#Lawn Mowing & Edging

[plantanarchy]

this year i got a bad cold the second worst (week 10, our biggest planting week) and worst weeks (mother's day week) of greenhouse spring rip i'm suffering so bad

[fruitless-vain]

I finally have a phone with enough storage space to have music on it again 😭

I was still using my old iPod until it hit the day that it wouldn’t charge anymore, it just died one day and wouldn’t recharge ever again. I could get it to black screen with the Apple but there was never enough juice to turn on all the way

My last phone that I just replaced didn’t have the space for music on it, I didn’t have any games on it, I kept at max 10 pictures at a time and had to export anything I wanted to keep to the computer or else I’d start getting “storage full” messages all the time. Didn’t matter how many times I factory reset it, cleared caches, or uninstalled apps. Every app I needed (gas points card, two social media apps, the bare bones basics) had to be offloaded when not in use otherwise there would not be enough memory to open Instagram. It’d just freeze. Every insta video played in slow motion out of sync with the audio.

I haven’t had music on the go in 5 years at LEAST

I’m so excited 😭

[harri-etvane]

Had a good hour in the garden. I'd forgotten how good it is for my brain to do something useful with my hands 🥰

[scrumpyfan43]

Finally ordered my scythe!

[imsopopfly]

I love my lawn so much

There’s so many different little plants in it

Look at the delicate patterns of these leaves

Fuck people who hate weeds, they’re all such nice little plants and I’d plant them there myself if they didn’t grow on their own. And I’m pretty sure my grass is happy with it too considering everyone else’s lawn gets brown bits and dies a little when the weather isn’t just right and mine stays nice and green

There’s so much life here why do people try to kill it? I have wildflowers! I don’t see any of those single-species lawns sprouting wildflowers!

[green1gardeninng]

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[forudunedinlawnnz]

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[lnsmaintenance]

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[suguann]

Ex-husband!Gojo who doesn’t understand that the parents (mostly the moms who try to hide behind their giant sunglasses) at Mio’s soccer games talk, and he chooses today to pull you into his lap. Several sideways glances cast your way at how cozy you both must look as you watch your four-year-old daughter run in the wrong direction across the field because she got distracted by a butterfly.

He doesn’t hear what they talk about—aren’t they divorced? I’ve never seen anyone divorced act like that—or (worse) when they try to be subtle about their probing into Satoru’s dating life while you stand there with a stilted smile plastered onto your face. 

(More than likely, he’s listened to every word and doesn’t give it the same amount of thought or care as you do.)

“Gojo,” you hiss, trying to move off his lap to no avail. “I have my own chair.”

“Can you still call me that if it’s your name too?”

A huff. “Go bother somebody else—”

“Shh,” he tells you, tugging you further against his chest. “You’re missing the game. Mio’s finally found her way back onto the field again.”

“But everyone’s staring at us.” You catch the eye of a mother tearing into a pack of fruit snacks.

“So? Let them stare.”

Everyone starts cheering, and you both watch Mio chase the ball down the field, her little body ducking between the taller kids. 

“That’s my girl!” Gojo shouts over the other parents.    

And then Mio kicks the ball into— 

The wrong goal.

“Maybe we should have let her join t-ball,” you whisper, though you both clap as your daughter starts doing not-quite cartwheels in the middle of the field.

Ex-husband!Gojo who still does work around the house every Friday, and to your dismay, shirtless now that the weather is warmer.

The plate in your hands has a few scuffs, half of a cartoon character’s face scrubbed off to oblivion that Mio will have something to say about later. Doing everything to stop from staring out into the yard where he’s mowing the lawn because the window is right there, above the sink, to tempt you.

It’s difficult when his chest glistens with sweat from the early-summer heat and how those stupid gray cotton shorts (that you know he picked out with the sole purpose of torturing you) sit dangerously low on his hips— 

He looks towards the kitchen window, a crooked smile stretching across his lips. The blood rushing to your brain, that must be what makes you give a sudsy wave and cause heat to creep into your middle.

Ex-husband!Gojo who strolls into your room while you’re putting away laundry one afternoon, and unsurprisingly shirtless as he crowds you against the dresser. Front to back. His mouth at your ear.

That steady resolve you pride yourself in crumbles at your feet, and you swallow the tiny, helpless sound working its way up your throat. A slippery thing that slips out. “Satoru…”

“You know, these little shorts were always my favorite,” he tells you, his fingers playing with the elastic waistband.

“Were they?”

“Don’t you remember? Couldn’t get them out of the way fast enough.”

Your mouth is dry, something playing in a loop in the back of your brain. Early morning, breakfast cooling on the stove, crumbs stuck to your cheek, these shorts dangling off the leg propped up on the counter—

“Where’s Mio?”

A kiss to your nape, a knowing smile. “Taking a nap.”

Ex-husband!Gojo who works your shorts and underwear off your legs before pulling you to the edge of the bed. 

“Satoru, we—we can’t keep doing this—”

Your words trail off into a moan when he slaps your clit with the leaky tip of his cock, and wet sounds echo in the room.

“Yeah? Go on, baby,” he tells you, slowly splitting you open, stuffing you full, two puzzle pieces slotting perfectly into place like it should be (how it’s always been). “Tell me some more why we can’t keep doing this.” 

You can’t, not with how he’s filling you up in the way only he knows how. Not when he hooks two thick fingers into your mouth because you’re getting too loud, pinning you against the bed with your cheek buried into your pillow, every sound choking into nothing.

You wriggle underneath him, fingers clawing at the comforter and your back arching.

“Christ, look at you,” he growls, leaning over you, teeth bared. “Fucking look at you. You needed this, didn’t you?”

Ex-husband!Gojo who presses what leaks out back inside you with his thumb after he pulls out, wet and sticky circles between your legs until you fall apart again with a soft cry. His thumb is there again, at your entrance, pushing and stopping like a plug, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “Can’t waste it.” 

And quieter, “Maybe it’ll take.”

(Who knows?

Maybe it will. Worse things have happened.)

Ex-husband!Gojo who stays for dinner for the fourth time that week, and none of the reasons have been because Mio asked if he could. It’s more about the fact that you’ve enjoyed how whole your family feels again, that you can pretend for a moment this is what you do every night.

(How it was probably always going to come back to this.) 

That your wedding ring doesn’t sit in the back of your sock drawer, and his isn’t tucked away in his wallet. That you don’t feel guilty when you think about saying I love you or wishing he’d stay longer—

“Daddy, you gonna lose,” Mio tells Satoru as Mario Kart appears on the screen.

“We’ll see,” he laughs, tugging on one of her pigtails until she’s giggling and swatting his hand away.

You lean back against the couch, watching them with a small smile you share with Satoru over your daughter’s head.

[readwritealldayallnight]

You haven’t noticed him yet.

Lost in the words printed on the pages, you haven’t glanced up from your book since Simon stepped out of the shower, peeking at your figure through the window panes.

You’re out on the small, cramped balcony of your shared London flat, curled into yourself to squeeze all your limbs as comfortably as you can onto the wicker chair.

The half empty cup of tea sitting on the small side table next to you is no longer as warm as it was when you first brought it out. Without a second thought, Simon goes to warm up the kettle again, not wanting you to get cold.

He frowns as your fingers quickly catch the edge of your book before the wind can flip your current page away, your hair being blown away from your face. He spots the tiny shiver that goes through you and decides he’ll bring out a throw blanket for you as well. Maybe one of his hoodies.

You’d teased him about something like this the other day, after he’d finished tucking your chair in at a local cafe. Saying that his love language was sooo obviously acts of service.

He’d playfully rolled his eyes, joking about how yours must be to never stop talking, chuckling at the half hearted kick he received underneath the table, before you explained that that wasn’t what love languages are.

Simon wasn’t so sure about that whole idea. All he knew was that he liked taking care of you, just as you took care of him. Simple as that.

He knows he always feels lighter after you send him a thankful smile any time he carries your bag for you or opens your door.

He knows you can’t stop smiling for at least a minute any time you swipe an eyelash off his cheek, carefully holding it in front of his lips so he can blow it away and ‘make a wish’.

He knows his chest always swells with pride any time you compliment his cooking, whether he attempted a dish on his own or simply added a seasoning to something you were already making.

He knows all the tension disappears from your shoulders when you’re sat in his lap, gently wiping away his black face paint from around his eyes, taking extra care around his delicate skin, humming a soft little melody for the both of you to hear.

He knows there isn’t anything in this entire god forsaken earth that makes him happier, than making you happy.

That’s why he’s been secretly looking into a new place for the two of you. This tiny shoebox of a flat had been fine when it was just him crashing here a handful of times a year between missions. When you got together and began spending more time sleeping here than at your own place, it only made sense to move in once your lease was up.

But now your books are piled in stacks along the baseboards, the closet can barely contain your clothes mixed in together, and the sight of you sitting out on that cramped balcony just doesn’t sit right with him.

He wants to give you a proper place, a home. He wants to be able to give you an actual yard with room to sprawl out and grow a garden if you want, or just lay out a picnic blanket and read until the sun sets.

He wants to hear you nag him about mowing the lawn, or raking the leaves, or shovelling the driveway. He wants to run out into a sudden summer storm with you to quickly pull off the laundry that had been drying on the clothes line, laughing the entire time.

As though sensing his gaze on you, you slowly lift your head, a chuckle slipping past his lips as your eyes immediately light up with excitement, a sweet smile gracing your lips as you send him a wave.

He lifts his hand, waggling his fingers back at you, the same corny grin on his face, knowing that there isn’t a thing in the world he wouldn’t do for you.

[foxmowigact]

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[sweetimpurity]

Older neighbor Miguel accidentally seeing you half naked. He’s almost as old as your Dad, living next door to your family for the past few years. You always thought he was hot. Watching him from your bedroom window whenever you were back from college. When he was fixing up his car, mowing the lawn, repairing the front porch steps, bringing his little daughter home for the weekend. Hearing him sigh and huff while working on the house, watching the sweat on his neck glisten in the sunlight, catching a glimpse of his toned skinny waist when he lifts up his shirt to dab the perspiration on his face. Oh. That really got you going.

Light pink with lace around the edges, summery, pretty, dainty. Walking around the house in the matching panty set because there’s no one else home. And then you see him. Through the living room, the bay window, your neighbor Miguel, eyes wide at the sight before him. He tries not to look, but it just happened. He wasn’t even looking, just fixing some fence posts where your two yards meet. But he sees everything, your thick thighs, soft, plushy tummy, breasts bouncing in the lacy material. He saw it all before he could manage to look away, before you could duck and cover. Literally just hitting the deck, on your knees to get out of the view of the window. And crawling across the floor to the kitchen. “Fuck fuck fuck-” You hiss, all panic and embarrassment.

It’s only that night his thick fingers pull back the lace material, pulling it to the side in a strong grip and pounding his thickness inside you. Dicking you all the way down on your pale pink comforter, practically ripping your pink panties to shreds. You look back at him, seeing that sweat glisten on his hairy chest, like the sun is a direct spotlight on the righteous sight of him. Naked, hot and sweaty on your bed, pumping into you like there’s no tomorrow. Grabbing your bouncy bum in his big hands and squeezing as he throbs inside you, and you just know you’re on your way up to sweet release.

He leans down by your ear, his chest pressing down on your back, your big glossy eyes meeting his as you crane your neck to look back at him. Hearing those sounds you’ve heard him make before in the yard. Grunts and sighs. All the pieces of him you’ve collected stitched together and fucking you raw. His breath fans your ear, a heavy hand pressing down on your lower back, arching your back into his powerful thrusts. Right when you think you’ll come, his deep voice finally hums in a hushing whisper…

“You need to wake up now…”

Part 2

[ace-turned-confused]

planted in your garden | joel miller x f!reader

joel masterlist | read on ao3

summary: joel has always shown his love for you through flowers, and now it's your turn to do the same word count: 1k warnings: 18+ only, reader has tattoos & is shorter than joel, joel being soft & lovey-dovey & just the best in general, bit of spiciness at the end a/n: written for @morallyinept's Fauna & Flora Challenge ❤️ not beta’d or any of that jazz, please enjoy :)

If there’s one thing you know about Joel Miller, it’s that he will always find a reason to buy you flowers, no need for a special occasion. It’s been a long hard week and I wanted to get you something, saw these pretty flowers and thought of my pretty girl, got them just because I love you. Whether it’s an entire bouquet or just a few wild stems tied together by a ribbon, you’re sure he’s given you more flowers than you’ve received in your entire life.

It started on your birthday — you told him you hadn’t planned anything because you didn’t want a big fuss and it wasn’t a number worth celebrating, and he insisted on bringing you dinner so you wouldn’t have to spend the evening on your own. Every number is worth celebrating, it means you’ve been around another whole year. You were floored when he showed up on your doorstep, pizza boxes in one hand and a bunch of red and pink tulips in the other.

“Saw the ink on your arm there and just assumed they were your favourite. None of the stores ever have anything fresh or pretty enough, so I just cut these from my back garden.”

Joel Miller. Cut red and pink tulips for you. From his own garden.

You’d only known each other a few weeks at that stage, and he’d been more observant in that short time than any other man you’d met. At first, you didn’t read into it too much, he’s just doing something nice for you. You told yourself it didn’t matter that this ‘something nice’ was the single nicest thing anyone ever did for you.

You ate your takeout pizzas and talked for hours that night, record player on in the background, sharing stories of years gone by and remembering the person you each used to be. A few stray tears even slipped down your cheek at one point — Joel moved to sit close next to and almost on instinct you rested your head on his shoulder. It was oddly comforting knowing just how vulnerable you could be around him. He was a kind soul, a rather rare find in today’s world, and you found it surprisingly easy to open up to him.

You asked him for a hug that night and he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against him, his chin resting on the top of your head and it was the safest you felt in years. Of course, and next time you don’t have to ask. You smiled into him, letting out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. He eventually pulled back to check on you and planted a hand on your waist; he bid you goodnight with a wink, called you sweetheart and went home, leaving you standing like an idiot, mouth hanging open in a daze and still feeling the heat that had radiated off his palm and the grip of his fingers through your shirt on your skin.

‘Sweetheart’ played in your mind over and over for hours, days, weeks after that — soon enough you acknowledged that you weren’t immune to his charms and you’ve never looked back.

The flowers aren’t only for you to enjoy — you noticed early on that Joel takes great pride in his garden. The lawn always mowed, flower beds always with manicured edges, bees and butterflies in abundance. You’ve spent many hours lounging in the sun just admiring him, your book long abandoned — temples and greying curls damp with sweat, t-shirt clinging to his arms and back, gym shorts showing him off deliciously, all while he potters around tending to his garden, refilling a bird bath, touching up the fence and spewing out endless plant facts.

He even expanded the bed of tulips, planting bulbs of different varieties and an array of colours — ones with frilly edges, ones with pointed petals, and even blooms that look almost hand-painted in their beauty. He told you he’d been planning this for months, long before he met you, but you knew that part of him was doing this for you, too.

Late one night he finally told you the red and pink of your birthday flowers represented eternal love and affection, and sheepishly admitted he only remembered that once he’d already knocked on your door. He had hoped you wouldn’t ask him the meanings that night and figured there must’ve been someone looking out for him when you simply accepted them with a dazzling smile and that twinkle in your eyes. He wonders how things might have played out differently if you had asked him that night.

Now it’s Joel’s birthday and you want to do something special for him — so here you are, lying underneath him in a matching set, simple and white and covered in daisies. Propped up by his elbows, he traces over a flower right in the centre of your bra.

“You gonna tell me anything about them?”

“Daisies supposedly represent innocence and purity…” His voice fades off as he trails his fingers featherlight across you, goosebumps rising in his wake. With a faint smile pulling at his lips, he lifts his gaze to look you in the eye. “But something tells me you already knew that.”

He leans to kiss you, tongue licking into your mouth and you feel him pressed against your core, thick and heavy. You spread your legs wider to accommodate him and he grinds his hips into you, your fingers raking through his hair and tugging ever so slightly. He pulls back and starts snaking a hand down between you, now taken by the same applique daisies on your panties.

“Not sure those words apply right now, though,” he whispers to you, knuckles grazing the fabric.

“What, ‘innocence and purity’? You don’t think that’s true about daisies?”

“I ain’t talkin’ bout the daisies, sweetheart.” He smirks at you and you simply grin at him and huff a laugh in response as he shuffles down your body to pull your panties down your legs.

comments & reblogs are hugely appreciated, forehead kisses to all 💜

dividers by @saradika-graphics

[magpiepills]

Butterfly

Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI

Pairing: Joel Miller x f reader

Word count: 1.8k

Summary: Neighbor Joel and his yoga girl neighbor have a little chat.

Warnings: SMUT! f masturbation, PIV, use of sex toys, reader can do yoga, blackmail? infidelity? Perv neighbor? Probably more. Unedited, unbeta’d, unproof-read. I type like that Kermit gif then post it.

A word from the author: idk friends. Here’s a bit more of what’s going on with pervert Joel and his yoga girl neighbor. I’m so grateful and happy that yall are enjoying this. There will be one more part!

Part 1, Part 2

Masterlist

The house had been quiet, with your husband picking up extra shifts and out of the house more, you found ways to occupy yourself. On a nice day, you decided a little yoga in the sun rather than your stuffy bedroom would be just what you needed.

You roll out your mat, open your app to follow along with a vinyasa flow, and close your eyes. You breathe deep, grounding breaths, melting into your stretches.

It felt good, made you feel relaxed and grounded and more in your body than in your head. It made you feel sexy to move your body, the ways you stretched. You promised yourself that this would be your new routine.

On the second day you felt a bit self conscious. You saw the shadowed silhouette in the upstairs window, your neighbor, a single man living alone, and apparently a fan of yoga.

You didn’t look at his window again. If it was a coincidence that he was looking out his window while you stretched and bent you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself. If he was watching you, you didn’t want to know that either. It made you feel nervous and giddy that your hot neighbor might be watching you bending over, spreading your legs, twisting yourself into suggestive poses. It didn’t stop you, though.

So what if he looked, right? You weren’t doing anything wrong, just exercising in your back yard. Nothing untoward or scandalous about that and Joel has never been anything but friendly and polite. If you got a small thrill along with your workout, all the better for everyone.

By the third day you were certain he was watching. He must have thought he was out of sight, down in the bottom corner of the window, but you spotted him, his graying curls, his dark stare that was glued to your every move. The window was empty when you walked the dog, when you got the newspaper from the porch, and when you walked to the mailbox, but as soon as you came out for yoga, there he was, like he knew your schedule and would wait for you.

You dripped into your leggings and added ten minutes to your workout. When you finished, you went inside and showered, taking the handheld shower head and directing the stream to wash over your throbbing clit, giving yourself an orgasm while you moaned his name and imagined him there with you. Your fingers couldn’t reach deep enough, didn’t stretch you the way you were certain that Joel would.

Later that night you’d tried again, pulling up porn with men like Joel; older, sturdy, deep voiced, confident. You edged yourself, pressing your vibrator against your clit, pushing just the tip into your clenching entrance the way you imagined him teasing you until you begged, then pulling away before you could reach your climax. You did it again and again, thinking of his chest and arms and the sweat that darkened his shirt when you’d see him mowing his lawn, and then crying his name into your pillow when you finally let yourself come.

It still wasn’t enough. There was no beard scratching your chest, your neck, your thighs. No hands on your hips, no lips on yours. Instead of satisfying you, it just made you needier, and that need led you to bolder and bolder deeds.

It was the dirtiest secret. Every afternoon you pretended not to see him while you positioned yourself for maximum exposure. Your ass toward his window, back arched, wiggling just so. You pushed your chest forward, nipples hard against the tight Lycra of your thin top.

You carried on, abandoning the illusion of good form to try to tease your voyeur, then went inside and imagined what he’d say when you rode him, or wondered what his shirt smelled like while you clenched around your own inadequate fingers. You considered standing outside and turning on the garden hose, putting on a little wet tshirt contest with you as the sole participant and Joel the lone audience member and judge under the very innocent and reasonable explanation that it was summer in Texas and you needed to cool off.

By day five you were masturbating before and after yoga. You were so amped up every time you spied him

In his spot you thought you might be able to come from just thinking about him. You fucked your husband before he left with your eyes shut tight so you could pretend he was your neighbor.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asked, beaming at you as he lay on the bed, having just been used as an unwitting prop in your sick fantasy. Maybe you’d feel guilty later. For now, you’d just feel cum leaking out of you while you held your knees wide open on your yoga mat and imagined it was Joel’s and that he was watching it trickle from your pussy before scooping it up with two big fingers and pushing it back inside.

If you’ve gone off the deep end you don’t care. Inside of a week you’d turned from friendly neighbor with a harmless crush to shameless trollop whose only thoughts came directly from her pussy. You'd figure out the implications and consequences later.

On day six you pulled out all the stops. You moved slowly and deliberately, making up your own routine of the most suggestive poses you knew. As you modified a butterfly stretch to lift your tits, you found Joel through your eyelashes and you would swear he had licked his lips. It broke something in you.

You feigned the heat was worse than it was, made a show of modesty, checking that you were otherwise alone, and stripped down.

The sunshine and the light breeze felt so good against your bare skin. You explored your body, running your hands over your hips and thighs and belly. You were sticky with sweat, and you felt prickly with all your pent up longing.

You skated your fingertips over your stiff nipples and down to your pulsing, needy cunt. If he was going to watch, you might as well give him something to remember. Maybe he would feel even a fraction of the fiery, desperate frustration you had felt.

You didn’t have a plan. None of this was planned. You slid your middle finger over your folds and spread your wetness over your clit and around your lips, feeling it cool slightly on your skin. You were just playing there, teasing yourself without serious intention, you decided you’d just do what felt good for a while, let Joel have a good long look, then go back in.

You knew he was there. You saw his shadowed silhouette. You hoped he liked what he saw, hoped he was touching himself, hoped he was imagining you on your knees for him. You edged yourself twice, careful not to make a sound above a heavy breath. You stroked your wet pussy, blinked your eyes as you breathed deeply, staving off your release, and let your eyes find his window, empty.

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe you’d let your pathetic, horny housewife delusions get the better of you and maybe you’ve just humiliated yourself.

Immediately you thought of your husband, your other neighbors, your friends, the rumors that would surely spread about the whore of Rancher Street. Panic and regret gripped you so hard you could scarcely breathe.

And then you heard it.

A groan, deep and stifled from the other side of the fence.

Play it cool, you tell yourself. You wrap a handy beach towel around yourself and put on a mask of curiosity and concern when you peek over the fence and find Joel slumped in the dirt. His cheeks are flushed, his cock is out, and he looks exactly like you’ve been feeling.

“Joel, what’s going on? What happened?” You ask, wide-eyed.

He stammers and hurries to cover his body, trying to minimize his embarrassment and the evidence of what he had just done.

“It’s not- it’s not what it looks like,” he says, “I’m just, uh, I’m sorry I just…”

“Just what?” you coo and drop to your knees to peek at him through the fence, “were you watching me, Joel?” You tsk, but flutter your eyelashes, watching with bubbling delight as he flounders, shaking his head, unable to come up with an explanation for why he’s on the ground next to a wide gap in the fence slats with cum on his jeans.

“I didn’t know you were a peeping Tom, Joel.”

It angers him, you calling him a peeping Tom. He stands quickly, then, turning to hastily zip back into his jeans, before stepping close to the fence and peering down at you.

“And I didn’t know you were an exhibitionist who was going to strip naked and touch herself right out in the open where anyone could see!” His voice is deep and hushed, but with a heat that excites you.

“You’re out here every day as soon as your husband leaves just begging for attention. Don’t act innocent now that you got it.”

“Only one watching was you, Joel. You had a front row seat, didn’t you?” you look up at him sweetly, putting both palms against the fence right about where his hips are on the other side.

Joel makes a low, rumbling sound and looks down, gripping the fence tightly. If he were a younger man he’d be hard again at the sight of you on your knees in front of him, fence or not.

“What about your husband? Does Marcus know you’re out here puttin’ on shows?”

You stand slowly and lift up onto your tiptoes, holding onto the fence between Joel’s wide, rough hands, leaving just inches between your faces.

“All he knows is how much hornier I’ve been this week. I had to ride him twice this morning,” you confess, looking right into your neighbor’s dark, searching eyes.

Joel nods softly, “But ya still had to come out here and act up, huh? Ain’t gettin enough?”

You hum in agreement, “you liked watching. Saw you every day.”

Joel hums back, eyes heavy lidded and dark.

“Well, what are we going to do about this?” he asks, and you take a step away from the fence, adjusting your towel.

“I don’t know, Joel. I think we have a problem. Marcus won’t be too happy if he finds out you’ve been prowling around. All I wanted to do was a little yoga in my yard. Maybe you’d better come over and figure out how to explain this.”

You don’t wait for Joel to agree or argue before turning to go back inside, dropping the towel that covered you and folding it over your arm, hips swaying tantalizing as Joel watches you disappear in your house.

[xoxo-sarah]

Visiting Home for the Holidays

↝a/n: for my people who don't celebrate Thanksgiving, you can interpret this as Steve meeting your parents for the first time. 🩷

↝pairing: Steve Harrington x reader

↝warning: Thanksgiving? Not proof read, rushed

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Steve Harrington, or any character from Stranger Things. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

↝⎙ 11.27.24

Steve Harrington masterlist | main masterlist

Steve stood at the edge of the driveway, his heart pounding in his chest. He adjusted his brown sweater for what felt like the hundredth time. You had told him it looked good on him.

He glanced nervously at the front door. The memory of his disastrous first meeting with Nancy's parents played on a loop in his mind. He could still hear the awkward silences, feel the judgmental stares, and remember the feeling of not being good enough. He remembered passing by the house and feeling ashamed when he caught the eye of Mr. Wheeler as he mowed the lawn. Truthfully, Mr. Wheeler hadn't thought of Steve since that night. That didn't change the fact that it haunted Steve. The thought of repeating that experience made his palms sweat and his stomach churn.

"Steve, it's going to be okay," you said, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "They're going to love you."

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "I just... I don't want to mess this up." Last time, it was a disaster. He didn't dare say the last sentence. This is different. It's a different time with different people. He's changed. He's not King Steve. You're not her.

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand. "You're amazing, and they're going to see that."

Steve nodded, taking comfort in your words. "Okay, let's do this." With one last deep breath, he followed you up the walkway, feeling a little more confident with each step.

Peering eyes watched through the window, in-between the curtains. Excited eyes softened and protective eyes glared, slightly wavering as you slightly smiled. You were happy.

As you knocked on the door, he glanced at you, and you gave him a reassuring smile. The door opened, and your parents greeted you both warmly. Steve felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease as he saw the welcoming expressions on their faces.

Dinner was a cozy affair, filled with laughter and stories. Steve found himself relaxing more and more as the evening went on. Your parents were kind and engaging, nothing like the cold reception he had feared. Every now and then, he'd catch your eye, and your encouraging smile would give him the boost he needed to keep going.

"Steve," your dad started, a hint of question as he said the name, not sure if that was right. He gave time for correction, but it never came so he continued, "Y/n tells us you work at a video store. How's that treating you?"

Steve started to feel that familiar anxiety creeping back. Then he felt your hand gently touch his under the table, grounding him.

He took a deep breath and began to talk, feeling more confident with each word. "It's fun; decent pay." He started, before going on about working with friends and his boss.

Your parents listened intently, nodding and smiling, genuinely interested in what he had to say.

By the end of the night, Steve was laughing and chatting comfortably with your parents, the initial nerves long forgotten. He realized that with you by his side, he could face anything.

As you said your goodbyes, your mother stopped you, bringing you into a hug. "He's a keeper," she whispered and grinned, pinching your cheek and your became embarrassed.

Your dad brought you closer to him, after shaking Steve's hand firmly. "Be careful on the roads. Holiday traffic is the worst."

Steve grabbed your hand and began walking back to the car, Steve turned to you, gratitude and affection shining in his eyes.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I couldn't have done this without you."

You smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I knew you could do it. And now you know it too."

Steve smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the chill of the night air. He knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, with you by his side, he could handle them all.

After Steve opened your door, helping you get in without hitting your head, you turned back to the house as Steve rounded the car. Your parents stood on the edge of the porch, expressions soft. They waved, smiled gracing their face. Their little girl was with someone who seemed nice. He was respectful; he helped clean up and respected you and them. He listened when you talked, eyes scanning your face. A few times, they caught him smiling as he admired you. He even fixed a piece of hair that had fallen in your face.

They were willing to welcome him back anytime, as long as he made you happy.

•2021-2024 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I don't give permission!]

[smusherina]

yard work - chapter 1 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

chapter 2

Summers spent cleaning the Georges' pool, mowing their lawn, fixing up their garage door, and giving the odd oil change to one of their cars was the norm for you. Your father had made it big as a self-made entrepreneur, climbing the ladder rung by rung all the way up from rock bottom, but he had ensured your upbringing reflected his humble roots. That meant that while you never had to go hungry like he did, your allowance was minimal. Enough for school lunch and a few dollars to spare.

Doing odd jobs around the neighbourhood had been your primary means of making money for the last couple of years. The block was pretty fancy, so not everybody wanted to hire some twerp with no experience when a professional was easily available. Even so, rich folk were surprisingly stingy. You had your own equipment, didn't ask for much and had a familiar face. The Georges were your longest-standing clients. Mowing their lawn in summer and shovelling their driveway in winter had been your job since you were thirteen.

That was probably the reason why Regina kept her distance instead of ridiculing you like everybody else. You went to the same high school, Northshore, but that was pretty much it. You hung around your own (loser) ilk and she had her (cool) troupe. She had this odd little clique with Gretchen Wieners and Karen Smith. You didn't know much about the two girls and you couldn't really tell if Regina even liked them. They hung out so they had to have something in common, right? You were but an observer at the end of the day, no matter how your neighbourly vantage point gave you a glimpse into Regina's life.

You counted her ignoring you as a blessing. It would've cut deep to fall victim to her new ways. This persona wasn't that new, you had to admit, but when you'd known her since practically diapers, high school was a pretty new development. She'd never been what people would describe as sweet or nice, but this mean girl persona was on a whole other level.

To be fair, you could very well understand why Regina was the way she was. You knew Mr George. You'd sat at the same dinner table as him, had experienced first-hand how his presence weighed on his family. Especially on Regina. Your father was the same way, all sharp edges with no time for tenderness, not even- especially not for his daughter. That'd been the reason you'd gotten so close to Regina in the first place. Most of the time it was just Regina, her mom and you at their house. Mrs George left you two by yourselves a lot 'cause she had to take care of Kylie. You loved being at the Georges' house.

(Expect, of course, those select few times Mr George was also there. But that was rare. Regina didn't invite you over when he was home.)

And now it'd been reduced to this. You, fishing leaves from the pool. Regina, inside with her new friends. Mrs George, lounging on the patio with a virgin margarita, chatting with you when you rounded the pool closer to her. Kylie, probably in the sitting room dancing along to whatever they played on MTV.

You straightened from your slouched position and groaned at the ache in your back. You leaned back with your hands braced at your sides, trying to stretch out the crick.

"Mrs George?" You hollered and waved your arms in her direction.

"Yes, dear?" She brightened up, perching up in her sun bed.

"You mind if I put my headphones on while I mow the lawn?"

"Oh, sure, of course!" She waved a hand dismissively. "Remember the glasses! And once you're done why don't you have dinner with us?"

"I'll think about it, Mrs George." You smiled with thin lips, knowing you'd be turning the offer down. With that, you plugged your headphones into the Walkman at your hip and walked to the shed.

You wore the safety glasses obediently, knowing all it took to blind you was one unlucky pebble to the eye. Your dad had been sure to lecture you about workplace safety over the years, like every time you stepped foot in the shop, so at this point putting on embarrassing safety equipment was second nature.

The Georges had a big lawn. Stingy rich people, couldn't get one of those driveable mowers. You'd be pushing this cart around till nightfall, or something...

Usher's newest album blasting in your ears and the rumbling of the lawn mower muffling all background noise, you didn't notice her at first. By the time you caught sight of Regina standing on the patio stairs, looking your way, hands on her hips and a displeased frown on her lips, you feared you were too late.

You let the engine die and tugged your headphones away from your ears. "What?" You yelled across the pool.

She rolled her eyes before answering. "Mom wants you in for dinner."

"Oh," This had never happened before. Usually, Mrs George would come round to give you your payment, ask you to stay and you'd say no. She'd smile sadly and say "Maybe next time, sweetie".

"She made casserole," Regina said, inspecting her nails. What was for dinner was definitely not the reason for your hesitation.

"Uh, I don't wanna intrude-"

"You wouldn't have been invited if it was an intrusion, idiot." She cut in sharply. "Don't be rude." And so, she swept inside.

"Uh- I- I'll finish up as fast as I can!"