass. 

I dropped to my knees, pressing my hands to the pane. 

She watched me. Pale, shaking, eyes wide with fear. She looked like she’d been crying. Like she’d seen something she didn’t understand.

I recognized myself in her face, but it wasn’t me. It couldn’t be.

Because behind her, on the far side of the darkened room, there was a figure standing in the corner.

It was me. The other me. The one that sat in the chair. Its eyes were open, and it was smiling. And on its lap: an empty clipboard, waiting to be filled.

********************************************************************************

It’s been four months since I arrived at SomnoTech. I haven’t slept in three. I’ve written all of this down. I’m not sure how many times. I don’t know how much is real.

The girl in the chair doesn’t look at me anymore. She stopped crying. She stopped moving. She’s becoming like the other one. The smiling one. The one in the dark. The one who’s waiting for its turn.

I don’t want to know what comes next. I don’t think anyone does. But it doesn’t matter what we want. All that matters is what it wants. And it’s getting closer. I can hear it in the walls. I can feel it in my skin. I can see it in the reflection.

And once that happens, there’s only one thing left. One final step. One last phase.

This isn’t a dream. It’s not even a nightmare.

It’s the thing waiting after.

And we’re already in it.

We’re all already asleep.

And we don’t even know it yet.

[laimabynight]

✭ Kuriyama Tomoe ✭

Tomoe Kuriyama grew up in a cramped, rotting apartment block in one of Tokyo’s forgotten backstreets, somewhere between the pachinko parlors and the rusting vending machines that always had one drink no one wanted. Her childhood was the kind that never makes it to screen or song—where the TV stayed loud to drown out arguments and nobody really asked how your day at school went.

Her mother spent most of her time chasing the attention of other men, always just a little too done-up for someone supposed to be at the supermarket. Her father? He had long since stopped trying. A factory worker when he felt like showing up, a drunk and a coward the rest of the time. He didn’t talk much—but his hands were fluent. Tomoe learned early not to cry. It made him hit harder.

By her early teens, the streets felt safer than home. Tokyo in the late '80s and early '90s was drowning in neon and contradictions—economic boom on the surface, rot beneath the glitter. Tomoe was quiet, unsmiling, and always one step behind the older girls in school who wore their skirts too short and their eyeliner too thick. She didn’t talk back, but she watched. Learned. Survived.

She drifted into the wrong crowd—motorcycle girls, small-time thieves, kids who laughed too loud and fought in back alleys just to feel something. It wasn’t long before she was lumped in as a yankii, a delinquent. The rumors followed: that she was trouble, that she did enjo kōsai—compensated dating with older men in exchange for money, meals, or worse. Tomoe never corrected them. Let them think what they wanted. Truth rarely helped.

At sixteen, she left home for good. No grand escape—just one night she didn’t come back. She slept in internet cafés, on train platforms, in the backrooms of clubs that didn’t care how old she was if she could scrub blood out of carpet. She worked every odd job she could find—delivery girl, dishwasher, bar runner. Eventually, she met Yasu, a twenty-something punk with bleached hair, big talk, and fists that always came after an apology. He wanted into the underworld. She didn’t want to sleep in the rain anymore. They lasted two years.

By eighteen, Tomoe had become a fixture in the night districts—hostess clubs, call services, private parties in smoke-thick rooms where men laughed too hard and never really saw her. She learned to smile without meaning it, to wear the makeup like armor, and to count cash without looking desperate. Yasu didn’t like it. Especially not when his boss—Kawamura-san, a mid-tier fixer with old connections and new money—took a liking to her. But Yasu endured it, teeth clenched, pride hollowed out by fear.

The end came without warning. One night, after a party that had ended in coke, cheap wine, and cigarettes, Tomoe lay on Kawamura’s plush couch, halfway to sleep, when the door opened. A woman stepped in—tall, elegant, and dressed entirely in white. She crossed the room like she belonged there. Kawamura didn’t have time to stand. The shot was clean. Between the eyes. When the silence settled, the woman turned toward Tomoe.

Most people scream. Or run. Tomoe just sighed, reached for a lighter, and muttered, “Troublesome.” The woman raised an eyebrow. Her name was Farah Asadullah, a Banu Haqim—once aligned with the old Assamite ways, now a gun-for-hire moving between Kindred factions like a shadow with a bank account. She said she’d never seen someone so calm. So unaffected. She offered Tomoe a choice: die here, or live forever—and learn to be something more than prey. Tomoe exhaled smoke, eyes half-lidded, and said: “Well, if it isn’t a bother.” The Embrace was brutal. The training worse.

Farah didn’t coddle. She burned away weakness, shaped instinct into precision. She taught Tomoe how to move without being seen, how to watch without blinking, how to end a life before a sentence could finish. Tomoe didn’t resist. She didn’t complain. She adapted. And she was good—terrifyingly so. Emotionless, methodical, invisible. The pain didn’t bother her. It never had.

Farah began taking jobs from anyone with coin and enemies. Sabbat, Anarch, Camarilla, it didn’t matter. Tomoe followed. Watched. Killed. She was never angry. Never gleeful. She did what was needed.

Now, Tomoe remains where her roots still rot beneath the neon—Japan. She avoids the inner sanctums of the Jyhad, skirts Elysiums and power games, and instead moves in the spaces others overlook: the forgotten docks of Yokohama, the shadowy backstreets of Sapporo, the quiet temples where only ghosts remember her name. She accepts contracts from those who know how to ask—Banu Haqim elders, desperate Camarilla harpies, sometimes even hunted Anarchs with blood on their shoes and coin in their hands. But no matter who she works for, her loyalty has never wavered.

Everything she is, she owes to Farah. The assassin in white. Her sire. Her teacher. Her reason. Farah gave her structure, not just unlife. Gave her a name worth keeping and a place in a world that had none for stray girls with bruises and blank stares. Tomoe does not love easily, but her loyalty is total. Quiet. Absolute. Unshakable.

She remains close, always within reach of Farah’s voice or summons, her own will second only to that of the woman who saved her from the life that had already ended. When not on assignment, she keeps to narrow apartments and small gardens, blending into the silence like she always has. She's not interested in status, titles, or court games. She doesn't need to be seen. She is a weapon, lovingly sharpened. And if Farah ever called her to war, Tomoe wouldn’t hesitate. Not even to ask why.

Art by agnia_san_mary

[dinosaurcharcuterie]

This still works on adults, btw.

The place I worked at before this had a really nice, modern building with lovely surroundings. Pay was great, benefits were fantastic. And it turned some people into what I can only describe as arrogant shit goblins to anyone they perceived as lesser.

The lunch staff was relatively spared, as they decided via committee what was on the menu beyond drinks and chocolate bars, and also how stingy they were with your portion size.

Maintenance could shut down part of the park around the building if it got too messy, and put your non-lethal repair request all the way down to the end of the wait list, so there was some calculation involved in the disrespect they faced.

But the cleaners? Some people decided those were free game. And in ludicrous ways. Trash was thrown on the floor instead of the waste basket 5 steps away. Sorting it, as these people did at home? Not happening. Someone put up signs to not take hot drinks in carpeted areas and it only seemed to motivate people to take their coffee break there. Let's not even mention the toilets.

There was very little in way of cleaning desk-based employees could be forced to do beyond take out trash. There were protections in place describing exactly which tasks were part of your contract and which weren't. This was mainly to keep interns from being hazed and managers from shoving off responsibilities, and it seemed to backfire spectacularly.

Until someone had the bright idea that cleaners had those same protections. They had been hired to clean the office space of responsible adults with a certain expected amount of manners. Not be the live-in maid of Gordon in Sales.

Your group had a chronic un-sorter? Your room was regularly found with the floor covered in tissues? Welp, guess you weren't part of the cleaners' responsibility anymore for a month or two. Have fun figuring out where the trash goes after the bin is full, because you will be reported if you start filling up the trash of others groups so they don't have space for their own. Oh, you want your floors cleaned and the desks sanitized? Put in a request, and wait for there to be a supervisor ready to confirm there's no tripping hazards as were reported last time. Yes, every time.

Toilet stalls covered in bodily fluids? Sink area regularly pollocked with liquid soap? Yeah, those restrooms were closed for "maintenance" now. How long? Doesn't matter to you. Next wing has other ones. Enjoy your walk.

The coffee stains on carpet could and did result in the really, really, REALLY nice coffee machine nearest to the area being removed. You could get a jug of black coffee from the cafeteria, if you were willing to make the trek. No perishables allowed to be stored in offices, too much of a biohazard, so no latte or cappuccino for you. Sugar? That attracts ants, don't keep that in your cubby! Maybe go up or down a floor to someone else's break room, listen to the rumors about why "your" machine got taken away.

Same could be done with dishwashers--and the crockery that came with them--or fridges or vending machines.

By the time I got there, the on-boarding talk included a pre-emptive "there will be natural consequences if custodial staff is not respected". Failure to heed that warning was swiftly called out by coworkers, albeit a bit more grumpily by those who felt like their place of work should come with their own personal punching bag. Some types were so far gone that they ignored that, too, and then complained to their supervisors about it. They were respectfully informed which comforts were stipulated in their contract, and which ones could only be provided in a work environment that allowed all staff to work according to theirs.

Most people adapted without issue.

So how do I know this wasn't all hugely exaggerated rumor?

One section of the building was kept for external contractors and inspectors. You'd be banished redirected there if your space was temporarily unavailable, or for some seminars. In the six years I worked there, there were maybe two of them were the trash was collected, maybe three months where the toilets were accessible and I think less than six weeks where the break area was more than a sink and some empty cupboards.

im always thinking about that post where someones grandma said “some people have never cleaned a bathroom and it shows” bc it does show

[hamilton-waterdamage]

Mold Remediation Services: Protecting Your Home and Your Health

Mold is more than just an unsightly problem — it can damage your property, compromise your indoor air quality, and pose serious health risks for you and your family. When mold begins to grow, especially after water damage or persistent humidity, it can spread quickly and silently behind walls, under floors, and in attics or crawlspaces. That’s where professional mold remediation services come in. These services go far beyond simple cleaning, offering a comprehensive approach to safely remove mold, repair damage, and prevent it from coming back.

In this in-depth guide, we’ll explore what mold remediation really means, how the process works, why it’s crucial to act quickly, and how to choose the right professionals to protect your home and your health.

What is Mold Remediation?

Many people use the term “mold removal” casually, but in the industry, the correct term is mold remediation. Mold remediation is a detailed, systematic process designed to identify, contain, remove, and prevent the return of mold in a structure. Simply wiping mold off a wall with a bleach solution might hide the surface problem temporarily, but it will not address the source or stop mold from returning.

Professional mold remediation services include:

Inspection & assessment – Locating hidden mold and identifying sources of moisture

Containment – Using barriers and negative air pressure to prevent mold spores from spreading

Filtration – Cleaning the air with HEPA filtration systems

Removal – Safely eliminating mold-infested materials when necessary

Cleaning & sanitizing – Using specialized antimicrobials to treat surfaces

Restoration – Rebuilding or repairing areas damaged by mold

This comprehensive approach ensures mold is addressed at its root cause, protecting the property and the people who live or work there.

Why is Mold Remediation So Important?

Mold is not just an aesthetic problem. Mold growth can have severe consequences, including:

✅ Health risks – Mold can trigger allergic reactions, asthma, chronic sinus infections, and other respiratory illnesses, particularly in children, seniors, and those with compromised immune systems.

✅ Structural damage – Mold can break down wood framing, drywall, carpet, and insulation, weakening your home’s structure and lowering its value.

✅ Unpleasant odors – Mold gives off a musty, earthy smell that is hard to eliminate without professional intervention.

✅ Property value – If mold growth is left unchecked, it can impact a home’s resale value and even make it difficult to sell.

By working with a professional mold remediation service, you can protect both your family’s health and the long-term value of your property.

How Does Professional Mold Remediation Work?

Let’s break down the step-by-step process of mold remediation so you know what to expect.

1. Inspection & Assessment Certified mold remediation technicians start with a detailed inspection. They look for visible mold and use moisture meters, infrared cameras, or air sampling to detect hidden mold growth. Identifying the moisture source is critical to stop the cycle.

2. Containment Once the problem areas are identified, the team sets up containment barriers — usually plastic sheeting with negative air machines — to isolate the affected space. This step prevents mold spores from spreading to other areas during cleanup.

3. Air Filtration Air scrubbers with HEPA filters capture airborne mold spores while technicians work, dramatically improving indoor air quality.

4. Mold Removal Remediation specialists remove any materials that cannot be saved, such as soaked drywall or damaged insulation. Other surfaces are cleaned and treated with antimicrobial agents to kill mold and prevent regrowth.

5. Drying & Dehumidification After removing mold, the team will dry the area thoroughly. Moisture is mold’s best friend, so eliminating it is key to a successful remediation. Industrial fans and dehumidifiers help return the space to a safe humidity level.

6. Restoration Finally, any removed materials — like drywall, baseboards, or flooring — are repaired or replaced so your home looks and feels as good as new.

Why You Shouldn’t DIY Mold Remediation

It can be tempting to try to clean up mold yourself with bleach or household cleaners. However, do-it-yourself mold removal often makes the problem worse. Disturbing mold growth without proper containment can spread millions of spores into the air, contaminating the rest of your home.

Additionally, home remedies rarely address the source of the problem — excess moisture — and mold is almost guaranteed to return. Professional mold remediation technicians have the training, equipment, and safety protocols to completely and safely resolve the issue.

Signs You Need Mold Remediation Services

Not sure if you need a professional? Look for these warning signs:

Visible mold growth on walls, ceilings, or floors

Persistent musty or earthy odors

Water stains or past water damage

Allergy-like symptoms that get worse indoors

Warped or buckling walls and floors

Peeling paint or wallpaper

If you notice any of these red flags, don’t wait — mold problems only grow worse over time.

Choosing the Right Mold Remediation Service

Hiring the right team is essential for a safe and effective outcome. Here’s what to look for:

✅ Certification & licensing – Confirm the company is certified by organizations like the IICRC (Institute of Inspection Cleaning and Restoration Certification).

✅ Experience – Ask about their track record with mold remediation projects similar to yours.

✅ Clear process & communication – A good remediation team will explain every step and answer your questions.

✅ Modern equipment – Look for companies that use advanced air filtration, moisture meters, and protective gear.

✅ Positive reviews – Check references and online reviews to ensure the company has a reputation for quality and professionalism.

By choosing a qualified, reputable mold remediation company, you protect your home, your family, and your investment.

How to Prevent Mold After Remediation

Once your mold remediation is complete, you can take these proactive steps to keep mold from coming back:

✅ Fix plumbing leaks immediately ✅ Keep indoor humidity below 50% with dehumidifiers ✅ Ensure bathrooms, kitchens, and laundry rooms are properly ventilated ✅ Regularly inspect areas prone to moisture ✅ Use mold-resistant paints in damp-prone spaces

These habits, combined with an annual home inspection, can go a long way toward keeping mold from returning.

Final Thoughts

Mold problems can feel overwhelming, but you don’t have to handle them alone. Professional mold remediation services deliver peace of mind by addressing the root of the issue, safely removing contaminated materials, and restoring your property to a clean, healthy state.

If you see, smell, or suspect mold growth in your home, don’t wait for the problem to spread. Contact a certified mold remediation professional right away to protect your family’s health and the integrity of your home. With the right experts on your side, you can breathe easier — literally — and feel confident that your home is a safe place to live once again.

[rootsmulticlean]

BATTERY-POWERED MINI SCRUBBER: A GAME-CHANGER FOR EFFICIENT CLEANING

In the modern, fast-paced world, cleanliness in small spaces is not always easy. Conventional cleaning techniques are not efficient and convenient, which is why advanced cleaning tools are a must. A battery-powered mini scrubber is an innovative tool that integrates portability, power, and performance to provide better cleaning outcomes.

What Makes Mini Floor Scrubbers Ideal for Compact Spaces?

A mini floor scrubber is designed to clean smaller spaces and areas difficult to reach with larger machines; it is built for use in places such as homes, offices, retail stores, hospitals, and restaurants where cleanliness is vital. Because the machines are compact, they are easy to maneuver, making them an excellent choice for spot cleaning. Mini floor scrubbers utilise rotating brushes and water dispensing systems, which easily scrub the dirt, unlike conventional mops. This machine allows scrubbing without as much manual labour and time to properly disinfect and clean an area.

Why Choose a Mini Floor Scrubber?

A battery-powered floor scrubber is a hassle-free way to scrub floors with no power cords. It allows for free movement and convenience. With extended battery life, the scrubber can clean continuously without interruption.

Advantages of a compact floor scrubber include: Cordless operation: Easy to maneuver and handle, efficient operation. Environment-friendly cleaning: Consumes little water and detergent and maximises cleaning efficiency. Time-saving performance: It cleans surfaces quicker than conventional methods.

i-scrub 21B: The Ultimate Mini Floor Scrubber

The i-scrub 21B is a small battery-powered floor scrubber. Here’s how it’s revolutionary:

Dual Brush Head with 360° Rotation: The i-scrub 21B has a special dual-brush head that rotates 360 degrees, deeply cleaning various surfaces.

Cordless Operation: Being a battery-operated floor scrubber, it provides total mobility without the inconvenience of cords.

Ergonomic and Adjustable Handle: The adjustable feature makes it simple to manoeuvre, minimising strain on the user.

Lightweight & Portable: Built for convenient transportation and storage, ideal for frequent use in various settings.

Conclusion

Choosing a battery-powered mini scrubber, such as the i-scrub 21B, is a smart choice. This innovative mini floor scrubber can handle the most demanding cleaning needs in tight spaces with exceptional performance, ease of use, and excellent value. With dual brush rotation, ergonomic operation, and multi-surface cleaning, the i-scrub 21B sets the standard for floor-cleaning equipment. This cleaning device is perfect for anyone seeking high-performing, easy-to-use cleaning equipment.

Other Products:

Industrial vacuum cleaner

High pressure jet machine

Commercial vacuum cleaner

Carpet Cleaning Machines

Scrubber drier

[swiftcarpetcleaners]

The Real Cost and Challenges of Cleaning Modern Rugs: What Adelaide Homeowners Need to Know

Modern rugs have become a central feature in many Adelaide homes, offering warmth, texture, and style to every room. From Scandinavian-inspired flatweaves to plush, hand-tufted wool rugs, the market is flooded with trendy and affordable options. But as stylish as they are, modern rugs come with their own set of cleaning challenges—and often, hidden costs. 

Understanding the unique care requirements for these rugs is essential. That’s why working with experienced rug cleaners Adelaide or opting for a professional rug laundry Adelaide service can save you from costly damage and disappointment. 

Why Modern Rugs Are Tricky to Clean 

Today’s rugs aren’t all made equal. Many are crafted with synthetic blends, viscose, Cotton or delicate natural fibres like wool or silk—all of which react differently to moisture, heat, and cleaning solutions. 

Here are just a few of the challenges homeowners face: 

• Delicate Fibres: Viscose and bamboo silk rugs are highly absorbent and prone to water stains, colour bleeding, and fibre distortion if not cleaned correctly. 

• Latex Backings: Common in machine tufted rugs, latex deteriorates quickly if exposed to high heat or excess moisture. 

• Layered Construction: Some trendy rugs use layered materials (like a jute base with a synthetic top), making spot cleaning nearly impossible without affecting the structure. 

• Pet Stains and Spills: These can sink into the rug foundation, requiring a deep wash—not just surface cleaning. 

Attempting to DIY clean or a cheap in home carpet cleaner for your modern rugs often results in shrinkage, warping, or permanent discolouration. That’s where professional rug laundry Adelaide services step in. 

The True Cost of Rug Cleaning in Adelaide 

While it might be tempting to go for a quick vacuum or spot clean, investing in proper rug care pays off in the long run. Professional rug cleaners Adelaide evaluate your rug’s fibre, construction, and condition before selecting a cleaning method that avoids damage. 

Here’s a rough breakdown of what to expect cost-wise: 

Rug Type Approx. Cleaning Cost (per m²) 

Synthetic Rugs $40–$45 

Wool or Natural Fibre Rugs $50–$55 

Viscose/Bamboo Silk Rugs $60–$70 

Antique/Handmade Rugs Custom quote 

Factors like size, soiling level, and stain treatment needs may increase the final cost, but this is far less than the price of replacing a damaged designer rug. 

Why Choose Swift Carpet Cleaners? 

At Swift Carpet Cleaners, our team of professional rug cleaners Adelaide understands the unique cleaning requirements of modern rugs. Our rug laundry Adelaide facility is equipped to clean delicate fibres using gentle, effective techniques and eco-friendly products. 

We offer: 

• Fibre-specific cleaning treatments 

• Safe stain and odour removal 

• Custom FLAT Drying processes that preserve shape and colour 

• Pickup and delivery options for convenience 

Protect Your Investment with Proper Rug Care 

Modern rugs are more than just floor coverings—they’re an investment in your home’s style. Keep them looking and performing their best by choosing professional rug cleaners Adelaide who know exactly how to handle them. 

Contact Swift Carpet Cleaners today to book a rug laundry Adelaide service that’s tailored to your rug’s material, construction, and lifestyle needs. 

[skysolshehara]

Reclaim Your Deposit: The Ultimate Guide to Cheap End of Tenancy Cleaning in London

Moving out of a rented property can be a stressful time, with countless tasks on your to-do list. One of the most critical, yet often overlooked, elements is the end of tenancy clean. A pristine property is crucial for getting your full security deposit back, but professional cleaning services can often come with a hefty price tag, especially in a city like London.

Fear not, budget-conscious tenants! This in-depth guide will reveal how to secure high-quality yet cheap end of tenancy cleaning in London, ensuring your landlord is impressed and your deposit is returned, without breaking the bank.

The Importance of a Professional End of Tenancy Clean

Before diving into affordability, let's understand why this clean is so vital. Your tenancy agreement likely stipulates that you must return the property in the same condition as when you moved in, minus fair wear and tear. This often translates to a deep, professional clean that goes beyond your usual weekly tidy-up.

Deposit Protection: Landlords have the right to deduct from your deposit for cleaning if the property isn't up to standard. A professional clean significantly reduces this risk.

Peace of Mind: Knowing your property is professionally cleaned allows you to focus on your new home and other moving logistics.

Time-Saving: End of tenancy cleaning is incredibly thorough and time-consuming. Hiring professionals frees up your valuable time.

Expertise and Equipment: Professional cleaners have the right tools, eco-friendly products, and expertise to tackle even the toughest grime, often achieving results a DIY clean simply can't.

Decoding "Cheap": Value vs. Low Price

When searching for "cheap end of tenancy cleaning London," it's essential to differentiate between genuinely affordable, high-value services and those that cut corners, potentially costing you more in the long run (i.e., a lost deposit). True value comes from a service that:

Delivers a comprehensive clean according* to industry standards and landlord expectations.

Offers a deposit-back guarantee or a free re-clean policy.

Has positive customer reviews and a strong reputation.

Provides transparent pricing with no hidden fees.

How to Find Affordable End of Tenancy Cleaning in London

Securing a budget-friendly yet effective clean requires a strategic approach.

1. Start Early and Get Multiple Quotes

Don't wait until the last minute! As soon as you know your move-out date, begin researching and contacting cleaning companies. This allows you to:

Compare Prices: Obtain at least 3-5 quotes from different providers.

Negotiate (Sometimes): With ample time, some companies might be more flexible with pricing or offer discounts.

Avoid Premium Last-Minute Fees: Urgent bookings often incur higher costs.

2. Understand What's Included in the Service

A "cheap" quote might be cheap because it's missing crucial elements. Always request a detailed checklist of what the end of tenancy clean covers. A standard comprehensive clean should include:

Kitchen: Ovens (internal/external), hobs, extractor fans, microwaves, fridges/freezers (defrosted), dishwashers, washing machines, cupboards (internal/external), countertops, sinks, tiles, floor.

Bathrooms: Toilets, sinks, showers, bathtubs, tiles, mirrors, taps, descaling, floor.

Bedrooms/Living Areas/Hallways: Dusting all surfaces, skirting boards, light fittings, switches, radiators, vacuuming carpets, mopping hard floors, internal window cleaning, wiping down doors and frames, removing cobwebs.

Specifics to Ask About: Carpet cleaning (often an extra), upholstery cleaning, external window cleaning, balcony cleaning.

Many reputable companies offer a "deposit back guarantee" or a free re-clean within a certain timeframe (e.g., 48-72 hours) if your landlord or letting agent is not satisfied. This is a strong indicator of a trustworthy provider.

3. Read Reviews and Testimonials

Online reviews are your best friend. Look for companies with consistently high ratings and positive comments specifically mentioning "end of tenancy" and "value for money" or "affordable." Pay attention to comments about:

The thoroughness of the clean.

Punctuality and professionalism of the staff.

Ease of booking and communication.

Whether clients successfully received their deposits back.

Platforms like Trustpilot, Google Reviews, and even local community groups can provide valuable insights.

4. Consider Off-Peak Times (If Applicable)

Some cleaning companies may offer slightly reduced rates for bookings during less busy periods, such as weekdays or non-peak moving seasons. It's always worth asking if they have any current promotions or flexible pricing based on demand.

5. Be Prepared

While professional cleaners handle the deep clean, you can contribute to efficiency and potentially reduce costs:

Declutter: Remove all personal belongings, rubbish, and furniture (unless explicitly agreed upon for removal).

Defrost Freezers: This saves the cleaners significant time and ensures a thorough clean.

Provide Access: Ensure easy access to the property at the agreed time.

Point Out Specific Areas: If there are particular stains or problem areas you're concerned about, point them out to the cleaning team upon their arrival.

Average Costs for End of Tenancy Cleaning in London

While prices vary based on property size, condition, and company, here's a general idea of what you might expect for cheap end of tenancy cleaning in London:

Studio Flat: £100 - £180

1-Bedroom Property: £150 - £250

2-Bedroom Property: £200 - £350

3-Bedroom Property: £280 - £450+

Note: These are estimates. Prices can increase for properties with more bathrooms, specific add-on services (like extensive carpet cleaning or external windows), or properties in extremely poor condition.

Beyond the Price Tag: What to Look For in a Reliable Service

Insurance: Ensure the company is fully insured to cover any accidental damage during the cleaning process.

Experienced Staff: Look for companies that employ trained and experienced cleaners.

Clear Communication: A professional company will be responsive to your inquiries and provide clear, upfront information.

Flexible Scheduling: Reputable services understand the demands of moving and offer flexible booking options.

Conclusion: Your Deposit is Within Reach

Securing cheap end of tenancy cleaning in London doesn't mean compromising on quality. By being proactive, thoroughly vetting companies, understanding service inclusions, and being prepared, you can find an affordable solution that meets your landlord's expectations and ensures the return of your full security deposit. Invest a little time in research, and you'll save yourself significant stress and money in the long run.