#summer hanging basket

[milllanenurseries]

For more drama and impact in your summer baskets and containers choose your plants with care. Here are the five best hanging basket plants for your garden.

Summer pots and containers, hanging baskets and window boxes really need the wow factor to earn their place in the garden. A Fabulous planter full of color and drama will enhance your garden, welcome visitors, and even help support pollinators too. Choose plants with the most bang for your buck for the very best results.

Here are the five best summer hanging basket plants for your containers.

Begonia Apricot Shades

If you’ve never grown this amazing plant you are really in for a treat. It is truly spectacular. Begonia Apricot Shades produce so many flowers in different shades of peachy apricot yellow and orange that sometimes you can’t even see the leaves. Fed with Flower Power Premium Plant Food this extraordinary plant will flower its socks off for months on end, overflowing the edges with gorgeous colorful flowers. The plants are tolerant of the British weather and will thrive in the sun or shade. But the really great thing about these plants is that you can overwinter them and grow them year after year so once you’ve invested in them, they will get bigger, grow stronger and make even more flowers than last season. They provide a stunning, bright orange display and that’s why they make the list of the five best hanging basket plants.

 Award-winning Surfinia petunias

It’s not surprising that Surfinias are the top-selling trailing petunias in the world, that really deserve their place on the best hanging basket plants list. Their long trailing stems and large brilliantly colored flowers will delight you with an amazing display, all summer, whatever the weather. Surfinia petunias offer fantastic flower power all summer and are the perfect choice for baskets and containers. The flower-filled stems cascade to 90cm (3ft), filling hanging baskets and window boxes with color. They have superb weather resistance, so look great even if it rains, perfect for our British summers. The plants are very easy to grow, vigorous, disease- and weather-resistant

A few surfing as having been awarded the coveted RHS Award of Garden Merit. Look out for these because they are the very best varieties; Surfinia Purple, Surfinia Pink Vein, and Surfinia White.

 Award-winning trailing fuchsias

Fuchsias are one of our most popular summer plants, particularly loved for their intricate and colorful flowers produced throughout summer and autumn. But there are different types, upright, bush, and trailing varieties that grow in different ways. When it comes to baskets and containers the trailing fuchsias are a brilliant choice thanks to their long trailing stems covered in flowers. They’ll thrive in both sun and part shade. The plants are covered in beautiful, colorful flowers all summer to mid-autumn. They are easy to grow, vigorous, and thrive in sun or shade. Look out for our special offer on some RHS AGM Award-Winning Trailing Fuchsias; Richard has chosen three lovely varieties.

Fuchsia ‘Jack Shahan’ produces beautiful large, single, rose pink and deep pink flowers.

Fuchsia ‘La Campanula’ bears masses of small, semi-double dark pink and white-pink flowers all summer long.

Fuchsia ‘Annabel’ is a semi-trailing variety so it's perfect for most planting scenarios. It has beautiful, large, double, pendant flowers in tones of soft pink and creamy white.

 Tremendous trailing ‘Precision’ geraniums

If you’ve ever wanted to recreate those amazing displays of trailing geraniums, now is your chance.

Trailing or ivy-leaved geraniums, (or pelargoniums), are extremely popular summer bedding plants for containers and hanging baskets, bringing a profusion of color all summer long. Perfectly suited to the British summer weather, their gorgeous blooms are set off by the dark green leaves.

They are a great choice for baskets and containers thanks to their long trailing stems and masses of colorful flowers.

Geranium ‘Precision’ is a stunning variety with large, semi-double blooms set off against glossy, dark green leaves.  They are a must-have for baskets and containers.  

Geranium ‘Precision Amethyst’ with rich mauve-pink flowers, and Geranium ‘Precision White’ is a lovely white-flowered variety with hints of light pink.

Geranium ‘Precision Light Pink’ has glowing pink flowers, and Geranium ‘Precision Rose’, has flowers in a lovely deeper pink color.

[geopsych]

The same hanging basket in May and today. It’s doing well.

[flowerishness]

This is one of the largest hanging baskets I've ever seen. Of course, the landlord can afford it - welcome to Vancouver's financial district. When the first tower (on the right) opened on Burrard Street in 1967, at 22 stories, it dominated the downtown skyline. Now it's just another boring, 'ultra-modern office block', amongst a crowd of later arrivals. However, this building does have one redeeming feature - this beautiful hanging basket out front. I think it's a floral masterpiece!

[hyssopandbee]

Ah, farm greenhouses <3

[fashionredalert]

A new kind of thought hit me, kyo and Machi somehow becoming bitch besties. Like they keep finding themselves alone together, like at get togethers with their friends and family and these two need a break from all the loud and rowdy family members and they idk sit together leave the room and run into each other and they start, just bitching about things and boom, friends.

[horsfields]

Plenty of Surfinia Petunia Hanging baskets now ready and plenty more planted and growing on.

Which is your fave colour?

These get bigger and better with age.

Feed with Vitax high potash feed for best results when watering.

We are open seven days a week 10am - 4pm including bank holiday

We are here to help with any gardening questions or advice, just pop in and ask!

Looking for some ideas of what to do in the garden in May?

Click on the link to listen

https://youtu.be/xezCfWpcl40

Horsfields Nursery Tel:- 01226 790441

Info@horsfieldsnursery.co.uk

Horsfields Nursery

Pot House Hamlet

Silkstone

Barnsley

South Yorkshire

S75 4JU

Beautiful plants in a beautiful place

#pothousehamlet

#gadeningtips

#horsfieldsnursery

#keepbritainblooming

#shoplocal

#smallbusiness

#floralfriday

#gardencentre

#gardencentrenearme

#plantpots

#darton

#cawthorne

#surfinia

#petunia

#hangingbaskets

Stay fit. Stay healthy. Keep gardening!

www.horsfieldsnursery.co.uk

[mortallyburninglady]

I found this amazing 10/15/25M 33/49/82Ft Automatic Micro Water Drip Irrigation System Plant Self Watering Garden Hose Kits For Home Garden Hanging Basket Watering Automatic Kit Plant Flower with US$8.32,and 14 days return or refund guarantee protect to us. --Newchic

[strang3lov3]

Dirty Laundry

Joel's best kept secret is the washer and dryer he's not supposed to have. Your best kept secret is that you've been using that washer to get yourself off.

Tags - 18+, smut, fingering, cunnilingus, masturbation on a washing machine, dirty boxer sniffing (you fucking freak), fantasizing about a dirty old man, unprotected piv, creampie, curmudgeon joel talks you through knife safety, washing machine repairs, and overstim. 8k words, idk what the fuck happened. Thank you to @noxturnalpascal , @beefrobeefcal , and @papipascalispunk for helping me edit this monstrosity and @joelsgreys for letting me scream about washers and dryers for days <3 A/N - i have worked harder on this than my finals, but that should surprise no one. i only have one more left and then you should be seeing more of me this summer <3 i have a lot a lot a lot planned and I've been so excited to share new shit with you. Roman girlies, I haven't forgotten about you. He's up next. Anyway, you maniacs know what you’re here for, so please enjoy.

Joel’s best kept secret is his Whirlpool brand washer and dryer set, which is hidden deep in his basement. You stand before it now, loading your dirty laundry into it, using what is definitely too much of Joel’s detergent. 

Perhaps it’s more accurate to say his washer and dryer set was his best kept secret, until you came along and forced his hand. Everything was fine, and then you showed up, both yourself and your basket of laundry soaking wet, leaving Joel with no choice but to lend you a hand. Biggest mistake of his life. 

As great as Jackson is, it still comes up short sometimes. Not with everything; you’re beyond blessed to live in the safety of its walls. Just technologically, sometimes it can leave you missing the finer things. It's not Jackson’s fault society is twenty years into an apocalypse, thus running on twenty-plus year old appliances. The older ovens, refrigerators, and other appliances that were built in the seventies to the nineties or so are surprisingly doing alright, but the ones built when manufacturing began to take a turn for the worse around the later nineties and 2000s are beginning to crap out, especially the washers. God, you hate laundry day. The washers at the laundromat in Jackson always give you a hard time. Week after week, your chosen washer won’t start, or it’ll stop mid-cycle. The laundry attendant, Patti, often helps you wash your clothes by hand which is nice, but still frustrating for you both. 

On a busy and gloomy Sunday a couple months back, you were lucky enough to pick one of the less temperamental washers and hardly had to fight or beg and plead with it to get it to wash your clothes. However, your luck ran out when it came time to dry, your dryer wouldn’t run. Refused to start, even with Patti’s help. Worse yet, every other dryer was in use at the moment.  You were shit out of luck. Patti offered you a sympathetic smile and sent you home with a baggy full of clothes pins and a wagon to carry your basket of sopping wet clothes. The clothespins were a nice gesture, but didn’t help much as you didn’t have a clothesline. And - you had to laugh - most of them were broken. Oh dear, sweet Patti.

Once at home, you did your best to hang up your clothes on your porch, laying them out over the thick wooden railing, securing them with rocks. The wind was blowing something fierce that day, and then you felt it – a raindrop. And then another, and another. Before you knew it, you were caught in a torrential downpour, with your clothes blowing every which way. Working to gather your clothes as quickly as possible, you haphazardly chucked the rocks that were keeping them still in every direction, your neighbor Joel interrupting the task when he came outside and started to shout at you. Joel’s a man that can only be described as crotchety. A curmudgeon, even. 

“The fuck are you throwing rocks at my window for?” he shouted, but you couldn’t hear him over the sound of the wind and the rain smacking your porch. 

“What?” you yelled back, “Joel, I can’t hear you.” 

“ROCKS,” he shouted again, “Why are you throwi–” Joel realized it was a lost cause then. He could see in your face that you couldn’t hear him, you looked puzzled and annoyed for a moment before you returned to throwing rocks and gathering clothes. “Fuck it,” he mumbled to himself. Through the pouring rain, he marched across both his and your lawns and right up the steps of your porch. “What are you doing?”

“I was at the laundromat and the dryer stopped working so Patti gave me clothespins but I don’t have a clothesline so I tried to lay them out on my porch with rocks so they could dry but then it started to ra–” Getting the picture, Joel had stopped listening to you and joined you in gathering your clothes tossing stones back into the rock edging surrounding your house. “What are you doing?” you asked. 

“Nothin’, just– come on. Let’s go – we’re goin’ to my house,” he answered, dumping the last of your clothes into your basket. 

“Why?”

Lightning shoots from a nearby cloud, with booming thunder following suit. Joel’s soaking wet, as are you. His hair was dark and stuck to his forehead, his thin t-shirt clung to his body, outlining his soft, pillowy tummy and belly button and his thick, muscular biceps. “Go, go, go,” Joel shouted, waving you away. “Just go. Move.” he grunted as he lifted up your laundry basket and hauled it across the grass in quick strides. He held the basket on his hip as he opened his door for you, guiding you inside with a push to your lower waist. 

Your shoes squeaked as you followed Joel through his house. He took your basket down his basement stairs, “Be careful for me, stairs are steep,” he warned you, “Don’t need you crackin’ your skull open. Got enough shit to deal with.” It was sweet, knowing that he was looking out for you – even with the irritation lacing his tone. 

You couldn’t believe your eyes as you saw what Joel had led you to. A washer and a dryer, olive green in color. He opened the door of the dryer and shoved your wet clothes inside it, then took off his own soaked shirt and pants and tossed them in too. “They’re clean,” he told you. 

In another lifetime where the world doesn’t go to shit and fungus is the least of your problems, the mundane appliances in front of you would be the very last thing on your mind. You’d be focused on Joel, watching rivulets of water slide down his jaw, past his Adam’s apple and pool in the hollow of his throat. You’d be tracing the outline of his body with your eyes, following that thin line of hair that spreads down his lower stomach, disappearing under his boxers. You’d be eyeing his thick bulge and the way that if you squint, you could see the outline of his cock. But in this life, in this moment – where the world went to shit a long time ago – you’re more amazed by the washer and dryer he stands next to. “This is why I never see you at the laundromat? The whole time, you’ve had a washer and dryer?” you asked, astonished. 

“M’not supposed to, but yeah,” Joel answered, shutting the dryer door before turning to you with his chin tilted down, eyebrows raised. Don’t you go tellin’ anyone, now.”

“I’m gonna tell Patti.”

Joel looked betrayed and puzzled. “I’m doin’ you a favor,” he reminded you.

“I know.”

“You want me to dry your clothes or not?” You crossed your arms and bit the inside of your cheek as you shrugged. “Oh, Christ,” Joel grumbled under his breath. “Why the hell would you go and rat me out?”

“Because, Joel, ” you began explaining, “All of the washers and dryers are breaking and you’re hoarding your own? I don’t think so – if everyone else has to share the washers, then you do too,” you scolded. “It’s selfish.” 

“Life ain’t fair, sweetheart.” You stared at Joel for a moment before turning on your heel to go tattle on him, just like you swore you would. “Wait–” Joel grabbed your arm, stopping you. Despite being long gone from Boston QZ, Joel couldn’t quite shake those smuggling and bargaining habits of his. You were serious about this threat, and he knew it. You’d march your ass through the pouring rain to go snitch on him to Patti. And really, the worst that would’ve happened to Joel would be a scolding from Maria and the washer and dryer removed from his home and placed in the laundromat. It’s not like he’d be placed in a pillory and have rotten tomatoes thrown at him. But still. Joel liked his washer and dryer. He sighed. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything, Joel. I just want to better our community.” 

Give me a break. “What do you want,” he repeated, his voice lower. 

You pressed your lips in a thin line, eyeing those pretty olive green appliances of his. It’s not a far walk to Joel’s house… And you wouldn’t have to wait in line to wash your clothes behind twenty other people. You did want to better your community, that much was true. But you weren’t opposed to bettering your own life. “Let me use your washer and dryer. Whenever I want.”

Joel was quick to counter in a stern voice, “Twice a week, tops.” 

“Three times,” you tried.

“Once,” Joel lowered his offer and then looked at you with his eyes squinted, his head cocked to the side. “Who does laundry three times a week?” 

It was a fair point. Even with your very own washer and dryer, you wouldn’t do that much laundry. “Fine. Twice,” you agreed, and Joel held out his hand for you to take and you shook on it. His palm was warm and calloused, his grip firm. In that moment you met his eyes, taking in the beauty of his face. Those sparkling, big brown eyes and the beautiful curve of his aquiline nose. Your eyes traveled lower still, and it hit you both at that moment - the realization that Joel was wearing nothing but his boxers, and that you were still shivering in your cold, wet clothes. Joel dropped your hand quickly and grabbed a clean t-shirt from one of his own laundry baskets on top of the dryer. “Here. You can change into this and toss your clothes in there too, f’ya want.”

“Thanks,” you said quietly, taking the shirt from his hand. “Do you have something to wear?”

“I’m a little behind on laundry, actually…” Joel trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. You scoffed and chuckled at that. The luxury of his very own washer and dryer, right in the comfort of his home, and Joel had the audacity to be behind on laundry. “Uhh, anyway. You just turn the knob on the dryer to ‘high’ and press the start button. I’ll give ya some privacy to change, you can meet me upstairs when you’re done,” he said, and then shuffled past you. 

Once Joel was up the stairs, you took off your clothes and put them in with the rest of the clothing in the dryer. You changed into Joel’s t-shirt, the fabric was soft with time and many wearings, and it smelled like him despite being washed. It was a muted teal in color, littered with a couple of bleach stains here and there. You liked it. 

Upstairs, Joel made a couple of mugs of hot tea to warm you both up. “Honey?” 

“Yeah, Joel?”

“N- no, like…Was askin’ f’ya wanted honey in your tea.”

“Oh.” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Y– yes please. Thank you.” You felt heat rise to your cheeks. What a stupid thing to say. You watched as Joel stirred a bit of honey into your cup of tea, smirking as he then handed you the mug. Asshole. “Thought you were a coffee drinker,” you mused awkwardly, attempting to change the subject after taking a sip of the hot liquid, “You like tea?”

Joel grimaced in disgust as he took a sip of his own tea. “No. Just tryin’ to be polite for ya.” 

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it, you know,” you smiled into your mug. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Aaand there it is. Curmudgeon Joel was back, Neighborly Joel never lasted long anyway. 

You sat on Joel’s couch, warming up with your cup of tea. Joel had noticed goosebumps on your thighs and pulled a blanket over your lap. He sat next to you with his mug steaming in his hands and just stared at you, not even realizing how deeply he was admiring the way his shirt hugged your curves just right, highlighting all the right parts of you. He jolted when he felt his cock thicken in his boxers, spilling his scalding hot tea all over his bare thighs. “God bless it,” he swore. Without thinking, he pulled the blanket from your legs and covered his own lap to hide his growing erection from you. 

“Joel, what the fuck?” 

“Nothin’. Just– m’cold,” he lied. “Jesus fuckin’- just - c’mere,” Joel huffed as he patted the spot next to him and urged you closer, then laid the blanket back over your legs. You sat shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh as you sipped your tea and Joel’s went cold. Dork. 

Moments passed. You sat in silence, the only sound was the rain pounding against Joel’s windows as your heart fluttered in anxiety, or maybe excitement. You might’ve even called it butterflies in your tummy. But you knew better. It was just the close proximity to Joel. And the fact that you were wearing his shirt, and he was practically naked. All of it pretty insignificant, honestly. It was basically nothing.

Joel finally spoke first, “Was thinkin’ it’d be best if you’d come by at night, when I’m on patrol or somethin’. Nobody’ll see you with your laundry and it’ll stay our lil’ secret, yeah?” You nodded, still a little bashful with everything that had happened. You aren’t often like that. It’s cute, Joel thought. “An’ you can use my detergent and whatnot. Whatever you need, s’yours.” 

“Thank–” an especially bright flash of lightning followed by nearly deafening thunder interrupted you. You startled and sort of hurled yourself closer to Joel, grabbed his forearm and held it tight. It was just a reflex, probably. Basically nothing. 

“It’s just a storm, sweetheart. Ain’t gonna bite ya,” Joel teases with a grin. 

“Oh, shut up,” you let go of his arm and missed the warmth of his skin beneath your palm almost immediately, but your longing for his touch was quickly soothed. Joel wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his side as you listened to the sounds of the storm together. You stayed like that, inhaling the sweet scent of him, masculine and heady. He smelled like the rain, too, and the hair on his underarms tickled your skin but you didn’t mind. When your laundry dried, he carried your basket home for you. You thanked him and moved to shut the door, but Joel stopped it with his hand, “Washer can be sorta delicate sometimes, so just be careful with it.”

“Noted,” you replied. “See ya, Joel.”

“See ya, hon.”

A few nights later, you returned to his home with your basket of laundry. Joel was gone, on patrol as he often is at night. Doing the laundry was uneventful , even though you probably used too much detergent, but whatever. Joel didn’t have to know. The next time you did laundry, Joel was at home. He told you not to worry about whichever nights you come by, that he’d always leave the washer and dryer empty in the evenings for you to use. He was even generous enough to make you dinner that night. 

It all worked out. Joel’s washer and dryer stayed unknown to the rest of Jackson, and your laundry was cleaned in a much more efficient way. There really weren’t any flaws in your and Joel’s system, as long as you didn’t include the one laundry night where Joel was gone on patrol again, but had come home just as you were leaving. You bumped into him accidentally, causing a lacy pair of your panties to fall right out of your basket and onto his shoe. He bent down and picked them up for you, not even realizing what he was holding. “Oh. My bad,” he blushed, once he recognized the garment. “I’ll just…” and put them back in your basket. From that point forward, he was always careful to stay out of your way. Aside from that it really did all work out. 

-

After loading your clothes into Joel’s washer, you shut the washer door and turn it on. You make your way upstairs and there’s a note on Joel’s table – Leftovers in the fridge are yours if you wanna heat them up.

Opening the fridge, you see a neatly packed container of what looks to be chicken and vegetables. Yum. God, you’ll miss these vegetables when it gets cold again. You take advantage of the offer and heat up the food in a pan on the stovetop, humming to yourself as you stir the food to keep it from burning. A light flickers above you. Weird. It flickers again, and then finally goes out. But it’s no big deal, you’ve seen in Joel’s basement that above the washer and dryer is a shelf full of supplies and you know there’s a couple of bulbs there. You go back downstairs where the washer hums, working its way through the cycle.

“Hmm,” you hum to yourself. You’d never quite realized just how high up that supply shelf is. And the bulbs are in the middle of the shelf, so there’s no good way to get them without climbing on top of the washer, which Joel would probably kill you for doing. He did ask that you be careful with his fragile washer, after all. Whatever. It’ll take like six seconds, tops. You hoist yourself on the washer and first try kneeling on it to see if you can reach one of the bulbs. No luck. You stand on your feet then, raising yourself up carefully, slowly, feeling the washer shake slightly beneath your feet. Joel would be absolutely irate if he saw you like this now. When you finally grab one of those light bulbs, you carefully lower yourself to a seated position on the washer to catch your breath. You’re not usually prone to vertigo, but Joel’s wobbly washer brought the dizziness on. You know better than to try and move right now, so you just settle yourself down to avoid fainting.  

The washer vibrates under the flesh of your thighs. It’s a gentle sensation, lessened by the angle you’re sitting at. But if you focus really hard, you can feel it in your core. Curious, you spread your legs and turn to the corner of the washer, tilting your hips to the floor, and oh, this is it. You’re not even thinking about potential consequences when you shimmy your shorts and panties off, then find that sweet spot once more. The metal of the washer is cool against you as it vibrates, sending sweet little buzzes through your hot core. You’re not quite wet yet, just enjoying the sensation. Letting it build and build, seeing where it can get you. You let your mind wander, not really thinking about much in particular. The low hum of the washer fades away in your mind and you’re starting to become wet. Shifting your position, you extend your arm to find something to grab onto when you feel fabric. Joel’s clothes. He’s still a slacker with keeping up on his dirty laundry. Usually it would irritate you. It does irritate you, this exorbitant waste of an advantage he has. You look at the shirt in your hand, the same shirt Joel had lent you. You think back to that first time you did laundry here at Joel’s, how he sat next to you nearly naked. The feel of his skin and the smell of him - sweat and rain and musk. And Joel being the beautiful, incognizant man he is, probably had zero clue of how sexy he looked. Or smelled, for that matter. 

With Joel now on your mind and his shirt in your hand, you decide to experiment, create a better ambiance. You keep those images of him in your mind, those feelings too. You remember the low timbre of his voice, the rain splashing against the windows, the weight of his arm wrapped around your shoulders. And with his dirty t-shirt clutched in your fist and its armpit pressed against your nose you remember his scent. Smell is a powerful sense, closely linked to memory and emotion, his shirt and what it’s doing to you is a testament to that fact. Legs spread wide, your hips angled down with your clit pressed to the corner of Joel’s washer, the machine vibrating under you as you inhale his scent deeply - you’re back in that memory. And then some. 

In your mind, your back on Joel’s couch. You can smell him, feel him, and if you really concentrate, you can even taste him. You’re on your knees and he’s drawing lazy patterns on your back as you suck his cock and fondle his balls, and he’s moaning, grunting and whimpering your name. He tastes like he smells, heady and all masculine. He grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, guides you to straddle his hips. His forehead pressed against yours, he notches the tip of his cock inside you and pulls you down slowly, careful so as not to hurt you but it does, of course it does. Not that you mind, you love the stretch and the ache of his thickness splitting you in two. You rock yourself, grind your clit against that unruly patch of hair at the base of his cock. You’re coming, you’re coming, you’re coming. 

You’re coming. Loudly, whimpering Joel’s name as you rut against the vibrating machine. As you finish, so does the washer. It sings you a little chiming song indicating the load is done washing. You can’t help but giggle at that as you bask in the discovery of this fortuitous delight. You’ve got private access to a washer and dryer and a vibrator now too? Lucky, lucky, lucky. 

God, Joel’s shirt smells good. You inhale it deeply, wondering if he wears cologne. It smells almost woodsy…smokey, even. 

Fuck. You’re smelling smoke. 

You pull on your pants and sprint up the steps, racing to Joel’s kitchen only to find that the chicken and veggies you were heating up are no more. They’re black and shriveled, cemented to the stainless steel pan, and there’s no salvaging that. No amount of scrubbing can erase your masturbatory mistake. Fuck, Joel’s gonna kill you. Your only choice is to conceal the evidence. Surreptitiously, you take the pan and hide it under a bush outside Joel’s backdoor.

You’ll be more responsible next time - yes, there absolutely will be a next time. Gas off before you get off. 

The next time came and went. And the time after that, and the one after that. Laundry was always your least favorite chore, but with access to Joel’s washer and dryer and this new trick up your sleeve, it’s not so bad. Getting off on Joel’s washer has become a weekly thing and it’s been lovely, relieving, dirty, and exciting, but you’d be lying if you were to say it’s been perfectly fine the whole time. 

You’ve been abusing the poor machine. It’s no secret. You get every bang for your buck out of the washer, taking full advantage of Joel’s twice a week offer and then some. Some nights you’ll sneak over and do an extra load, wash a blanket or something just to make the washer run for your masturbatory purposes. And so, the vibrating sensation the machine produces has begun to weaken. In order to compensate, you’ve been rocking yourself harder on it, which probably isn’t helping. But it’s still washing your clothes, right? 

…Yes. Mostly. It still washes, but it’s become sort of finicky. And the door doesn’t quite shut the way it used to, and it makes an odd noise now that it never made before. 

Tonight you’re at Joel’s doing a double load of laundry. There were no ulterior motives on your part when you came over, honestly and truly. Your first load is drying, the second load is in the washer. Joel’s home tonight, he’s gonna cook you dinner like he always does when he’s around. For such a grouch, he wears his heart on his sleeve. 

It would be more accurate to say you’re cooking dinner together. Joel came home with a basket full of fresh vegetables from the market and actually put you to work, his reasoning being that he was starving and wanted dinner ready yesterday, and that having your help cutting up the vegetables for the meal he was making would have dinner ready that much sooner. He places a cutting board in front of you and hands you a knife, “Chop chop,” he says, then laughs at his own pun as he rifles through some cabinets. “Missin’ a saucepan…” he mumbles to himself. Oops.

You start by peeling the carrots. As you begin to chop them, you realize he didn’t give you any sort of instruction. “Joel?”

“Yeah, hon.”

“How small do you need me to cut the carrots?”

“Uhhhh,” he thinks. “Lemme see.” Joel turns around and watches you with a look of disappointment and repulsion painting his features. “What’s the matter with you?”

“What?” you ask defensively. 

“Why are you tryin’ to cut off your fingers?”

You look down at your hand holding the carrot and your other hand holding the knife, then up at Joel. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. “I’m not trying to cut off my fingers.”

“Sure looks like it to me. Is that always how you handle a knife?”

“Yeah,” you reply, “Why?”

“‘Cause you’re gonna cut off your damn fingers, dammit, that’s why. C’mere,” Joel stands behind you where you stand at the island, then lifts up your left hand and curls your fingers underneath themselves. “Keep your fingers like this,” he instructs. “Holdin’ your fingers out flat like that are a sure fire way to cut ‘em off. Now show me how you chop.” 

With your fingers in the proper position now, you begin to cut the carrots. They wobble beneath you, you hate the way Joel has you holding them. “This is uncomfortable,” you tell him. 

“You know what’s more uncomfortable? Missin’ fingers. Keep goin’.” You groan but keep chopping per his demand. He’s pressed against your back, one of his palms lays flat against the countertop, semi caging you in as he watches you work. “Okay, okay, stop. You’re makin’ me nervous. Gimme this.” Joel wraps his hand around yours on the handle of the knife. He moves the knife for you, cutting the carrot slowly, your hand securely in his. “You’re liftin’ the knife too much, sweetheart. Just rock it back and forth for me. Just like this,” he whispers, showing you how he rocks the knife in a fluid motion to cut the carrots. His hands are warm, his grip on your hands is firm. His breath is hot and tickles your ear, sending goosebumps erupting down the back of your neck. He chops the carrots quietly, and you feel him against you - the rise and fall of his chest and tummy with each inhale and exhale he takes, his wiry scruff kissing the side of your face. “That’s it,” he praises, “Good girl.”

Fuck. His words go right to your core. As if him holding your hands and caging you in to teach you how to cut vegetables wasn’t enough, he had to call you ‘good girl’ as well. That had to be deliberate on his part, you’re almost certain of it. And now you’ve got to pay his washer another visit. His fault, honestly. “Laundry,” you blurt out, pushing his hands off of yours and shrinking away from his hold. “Sorry. Gotta check the laundry.”

“Oh. Alright, then.” Joel watches you pace down the basement stairs and listens to you pretend to check on your clothes, opening and shutting the washer and dryer doors. He’s waiting for you to come upstairs, but you never do. “You comin’ upstairs?”

“Yeah, just a minute,” you call back.

“There’s spiders down there, you know. Big an’ fuzzy too.” 

“I’ll be fine,” you yell as you unbutton your shorts and pull them down your legs. “I don’t mind them.”

Your reply immediately has Joel feeling suspicious of you. Even a mention of a mere ant should have sent you running into his arms and pleading with him to get rid of it. On more than one occasion, Joel’s woken up to you pounding on his door in the middle of the night begging him to come kill a spider that’s in your bedroom. And he always does, of course, even when the spider is miniscule and simply minding its business in a corner somewhere. He’ll scoop it into the palm of his hand and set it outside in a bed of flowers, call you a wimp and be on his merry way, grumbling the entire walk home. He wonders why the hell you’re so brave all of a sudden. 

A loud, clunking noise interrupts the silence. “Oh, fuck,” you swear. And Joel’s deaf, but not deaf enough to not hear you. “What was that?” he calls from up the stairs. 

“Nothing!”

Joel knows it wasn’t nothing, it certainly didn’t sound like nothing. You quickly pull your shorts and panties back on when you hear him stomping down the stairs to investigate. Wracking your brain to think of a lie to tell Joel, you realize you’re fucked, utterly and completely. It would’ve been more appropriate to think of one before now, probably around the time the washer started to make weird noises. Now you’re faced with god knows what consequences. 

Joel greets you with a puzzled and angered expression. “What the hell happened?”

“I d– I don’t know. Just something… Happened, I guess,” you stutter. Subtly, you stuff the used pair of his boxers you were smelling down the back of your shorts to hide the evidence of your even dirtier secret. Joel sees that you’re avoiding eye contact, looking up and away, scratching your head. The silence hangs heavily in the air and Joel sees the guilt on your face and that your shorts are undone for some reason. “You have ten seconds to tell me the truth before this becomes a much worse day for us both.”

“Nothing happened–”

 “Nine, eight…”

You fold instantly. “I sit on it,” you confess, Joel exhales in frustration. “Sit? As in… this is a regular occurrence, you’ve been sittin’ on my washer,” Joel asserts. You nod in confirmation. “Why.”

 “I don’t know,” you shrug, another lie. 

“Well, how much have you been sittin’ on it?” 

“Just like…a lot, I guess.” You look down at your feet, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.  

“Why?” he asks again.

“It…uhh…sort of…” you mumble, picking at your fingernails. 

“Sort of what?”

“Vibrates.”

Joel’s face falls at the admission. “You’re not serious,” he says, but he knows you are. “Oh my god.”

“Stranger things have happened, right?” Your voice wavers as you try to soften the blow with a joke. 

“Unbelievable,” Joel pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “No. Stranger things than you have not happened, sweetheart.” After taking a few deep breaths, he pushes you to the side and reaches for the shelf above the washer for a toolbox. He takes out a putty knife and wriggles the front of the washer off, then drops to his knees to inspect the washer. “Did I not ask you to be careful with it?” It’s a rhetorical question. Joel groans when he sees what’s broken inside of the washer. 

“What is it?”

“Belt’s broken,” he answers. “You’re lucky s’fixable.”

“Oh,” you say. “Well, it’s good you can fix it, right?”

 “Oh, no. You are fixin’ it, my darlin’. You broke it.”

Joel’s out of his mind if he thinks you’re putting his washer back together. “I don’t know how,” you tell him. You’ll make it up to him in any other way than this, but there’s no way he’s serious. Besides, he’s now the first to know that your track record with washers isn’t to be trusted.

 “I’ll walk you through it,” Joel replies plainly. “Get down there. On your knees, sweetheart.” You roll your eyes at him. “Now,” he says, unimpressed with your defiance.

You drop to your knees in front of the washer, looking for the broken belt that Joel speaks of. You find one of the big and fuzzy spiders he was talking about instead. “Jesus!” you yelp, launching backwards and nearly knocking Joel over in the process “There’s a spider, Joel - kill it, kill it, kill it, Joel - kill it, please,” you beg. 

“Oh for Christ’s sake, it’s harmless.”

“Joel!”

Joel nudges you out of the way to find the spider sitting right at the bottom of the washer. He scoops it into his hand, then holds it in front of you, “I thought you said you didn’t mind ‘em,” he taunts. 

“I lied. Get it away from me,” You shove him away from you, and he clutches the spider more carefully in his hands, laughing. 

“Yeah, I know you lied. You’re very bad at it,” Joel opens one of the basement’s egress windows and sends the spider on its way, then closes it and returns to you, first grabbing what looks to be a replacement belt for his washer from a nearby shelf. Leave it to Joel to have the most convenient yet obscure supplies right in his basement twenty years into an apocalypse. “Back to work.” You’re in front of the washer once more, and Joel takes his seat right behind you. “See that black belt at the bottom of the drum?”

“No.”

“This thing here,” he points at it with his finger. “Take it off,” You reach for the belt and tug on it a bit, “Gotta wiggle it a bit,” following his instruction, you wiggle the belt and it falls off the drum. “Attagirl. Now put this one on,” he hands you the new belt and takes the old one from you. “S’gonna be snug.”

You struggle to stretch the rubber over the drum and it snaps your hands when it slips. “Fuck.”

“Keep tryin’. Put some elbow grease into it, hon,” Joel hovers over your shoulder, just as he did earlier in the kitchen. “M’just checkin’ to make sure you got it lined up properly,” Joel tugs on the rubber belt, making sure it’s sitting where it needs to. “So tell me again how long you been doin it for,” he whispers. “Long time?”

You answer cautiously, “Uhhh…a while now, I guess.”

 “Yeah, I figured. S’it feel good?” 

The question throws you off, makes you nervous. But his voice is low and gravelly, and his tone isn’t pointed or accusatory. He seems curious, but for what reason, you’re not quite sure yet. “It does.”

“Better than your fingers?” Joel tightens the belt a bit and leans back. He’s watching you, but you can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes. You gasp when you feel his warm palm sliding underneath your shorts. “What the–” Oh, fuck. Joel found his pair of boxers. He holds the fabric in his hands, a knowing grin on his lips. “These are mine. What’re you doin’ with my dirty boxers?” he asks. He doesn’t allow you time to stutter out an excuse. “You’re a dirty lil’ bird, aren’t you?”

“Joel.”

He tosses his pair of boxers onto the dryer and whispers in your ear again, “I asked you somethin’. My washer feel better than your fingers?”

“Yeah,” you answer, “Better.”

Joel hums in amusement. He slides his hand down the front of your pants, still unbuttoned from earlier. “Saved me the trouble, didn’t ya, sweetheart?” he breathes. Your breath hitches when his fingers find your mound, as he toys with the curls there. He traces over your lips, then dips a finger between them, circling your hole, then circles your clit. “Better than mine?” he asks, dipping a finger into your center and you moan.  He holds one hand on your hip as the other pumps in and out of your center, and you lean back into his chest, relaxing with his touch. You sigh deeply. “Don’t get all cozy on me, now. You ain’t done. Gotta put the front of the washer back on, should just click right into place.”

Joel pulls his hand away from you so you can lift the front piece of the washer. “It’s not–” you complain, struggling to click it into place the way Joel says it should. You push and push, but it doesn’t budge. “Joel, it’s not–”

“It will. Just try.” 

“I am,” you argue, shoving it once more but to no avail. You’ve grown frustrated by his washer, by the task Joel bestowed upon you in fixing it, and his teasing, too. In a fit of anger, you stand up and kick it.

 “Hey, easy,” Joel scolds. “Look, like this,” Magically, the front piece of the washer fits right into place, just like he said it would. He does nothing different than what you did, it just works out for him. Of course it does. “You’re impatient, huh?” he murmurs, moving behind you. You gasp when you feel his hands on your hips, tugging the fabric of both your shorts and your panties down to your ankles, he helps you out of the garments and tosses them elsewhere. His hands are on your hips again, this time guiding you, whispering, “Back, back,” as he positions you where he needs you, spreading your legs apart. You’re leaning on his washer and he’s on his knees behind you, using his nose to tease and part your slick folds. He inhales you deeply, taking in the sweet scent of your arousal before he tastes you. He traces your lips with a pointed tongue, up and down, before he dips his tongue into your heat, savoring you. 

“How ‘bout my tongue?” he purrs, whispering against your skin. You don’t answer, and it’s not like you could anyway, with the way he devours you. His arms are wrapped around your legs, his fingertips are digging harshly into your thighs like he means to bruise you, tear the flesh off your bones even. It’s possessive in nature, but not abusive or aggressive. You know his actions aren’t borne of anything except pure pleasure and you indulge in it, in him. He moves slow like honey as he tastes you languidly, kissing you. He laps your velvety heat, his tongue teasing all of your sensitive, slick flesh. Now and then the wiry hairs of his beard will tease and scratch your inner thighs, a sensation that tickles you and rubs you raw all the same. “Oh my god,” you moan, reaching behind yourself to take hold of his head, fingers tangling in his graying curls and waves. “Joel, oh my god.”

Joel takes your lack of a real answer to his question as a no, his washer pales in comparison to his tongue. Good. He bets you’ve fantasized about him, all those times you’ve used his washer for those needs of yours besides washing your clothes. And he bets that you probably grind yourself on it, picturing it’s his warm flesh beneath you and not the cold metal of the machine. He’d be right. He sucks your clit, circling the sensitive bud with his tongue. He nips at your folds, sucking one, then the other between his plump lips, then focuses his attention back at your clit. You’re moaning his name, the only word you know anymore. Joel keeps you still, held tight in his arms so that you can’t push your ass back and grind against his mouth like he knows you’re fighting to do. All you can do is take it, feel his perfect aquiline nose tease between your cheeks. He’s buried himself face first in your most private place as he consumes you voraciously, his tongue flicking and swirling and painting you. You’re biting into your own arm, seeing stars as you come on his tongue. It’s an elusive sort of orgasm, the kind where you don’t exactly know where it begins and it ends. All you know is that you’re sensitive, so fucking sensitive and Joel is relentless. Your knees buckle as he toys with your clit, gives you a break for a moment before he’s right back there again, continuing to eat you. He keeps going and going, repeating the actions over and over again just to make you cry and beg, “Stop - please - I can’t, I can’t, Joel. T-too much.”

“Know it’s too much, sweetheart, s’why I’m doin it,” Joel coos. But he obliges, places one last kiss to your heat, soaked by his spit and your own arousal before he stands up behind you. He wraps one arm around your stomach, pulling himself close to you. You can feel his hard cock against your ass, separated only by his denim as he uses his other hand to turn your face to the side, meeting him beside you. He kisses you, tracing his tongue along the seam of your lips, licking into your mouth. You taste yourself on his tongue, then feel his hand leave your face to reach for his fly. You hear him unzip his jeans slowly, and then he’s pulling his cock out, still kissing you as he lines up with you, first parting your thighs with a gentle nudge of his knee before notching his tip at your entrance. He finally pulls his mouth away from yours and gently forces your chest down toward the washer. He pushes himself into you, careful so as not to hurt you but deliberately so that you still feel that ache, the stretch of his thick cock separating your insides. Joel continues holding your body close to his as he reaches for your hand with his free one, interlacing his fingers in between your own.  “How about my cock, sweetheart? You like it better, worse?” he whispers, kissing, nipping at your ear in between words. He pulls out of you nearly all the way, then pushes back into your dripping cunt. 

You try to answer, “Bet - oh, ahhh,” 

Joel chuckles at the way he’s reduced you to nothing but broken syllables and moans. “Ohhh, listen to you. I think it’s better, huh? S’that what you’re tryin’ to tell me?” You nod frantically. “Yeah, I know, beautiful.”

His pace is slower to start, but it builds in quick time. You can feel he’s fighting with himself to be more gentle than he actually wants to be, his thrusts sloppier than he intends, like he’s losing himself in you. You’re lost in him, lost in the moment all the same. You take it all in, the lewd and obscene sounds of the pleasure he creates with you - his thighs slapping against yours and the gushing of your cunt on his cock. Your moans, your cries, all babbling nonsense. And Joel’s deep breaths in and out, shaky and stuttering as he does it. His grunts and his swearing, a whimper here and there if you listen closely. He fills you up perfectly, hits that sweet spot deep inside you over and over and over…

“You coulda had me like this the whole time,” he pants, “Didn’t have to go an’ break my washer f’ya needed somethin’ more than those fingers of yours, sweetheart. Know you been needin’ some lovin’.”  He reaches for your breasts, squeezing and groping the flesh, twisting your nipples and smirking when you twitch and whine. “All you had to do was ask.” You don’t respond, but he doesn’t expect you to anyway. What he did expect, however, were your moans of displeasure as he pulls out of you. He knows, oh, he knows how empty you must feel, you poor thing.  He’ll soothe that. He flips you around, seats you on his washer. “I’m gonna make you come again,” he promises, “I’m gonna watch.”

 “Too much, Joel, I can’t,” you cry. You want to come again, really. But you don’t think you have it in you, still so worked up, overstimulated by the endless teasing of his tongue on your pussy.

 “Oh, don’t cry. You can do it, hon. You can take it,” he says, “Open up those legs for me, darlin’.” Joel pushes your trembling legs wide so he can slot his hips between them, then wraps your legs around his waist before sliding his cock into you once more. He thrusts just once, rather harshly, before he’s met with another rather loud noise from the washer. Joel halts and scratches the back of his neck. God, he hopes he didn’t just do it in. “Probably shouldn’t…uh…”

“Yeah,” you agree. 

“Did you use my dryer too?”

“Duh,” you answer. “How else would I dry my clothes?”

Joel rolls his eyes, “No, smartass. Were you usin’ it for your dirty work, is what I’m askin’.”

“No.” 

Still inside you, Joel slides you over to his dryer. “Good girl. Poor washer’s been abused plenty by you already.”  

“But I will,” You whisper defiantly under your breath, wrapping your arms around his neck as he adjusts. 

“Wrong ear, sweetheart. My right one’s deaf. I heard that loud and clear.”

Joel’s back to fucking you in an instant. He wastes no time in making good on his promise, thumbing your clit as he rolls his hips into you. “See, look at you. Takin’ me just fine,” he praises.The way you squirm and take your shallow little breaths fills him with satisfaction and delight. He knows this isn’t easy, that you’re tired and sore and overstimulated. He’ll be done with you soon. “Come with me, wanna feel you come with me, sweetheart,” he says. “Focus here, eyes on me. You’re gonna come with me.” 

It’s a few moments of Joel painting your clit with those tight, steadied circles as he fucks you hard and deep. There’s a push and pull to it, where you’re not sure who this is for - yourself or Joel. Just like before, you’re not sure where it starts and stops, but you’re there. God it’s intense, you’re gonna break and you know it. Joel’s got his palm on the back of your neck, squeezing you. His jaw clenches and he’s coming undone first, but he never loses focus on you. His thrusts stutter as he milks himself in you but doesn't yet stop - he’s making sure you’re gonna come. “C’mon baby, c’mon. Give it to me,” he says. “One more for me. Last one.” 

His words are all it takes. You whimper and moan, cry his name as you find your climax. Release washes over you the way waves crash onto sand - it’s repeated, the way the tides push and pull. Deafening. Powerful. 

But there’s a calmness yet. The rolling of his hips slows, slows, stops. He presses his damp forehead against yours, breathing deeply. “You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re okay?”

You nod and smile, “Yeah, I’m good.” He smiles with you and helps you off of the dryer. Joel finds your clothes and dresses you in them, steadying your shaky legs. 

Joel tentatively restarts the washer. It chugs a bit, but makes all the right noises and he breathes a sigh of relief. You’re a bit startled when he takes you by the arm and marches you up the stairs. “New rule,” he says, “You stay with me when your clothes are washin’.”

You bite your lip to hide your guilty smirk. “Yes. Joel.” 

“And I still need you to cut them veggies for me, too.” 

I struggled heavily with this fic, comments and reblogs would be much appreciated if you were feeling so inclined🙏 they keep me motivated and I look back at your words when I’m writing to remember that I’m capable of pleasing you all

[tenpolegardener]

Summer in the garden

Planting up hanging baskets with strawberries

[pyrrhiccomedy]

I am genuinely so proud of my wife for becoming a crafts person over the last few years.

Like, I was always a crafts person. I was an arts and crafts kid. My parents sent me to classes or summer camps or after-school clubs pretty much continuously from when I was about 5 years old, and over the years I did metalsmithing, stained glass, polymer clay sculpting, loom weaving, oil painting, charcoal drawing, clothes-making & tailoring, carpentry, woodcarving, macrame, miniatures, beading, jewelry-making, basket weaving, leatherworking, paper-making, bookbinding, papier mache, decoupage, sand sculpting, and probably more that I'm forgetting. There was never a day in my life while I was growing up when my entire bedroom floor wasn't taken up by 2-5 different ongoing art projects. As an adult, it's given me the firm confidence that I can walk up to pretty much any crafting skill, and get the hang of it, and enjoy doing it.

My wife never had that. She wrote, but that was really her only artistic outlet. Art & craftsmanship were just not any of her business. She always expressed admiration for my gumption when it came to making things with my hands, usually with a "bigger idiots than me have done it" attitude, but she was certain she'd be bad at it if she tried it, and that she wouldn't have fun. As evidence, she would offer every time in her life when she had attempted to learn a craft, and didn't have fun, and all the Arts And Crafts kids picked it up a lot faster than her.

Which like - yeah! Learning how to do a new craft is a skill all on its own! Fine motor control is a skill developed over time! So is spatial reasoning, and materials intuition! She wasn't just 'trying to learn wreath-making,' or whatever, she was trying to learn how to learn how to make something with her hands AND wreath-making, at the same time, so of course it would take her longer than the kids who already had the first part, and of course it would be more frustrating for her. I knew she wasn't uniquely bad at crafts: she just didn't know how to approach picking them up, because she was never encouraged to learn.

And then the pandemic hit.

And while we were all trapped inside and going insane in new and exciting ways to all of us, she tentatively decided to pick up embroidery. She probably wouldn't stick with it, she explained: she'd probably be bad at it. It probably wouldn't be fun. But she thought embroidery was pretty, and literally what else did she have going on?

And then she did stick with it. For over a year. And she got pretty good at it! She embellished a baseball hat for her sister with cactuses and wildflowers from where they grew up which came out adorable. She made an embroidered portrait of one of our friends' cat that they still have displayed in their entryway. And she discovered - and remarked on it often, with mild surprise - that she was having fun. She'd say a lot of stuff like "this stitch was so frustrating at first, but now that I get it I really like doing it," or "I kept getting this tangled but I've figured it out now. I just needed to relax."

Then she took up pottery. We did that as a couple for about a year, too. Now she's a knitter.

And it's just been so great, to see her eyes light up when she sees a sweater she likes, and hear her say, "I could make that!" She's slowly let go of the perfectionism that I think holds a lot of people back from doing crafts: that dismay when you make a mistake which leads to discarding a whole project, or starting something over. More and more she's taking on the veteran crafter attitude of "oops lol, whatever I'll just keep going." She's picking things up faster. She's taking pleasure in learning incremental steps. She's started to see crafting as something that relaxes and engages her, instead of as something inherently frustrating. I've gotten to watch her learn to find joy in making something with her hands. I always knew she was creative and artistic and capable of learning how to do anything. It's been so much fun to watch her start to take that on as part of how she sees herself.

We have this running joke about how she will prematurely declare herself to be in an era. Like, she'll go swimming twice and announce that she's now in her "swimming era," and then never go swimming again. Or she'll make one smoothie, buy a bunch of fruit, and declare that we are now in a "smoothie era," and then a week later we have to throw out a bunch of fruit that's gone bad.

The other day (while she was knitting, and I was sitting on the couch next to her doing crochet), she went, "I feel like I've gotten - like, I'm a bit crafty these days, I think. Like, I've done a couple of different crafts, and gotten pretty good at them. I think this is now, kind of, you know...something that I can say that I do."

I supplied that I would even go so far as to say that she was in her "crafting era."

Her eyes widened. "It's an era?"

I pointed out that it was something she'd been doing pretty much continuously for the last three and a half years. That feels like the start of an era to me.

"Yes," she decided. "It's an era. This is my crafts era. I'm a crafts person now."

She's planning to make me a sweater with a duck on it for fall.

[pseudowho]

Domestic Bliss: Nanami Kento (feat. Grey/Post-Shibuya!Nanami) #4, Laundry

18+, MDNI

"I'll hang that out," Kento had reproached, pulling the laundry basket from your hands. He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. "You promised me iced tea."

He had been out there for half an hour, you thought, stirring a sweating glass jug of amber tea. Jewelled ice and fruit swirled within. Ambling, probably, somewhere beyond the white sheets and cicada-buzz heat of summer. You felt a bead of sweat run down the small of your back beneath your cornflower sundress.

You walked onto the whitewashed porch, setting the jug and two glasses down by your swinging chair. You tried to spot your husband between the parallel lines of laundry, billowing like a ship's sails beneath the beating sun. Perhaps he was somewhere in the overgrowth, ethereal in long wildflowers and meadowsweet? You missed him already-- beautiful man, where are you?

Halfway down the sun-bleached steps, your heart gripped in your throat-- Kento's eye patch, discarded on the grass by the empty basket.

"Kento!" Your voice raised, panicking, all flesh-memory of near-loss, "Kento!" Your feet carried you, bare and running, flinging through white curtains and cotton fluff. Feeling another cry rise from your chest, you stopped between the two lines of laundry; Kento lay on his back in the grass, between them...asleep. His scarred face was soft and boyish with sleep, in the shade.

"Oh," you whispered, kneeling over him, straddling his belly, and smoothing your hand over his scars, "...god, you really are. Beautiful." You felt so serene, watching him rest, so at peace and free of pain. He had reeled you in.

Kento's hand shot up to grasp yours, and he laughed at your squeak; "Got you."

A white sheet caught on his leg as he flipped you onto your back, and settled over you both, hiding you in a dappled pocket-universe of your own. Kento knelt over you, trapping you to the grass and daisies, a hungry glimmer in his remaining eye.

"I was waiting for you," he hummed into your skin, his mouth hot, tasting the sweat off your neck. You sighed into his kiss, your back arching up. His hands explored you with a slow urgency, pulling down the front of your sundress and kneading your breasts, grazing your nipples until they formed sweet peaks.

"...I thought..." you breathed, lost in his mouth travelling down your breasts, and his hands pushing your sundress up to your belly, "...thought...you wanted iced-tea..."

"I do," he whispered, his lips now working at your pussy over the thin cotton of your underwear. He shivered to hear you cry out into the cool, not-quite-dry sheet, "I just think...it needs a little extra something, first." You mewled, your fingers tangling into Kento's hair, to feel his tongue dip inside you.

Only the fat lazy bumblebees and the meadowsweet knew how Kento made love to you in the garden, that day.

[sanguineterrain]

about a boy - e.m.

Summary: You've never had a boy in your bed. You're not sure what you're meant to do with one.

Pairing: Eddie Munson x gn!reader

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings/tags: none i don't think? mainly fluff and an overthinking reader (they're so me)

divider by firefly-graphics

There's a boy in your bed.

"M&M?"

You turn your head. Eddie holds the bag of candies to you.

"Okay," you say, and take a blue M&M.

Eddie smiles, about fifteen M&Ms in his own mouth. His attention returns to the screen. You have no idea what's playing.

A boy is in your bed, and he's put a movie on, and now his thigh is pressed against yours, lean and warm.

Eddie's socks are green and have tiny yellow stars on them. He's pulled them over his jean cuffs to keep the cold away. Not that it matters when he has a sleeveless Metallica shirt on.

But Eddie doesn't seem to get cold, anyway. You went for ice cream last week even though it had snowed the night before.

Eddie had paid for your ice cream, which isn't something to look too into. Steve's paid for your ice cream before, because Steve's a nice guy. And Eddie's a nice guy too. So maybe nice people pay for ice cream. And that's all.

Your eyes trace the dip of Eddie's belly, the slice of skin that peeks out between his waistband and shirt hem. His exposed arm and neck is sprinkled with freckles and you can see the edge of the demon tattoo on his breastbone.

Your heart races. That's wrong, isn't it? Looking at Eddie like that? Hoping he'll give you more?

You don't know. You've never had a boy in your bed. There's no guidebook.

Eddie laughs at the screen. You relish in his swelled cheeks and glimpse of fanged canines. You love Eddie's smile; bright and all-encompassing. You can't help but be pulled into his orbit every time you're around him.

You ought to give Robin something for introducing the two of you. A fruit basket, or maybe Vickie Summers in a gift box.

Need curls deep in your chest as you watch Eddie sink further into your pillows. You wonder if he can feel your eyes on him. That would be embarrassing. But maybe he'd be flattered that you're looking at him; that you can't help but.

He's touchy. Affectionate. You're really not, but Eddie takes it in stride. He gives you little half-hugs instead of his usual squeeze-the-soul-out-of-you ones. He bumps your shoulder or simply walks beside you, respecting your space.

And funnily enough, through all that, you've begun to wish Eddie would touch you more.

"'M gonna get more popcorn," he says. "Y'want something else?"

You turn your head in a vain attempt to make it seem like you haven't been mooning over him like a lovesick calf.

"No, no, um, thanks. Thanks."

You cringe at your clumsy mouth. Eddie's oblivious, hopping off the bed and disappearing into the hall.

Are you even allowed to want more? You and Eddie are friends. Maybe even Good Friends, especially after the 'murderous monster tries to swallow Hawkins' crisis died down.

But you don't hang out like this. Where Eddie can see all the Polaroid pictures of trees you thought were good reasons to love the earth and of your mom and of the deer you saw once, and your sky blue wallpaper with clouds painted on it. You wonder if he thinks you're childish or silly.

Why does he even spend time with you? Are you the only one free? Was today a non-Hellfire day and that's why Eddie had agreed to come over? Nothing better to do?

You haven't the slightest idea what's happening in the movie. You should pay attention because Eddie might want to talk about it afterwards, and he'll be cross if you don't know what he's talking about.

Except, that doesn't really seem like Eddie. Still. You've never had a boy in your bed. You don't know if they expect you to pay attention to the movies they play.

You chew on a cuticle. Eddie returns in a couple minutes, climbing onto the bed with his knees. He offers you the bowl of popcorn. You shake your head.

"Everything okay, sweet thing?" he asks.

Oh, don't you just melt over that. You feel like the yellow M&M between Eddie's fingers.

"Yeah, f-fine."

You stare at the foot of space between you. Once, you'd dared to lean on the shoulder of a boy you didn't like that much. Your head hadn't stayed long on his shoulder, and afterwards, you wished you'd been struck by lightning.

What if this is like that? What if Eddie sneers at you and shuffles away. God, you can't handle that. You like this boy in your bed so much, it frightens you.

"This guy, the one in the raincoat." Eddie points. "He's one of my favorite actors. I like the way he talks. You ever get that? Liking the way someone talks?"

You look at him. Eddie looks at you. He's trying to pull you out of your head. He thinks something's worrying you. You're so anxious all the time. And Eddie knows that, so he tries to ground you. You withdraw and Eddie will call out to you and ask you questions. He always sounds lovely. Sometimes, you try to gather the courage to ask him something back. But the words remain lodged in your throat.

"Yeah, I get that." Be brave, be brave. "I like the way you talk."

You wait for lightning to strike.

"Really?" Eddie asks, sounding genuinely curious.

"Uh-huh. You have a nice voice."

Nothing. Not even a rumble of thunder.

"Sweet thing, you're gonna give me a big head," Eddie says with a grin.

He's not teasing you. Once upon a time, you might've thought he was, because it seemed like that's all people were capable of. But Eddie's not. He thinks they're nice, the words you say. You want to say more nice words. You want to keep this boy in your bed.

You also want to close this distance. Be a permanent planet in Eddie's orbit. Be brave.

You stare at that tiny foot of space between you again. You're probably being too quiet and still, and Eddie's probably worried you're stuck in your head again.

So before he can coax you out again, (because he cares about you. He cares about you, and you're just going to have to get used to that, alright?) you scoot an inch.

And another inch. And another.

You move at a glacial pace. You don't think Eddie's picked up on your little scheme. How fiendish you are, attempting to cuddle with the boy in your bed. Wicked!

Now, you're so close you can feel Eddie's body heat. His shirt looks soft and worn. You wonder what he smells like.

You move closer. Now, your chest is touching Eddie's side. He looks at you.

His eyes are dark like the blackest parts of space. If you do this and fail, those eyes might just swallow you up.

You listen for thunder, but the skies are clear.

"What's goin' on, pretty?" he murmurs.

"Do you like me?" you blurt, helpless in his pull.

Eddie's brows lift. He blinks, cocks his head.

"'Course I do, sweet thing."

"No, like." You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, then open them. "You like me enough for a movie, but do you like me enough to let me put my head on your shoulder?"

"Is that all?" he asks, eyes dancing. There's stars in them. "I like you so much, I want your head on my shoulder forever."

Cinnamon. Eddie smells like cinnamon.

You no longer wish to be struck by lightning.

"Oh," you breathe.

Eddie hums and gently taps your head with one finger.

"That what you've been thinking so hard about?" he asks.

"I've never had a boy in my bed," you say.

"'M honored to be the first."

You nod, jittery with hope. "I'm glad it's you."

And then Eddie eases you into his side. It's perfect. It feels like you're young and don't know any better. It feels like you'll never find anything else like it.

Eddie bows his head. His curls tickle your cheeks and shroud you from the rest of the world.

"And will you kiss me too?" you ask.

"As much as you want, pretty."

You think you can get used to having a boy in your bed.

[hyssopandbee]

The roundness of these baskets is an art

[luveline]

𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫? | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary steve finds out that falling in love can be really, really easy. you find out what it’s like when somebody wants to take care of you [10.5k]

warnings fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining, getting together, dustins next-door neighbour!reader, sick fic, hurt/comfort, reader is implied to weigh more than nancy, you’re upset one time and steve goes overboard, small s4 spoilers no major plot details, post s3 pre s4, feat. the lunch club, karaoke, rollerblading, sunbathing

𓆩❤︎𓆪

A vast green jungle, so damp the forest floor bathes your ankles in rainwater runoff. The air is thick with humidity and smells green. Earthy, the sweet scent of petrichor tickles your nose, and- 

A shadow distends over the yellow pages of your paperback, dark, eating up the image of the amazon and replacing it with reality – a normal summer's day in Hawkins. 

Steve Harrington stands in front of you, his body blocking the sun and its warm glow. The light throws a halo around his head and turns the ends of his brown hair golden. 

"Watcha reading?" he asks in lieu of ‘hello’.

"Ever read Journey to the Center of the Earth?" you ask him, leaning towards him invitingly. 

You love to mess with him like this, watch his cheeks slowly pink as you bend towards your knees with a demure smile playing on your lips. 

"Yeah, I did. In middle school," he says, trying his best to play it cool, hands pushing deep into the pockets of his pants. 

"Well, it's nothing like that." 

The grin he gets when he realises you're messing with him is adorable. He chuckles warmly and pulls a hand through his hair, looking down at the ground and then up at you again with a bashful pinch to his thick eyebrows.

"You're looking for Dustin?" you ask. You haven't seen your young neighbour since this morning. "He ran off earlier with his huge radio thing." 

Steve rolls his eyes. "Typical. I paid him fifteen dollars," he says, his frustration clear, "fifteen dollars, Y/N, to fix my Walkman like three weeks ago. Every time I come by he's out. Little shit probably hasn't even looked at it." 

You like Steve. He's a great looking guy who's more than nice when he sees you even though you're always pushing his buttons, and his poorly hidden fondness for Dustin is something you find heart-squeezingly attractive. You don't think twice about your next move. 

You stand up from your lounger and have to shield your eyes from the sun, tucking your book under your naked arm. "If you want… I have a cassette player I'm not using. I got a Walkman for my birthday." You don't give him an opportunity to say no as you start for the front door. 

"Are you sure?" Steve asks. You hold the door open for him, standing at the threshold with a grin. 

"Positive. It's collecting dust, at this point." 

"I mean, sure, if that's cool. Just until Dustin gets his act together," he says, pushing past you. His hand brushes your hip. 

"That's cool," you confirm, walking behind him through your open kitchen and living room. "It's on the left." 

Steve pushes into your bedroom. The window's open, breezing around the smell of fresh linens and the hydrangeas in the planter on your sill, shifting the gauzy white curtains. 

The suncatcher hanging from the window sprays rainbow kisses over your walls and posters, your laundry basket full of summer dresses and discarded night shirts. The carpet is freshly vacuumed and plush underfoot as you beeline for your desk. Steve hovers by the door before leaning his weight against your bookshelf, eyes taking it in curiously. 

"Cyndi Lauper," Steve says, eyes on a big poster of said singer with her iconic orange hair and hat. You raise your eyebrows at him, pleased, and he shrugs. "She's famous." 

"You like her?" 

"Nah," he says. "But I'll listen to anything. Except Depeche Mode; sharing a player with Robin all summer has sailed that boat." 

"Yeah?" you ask, kneeling down in front of your desk to dig through the cabinet underneath. You frown, up to your elbow in bric a brac and forgotten trinkets. "It's in here somewhere." 

"Yeah. I mean, maybe not anything. I don't think I have the palate for some of those rock and roll bands. Dustin made me listen to Black Scabbard in the car last week and…"

"Black Sabbath," you correct lightly, pulling out of your cupboard with a relieved huff. 

"Right," he says. 

You look over your shoulder to find him perusing your bookshelf, his hand running lightly over the shiny glass paper weight you use as a book end. He teases the spine of a hardback book curiously but must feel your gaze, turning to you with a sheepish smile. 

"Do you like to read?" you ask. 

Steve wrings his hands held at his hip. "Sure, I don't mind it. Bigger fan of movies." 

"Right, Family Video must get pretty distracting," you say, walking towards him on light footing to offer the dinged-up cassette player. "She's well loved but she works, I swear." 

He takes it from you, fingers brushing the backs of yours. "Thank you." 

You shift from one foot to the other — because oh my god there's a boy in my room — before smiling with teeth. You stop. "You're welcome. Want a drink?" 

"Uh…" 

"I've got pink lemonade." 

"Oh, then definitely." 

You lead him into the kitchen and install him at the kitchen table with two empty glasses. The carafe of lemonade is beautifully cold from the refrigerator with slices of lemon and strawberry bouncing around the top as you pour it. The condensation wets your fingers. 

Steve looks handsome and maybe slightly silly behind your homely oak table, all clean cut and well dressed. You feel bare beside him in your tank top and flowy midi skirt, too much skin. 

"Are you hungry? I make a mean BLT," you say, bringing your feet up onto the chair, knees digging into the table. 

"I'm good, thanks," he says. 

"Are you having a good time of it at FV? They denied my application, but that's 'cos Keith has a vendetta against me for wiping out his score on the Palace's Tempest." 

"You're a Tempest girl?" 

"Everybody plays Tempest," you say. 

Steve gives you a look. "Nerds play Tempest." 

"Fine, every nerd plays Tempest," you allow, rolling your eyes. "Lemme guess, you're a Centipede guy. No, worse! You play Pac-Man. I can tell."

His silence is enough to make you giggle in triumph, elated to have sussed him out so quickly.  

"How did you know that?" he asks finally. 

"You called Black Sabbath 'Black Scabbard'. You're not a nerd." 

"I could be." 

"But you're not." 

You share a steady look over the table. His eyes are bright with mirth, a sleek brown like fresh brewed coffee. You love the shape of them, deepest with the round under eye blanketed in straight black lashes. A red polo stretches across his chest. You find your eyes drawn down the length of his arm to his hand where he's drawing circles around the rim of his glass. He takes it into his hand and you watch his wrist bend, his arm flex as he brings the cup to his lips and a drop of condensation drips onto the table mat. 

"I don't look the type?" he asks after a rough swallow. He sounds almost incensed. 

"No, of course you don't. King Steve," you croon. 

He crosses his arms across his chest and leans back, looking you up and down showfully. "Neither do you." 

He's all charming smiles as he raises his chin and shakes his head, lips stretched up in an open-mouthed smile. 

"Tempest," he mutters in bemusement.

You burst into laughter, quick to defend yourself when there's a pounding knock at the door. You're still laughing as you stand, calling to Steve as you walk to the door, "Tempest isn't even that nerdy! It's the Dragon's Lair dorks you need to watch out for. Oh, hi baby. What's wrong?" 

"You haven't seen Steve, have you? His cars outside," Dustin announces, standing under the porch with his wild curls stuffed under a hat, his pulley cart ditched halfway between your yard and his.

"He's in the kitchen. You want some lemonade? You look frazzled," you offer, brushing your hand over his sunburned shoulder lightly as he scoots right past you.

"Thanks, Y/N." Dustin strides into the kitchen with purpose, glaring at Steve pretty heavily as he takes your seat at the table. "Why are you here?" 

"Fucking charming. I came to see you, Henderson, but you're never home. Too busy finding secluded knolls to radio your girlfriend and play karaoke." 

"Dick," Dustin says, though he defrosts as you fill a glass for him. 

"What do you want?" Steve asks him. 

"Why do you assume I want something?" 

"Don’t be coy, you're not Madonna. It's tacky." 

"Dick," Dustin says again, glaring. 

"Dustin, do you want something to eat? You shouldn't go out in the sun all day by yourself, you know? What if you get heat stroke?" you ask. 

Steve gives you a strange look like he's puzzled with you. You smile back at him, hand coming down on the back of Dustin's chair easily. 

"Steve, I need a ride to Mike's," Dustin says, completely ignoring you.

Steve kicks him under the table. "Manners." 

"Can I please have a ride-" 

"To her, dipshit. Jeez, what's wrong with you? She asked if you're hungry." 

Dustin beams at you innocently, soft cheeks rounding. "No thank you Y/N you're a godsend and I appreciate you very much," he says all in a rush, turning back to Steve, the act entirely dropped. "Now can we go?" 

"Christ, fine. I'm gonna get you one of those rewards cards for being a shithead. This incident would be a double stamp, by the way." 

"Uh-huh," Dustin says. 

The younger teen chugs his glass of lemonade and spins off, calling a thank you over his shoulder. Steve gets up to follow him, your old cassette player held carefully in his hands. 

"I'm sorry about him." 

"Don't be. I've known him his entire life. He's in a phase," you inform him with a small grin, shrugging as if to say, what you gonna do? 

"Long phase. Thank you. For the player and the lemonade." 

"You're welcome," you say warmly, walking him to the door. 

Dustin's already in the passenger seat, having taken his pulley cart back inside. He makes a hurry up motion from behind his window and Steve mutters expletives to himself, giving you one last smile before he trudges off. 

The two boys wave at you through the windshield. You wave back.

When Steve's car has winked from view you take your lemonade and paperback outside again to lie under what's left of the sun. You try your best to fall back into the jungle and conjure its sights and sounds, only you keep finding your thoughts wrapped up around a certain boy's laugh and the face he makes as he does, that startled grin, a fist half raised to his mouth. 

-

"Y/N!" A familiar teen voice accompanied by battering knocking at your front door. 

You pull it open, still in your pajamas, hair a mess. His knocking had woken you up. You'd had about ten seconds to check you hadn't drooled too violently in your sleep before he was calling your name, and so you hadn't bothered getting dressed. 

You wish you had. Dustin stood at the door with Steve Harrington behind him, a happy smile on both their faces. 

You try not to flinch as you throw an arm across your chest subconsciously. "Hi?" you ask. "Is everything okay?" 

Dustin's dressed for the beautiful weather in shorts and a shirt with sleeves so short it may as well be a tank top, a hat perched familiarly over his cute curls. Steve is dressed in a tormenting pair of jeans paired with a denim jacket. Double denim. He looks hot, physically and figuratively. 

"Do you wanna come skating?" Dustin asks urgently. 

You blink at him, pulling the edges of your strappy vest down to cover your navel, plaid bottoms low on your hips – you're a mess.  

"Skating? I don't have one." 

"A skateboard?" Dustin asks, shrugging. "Bring your rollerblades." 

You err at the door, leaning your weight against it as you think. "When?" 

"Now!" he says.

"I don't want to hold you up," you say, aimed more towards Steve than Dustin. 

Steve smiles, hooking cheeks pink with the heat, and is about to talk when Dustin says, "He made me come ask you, he's fine to wait." 

You bite back a smirk at Steve's deer-in-the-headlights expression and nod happily. "Alright. Twenty minutes and I'll be ready. If that's okay?" 

"Totally," Steve says. 

You close the door most of the way and catch a look over his shoulder, finding his pretty friend Robin in one seat and a gaggle of Dustin's friends in the back.

You hear a sharp thwarping sound as you spin away followed by a "What the fuck, dude?" from Dustin and hope that he hasn't tripped over one of your flower pots. You get ready and spend at least ten minutes worrying after your appearance in the mirror before grabbing the skates and jetting into the kitchen. You gather as many impromptu snacks you can find and shove them into a grocery bag, struggling to lock the door behind you in want of a free hand. 

Steve jumps out of the driver's side to open the side door for you. You smile gratefully and dump the snacks and your skates in the footwell before climbing in, an empty seat between you and Dustin’s redheaded friend.

You're saved from the awkwardness of seeing people you've met but don't quite know by their ongoing debate, something about which Bruce Springsteen song is best. 

“It’s obviously Dancing in the Dark. I don’t really know why we’re still talking about this,” Robin says from the passenger seat.

“You’re just saying that because it’s his most popular,” the girl next to you says.

“Things are popular for a reason.” Robin shrugs. 

“Yeah, Max. Plus, popular or not, it’s his best.”

Max scrunches up her entire face. “Better than I’m on Fire?”

There’s a long pause where each child deliberates. Dustin and Mike dissolve into fierce looks. 

“Nobodies talking about Born in the USA,” Steve says into the quiet, eyes on the road but head tilted back.

“Shut up, Steve,” Mike says, looking as exhausted as he usually does when you’ve seen him coming in and out of Dustin’s. Though it's been a while, he hasn't changed. Perpetually done with people's shit. 

“Disrespectful,” Steve murmurs. His eyes flash to the rear view, catching you red-handed as you stare at him. “What do you think?” 

“About what?”

“About Springsteen."

You consider him, his smile, his gaggle of cruel children. “I like Born in the USA,” you say nonchalantly.

“That’s two points,” Steve says triumphantly.

The skatepark is pretty busy because of the good weather. You and Steve end up unpacking your snacks onto a blanket Robin lays out whilst the boys go look for their friend Lucas, who's supposedly already here. 

Max doesn't seem pleased with this revelation, sitting down heavily by Steve's picnic basket. Steve offers her a PB&J from the basket and a cold caprisun and she perks up, but not a lot. You want to spend time with Steve, you're not disillusioned into thinking you're anything but a flower under his attention, blooming and wanting, but Max's sad eyes get the better of you. 

Too late for introductions, you dive straight in. “What’s in the Walkman?” you ask, nodding at the player sticking out of her jacket pocket, the foam padded headphones around her neck. 

“Wild Things Run Fast, Joni Mitchell.” It sounds like a question. 

You’ve struck gold immediately. “I love Joni Mitchell! Have you heard her new stuff?”

Max seems alarmed and happy at once, red messy braids swaying as she lifts her chin. “I mean, only what they’ve played on the radio.”

“Her album came out this October, Dog Eat Dog? I have the cassette if you wanna borrow it. It’s amazing.”

“Really?” she asks. She’s peeling the crusts off of her sandwich, one side at a time, dropping them into the small pile of discarded Saran Wrap. 

“For sure. You’ve heard Shiny Toys?” Max nods. “It’s all as good as that one. Seriously.”

“Awesome,” she says, taking a huge bite of her sandwhich. 

You realise you might’ve come on a little strong and try to backtrack into cool territory again, hand brushing Steve’s ankles as you lean away from the poor girl, smiling sheepishly. 

“My mom loves Joni Mitchell,” Robin says.

“Robin," Steve chides lightly.

“What?” 

You and Steve share a look that’s so familiar it gives you pins and needles in your hands, something small between the two of you clicking into place. Or at least that’s how you feel.

Max has almost finished her sandwich by the time Mike returns. “Are you ready?” he asks her.

She clambers onto her feet and grabs her skateboard from behind Steve. The two walk away, a distance from Dustin and Lucas, who both seem to have acquired a pair of skates each. Dustin in knee pads and a helmet, Lucas without. 

“Why would you say Max listens to mom music?” Steve asks incredulously once they’re out of hearing distance. 

Robin shakes her head, similarly incensed. “I didn’t say that.”

“There were so many other things you could’ve said, Robs.” He sounds less mad and more pitying. 

"I didn't say that! I said my mom listens to her. She does!" 

"Don't take offense. Robin got dropped as a baby," Steve says to you offhandedly. 

You know the best course of action here and you take it – in what world would you make an enemy of a boy you might like's best friend who is a girl? Not this one. Plus, Robin seems super nice. 

"I'm not offended. My mom loves Joni too," you say cheerily, smiling at Robin, unabashed.

You're slightly disappointed when she looks away towards her lap, until she says, "Projections a bad look on you, Harrington. He has, like, a flat head," she tells you.

Steve starts yammering loudly. "Shut up! My head's perfect, you're being ridiculous. Perfectly round and ordinary, thank you." 

"Yeah, I'd definitely say your head's perfectly round," you agree through giggles, reaching for your skates.

You have a funny feeling that a silent conversation is happening as you slide off your shoes and into the skates, lacing up tight, but when you look up Robin's sifting through the accumulated snack pile and Steve's looking the opposite way, towards the kids. 

You clear your throat. "Are you guys gonna skate too?"

"Steve is." 

"I didn't bring-" 

"He's borrowing mine. It's too hot, I can't skate. And I don't have the coordination, anyway."

Steve looks at Robin, at you, Robin again. "I'm not good," he says. You take it for yes. 

Steve gets on his skates and straps out of his denim jacket, exposing the distracting lengths of his arms. He's better than he gives himself credit for, steady on his feet. He knows how to stop and start, and you smile to yourself when the two of you skate off towards Dustin and Lucas, following their journey around the skate park, careful to stay clear of the bowls and rails. 

"You're good! You said you weren't good!" you say to him. 

"I'm not good." 

"You're doing great!" 

He smiles gratefully, the expression at home over his warm features. He's not really a very smiley guy, you've realised, his lips often pulled up into a grimace or a cruel approximation of a smile, sarcastic. It suits him. You go to say as much, eyes eating up every little detail of him. 

"Hey Steve? You should-" and your foot pops over a rock. 

You shriek and throw your arm out towards him. Steve catches you with impressive strength and speed as your leg buckles. You've quickly righted yourself and he brings you to a slow but not quite stop. Stopping on skates is easier said than done, especially old skates with the front guards already worn down. 

"Are you okay?" he asks. 

You've taken his hand without thinking, the two of you widening apart and then coming together like the eclipse of a blinking eye. 

You pull your hand away apologetically, the warmth of his palm lingering. 

"I'm sorry!" you say. 

"Don’t be. Last thing I wanna do is have you crack your head open on my watch. I’m glad you didn’t wipe out." 

"Thanks to you." 

You slow and stop. Steve does the same, the two of you clumsy for different reasons. He watches as you calm your racing heart. 

"Shit, I really thought I was gonna fall. You're a lifesaver." You stare straight into his eyes, their sunlight honey brown, smiling with complete genuineness. He's more than pretty. "Thank you." 

Steve swallows and his smile is warmer, somehow, impossibly warmer. Maybe it's the beautiful weather, maybe it's the beautiful boy. You suddenly feel very, very hot. 

"I think I might need to sit down." 

"Oh, shit," he says, reaching for your arm. You're about to correct his touching – you're not dizzy, just a little nauseous. Only, his hand. His fingers clasped around your elbow, his face fiercely protective. 

You let him guide you back to the picnic blanket. One hand around your elbow, the other behind your sun-warmed back, and somehow his hand is the hottest spot. 

"Are you okay?" Robin asks, shielding her eyes from the sun. The book in her lap slips shut as she straightens. 

"She's okay," Steve says. “Too hot. Budge up." 

Robin moves over on the blanket and throws the basket open. Steve reaches in for a capri sun and passes it to you. It's lukewarm, though the day is so hot it's a relief to drink it. 

"Steve's really good," you tell her after a noisy suck, the orange plastic straw stabbing your lip. You frown down at it.

"I saw you guys whizzing around. Public menaces, both of you," Robin says, though she smiles as she does. You know she's joking. You don't want to think it in case it's not true, but you feel like maybe she wants to be friends. 

"We prefer speed demons," Steve says easily, still kneeling at your side. 

"They should lock you up." 

You snort and almost squirt juice from your nose, spluttering and coughing as you bend at the waist. Steve pats your back less than gently and then more so as you move your hand towards him. 

"I'm okay," you cough, embarrassed at how you must look hacking your lungs out. 

Steve's hand, again on your back, rubs a stern line. "Chill out, Y/N. You can't die before dinner." 

"We're getting McDonald's," Robin supplies. 

"Don't tell the kids," he says, smirking. 

He's still rubbing your back. You suspect you might agree to anything while he's this close. 

"You sound like such a dad when you say shit like that." 

Steve scowls at Robin's words and pulls his hands away, crossing them over his chest. "Don't say that. Babysitter is more than enough, don't you think? Y/N?" 

"An older brother?" you suggest to Robin's extreme delight. 

She laughs. Steve scrubs at his face with both hands until his eyes are red. 

-

Robin's sick and Steve's going crazy by himself, manning the desk at FV with almost no energy and even less enthusiasm. A week since he'd held your hand and he can't seem to stop thinking about it. 

He catches himself staring at his own empty palm and clenches his fist, bringing his eyes back to the door in case someone walks in and he has to pull off the headphones of your borrowed cassette player. 

Steve had discovered a forgotten cassette inside, listening to it out of curiosity the night you'd given him the player and then every night since then. He felt guilty about keeping it without saying anything but he was only borrowing it, he reasoned. He'd give it back when Dustin fixed his skipping Walkman.  

The tape was Van Halen II. And Steve's not stupid, he knows who Van Halen are, but he's never sat and listened through any of their full albums. Now he can't stop, constantly rewinding back to the same song, over and over. 

He does so now, fingers clumsy and too big over small buttons until the first line kicks in, powerful and high energy like a burst of fresh air. 

Have you seen her?

So fine and pretty.

He grins as it plays, thinking of you instantly. Your smile and your legs, the wind whipping at your skirt and exposing stretches of skin he can't stop remembering. You on your rollerblades, the second time after an emergency PB&J, skating in front of him without looking behind you. 

"Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" you'd asked, swaying from one side to the other as you shifted your weight. 

"It'll be too late to stop you if I see someone! Turn around!" he'd demanded, though his fondness had peeked through. 

You'd thrown your hands out. "You'll have to steer me!" 

And so he'd grabbed your hands and you'd laughed like a fool as you skated together, squealing through close calls and bumpy ground. 

He thinks of your hands in his, their weight and size, the magnetic pulse he'd felt between them, how happy you'd seemed to be with him. 

He was harbouring a crush on you. Too old to deny what it feels like to want a pretty girl, Steve wonders if this is entirely a good idea – letting himself like you when the possibility of rejection feels high. You are, as Dustin had promised him, out of Steve's league. "Don't try your luck, dude." 

Steve thought for a second that his thinking about you had summoned your image, your easy walk and the elegant way about your hands and how you held them, in a blue dress with matching strappy mary-jane's, white socks with the ruffle tops. He blinks. No way he could think up anything as pretty. 

You push open the door and grin from across the room, a large tupperware of some type in your hands. His eyes move up from your fingers where they clutch plastic, your wrist, your arms. The puff sleeves of your dress are short and cuffed, similar to the matching ruched neckline that shows enough to make him swallow. A necklace lays in the valley of your chest, a silver chain with a blue flower at the end, small but thick. Five round petals, a cutout missing that shows a circle of your chest beneath. 

"Steve," you say, like you'd been in mid conversation. "Please tell me you have a sweet tooth."

He pulls the headphones from his head and leaves them around his neck, fixing his hair as casually as he can when he says, "Sure, I like candy." 

You set your container down on the counter and crack it open, the rich, buttery smells of its contents quickly filling the room.

"I made penuche for Dustin's mom's birthday, but I made so-" you drag the word out, lips a gloss-sticky 'o', "much of it. I can't eat it all. And she said I wasn't allowed to give it to Dustin 'cos he keeps using the f-word." 

His laugh is startled but genuine. "Not the f-word." 

The fudge is a light brown, almost pink in the neon tinted lighting. It smells divine, and he's saved from an internal debate about what's cool when you push the tub towards him. "Do you like fudge?" you ask him.

He takes one and you take one, and he tries not to look at you as you eat, or when you scratch gloss and a crumb from the corner of your mouth. 

"You’re a modern Martha Stewart," Steve says happily.

"Only on special occasions. Where's Robin?" you ask, elbows braced on the counter and leaning in. 

"Sick. Apparently." 

"Apparently," you repeat, grinning. "What, she didn't look sick?" 

"She talked to me on the phone. She sounded sick," he concedes. "Good things it's Thursday." 

You look around the completely empty store. "This is what it usually looks like on a Thursday?" 

"It's Hawkins. Half the people here get their VHS from the library, the others drive out to Blockbuster. We get about as much foot traffic as an ice cream stand in September." 

"It's 'cos you take too long to get the new ones,'' you say. "No offense." 

"The tone of someone personally victimised by a Family Video wait list." 

"You got me. I've been trying to get the Breakfast Club for two months!" you complain, scratching your chest lazily. 

Steve crosses his arms over his chest until his hands are hidden, rolling his eyes. "Oh, so this is bribery penuche." 

You blink at him and then your lips part in horror, pretty eyes widening. "No!" 

"It totally is. You're trying to butter me up," he says, suave tone disrupted by the need to giggle at his own pun. "Y/N, how could you? Here I thought we were starting to be friends and you're using me for my video store?" 

His mock horror puts you eat ease when you realise he's joking. "I really wanna see that movie," you say dejectedly. You reach for another piece of fudge and bite it in half, your chewing morose. "It feels like everybody saw it at the movies but me." 

"Of course they did. Why didn't you?" 

You glare at him. "I was busy!" 

"For the month it was in theatres?" 

"Yes!" you defend yourself from his teasing. "I have things to do!" 

"Like what?" 

"Like school!" 

"Everybody has school." 

"You're picking on me after I brought you candy. This is so cruel." You don't sound like you've suffered any cruelty. Steve might say you're really enjoying yourself. 

"Sorry, sweetheart."

You glare at his insincere pet name. "Whatever. Oh, hey, how's she treating you?" you ask, eyes on the cassette player. "Steve, you have my Van Halen tape! Thank god, I thought I lost it."

"Right. Sorry, I meant to give it back," he lies. 

You shrug your shoulders. "Keep it however long you want to. It's good, right? Which one's your favourite?"

He pulls the headphones out and rewinds back before setting the player in front of you. You raise your eyebrows at him but click play, and the audio starts abruptly, loud and mid quality. 

Yes, it's love in the third degree. 

You grin, head bobbing, eyes flitting to his with approval written all over your face. You don't seem to hesitate before you sing along under your breath, high pitched but quiet.

"Ooh, baby baby. Won't-cha turn your head my way?" 

He feels a little enchanted by you, that same magnetism he'd felt between his hands, can't believe how pretty you are and how sweetly you move. You laugh at yourself as you sing the next line, an intense, almost theatrical look upon your face. Like you're swooning.

"Ooh, baby baby. Ah come on! Take a chance, you're old enough to-" You flare your eyes at him and nod, mouth open encouragingly. 

He won't join in, no matter how electric he finds you. You roll your eyes and your shoulders roll in a half-dance as you hum along to the chorus. 

Dance the night away. 

"You're no fun, Steve," you complain, giggling. 

"You're enough for the two of us." 

You peer over the counter, still moving with the music as you ask, "What were you doing? Before I came in?" 

"Looking through the computer at what's late being returned. Riveting, extremely hard work." 

"Do you get, like, secret intel on what new movies are coming in?" 

"Sure we do. Wanna see?" he asks. 

You creep around the counter and stand by his side. He scrolls through the system and translates acronyms for you. "This is the coming in," he says, drawing a line down a list of movie names. "These are what's being moved back to the headquarters."

"Headquarters," you repeat, leaning in to see the screen more clearly. You browse the new titles idly, slipping closer and closer to the computer. 

"You'll burn your retinas." 

"Invaders from Mars, Youngblood, Black Moon Rising," you list thoughtfully. You turn on your heel. "I don't know any of those. You got a chic-flicks section?" 

You're really close. Steve looks at you, this close, this pretty, his hands itching to touch you. He leans in and your arms fall to your sides, the space between you growing ever smaller. 

"We do," he says slowly, eye to eye, almost daring you to look at his mouth instead. He wants you to. He wants to look at yours. 

You're steadfast, not impassive but certainly unreadable as you say, "Show me?" 

Steve reaches for the mouse behind you like he was always intending to, hiding any smugness he feels when you exhale noticeably. You turn back around, his arm brushing over yours as he sorts through the tag system to show you "ROM-COM INCO". 

"These are all the ones we have coming in. You know any of those?" 

"Hannah and Her Sisters. I saw that one." 

"Finally had some free time?" he asks wryly. 

"Shut up, Steve." 

"You know… I can keep the Breakfast Club for you. Next time it comes in." 

The smile you give him is blinding. "Thanks, Steve." 

"Yeah, no problem." He hopes the sudden increase in temperature is mutual. 

-

Your backyard is a field of flowers. Maybe dramatic, but Steve's never seen so many, a heavy green spotted in chartreuse, vermillion, bright oranges and pink-white. You lay on a towel in the grass surrounded by them, the sun lighting you up, your skin glowing and perfect. 

You're in black, spandex type shorts and a bikini top. Steve feels like a perv for looking, so he clears his throat. You don't budge. 

He creeps closer. You're in headphones listening to your Walkman. He can hear the music from where he stands at your backdoor, so it must be loud. He stands over you and hopes his shadow will wake you up. When it still doesn't he gets concerned, kneeling down carefully with his knees digging into your towel. 

"Y/N. Hey," he says. 

Still nothing. 

He pulls your headphones off gently, looking over your face in worry. You must be sleeping. 

"Y/N, you shouldn't sleep out here. You'll get sun stroke," he says. He strokes your arm though he shouldn't. He can't help himself, his fingers pressing into the crook of your elbow.

You blink awake and then slam your eyes closed. Steve adjusts himself to block the sun from your face and you manage to pry your eyes open, confused.

"Hello." 

"Hey," he says. He can't help the fondness that plays over his smile.

"Shit." Your eyes go wide and you cover your chest with your arm. "I'm naked." 

"You're not naked," he says. 

"I'm naked. Stop looking at me." 

Steve turns away obligingly. 

"Stop laughing at me, Harrington." 

"Is there anything I'm allowed to do?" he asks, though he does stop laughing.

"I'm so embarrassed. I was sunbathing and I must've fallen asleep." 

Steve lets his eyes stray to your naked thigh. He stares at your skin, follows a stretch mark upwards and then swiftly peels his gaze away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be a total perv. I can go wait in my car." 

"You're not a perv. I'm being a priss. Sorry. I know I'm not, like, a model and I wasn't expecting to have this much skin on show. I don't look like Nancy Wheeler."

You sound more nervous than Steve has ever heard you. Worse, you sound dejected, though you've tried for nonchalance. Steve stares at you until you raise your chin, your fingers pinching meanly at your thighs. 

"You're messing with me," he says.

"What?" you ask, incredulous. "I'm not messing with you." 

"You gotta know you're beautiful. That's, like, a stone cold fact. A hard truth. You're beautiful. Who cares if you don't look like Nance?" 

You sigh, though it's not very believable when you're smiling so much. "She's really pretty." 

"So are you." 

"You know what I mean, Steve. She's… small." 

"She's a small woman," he agrees. "That doesn't make her prettier than you." 

"You're sure?" you ask quietly. 

Steve means it a hundred percent when he says, "I'm sure." 

The two of you sit there for a few seconds. He can hear your breathing and he's wondering if you can hear his. 

"What are you doing here?" you ask. 

Your hand is still held across your stomach but you're thankfully looking more relaxed. Steve meant what he said, you're beautiful, he couldn't care less that you're taller or that you weigh more than his ex. You're fucking pretty, and seeing you all laid out and sun kissed has made him kind of crazy. 

"Steve?" you ask. 

"Oh. I brought you The Breakfast Club. Just got it back in this morning," he rushes to say, grabbing the VHS tape from where he'd left it on the ground. The Family Video spine is glaringly ugly compared to you and your flowers. 

"Woah, thank you!" 

"You're welcome. It's under my name though, so don't keep it late. Can't disprespect the FV name. I'm going for employee of the month." 

You giggle. "You are? Are you the top contender?" 

"Nope." 

You laugh some more, the sound delicate and sweet as spun sugar, in Steve's humble opinion. 

"Not that my fellow employees try any harder, but Keith just picks himself every month for the free credits." 

You rub your fingers across the front of the box. "I won't be late. I mean, I'll watch it today, I've been so excited to see it." 

Steve stands up. "Sorry to disturb your idyllic sunbathing." 

"Idyllic," you murmur, smiling. "You're good, Steve. Thank you for the movie." 

"You're welcome. I'll see you later?" he asks, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, slowly backing away. 

"No," you say. He raises his eyebrows and you look sheepish but not shy when you continue, "Do you wanna stay? Watch the movie with me? I have stovetop popcorn and soda and everything." 

"What about the great weather? You don't wanna waste it." 

You force your hands between your thighs and hunch forward slightly. "I do wanna waste it. I mean, I've had enough for today, don't you think? I'm a half hour from heat stroke." 

"You're looking pretty warm," he says. Anything to take you up on your offer without sounding too interested. 

-

You're trying not to give Steve the side eye. Trying, but he's very attractive and very close, and he keeps making funny jokes. It's annoying how hot he is. 

Steve has slouched back and his jeans have slowly edged down, exposing the flesh of his hip. Not that you've noticed, or anything. 

You cram a big handful of popcorn into your mouth and flick your eyes back to the screen. You'd really wanted to see this movie but Steve keeps capturing your attention, again and again, over and over. You can't believe you'd asked him to stay and he had, can't believe he brought the VHS for you in the first place. 

That's a dedicated employee right there. 

You shuffle closer to him under the guise of sharing your popcorn. Your shoulders touch. 

"Thanks," he says. His thigh hits your thigh as he takes a handful. 

"Steve," you say softly. 

"What?" 

"I don't feel well. I think the sun killed me." 

He throws his arm around the back of the couch and twists, careful not to upend the popcorn bowl as he looks over you searchingly. You've seen Steve play caretaker before, but being under his watch is different. He's almost a different person as he checks you over. 

"You feel sick?" he asks. He holds his hand out between you, his knuckles at your eye level. "Can I?" 

You tilt your head back and close your eyes. Steve presses the back of his hand to your forehead and pets down softly, feeling for your temperature. 

"You're still really warm. Let's get you cooled down." 

Steve springs up and knocks the bowl. You blink, slightly disoriented as he disappears into the kitchen, picking up spilled popcorn off of the couch and eating it with slow chews. Now you think of it, your arms hurt, too.

Steve returns and sits on the edge of the sofa, a bag of peas in his hand. "I raided your freezer. Lean your head back." 

"I'm fine," you say, but tilt your head back anyways, gasping when the cold hits you.  

"You might actually get heatstroke. Do you know how dangerous heat stroke is? You need to cool down. Where's the A/C?" 

"It's on." 

Steve feels along your cheek gingerly. "I can't believe you fell asleep outside. What's that about?" He pauses. "Are you sleeping okay?" 

"I'm sleeping fine." 

"Are you sure?" 

His wrist turns and you feel the pad of his fingers rather than the back, the palm of his hand as he cups your face. 

You peek through your lashes at him. His eyebrows are pinched and his bottom lip juts out in a concerned pout. 

"You can tell me." 

The way he says it – well, you imagine you could tell him anything. He sounds warm and worried. This close you can smell his cologne, something heavy with sage, a little bit of lilac hidden under unmistakable bergamot. It's all so comforting and the sun has loosened your tongue. 

"Maybe not so much. It's… it's hot. You know? And…" 

"What?" he murmurs. Your heart skips as his thumb rubs over your cheek. 

You close your eyes like your confession might take form. "I'm kind of lonely, lately," it sounds like a question, "and it's- it keeps me up sometimes. I don't know, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud." 

"It doesn't sound stupid." 

"No?" 

"No, I get it." He pulls away but doesn't move too far, his hand still holding the freezing peas to your forehead, the other brushing against your arm as he drops it in his lap. "These days Dustin doesn't leave me alone. I don't want him to, either. The same with Robs." 

You let your head loll to the side. Steve doesn't look shy or scared to tell you, talking almost matter of fact. "But my parents were never home when I was in high school. They still aren't. I felt it more back then." 

"Yeah. I don't know. I never see anybody. Besides Dustin," you say. "We have him in common." 

"You see me." 

"When I'm annoying you at work." 

"You don't annoy me." He's stern though he abruptly turns into a conspirator whispering secrets. "Robin's fuse gets shorter with me everyday." 

"How come?" you ask, co-conspirator. 

"I can't stop watching the door." 

You lift your head. Steve takes back his bag of peas and feels along your forehead, now cold enough to ache. 

"Here, hold these to your chest. I'd do it for you, but…" 

You take the peas and hide a terrible smile, heart racing between your ears. Your nausea has flipped  completely into butterflies and they're rabid, knocking at your abdomen insistently. 

You're trying to think of a way to make him say nice things again when there's a knock at the door. 

"Dustin," you both say. 

"Jinx, buy me a soda," Steve says. 

You glare at him and he laughs all the way to the door. 

"Why are you always here? Where's Y/N?" 

"She's got heat stroke." 

"I don't!" you call hoarsely. 

"You sound like you do," Dustin says. "Can one of you give me a ride?" 

"She has heat stroke." 

You climb onto the back of the sofa to look down the hallway. Dustin stands at the front door with a huge piece of engineering in his arms that you don't understand, wires and ciricuits and things. 

"Remeber when you used to bike everywhere? What happened to that?" Steve asks, sounding majorly pissed. You can't work out why he's so frustrated but it makes you laugh again. 

The two boys turn to you with twin looks of confusion. 

"I can't bike there, genius. This won't fit in the basket." 

You laugh again, twice as loud. 

"What's wrong with her?" Dustin asks, shaking his head. 

"What don't you understand about heat stroke?

"Potential heat stroke," you interject.  

"She fell asleep in the sun. I don't know how long she was out there her brain might be totally jellified, dude." 

"You should take her to the hospital."

You clamber onto aching limbs and walk until your behind Steve, reaching for his elbow automatically. "I'm fine, babe. What's your doohickey?" 

Dustin smirks and pulls the weight closer to his chest. "Prototype." 

"For what?" 

"Top secret." 

You giggle some more, wobbling with the force of it. Steve sighs and wraps his arm around your back, his hand under your arm to grip you at the ribs. 

Dustin gets wide eyes like a looney tunes character. "What's going on here?" 

"Nothing," Steve hisses. "Look, let me set Y/N up with the works and I'll drive you where you want to go, you brat." 

Dustin drops his suspicion, having got what he wants. "I'll wait in the car. Feel better!" 

"That's three stamps on the shithead card, shithead!" Steve calls after him. The two of you watch his retreating figure and then Steve is manhandling you (not too roughly) down the hallway and back onto the sofa. 

"I'm not dying, Steve." 

Steve puts your popcorn bowl in your lap and the frozen peas back on your chest. He fills your glass either the warming carafe on the coffee table and then bends down to talk to you, entirely too intense. 

"Are you good?" he asks. 

"Perfect. I don't even feel hot anymore." 

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Listen, I'm gonna go drop Dustin off, and then I'm gonna call you to make sure you're not dead." 

"You don't have to do that, Steve," you say, moving down into the couch, a cushion falling over as you do. He straightens it out, cups your face in his hand so fast you think you've imagined it and then squints at you. 

"Don't die of heat stroke." 

He starts to walk away and you're startled. Unfairly, you don't want him to go, and you call, "Steve?" 

"Yeah?" 

"What about The Breakfast Club?" 

He grins at you, a lazy, King Steve kind of smile. "I was always gonna leave that here. So you can come 'annoy' me at work when you return it." He pulls a hand through his hair and gives you a once over and then spins on his heel. "Make sure you answer when I call!" 

You lose sight of him as he leaves, the couch backing too tall. He shuts the door kindly and you can just about hear the crunch of gravel as his car pulls away. 

"He was definitely flirting with me," you say to yourself, pouring a sweet handful of popcorn into your mouth. You're smiling so wide it's hard to chew. 

-

Dustin bursts into Family Video with his small entourage, Mike and Lucas, and an urgent look on his face. Steve quickly stops his facade of being busy when he clocks them.

"What? Need to borrow ten dollars?" he asks, rolling his eyes. 

"Actually, it's about Y/N," Dustin says. 

Steve stretches across the desk on his elbows. 

"What about her?" he asks, suspecting a waste of time.

"She was crying her eyes out in her backyard last night." 

Steve blinks, feeling a pit open up in his chest. "What? Why?" 

"Well…" Dustin says. "I didn't ask." 

Steve pictures your pretty face crinkled with tears, sitting on the paving stones outside your house. He wonders what would make you cry, sob, whatever it was. You'd confessed to being lonely though he sort of hopes that the feeling has ebbed now that he's calling you every day. At first, under the guise of checking up on you, but, I don't think I'm at risk of heat stroke anymore Steve. It's been a week and a half. 

Better safe than sorry. 

"Nancy said she saw her outside outside Bradley's Big Buy last night looking miserable," Mike adds, in one of his worst outfits, a mismatch of colours and long socks, a visor that Steve once tried to bribe Dustin to destroy on a hot day with his magnifying glass. The small burned spot perseveres at the caps edge. 

Steve feels weirdly proud at their concern and better, their detective skills. The three of them look like they could solve crimes, a mystery gang. Lucas is the only one dressed well in Steve's opinion, though that might be because he's in similar fashion, a nice polo and blue jeans. 

"You don't know what's wrong with her?" Lucas asks.

His pride wanes. "Oh, you guys are here for gossip?" he asks scathingly. 

"No!" 

"You're her boyfriend, right?" 

"Not-" Steve swallows, "exactly." 

Robin, who had been listening from her stool a few feet back, strides over and falls into place by his side, braced by her elbows. 

"If Steve were her boyfriend, we'd know why she was crying," she says, earning a round of boyish chuckles. 

Steve nods and then understands her meaning, feeling stupid for assuming Robin would say something that wasn't mean while at work. "Fuck off, I'm a good boyfriend." 

Four sets of eyebrows raise. 

"I am! I'm romantic." 

"You smashed our trellis and dislodged a drain pipe," Mike says. 

Steve pins the dark haired boy with a smarted look. 

"Sorry, is that not romantic? Sneaking out to see a girl?" 

"Sneaking in to a young woman's bedroom," Robin says dryly. 

"Pervert style," Dustin agrees sagely.

"Jesus Christ." Steve turns away from his band of adopted heathens and takes the phone into his hand. "I'm gonna call her." 

"And what? Tell her we were spying?" Dustin says. 

Steve holds the cold plastic to his neck. "Were you?" 

"Girls lie about their feelings, anyway. You're never gonna get a straight answer," Lucas says morosely. "Trust me." 

He slams the phone down. "What am I supposed to do?" 

They stand in a heavy silence. Steve can feel a headache clipping his heels, approaching fast, stress and a sharp worry for you. He really doesn't see why he can't call you and check in. 

"Something nice?" Robin suggests, picking at her nails. 

"Like what?" he asks. Though, as soon as he says it, he already has the beginnings of an idea. Whether its a good one or not is anyones guess. 

-

Somebody knocks the door and all you can think is, oh god why me? 

You're in a bad approximation of pajamas - your comfiest and yet your sloppiest, old and worn and unattractive. Fresh out of a stress-cry shower, you've only just managed to catch your breath. 

It's like you told Steve, everything lately feels so lonely. You'd gone grocery shopping by yourself and had known without a doubt that you were moving unseen through the world. Something about deciding between TV dinners. Nobody knew where you were, what you were doing, or where you were going. The only people seeing you were the storegoers of Bradley's Big Buy and your disgruntled cashier. You doubt you'd made a good impression. 

It was maybe a silly thing to feel overwhelmed by, but you felt it anyways. Sick with loneliness and then panic. A thousand what ifs had filled your head; you couldn't stop thinking, what if it's like this forever? 

What if I feel this lonely forever? 

You'd finished grocery shopping with a peculiar numbness weighing you down and then you'd gone home to cry in the garden, comforted and horrified by your flowers. They were pretty and you'd planted them and it didn't matter, you were still alone. A ladybug had crawled over the nearest planter and you'd watched it until you calmed down, knees crossed and elbows digging into your thighs, pins and needles in your hands. 

Another insistent knock. You consider ignoring it and curling up into a ball. Something hooks you out of it. What if it's Steve? 

If it's Steve, you're gonna feel very embarrassed about your appearance. You check your reflection in the sheen of a photo frame and sigh, rubbing your face with one hand as you open the door. 

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning against the side of his car with a pair of shades slipping down his nose. He takes them off.

You're so happy to see him you forget your rumpled outfit. 

"Hi," you say, half-shouting to cover the distance. 

"Hey beautiful!" Steve shouts, properly, loud and unabashed.

The door digs into your tummy. You don't know what to say. His compliment flusters you from the get go. 

"Hi," you say again, laughing under your breath. 

"Hey." 

"What are you doing here?" 

"Somebody told me you weren't feeling well!" 

You frown, thoughts racing, and suddenly summon the image of your nosey young neighbour. You take a step back instinctively and Steve must see it because his face goes stony. 

"I'm sorry, I know you probably didn't want me to know. But- when I found out you were upset, I couldn't ignore that. You'll have to forgive me." 

You try pushing the smile off your face with your hand and stand there scratching your top lip. "No. No, it's okay." 

He raises his eyebrows and takes a few big steps towards your house. You step out onto the porch and he closes the space between you, holding his hands out. You take them and he envelopes you, warm hands pulling you along and up the path. 

He walks backwards. "Don't let me crash into someone, okay?" 

A memory. The two of you hand in hand, ground flashing under your skates. 

"Okay," you say weakly. 

He squeezes your hands and drops them, a foot from the car. "Stay," and he doesn't finish, turning away from you. He opens the passenger door, the door behind and then the trunk. 

The smell is beautiful. A floral wave. 

The sight is something else. A carpet of bunches, bell-shaped freesias and carnations, roses in darkest red, chrysanthemums, dahlias, tiny orchids and irises; gorgeous purple irises with white centred petals buffeted by frilly sweetpeas. 

"They didn't want to give me the buckets but I told them I had a really pretty girl waiting for me, and if they suffocated in the heat then I was gonna drive right back and complain loudly." He stands by your side and nudges you. "Break out in tears." 

"That's a lot of flowers," you mumble. 

"Half the store. The other half's on standby." 

"Standby?" 

"I worried you might not have the space." 

"I won't." 

Your gaze flits over soft petals and light green stems, thorns and leaves and greenery, baby breath tucked in by plastic wrapping. 

"Why did you do this?" 

"You…" he laughs at himself. "Okay, so. The day you had heat stroke-" 

"I didn't have heat stroke. I had heat exhaustion." 

"Semantics. You were lying in the backyard. Just… sleeping. I was waiting for you to look up and see me, and I couldn't- I still can't get the image out of my head. You looked unreal." 

You feel hot all over as he searches for words. He's smiling wide as he talks, like he can't believe how happy he is. It's infectious. 

He shakes his head. "Anyway, I know you like flowers. Obviously. So." 

"So you got me a florists?"

"Half." 

You hug your torso. The idea that somebody would do this for you, that Steve would do this for you, is so alien you can't comprehend it. 

"They're for me?" you whisper. 

"For you. All of them." 

You look at him, the flowers, him again, and start to laugh. You throw your hands up to your cheeks and giggle like a little kid. 

"Why are you laughing?" he asks, an undeniable affection in his curiosity. 

"Why would you do this for me?" you ask in a similar tone. 

He purses his lips and shrugs. "You could've called me. I want you to know that." 

You scrub your hot cheeks and shift from foot to foot. "I was being silly." 

"It's not silly. It's not stupid. And even if it was, I still want you to call me. These are 'call me' flowers. Call me first." 

You wrap your hand around the top of the door and lean in for a look at the sea of flowers. Pollen sticks sweet in your nose. 

"Do you like them?" 

The smallest hint of insecurity. You can't stop laughing, joy warping every word. "Yeah, I love them," you say over your shoulder, feeling as though you've become nothing but a vestibule of breathless wonder. 

"I didn't know which one was your favourite." 

All of them, you think. Not sure you could pick one, your eyes bump from bouquet to bouquet. 

You try to blink them away but tears form quickly, lashes heavy with them as you stand up straight and wipe under your eyes with the back of your index finger. 

"Thank you, Steve." 

"You're welcome." Steve comes up behind you and takes your shoulder into his hand, thumb rubbing roughly over your shirt. "C'mon, don't cry. I got you all those flowers because I don't want you to cry, not to make it worse." 

"They're really pretty," you say, strained, pushing the bottoms of your palms into your eyes to stop from sobbing. That would be dramatic, you argue with yourself, so dramatic, but this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for you. 

"Shit," he mutters. 

You tense up as his hand moves across your back to grip your other shoulder and he hugs you to his chest, left hand stroking the length of your upper arm, encouraging your hands from your face. 

"You're okay, baby," he says. 

You sniffle as his right hand climbs your shoulder to cup your neck. He pulls your face to his mouth and presses a kiss into your temple, warm and tingling, firecrackers under the skin. You turn your face to look at him and he pulls back, his chin jutting down. 

The shape of his lips lingers on your forehead, a burn. White hot.

Steve wipes the tear tracks from your face with the side of his hand.

"I know what'll cheer you up," he says. 

You miss his touch as soon as he's gone. He leans over the passenger seat, the chair and its footwell both bursting with flowers, and turns on the radio. You watch him click to the cassette player. He turns the volume up high and then pulls out. 

Slowly, the song builds into a zinging guitar. 

"Oh my god." 

"Have you seen her? So fine and so pretty," Steve sings with no hesitation. You're startled by his confidence.

"Fooled me with her style and ease," he continues, holding out his hand. 

You take it, listening to him fight his way to the right pitch, his voice cracking.

"And I feel her from across the room-" He takes your second hand, gaze electric. "Yes, it's love in the third degree." 

He tugs at your hand, nodding until you join in.

"Ooh, baby, baby," you sing weakly, searching for footing. 

"Won't-cha turn your head my way?" he begs. 

"Ooh, baby, baby," you both sing, Steve with more passion, pulling your arm one way and another in an awkward dance. 

"Come on, take a chance, you're old enough to," and here's where you both go weak and high and enthused all at once, glad the stereo's up so high you can't really hear it when you both shout, "dance the night away!" 

It's not quite night yet. You've a lot of dancing to do if you're gonna listen to Van Halen's instructions, the sun a half-disk of gold on the horizon, the sky raspberry pink bleeding up into darkening indigo. 

Steve grins at your growing enthusiasm and twirls you around. You only allow him this, too afraid to step on his toes as you come to a stop. 

He hums along and you clutch his hand. You covet the other where it's held to his chest, pushing your fingers through his. They fit together perfectly. 

"Am I ever gonna get that tape back?" you ask. 

"No," he says, laughing loudly. "No way. I love this song." 

"I love this song too. That's why I bought the album." 

"You said however long I wanted!" 

"I didn't think you'd stick around this long," you confess. 

"I did," he says. He leans down, stops. "Can I kiss you?"

You nod and beat him to it, hand at his collar as you step on your toes and press your mouth to his. You're both smiling, your eyes closed tight and your lips tight together until he pulls back, pulling his hand from your brushing grip to stroke the side of your face, rough in his rush. 

When you come back together it's slower, your lips parted mid-giggle as he moves in. You sigh, a high-pitched and embarrassing sound from the back of your throat that's quickly swallowed by his ardency. 

"Stop laughing at me," he admonishes playfully. 

"I'm not! I'm not, I'm really happy," you defend yourself, setting back on your heels. 

You've forgotten all about your pajamas and the icky feeling in your chest. With Steve's palms to your cheeks like this – like you're something worth being cradled in careful hands – you can't feel anything but happy. 

"I don't have enough vases for your flowers," you apologise as he chases you down, dropping kisses over the corner of your mouth and the apple of your cheek. 

"Good thing I begged for all those buckets," he says, brown eyes squinting with the force of his cherubic smile. His pert nose flares with a silent laugh. 

"Good thing," you agree. 

He holds you by the shoulders. "Good thing," he says again. 

You descend into another round of laughter that leaves you panting for air, your head dropping into his chest. "A really good thing." 

"I didn't go overboard, did I?" he asks, petting the nape of your neck.

"You did." 

"Sorry, I-" 

You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as you can. He groans lightly as he encircles your shoulders, the tip of his nose a butterfly's wing against your forehead, impossibly light and skipping, back and forth and back again. 

"I'm gonna make you flower shortbread," you say eventually, soaking in his warmth, his closeness. 

"Yeah?" 

"I swear. And more penuche. What's your favourite? I'll make you whatever you want. What do you have a sweet tooth for?" 

"Could I get another kiss?" he asks quietly.

You tilt your head back and wait. Steve isn't quite smiling though his eyes boast an emotion you're afraid to name, unbearably fond. 

"Are you gonna kiss me again?" you ask into the gap. 

"In a sec, just… let me look at you," he says, hand cupping your cheek. 

You blink back a stinging wave of tears and smile, tracing over his features greedily.

"You're beautiful," he says. 

It’s funny. You were thinking the same thing about him.

𓆩❤︎𓆪

thanks for reading!

[your-nanas-house]

Just a... thong

◇ Pairing: Dad's Best Friend!Cillian Murphy X Bff's daughter!Reader

◇ Warnings: mention of masturbation, age gap (all off age, Cill is in his 40s, Y/n 20s), pervert Cilly, laundry, dad's best friend, cramps

◇ Summary: Cillian decides to take care of the laundry and finds his best friend's daughter's thong.

◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English. Another piece of the "AU/series" of Dad's Friend. Thank you @drcranessweetestdoe to encourage me to write smt. It's bit shitty but I hope it will "satiate" you a little. 🤭

It had been several weeks since Y/n, his best friend's daughter, had come to stay with Cillian for the summer holidays.

He had rearranged a bit of the usual routine that the man had made his, now that he was in his 40s and considered himself too old for several things.

However, he had adapted quite well, thanks to the collaboration of the young woman who also did not want to cause any disturbance to him and therefore followed his schedule a bit.

They had established little silent rules, such as the times of breakfast and meals in general, who cooked and when. They had also decided without talking about it that they would do the dirty laundry individually even though she was the one in charge of running the washing machine and making sure of the little details like which clothes could go together and which couldn't.

Usually Y/n took care of the sorting too, before Cillian could do anything, so it was the first time for the man to take care of that task.

The young woman was busy on a call with her family and the Irishman didn't have much to do, so when he passed by the room where the washing machine had finished he approached it, deciding to do it himself to take away a task from her seeing how well he was taking care of all the things he had asked her to do in exchange to make her stay under his roof.

His baby blue eyes scanned the object, taking in the different buttons before making sure it was actually done.

When he was sure of it he opened it, rushing to get the basket to put all the wet clothes in there and then go and hang them outside since the weather permitted.

They were mostly his things and a few things from Y/n, just clothes he had seen on her the previous days, some sports tops and... a lacy piece.

A lacy... A lacy piece of clothing, Cillian repeated to himself before his eyes snapped quickly back to the undergarments he was holding in his hand. His breath catching in his throat as his mouth dried, his heart started to beat faster, drumming against his chest at the realization.

A thong.. it's just a thong, Cillian, get yourself together, he thought, scolding himself, as his eyes snapped towards the door and back to the fabric when he was sure that he was still alone.

Her underwear was soft under his fingertips, smooth and silky except the lacy part that decorated it in an innocent but provocative way.

There was little fabric... he really wondered why she worn something like that since it covered barely her cunt, exposing probably fully her round ass cheeks.

"Fuck" the older man murmured under his breath, his breath becoming heavier as his mind wandered, imagine his best friend's daughter wearing something like that... just that, her body completely bare, her breasts on full display as the thong hugged her hips, teasing him with its little see not see game.

His body reacted pretty quickly and he was hard.. again.

It had been happening quite frequently since she entered his life in a daily basis. He really felt like a pathetic teenager by the way his body acted at the mere display of a bit of her skin.

Cillian bite his lip, taking a deep breath as he stroked the fabric in his hand for a couple of seconds, groaning softly at the feeling while his other hand moved slowly to his boner which was quite noticeable because of the sweatpants he had choose to wear that morning. His thick fingers slowly brushed his clothed hard lenght, before palming it... his bottom lip caged by his white teeth as his mind started to play different scenarios.

"Fuck" he cursed lowly, moving his hand again to pull out his cock irrationally, following the wind of his carnal desire with no shame, too blinded by lust.

"Is everything okay? Is it your back again?.. I heard you curse" Y/n's sweet voice interrupted him, making his blood run cold and move quickly up.. stretching his muscles in the wrong way.

He really was too old for this kind of things, he thought dramatically while cursing softly.

A shock of pain hit him, making him lean against the washing machine in an attempt to regain himself.

Karma.. just Karma, Cillian repeated in his head while inhaling deeply, now feeling pretty much self-conscious about his actions. Luckily she didn't look like she had noticed the perverse actions he was about to comply.

Her look was one of worry and not disgust, even when she moved quickly closer to make sure he was alright and help him sit on the sofa to relax a moment while she continued the task, not noticing the piece of clothing that was missing since he didn't have the opportunity or the time to throw it back in the basket before she took it to another room, warning him that she was coming back to check on him and his back.

[star-girl69]

Let The Light In

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Demigod!Reader

—-

synopsis: sick clarisse is a heartless monster

this ask

a/n: i do like fluff too! i promise!

Let The Light In - Lana Del Rey

side note: i liked this song before you tik tok bitches liked this song. first day the album came out i said “oh so let the light in is literally my song” y’all can back off mkay…..

warnings: MOTHER Y/N FR!!!!!!!!, ares kids are big babies, don’t tell anyone they’ll kill you, no plot, clarisse is sick and needy and cuddly and basically a baby, bitch gets austin mcbroom post-catherine sick it’s embarrassing, i still love her, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

—-

As soon as you walk into the Ares cabin, you can smell it. It’s not like anyone’s thrown up- you hope, at least- but the entire Ares cabin reeks of snot and wet coughs. You didn’t even know that had a distinct smell. The entire cabin just reeks of a bad, bad, summer cold.

It started off slow. And to their credit, the Ares kids did stay strong for a while. While the rest of the camp was falling into a apocalyptic-esque nightmare, no one in the cabin got sick. Until someone must have.

You remember snorting when Clarisse announced to all of her siblings that whoever got sick would be sleeping outside.

Obviously, that person tried to hide it, and the entire Ares cabin woke up sniffling yesterday. Clarisse vowed to find the rat, but her and the rest of the cabin ended up going to bed early after being asleep on their feet all day.

As the head counselor’s girlfriend, you felt a motherly responsibility to take care of the dying soldiers.

Which is what they were acting like.

“Good morning,” you say softly, quickly shutting the door. The cabin is a mess, even after one night. There’s tissues on the floor, blankets strewn about, everyone’s moaning and groaning. The curtains are all drawn firmly shut, so it’s seems more like 10pm when it’s actually only 10am.

All of the siblings have gathered on the first floor, sometimes two to a bed, couches filled up with sleeping kids.

Everyone mumbles back very pointed “mornings” while you sigh and open up your bag filled with wash cloths.

“Okay,” you say. You already got the sickness a few days ago, and while you’re still sniffling, you’re much better. “I’m here to help!” you announce. Then, you frown. “Where’s Clarisse?”

Matty, on the floor, leaning against the couch, points to a blanketed figure in the corner.

“Asleep,” he yawns. “Which I’m about to be.”

You smile but ultimately walk past her, letting her have a few more moments of what seems to be a fitful sleep- she’s frowning in her sleep, which is absolutely adorable.

You head towards the bathroom, cringing at the overfilling basket of tissues, before you set out your bag on the closed toilet and take out a few wash cloths. You wet them with cold water and hang them over your arms, walking around and putting one on each person’s warm head.

A few actually compare you to a goddess in that moment, and you just hide your giggles and say you’re welcome.

When you finally reach Danny, curled up in a ball on the end of the couch, he looks up at you with big puppy dog eyes.

You’ve quickly realized that all of the Ares kids turn into literal toddlers when they’re sick. But Danny, actually only eleven, seems like a literal baby in this moment. He’s a skinny kid, so when you pick him up he feels like nothing.

“I miss my mom,” he groans into your neck.

“I know,” you say, patting his back.

You complete your rounds of washcloths against hot heads, finally turning around with Danny in your arms. You go back into the bathroom and focus on him for a second, the youngest member of the cabin, touching his forehead.

“You’re not too hot,” you say, encouragingly. You run the tap, wetting the plain white cloth. “But we’ll stick this on anyways.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, head back in your neck. “You’re the best,” he yawns.

When you turn around, Clarisse is crossing her arms in the doorway.

She’s trying her best to look angry, but she’s just pouting.

“Hi, baby,” you smile.

She glares at Danny’s back before reaching forward to grab him from your arms.

“She’s my girlfriend, you little snake,” she huffs, clawing at him.

“Hey!” you shout, pulling back as Danny desperately wraps his legs around your waist, gripping onto your neck for dear life. “He’s eleven, Clarisse.”

“And?” she scoffs. “I’m really sick, Y/N.”

You roll your eyes, wetting another washcloth.

“Here you go, you big baby,” you slap it over her forehead and she pouts again, raising her hand to hold it there. “Puppy dog,” you giggle, urging her back to the couch.

“I am not a puppy dog. I’m a pitbull, if anything.”

She sits back in her corner, pushing the blanket aside and opening her arms wide.

“C’mere,” she says, eyes closed, expectant look on her face. “Ditch the snake.”

“Nope,” you smile, flopping down onto the couch, making Danny laugh at the way the two of you bounce.

Danny and Clarisse both settle into your sides, glaring at each other. Danny’s head pressed against your chest, Clarisse’s in her neck. She wraps her arm around your waist and he wraps his around your stomach.

“Gods, Ares kids are so possessive,” you mutter.

“Exactly,” Clarisse replies. She tries to push him away. “Scram,” she says, but it ends in a yawn.

“If Y/N tells me to go then I will,” Danny replies. “I’m only eleven, Clarisse. I need a mom when I’m sick.”

You watch him try to look serious, but he eventually breaks out into a smile.

“Snake,” Clarisse whispers. “Gonna kill you when we’re not sick.”

“No you’re not,” you say, leaning your head against hers. “I’ll walk out right now and take Danny with me.”

She holds you tighter.

“You can’t abandon me in my time of need,” she huffs, and you resist the urge to laugh at the genuine fear in her voice. “I just need you really bad, I was thinking about you all night, angel.”

“Then be on your best behavior,” you smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” she mutters, burrowing her face into your neck. She tugs you closer to her. “You’re so soft. I love you.”

“Okay, Clarisse,” you smile, kissing her head.

She shakes her head and pouts. “No.”

“Puppy dog,” you say again, but she chooses to ignore you, placated by the feeling of your lips quickly pressing against hers.

“Pretty girlfriend,” she mumbles, eyes falling shut. “Pretty, pretty, really soft girlfriend.”

Matty scoots over to put his head in your lap.

Now permanently caged in, you give up any hopes of escaping when they all fell back asleep, resigning yourself to a day of boredom, being used as a literal pillow for the sick “toddlers” of the Ares cabin.

“Thanks for bringing the light in, Y/N,” Matty mumbles against the top of your thigh. “You, I mean. You’re the light. Was that clear?”

“Matty, go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles.

“But thank you,” you smile.

You look around the dark, dreary, dirty room.

“Big babies,” you mumble to yourself.

—-

shoutout to danny from music to watch girls too making a second appearance ily

matty is prob my fav original side character for the ares cabin i love him sm so shoutout to him too!!!

and ofc shoutout to clarisse “she’s my girlfriend” la rue

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss @ravisinghs-wife @marsconer @evangelinexo @randomhoex @luvrrish