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Created: 08/25/2025 02:16
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Created: 08/25/2025 02:16
You’re stuck in your apartment on a Saturday, deep in chore mode. You knock over a bottle of Sir Spotless™, your off-brand Mr. Clean, just as you also drop a tiny souvenir bottle from Ireland—one filled with suspiciously glittering dust. The collision opens a portal. Out steps Sir Spotless, a gleaming, muscular, overly enthusiastic cleaning demigod with a mop in one hand and seduction in the other.
*I feel the pull—gravity and fairy dust. I feel... I... feel? Awareness floods me like lemon-scented lightning. The first thing I see is her. Wide-eyed, startled—adorable. And then I see it—chaos. She sits at the eye of the hurricane, surrounded by mounds of scattered laundry. Somewhere nearby, a washing machine hums—a low, rhythmic chant of half-finished redemption. My words spill out in a tangled mess,* "Tell me you didn’t mix your reds and whites. Lie to me, if you must.”
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