#it's SO weird to not write 27183787387 words for smthn. but here's a.........smthn for u MWAH

[pondslime]

[ 13 ] the garden center of a home improvement store

Lester Sinclair x reader, fluff or smut—both are good! Also, there's no pressure to fulfil this. If it strikes your fancy, great! If not, no worries. 😊 💚

tysm for the prompt crumb <33

881 words. Lester Sinclair x GN!Reader. Absolutely NO warnings, just fluffy flirtation!

send me a prompt & a character and I'll write u a lil smthn smthn 👀

The air is murky out here, sun streaming through the glass ceiling.

You make your way slowly around the tables, peering at the assortment of flowers and potted plants. Your eyes land on the mums, their petals a vibrant explosion of color in the center display. After a moment of deliberation, you pick up one of the pots.

You’ve never been one with a green thumb, but you’ll try anything once. As you go to set it in your shopping cart, you feel a tap on your shoulder.

Turning around, you’re met with a bright smile—courtesy of the dirtiest man you've ever seen. He almost looks like he's taken a voluntary tumble into one of the many flowerbeds, dirt smearing across his cheeks and coating his clothes.

"Reckon you're better off with that one." He points towards a nearly identical pot of flowers at the side of the display. "One you got; stems are a lil' woody. Figure these folks haven't been waterin' 'em enough."

You lift the planter in your hands up and peer at the stems. You're not exactly sure what you're looking at, but…sure. Carefully, you set the pot of mums back on the table, reaching for the planter he suggested.

"Just figured you outta know." He shrugs.

"Thanks." You shoot him a smile.

His cart is overflowing with gardening tools, the unwieldy handles of several shovels spearing into the air. Amidst the chaotic assortment of lawn gear, you spy a pale purple succulent, stacked haphazardly on an overturned utility bucket.

"She's a beauty, ain't she?" He gestures down at the plant, beaming at you like a proud parent. "Couldn't bear leavin' her behind."

"She is." You nod.

"You have a good day now!" The items in his cart clang discordantly against each other as he wheels away. You wince as a particularly loud crash fills the air.

You hope that his succulent survives the shopping trip.

A week later, you step back into the gardening center. The now-familiar blast of muggy air smacks you directly in the face as you walk through the automatic doors.

Technically, you're here for some plant food. Technically. That's a good cover up story. A good Responsible Adult Reason to be back here again so soon. It's absolutely not motivated by the fact that you felt like your pot of mums was looking lonely on your porch. Of course not. It couldn't be. Because you don't need another plant. You don't even really have solid proof that you can keep the one you have alive, yet.

You should've known.

You're a bit of a fickle thing with your interests, bouncing from one to the other depending on your mood. Right now, for whatever reason, you're stuck on gardening. Like a malevolent botanical hivemind, your brain is currently tethered directly to those godforsaken flower displays. Now that you have one, you need another. That's what people always told you about tattoos, but you're surprised to find it also ringing true for plants.

First, though, practicality must reign. You grab a basket and stride down an aisle of gardening supplies, scanning the metal shelves for a shaker bottle of plant food. Rounding a corner, you nearly bump into someone squatting next to a palate stacked with bags of lime.

"Sorry!" You exclaim.

"No problem." It's the guy from last week. He peers up at you, his eyes brightening with recognition. "How's them mums doin'?"

"They're good." You smile. "Surprised you remember me."

“Well, you’re plenty memorable.” He says, eyes darting up your frame.

He's covered in marginally less dirt this time. He's also cuter than you remembered.

"You think so?" You smile.

“If you don’t mind me sayin’.” He dips his head bashfully.

This is most definitely not what you came for...but it's certainly a bonus.

“Isn’t this what people use to get rid of bodies?” You ask playfully, gesturing down at a bag of lime. You weren't sure how true that was, but you vaguely remembered seeing it in some true crime documentary. Or maybe that was lye, not lime—

"This kind ain’t no good for that.” He replies brightly, tapping at the label. “See, uh, this—it’ll slow decomp down…to a crawl. You ain't never gettin' rid of nothin' dead with it."

"You don't say…"

“Ya’ gotta use the right stuff. Now this—" He pats another bag matter-of-factly, nodding approvingly. "—this is the stuff you need for that kinda job."

You watch as he picks up the bag and heaves it into his cart. Wiping the dust off his hands, he gives you a lopsided grin.

"But even then, ya’ know, there’s always somethin’ left over in the end.” He continues. “'S hard gettin’ rid of bodies. Harder than ya' think.”

"You get rid of a lot of bodies?" You arch a brow.

"Part'a the job." He shrugs. "Pickin' up roadkill."

“Ah, Parks and Rec-kinda stuff?”

“Guess ya' could say that.”

You slot behind him in line at the cash register, a planter full of violets in your basket.

"Do you have a pen?" You ask the cashier.

Impulsively, you lean over the conveyor belt and scrawl your number onto the side of his bag of lime.

You don't need to look up to know that he's grinning.