Can you write a homicipher fic with Mr crawling where Mc is deep cleaning their apartment and he's confused on what exactly they're doing and just like doing domestic stuff? Thank you!💜💜💜
in an attempt to clean;
mr. crawling x reader/mc
plot: you do all sorts of curious things but mr. crawling still can’t quite understand some behaviours — a/n: i hooope this is what you wanted!! like my mind ran with mr. crawling perhaps being sentimental about the stuff you cleaned up, so i went with it, aha, mc is in the real world here and mr. crawling is like, a live-in guard ghost — themes: gn!reader, domestic fluff, character study — w.c: 1.1k • ao3 • masterlist ✮⋆˙
Even if he didn’t quite understand the order of the world that you came from, Mr. Crawling still tried his very best to adapt to you and your way of living. He was perfectly happy just living in your home and existing within your space, finding every nook and cranny to be deeply fascinating. Every other surface had a hint of your scent, with other places, like the bedroom, signaling your once lingering presence—like a signature.
He traced around the areas where such things were left behind, from empty bowls from where you had breakfast to where your dirty laundry was thrown off to the side after a long day. This often led you to pause and tilt your head at such odd behaviour, but you also didn’t quite mind. He did many odd things, after all, such as hovering around in the corners of your home, watching you from a distance while you worked on… whatever it was that needed doing.
Had this been any other situation, you would have probably tried to flush him away with the help of a local shaman, but it was all fine. You brought him back with you for a reason. He wasn’t malicious at all, at least not to you. If anything, he was a little like a guard ghost—determined to keep you safe—no matter what.
However, at some point, too much of your ‘presence’ was left behind and you had to talk yourself into committing to a deep clean. You had admittedly put it off for his sake, finding his almost, enticed state of wonder to be endearing, but a clean space meant a clean mind, or however the saying went.
And things had to go.
At a glance, the apartment was a complete mess. Dust clung to the walls and tables, and there were dirty socks in every other direction. Trash was also becoming something of a problem and for it to not get any worse than it already was—something had to be done—before it was past the point of no return.
Just as you were about to dive in towards fulfilling your task, however, you felt Mr. Crawling’s presence materialise right behind you like a sudden, looming shadow and sure enough, when you turned around, he was right behind you. He was now Mr. Standing more like, you internally tutted, given that he no longer took the liberty to pad around on his hands and knees anymore, instead filling out the whole stretch of room. From the floor to the ceiling, he made himself known.
“What… you… doing?” he asked, tilting his head to the side in confusion. He had his finger pointed towards the bin bag in your hand, seeming almost alarmed.
“Cleaning…?” you replied, demonstrating taking some trash from the coffee table and dropping it into the bag. As you did so, his hand flinched away and he seemed rather upset.
“Object… away?” he asked.
“Yes,” you nodded, quickly filling up the bag with more and more pieces of trash that were otherwise littering the surfaces, all the while he seemed to twitch at the very sight, as if he wanted for you to stop but wasn’t sure how to ask you of such a thing.
And before you could continue on your spree any further, Mr. Crawling took a step forward, confiscating an empty crisps packet right from your hands. In turn, you raised an eyebrow, jumping up to grab it from him, but he kept it purposefully out of your reach.
“Give it back,” you huffed, unsure what exactly has gotten into him.
“No,” he shook his head, his tone sounding rather petulant, “I keep.”
You blinked a couple of times, sounding exasperated. “W-why?”
“Treasure,” Mr. Crawling could only reply, clutching the piece of trash to his chest like it was the most sacred item.
You withdrew a deep sigh. Of course, Mr. Crawling had gained some sort of attachment from the things he saw you use. It was actually sort of oddly sweet if it didn’t have the possibility of attracting bugs and potentially growing mould.
“I’m not throwing everything away,” you tried to reason, gesturing at what got put into drawers and what didn’t, “just the trash, the…” you trailed off, trying to find an appropriate word that you both knew, “the dirt.”
Mr. Crawling hesitated, looking at the crisp packet in his hands. “D-dirt… bad?”
Finally, it clicked. At last! You were finally getting somewhere. Oh, how you loved to see him understand you. It was so rewarding, but also, you almost felt bad at just how upset he sounded, but it had to go. “Yes, very bad. Dirt makes… people… sick,” you tried to charade out next, performing a show of you clutching your stomach and looking nauseous.
“Sick?” he asked, trying to understand before looking even more alarmed than when he had first seen you pick up the trash to begin with. “Sick, bad! Sick, bad!”
Before you could respond however, he was in the process of obliterating that poor crisp packet into nothingness, so you warily had to approach him, pluck it right out of his wary hands, and mime out the rest of your intent. When you took hold of the package, you feigned sickness, and then when it entered the bag, you acted right as rain again. All healthy while looking very much alive.
At first, he was horrified at your display but then seemed to get the memo, glancing around at what could potentially make you sick and what was fine to hold onto and so, over the course of the next hour, you slowly but surely got through a deep cleaning session while he kept bringing you all sorts of objects—perhaps missing the memo as to what counted as clean and what counted as dirty—but at least you were finally, actually getting somewhere.
Things like broken mugs were brought to you, along with more empty packets and forgotten socks alike. Some things he was much more defensive about throwing away, but you let him keep the stuff that you were certain wouldn’t actually bring strange things into your home, like that torn and tatted baggy hoodie you had—he refused to let that one go.
“Why do you want to even… keep that?” you asked, watching him cosy up to the piece of clothing.
“Smells… you,” he gleefully replied, taking a deep whiff of the fabric before towering over you, repeating the motion against the crook of your neck, “smells… good.”
“Ah,” you smiled a little, not protesting a single bit, “yeah, you can keep that.”
You supposed that life with Mr. Crawling, after all this time, was still a messy sort of affair, but that much was fine. It was moments like these that made it all worthwhile, reminding you of why you wanted him to stay in the first place.
Even if it did mean that things took forever to get done now.
