#sweat loaf

[gotankgo]

Butthole Surfers “Sweat Loaf”

• Locust Abortion Technician (1987)

[rastronomicals]

2:16 PM EDT September 1, 2024:

Butthole Surfers - "Sweat Loaf" From the album Locust Abortion Technician (March 1987)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Mojo Magazine's fifth weirdest album of all time

[lurking-loaf]

Surprise! They wanted to bring you this pumpkin and when I say they bring you I mean sun makes a cute pose as moon carries all the weight

Awww! Thanks for the pumpkin! I am sending Sun and Moon back to you with something we quickly put together over here.

Hopefully Sun will be a little more helpful on the return trip.

[see-arcane]

This part focuses on Quincey in particular instead of everyone, "Quincey raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at her intently", and I wonder if it connects with what he had said before: "And I promise you, too, that I shall make all certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has come!" Because Quincey is the one who always clocks on the situation at hand first, and patrols for threats (and if he spots one he shoots first asks questions later)

He does clock things very fast and takes action just as quickly. When he's facing the right way.

But in this scene, our favorite Texan isn't looking the right way or even reacting safely as much as he is quick about it. Even if his reaction was entirely innocent surprise, the fact that he made clear how ready he was to serve Mina's euthanasia request--seemingly with more readiness than even Dr. Jack Malpractice who must 'steel' himself to the idea--has absolutely stuck in Jonathan's mind.

Hence Jonathan death gripping the kukri as Quincey gets (to his eyes) the wrong kind of interested.

The whole story could have gone very nasty very fast if Mr. 'You've yeed your last haw' Morris had made a wrong move at that moment.

[goldenguillotines]

I'm imagining... ocs in kigarumis...

[strawbnetwork]

the thingabout a baguette is that its so perfect to just Eat on its own. which is not to say i wouldnt eat like an entiee loaf of regular white bread plain because i would but ive never felt the need nor want to so i havent. ive eaten three baguettes in the past five days

[scoutswritingcorner]

Omf how about a fix where asthmas antlers fall off and reader collects it and puts it on the cat version of him for shits and giggles

An Angry Deer and New Horns

Cursed Cat Alastor 

FT. Alastor x GN!Reader

TW: Alastor being angry, Antlers shedding.

Alastor growled and groaned as you helped get the velvet off of his old horns, jacket thrown on his armchair and his shirt unbuttoned as sweat had stuck to his skin. Placing the tools down on your lap, you grabbed the rag from the small bowl of cold water that was seated next to Alastor on the ground. Ringing the extra water out of the rag before carefully wiping his head and neck. Before small tip taps made its presence known causing Alastor to growl, “..how did the cat get in here?” He whispered out leaning his head back into you. You hummed feeling as the cat climbed up on the chair staring at you before Alastor letting out an audible laugh from a laugh track. One that seemed like it had come from his cane, Alastor snarled, going to stand up shakily, a loud static echoing around the room.

You carefully grabbed his hands guiding him to sit back down, “Relax Al, he just wants to get under your skin.” You whispered, allowing him to get comfortable once more before you leaned down and kissed his head. He let out a grunt, as you grabbed the tools once more. “Just pay attention to me, Dear.” He closed his eyes, holding onto your leg once more. The laughter became louder before stopping as a soft hiss was heard, a small paw tapping your shoulder. You glanced towards the cat who tapped your shoulder more letting a louder hiss, “Hold on..let me help Alastor with his horns” Finishing with his velvet you carefully grabbed the rag to wash away the blood that had dripped down his face. Alastor grunted out as he snapped his fingers, taking his shirt off completely as he leaned into your hands. “Just relax okay? It’s over.” You whispered out before focusing on the cat who had now made its way to lay half its body on your shoulder.

Your hand reached up to carefully pet its head as a static like purr had escaped its throat. As your other hand had scratched between his horns carefully, as his breathing had slowly evened out, his head lulling to the side as he slowly fell asleep against you. You sit back on the chair letting out a yawn but stay awake to keep an eye over Alastor to make sure nothing happens especially when he is in a vulnerable state. You turn your attention back to the cursed cat in your lap who was once again laying down loaf style.

As your hand scratched at Alastor’s head your fingers knocked up against one of his antlers, causing him to jump in his sleep and huffed before the antler had fallen off onto your lap which had landed on the poor cat. A soft hiss escaped the cat before it focused on the door staring off into space, you snickered and picked up the fallen antler before slowly putting it against the cat’s head, “Double the antlers~” you whispered out, causing the cat to look up at you. Giving you a look of ‘are you fucking kidding me?’ and a mixture of amusement.

You looked away for one moment and in that one movement you felt the antlers get ripped out of your hand, the little pitter patter of tiny paws running towards the closed and locked door. You cursed and hissed knowing if you moved to get up Alastor would wake up in a grumpy mood. Alastor’s shadow moved towards the door quickly stopping the cat in its tracks of trying to escape, moving it back towards the chair you were sitting on. You reached down and scooped the cat up, making it drop the antlers in return and holding it up into the air. “You’re in air jail now.” you whispered, causing it to growl and hiss out, swiping it’s paws at you in protest.

~~ 

It was a couple hours later when Alastor had woken up, shaking his head and grumbling at how his head started to feel more light- he reached up and noticed that he didn’t have horns. His eyes glanced over how you were slouched down in the armchair softly snoring away, he slowly got up to pick you up and move you into the bed that sat in your room. He stopped seeing how the cat was shaking and hissing in anger, static sounding from it. 

His smile grew thin as he let out an evil chuckle, seeing as his now fallen off horns were taped to this cat’s head. His neck snapped to the side as loud static echoed through the room. “...now what do we have here?” He growled out moving closer to the cat that stepped further into the corner drool dripping from its grin, “A thief are we? First you steal my darling doe’s affection and now you steal my antlers?"

He growled and looked back down at you before chuckling deeply, “I guess this is a punishment for being a thief,” He said picking you up and holding your sleeping body close as he moved you from the armchair to your bed easily. He snapped his fingers, his shirt back on his torso as he fixed the buttons on it, his gaze returning to the cat standing shaking in anger. He shook his head, his ears flickering as he moved towards the armchair he had silently claimed as his own. 

He grabbed his book and crossed his legs as he began reading, unaffected by the fact the cat was glaring at him from across the room.

[undreaming-fanfiction]

Day 2: Woods + Day 23: Witch for @steddie-spooktober

"Did you come to burn the witch?"

Steve just blinked at the weird man. He was probably a bit taller than him, with wild curls of hair and a mischievous smile. "Why should I?" he quipped back. "It's fucking hot, I came to the woods to cool down. The last thing I want is to get even warmer. Fire's warm."

The man just snorted. "Oh, I got a smart one today. Good for me." He hopped down from the tree he was sitting in and landed in front of Steve. "Such a pretty one too. They never send someone pretty to burn me."

"Once again, I'm not here to burn you."

The witch clutched his chest. "Ouch. And here I thought we had a spark."

Steve didn't dignify that with a response.

And the witch didn't let that deter him. "You know, a spark? As in...a spark that would start a fire? With, I don't know, a nice stake in the middle?"

Steve groaned and rubbed his temples. "If I agree to burn you, will you let me sweat in peace? I hear a spring nearby and I really need to cool down before I pass out from the heat."

The man shook his head. "You people. You cut down the trees for your villages and then wonder why you get a sunstroke." He glanced at Steve's red face, his sweaty hair, and for a second longer, his damp shirt. "Well, I'm a mean, evil witch, but I'm not that cruel. The spring's this way, come with me."

It only took a while for Steve to take of his shoes and dip his feet into the nearby spring, groaning in relief. The witch was crouched next to him, studying his face. "So really. How did you get here? I thought I was a cautionary tale for all the good children in the village, so they never let you go this way unless you need something."

Steve muttered something unintelligible.

"Huh? What's that?"

"...got lost."

The witch's face broke out in a wide grin. "Did you now? Such a big boy, not seeing the warning signs on the trees?"

Steve just grunted and leaned down to splash his face with water, then drink some. "I don't know, man. Must have been the heat. I was working in a field and fell asleep. Stupid, I know. When I woke up, I was so dizzy I thought it was a great idea to go to the woods. I could barely remember my name - that's Steve, by the way, if you need it for a hex or something. I was walking around for what seemed like ages. Then you asked me to burn you. And here I am."

"And here you are," repeated the witch. "Well, you obviously don't have any matches on you, so we're cool, I guess. Name's Eddie, although I rarely use it."

"Because you're a big bad witch?" snorted Steve.

Eddie shrugged. "Well, yeah. Because when others talk about me, they don't think I'm a person. I'm a boogeyman to them. Someone who kills their crops, trades remedies for firstborn children for dinner...the usual stuff."

"Do they taste good?"

That gave Eddie a pause. "What does?"

"The firstborn children."

Eddie stared at Steve. Steve stared back. Then they both burst into laughter at the same time. "Suppose I should invite you for dinner so you can answer that?" said Eddie after they had finally quieted down.

Steve smiled at him, and Eddie could swear he winked at him. "Suppose you should."

...

Steve stayed for dinner - no children were served, but lots of vegetables and delicious herbs - and Eddie made sure he was fully okay before letting him go. "Sunstroke's no joke, Steve, no sleeping in the field or I'll curse you! Stop giggling, I'll do it! I'll send my cat to eat your ears or something!"

With Steve's footsteps sounding more and more distant, Eddie's cottage grew quiet again. For the fist time in years, he hated it.

The quiet lasted until the next evening, when there was a knock on his door, and behind it, Steve. He was carrying some grapes and apples, a fresh loaf of bread, and it seemed he'd even combed his hair and wore a clean shirt. 

Eddie just stared at him. "You got lost again?" he asked incredulously. Because no one came back to him. Not unless they needed something.

Steve just shushed him and headed directly to the table, setting the plates as if it had been his home too. "You know what's great about all the warning signs on the trees? They will always lead me back to you."

Eddie's face was starting to hurt from all the smiling. "So you can burn me?" he asked with a snort, well, maybe a tiny sob too.

"Burning you would be a shame," said Steve as he lit a small candle on the table, "since I have much better ideas how to spend our evening."

Eddie popped a grape in his mouth. "Funny," he mumbled around it, "so do I."

[zeptorg]

"Get plenty of rest" is the general thing to say to someone when they are sick. But I have insomnia so it's like telling me to walk on water while holding a 100lb dumbbell.

[awearywritersworld]

gratitude

gojo satoru x reader summary: gojo wakes up early one morning, suddenly aware that he can't live without you. w/c: .5k tags/warnings: fluff. gn!reader. a/n: happy jjk day!!! masterlist check out my latest work for gojo here

gojo satoru is something of a stranger to gratitude, but can anyone really blame him? he was born with unmatched strength, unaccustomed to the blood, sweat, and tears many people shed to gain even a fraction of the power he possesses.

he's the son of one of the wealthiest clans in japan, so he's never gone to bed hungry, nor has he ever had to wear a pair of shoes that were past their prime. he's also blessed with good looks, always flaunting the kind of smile that makes people turn their heads.

now, that's not to say he's never felt thankful in his life. quite the contrary. he was thankful when nanami returned to jujutsu tech and when yuuji came back to life even after sukuna ripped out his heart. hell, he was thankful for the kid at the bakery who served him a particularly exquisite lemon loaf last week.

but he's never felt true gratitude. you know, the kind you experience when you're given something you can't possibly live without. the kind that moves you, shakes you to the core.

that is, until he's laying in bed beside you, already awake as the sun begins to kiss the morning sky. his eyes trail over your face in the pale blue light of dawn, taking great pains to commit every little detail to memory.

it's then that he feels it, gratitude that seeps into his bones and fills him with relief, hope, and elation all at once. gratitude that changes him as a person, because how could he exist without you? without the soft curve of your nose, without the fullness of your lips, without those cute little snores that let him know you're still sleeping peacefully?

you're laying on your stomach, your back exposed and the sheet bunched around your waist. he traces each divot of your spine with a careful and loving touch, acutely aware that there isn't a thing in the world that could possibly compare to the feeling of your skin against his own.

"'toru? what're you doing awake?" you ask groggily, pulling him from his thoughts.

"hmph.. can't sleep 'cause you're such a blanket hog."

"yeah? are you sure you're not just staring at me again, all googly eyed and creepy?" you pop one eye open to discern the look on his face.

"i've got no idea what you're talking about," he asserts, pulling you against his chest in an attempt to obscure his guilty grin.

you've already seen it though. "i think you're delusional or something, you should get some more sleep."

you feel his chest shift, a breath of a laugh passing his nose. "yeah, you're probably right."

you hum, satisfied with his answer, then tangle your legs with his and close your eyes. "i love you."

gojo has taken a lot of things for granted in his life, he's smart enough to know that, but those three words? from your lips? he'll be grateful for them until the end of time.

"i love you, too."

taglist: @torusmochi @moonmalice

[sunnitheapollokid]

๋࣭ ⭑ when did that get there ?

a five hargreeves short fic . . ☕️💼

context : five hargreeves likes to play with your rings ᡣ𐭩.

warnings : maybe just some cursing .ᐟ

author’s note : I MISS WHEN S4 FIRST CAME OUTTT (it’s been a month holy moley) this is my first fic ever on this account !! i hope you guys liiiiikeee it <3 i miss my husband. (he’s not real)

ever since five and you had gotten stuck in an apocalypse together, you two grew to be very comfortable with each other. almost best friends, just complete opposites. you were more positive, and charming. five was a grump, and liked to keep alert and see all sides of the situation.

so when five had his idea about escaping the comission through a series of equations that would set off a timeline portal, he took you with him. seeing him as a thirteen year old had really set the memories spiraling in your mind.

— 𐙚₊˚⊹ 🎱

“(nickname), you alright?”

“huh?”

“i asked if you were alright.”

five looked at you, waiting for your answer. “yeah. peachy.” you gave him a faint smile, reading the newspaper for any clues to the 2019 apocalypse. you looked back down to the unhelpful articles and advertisements after.

his stare at you lingered for a little longer. he held the cup of espresso in his hand, after taking a break from his math solving on the chalkboard of his childhood bedroom. he sat beside you, watching your eyes scan through the newspaper.

his eyes moved to the silvers on your fingers. “where’d that come from?” he furrowed his brows at the jewelry. “uhm..” you raised a brow, looking at where his eyes were directed at and you lifted your right hand. “i wore more rings when i was younger..” you let the whisper slip.

you put your hand down again, and he took your left hand. “handmade? they’re pretty.” he commented lightly. you felt the heat rush to your face, but you kept your eyes on the new newspaper from under the bed.

you could feel his hands play with the silvers that hugged your fingers, he continued to watch you go through the papers one by one. “well, i gotta continue my problem solving.” he cleared his throat and picked up his feet half an hour later. “oh, okay.” you only replied.

you could use the break too. you put the grey papers away and walked into the hargreeves’ mansion’s kitchen to grab something to eat or drink. finding klaus there chugging a bottle of alcohol, “(nickname)!” he greeted you with hands raised and a wide smile.

you only giggled at him, “don’t drink too much klaus. but hi.” you sent him a friendly and charming wink as you grabbed the loaf of bread.

“hey, that’s new.” he pointed at your left hand. “what? my rings? they’ve always been there.” he took another chug from the amber bottle. “no, no, you used to only have four. your ring finger was always nakey.” he smiled.

“what?” you took your hand out, and it was true. there was a new ring there. it didn’t look like any of the ones you used to own when you were younger, and it was gorgeous. from the white stone and the silver band, it looked exactly like ..

“that’s a beautiful engagement ring, (name).” allison commented as she walked in the kitchen to get some coffee.

you stopped your tracks. “i, i need to go.” with your eyes wide, you ran out of the room and back to five’s.

“i think she’s drinking too much.”

“shut up, klaus.”

you ran into five on your way to his room, bumping into him, “oh — (na)—“ “when?!”

you raised your left hand to his face. his face lit up, staring at the ring he planted on your finger. “do you like it?” you put the hand down, your jaw on the ground.

“five, are you fucking — i love it!” he smiled. “but, but,”

“i wanna marry you (name).” he took your hands in his own warm ones. it was warm from the coffee. and from sweating. you looked into his eyes, “you’re my best friend. and i want to marry you, before the world ends. in case it ever ends.” he added.

you only looked at him, “fives.. of course i will.”

[rastronomicals]

5:48 AM EDT April 7, 2024:

Butthole Surfers - "Sweat Loaf" From the album Locust Abortion Technician (March 1987)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

Mojo Magazine's fifth weirdest album of all time

[almostfoxglove]

AN END TO DROUGHT

written for @perotovar's offering of Frith

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Javier Peña x f!Reader GOD: Freyr God of fertility, harvests, and peace WORD COUNT: 5.4k CW: Smut (f!oral, m!oral, unprotected piv, creampie).

SUMMARY: The future of your family's homestead hangs in the balance as Javier Peña comes home in the middle of a drought.

read on ao3 | almostfoxglove masterlist

For two fortnights you’ve seen no rainfall. Not a single, silver drop. The orchard, rich with the stunted globes of pale apples not yet fully formed, withers browner every day. Leaves crisp and folded in prayer, the last-ditch desperation of dying fronds. You spend hours hauling well water to the rows of cropland on which your livelihood relies, but it isn’t enough. Each morning you wake to the sun rising phoenix-like on the horizon, hotter and more accusing than the day before.

You speak to the trees, the fledgling stone fruit, apologizing when there is no more water your body can carry, when the well runs dry. 

Six generations your family has raised apples like they raised their kin. 

Now it will die in this drought with you as its shepherd.

Hopeless in your waking, back throbbing, shoulders sore, you rise from your bed at the crack of a new dawn to the fragrance coaxed every Sunday by your mother’s slender hands. She is fragile now in that child-like way, skin thin and veins sapphire blue, hearing going, but sturdy, still, for you. Doesn’t matter that you’ve been grown for decades now, solely responsible for the farm and her mounting care—your mother bakes a pair of her grain-kissed boules every week without fail.

“There you are,” she says, when you are just two steps away. These days she cannot hear your footsteps on the stairs.

“Sit, now,” you say softly, slipping your hand over hers to take the bread knife, and with a soft tsk your mother surrenders before settling at the breakfast table.

You break bread together: salted butter swept glistening over the delicate crumb and sturdy crust, spoons of preserves canned the year before. Cinnamon and cloves, honey and stewed apples, wild pickled blueberries. It takes so long to notice the change in the air, but when you do it’s obvious—you aren’t sweating in the way you have for weeks. The house, once sweltering, has cooled ever so slightly. When you gaze out the windows into the orchard, the sky is no longer the blue you’ve come to resent, but a wash of cotton batting. 

Clouds. 

Your mother, thin wire glasses low on her nose, grins at your expression. 

“He’s home,” she says.

“Who?”

Her smirk is the same as you remember it being when you were a girl. “The Peña boy,” she says, lifting her bread slice to her mouth. “Weather always fixes itself when he comes ‘round.”

You hum beneath your breath. You can picture him only vaguely—lean and liquid, little more than a silhouette in the distance on the other side of the fence that cages your family’s property from his. His father you know better, see often. Spiced apple cider traded for horse manure or Chucho’s brawn. Twice this past winter he fixed your fence after a furious storm and asked for nothing but a loaf of your mother’s bread in return.

Javier you’ve not glimpsed in a decade give or take, if you’re remembering right. Moved somewhere south for duty’s dauntless call.

In the lullaby of easy silence, you finish your meal, rinse the dishes, and walk out into the fields with the second loaf in hand where overhead the sky is performing a miracle befitting the gods: letting out the first tender, forgiving drops of rain. Your body brightens as you watch it freckle and darken the starving, yellowed earth. 

A caw, something of a laugh, shocks loose from your chest—delight, pure in its relief.

Tracing the aisles of death-bed apple trees, you sweep your fingertips along their trunks. Water pools in the green spades turned to spoons for liquid crystal. The precipitation for which you’ve longed and begged and prayed: here, at last, to save the grange.

The rain picks up. Forceful in its abundance, peppering the sandy earth. Soon your boots stick as you walk between trees, dirt becoming mud, so you shield the boule beneath the leaf of your buttoned shirt.

At the end of the orchard, the log fence stands and the grass grows tall and clover-riddled, purple thistles starved yellow in the heat. You stride towards the fence, far beyond which the Peña house stands white and shingled, framed by the umbrellas of old oak trees that border the meadows in which their herd of equines laze back and forth, grateful as you for the merciful change in weather. It is beautiful here, though it’s easy to forget when all the season brings is wilting. 

You hear him before you see him: a quiet, clicking tongue. 

Then a mare picks up her cantor, spurred forth by Javier—indeed returned, wide in the shoulders and dark hair slicked by rain, out forty feet or so—tanned skin made gold around his eyes by yellow aviators, periwinkle shirt undone a button too low. More handsome than you remember, but it’s been a long time. 

Your mother was right: it seems he brought the rain home with him.

As you come to a stop near the fence, tall grass clinging to your calves, his head turns slowly in your direction. Jaw working over something—gum, if you had to guess. You lift your free hand, show him your open palm, and he takes a last look at the horse before sauntering your way.

Like you, he’s undisturbed by the rain. No shelter-seekers here; you’re grateful enough to bathe in any storm. Come hell or high water—isn’t that how the saying goes? You’d swim any flash flood after all this unending dearth, drink any tidal wave.

“Heard you were home,” you call out over the pebbling downpour, watching his broad hand rake through his hair. 

Much more handsome than you remember, the nearer he strides. Unhurried, Javier lifts his sunglasses off to slip into his shirt pocket and even from some way off you don’t miss the path of his brown eyes as he takes you in. Against your better judgment, the hungry stripe of his gaze flips something low in your stomach, something needy. 

He stops just shy of his side of the fence, no more than an arm’s length away, as the splatter of kind weather kicks up the earth’s perfume. 

“This morning,” he admits, his voice all gravel and mead. Low and heady, a little sweet. Not shy—his eyes drop again, this time to your stomach where you’re holding the bread beneath your shirt. Sort of useless now—the rain’s too strong to save it—so you draw it out, flashing him by accident a glimpse of your bare stomach where his gaze stays pinned. 

Then, bread rising in your hand, seeded crust glistening as it speckles wet, his eyes at last leave you to follow it. “Ma thinks you brought the rain,” you say, not bothering to hide your smirk.

The corner of his mouth pulls into his cheek. “That so?”

You shrug, loaf held like a waitress’ tray not yet offered. “Accordin’ to her.”

To your surprise you see in his eyes what appears to be timidity—perhaps bashful to be given credit for the sudden end to the wrecking drought he’s no doubt heard about. With a sweep of your arm, you present the bread in your outstretched hand and one dark brow rises high on his head. 

“Before it’s drenched,” you insist, and Javier takes it, smile lopsided and pretty. 

Above the chuffing sound of a horse grazing on the trampled grass, the sky splits like a seam and sunlight cuts through the cloud’s white cover, throwing down a ribbon of yellow that licks the stables. 

Javier tilts the bread in his hands, inspecting the ear, the crust. Flashes those dark eyes back at you, exacting and tender at the same time.

“Our way of saying thanks,” you say, already stepping backward, toward the apple trees. “Neighbor.”

The rain doesn’t stop for three days—just long enough to wash the ash of long-snuffed forest fires from the orchard’s leaves. When the sun returns whole and yolk-gold to the sky, it brings heat of a kinder type. Warm for the growing things but barbless in its licking flame. You swear in just three nights the orchard lifts itself from its stupor—broadens, stretches, unfurls new leaves. 

Your mother bakes like she’s got an army to feed and doesn’t wait till Sunday to do it. 

“Take them, take them,” she insists, as fragile in stature as she is adamant in tone. Such a small, hunched little thing. “Least we can do.”

“Ma,” you sigh, powerless to her persistence, how she rests the arched handle of a basket in your hand for you to take. “You don’t seriously think he—”

She tuts softly, shoos you with one pallid hand before re-knotting the bow of her apron behind her back. “Just be grateful,” she says. “S’only right.”

Might as well be a girl again because here you are, obedient. Carrying the basket of seeded bread across the grass, between reborn apple trees, the fragrant orchard rows that days ago seemed doomed to die. Your heart thuds, surrendering itself to gratitude. Suppose it doesn’t hurt anything to take the Peñas bread.

Javier’s out in the pasture cleaving a rotten log from a sunken fence panel with an axe. White t-shirt translucent and clinging to the muscle that banks his back, he heaves the blade down with a biting crack and a grunt. Your footsteps give you away—he straightens as you hop the fence between your properties and land on his side, halting his rhythmic swinging.

As he turns, face halved by the shadow of an oak looming overhead, eyes squinting to make you out in the light, Javier cocks an eyebrow, dimple winking in his cheek.

“Neighbor,” he says, unabashed, now, in his lingering gaze. Dark curls cling to his temples and forehead, licked by sweat, across which he wipes the back of his forearm before setting the axe down against the fence.

Growing up on adjoining farms never sowed friendship between you—you’d estimate you’ve exchanged no more than a couple hundred words in damn near four decades—but there is in Javier a certain familiarity. A sense of him fitting into the landscape, reliable as an oak always looming in the distance. As constant as these valleys and hills, as the house beyond his muscled shoulder. Never something to acquaint yourself with, but something to rely upon.

Peculiar to stand before him now—twice in the same week—exchanging words.

You hold out the basket, linen cloth folded neatly over the boules. Javier, eyeing you suspiciously, takes one cautious step toward you with his hands on his narrow hips, peering down at your offering. His eyes flicker beyond you to your house and though you don’t look back you’d bet the whole season’s harvest that your mother is standing on the porch, watching. Guaranteeing you hand off the gift as she’s asked, like you aren’t well past grown.

Amused, he hums low and quiet. “For me?” he muses, knowing the answer, and when you roll your eyes he only smirks. Pleased, maybe teasing you.

You squint at him—glistening, all sinew and bated breath. Your mother’s mind may be failing in that drawn out, terrible way—hearing fading, her logic a little swimmy—but standing this close to Javier you can’t blame the woman for mistaking him for a god. 

“Just take it,” you say, betrayed by the curl of your lips. “She won’t let me back in the house ‘till you do.”

This time as he slips the gift from your hand to his, Javier sweeps his fingertips against your open palm, sending a sparkle of heat up the length of your arm. You watch him peel the frond of cloth back, unveiling the golden tithe as you drop your arm at your side. When he inhales slow and deep you can smell it too, that redolent unfurling of warmth. Hypnotic, despite its familiarity. Hypnotic, too, is the breadth of his chest as he takes that long, indulgent breath, thin fabric slick to his damp, lithe form. 

“She really think I brought the rain?” he asks, frowning a little. Watching you like he knows you’re watching him. Each of you sizing the other up, scrambling to build opinions of someone who’s only ever been a figure across the lush trees and grass. 

Did you once lose a kite to one of their oak trees? You think you might remember a young, rawboned Javier climbing a web of gnarled branches to fish it free, delivering it safely to where you waited on your side of the fence. Yes, you can see it now—that lazy, one-sided smile on his boyish face, the sun-bleached kite, and the relief of its homecoming to your trembling hand. 

Three decades older he is no less honest in the way he awaits your reaction.

“Or she’s messing with me,” you admit. “I never know anymore.”

His scoff triggers yours—a brief, quiet chuckle in the remains of a salvaged summer. Javier shrugs and yes, you think he catches the way your eyes skirt briefly to his shoulders because his jaw ticks, cheeks hollowing as he sucks his tongue against his front teeth. He turns his head in the direction of their house, sees no sign of Chucho, same as you. A low hm sound rattles from his chest.

You’d swear the sun flares a little hotter when he returns his gaze to you.

“If it rains again,” Javier says, his voice swooping to a deeper shade. “What will you bring me?”

You cross your arms. “I think you can count on the bread indefinitely.”

“Don’t mean her—I mean you.”

Traitorous, your heart: how it speeds, skips a note or two in its once steady pattern. “I don’t think you brought the rain,” you tell him. “Just timing.”

When he narrows his eyes, his crow’s feet swallow them. Mustache quirking, pink tongue darting over his bottom lip. “Call it hypothetical,” he says, and you’re not sure if you were standing quite this close just a moment before, if one of you has moved and if so, which. 

Hunger rarely devours you in any of its forms. A life spent in service of harvests leaves little excess to spend. Yet it stirs unmistakably, low and begging, at the sound of Javier’s gruff voice and the graceful way he pins your eyes to his mouth with every tiny movement of his lips. He doesn’t have to smile for you to feel him smirking—a fact alone that feels somehow mythic in its dominion, its quiet, unassuming power. All of him marble-sleek and solid, the image of virile beauty. It almost feels like a shame to think you’ve seldom stood this close before.

You jut your chin to the sky—that blue untouched by a single cloud—and shake your head. “It’s not going to rain,” you say, steadfast in your certainty. “Not anytime soon.”

“And if it does.” He doesn’t say it like a question—rather, an inevitability—which is to say you hear his real meaning: and when it does.

Head shaking, cheeks set aflame, you once more roll your eyes, this time turning back to return to your side of the fence. Over your shoulder you call out, “If it rains this week, I’ll bring whatever you like.”

For six days there’s nothing but sun. You watch the apples blush on their branches, those first pinkish stripes that promise a red and sugared fruit. Autumn will bring spices and cider, days and weeks and months of fermentation, of watching fruit turn liquid and then to gold. This stretch of summer is make or break for the harvest to come: the right weather now can mean perfection or a crying shame.

All week you watch Javier at such a distance he appears as only a tiny, charcoal figure roaming the fields, hauling lumber and picking up the far-off slack.

Yet often when you do, you think his head looks to be already angled in your direction. Impossible to know for sure in the blazing light and with so much land between you, but you’d take that bet. You’re pretty sure he’s watching you too.

You’re sure, also, that you’re right about the weather. At the dawn of the seventh day the skies look no less blemished than they have all week. Doesn’t look at all like it’s going to rain.  To your surprise, you’re a little disappointed, but the feeling passes.

You push out into the orchards, tend to the lifelong task of keeping everything verdant and alive. Sweet is the air at this early, fragile hour in which the birds are just now waking, filling the world with their jubilee. Sky pink at the horizon, white overhead, you spend the morning gloating to no one but the trees—you were right, and Javier was wrong. He’s going to lose.

Lose what, you aren’t sure, but when midday breaks golden and ripe, Javier appears in the tall grass, hand steadied on the neck of a tobiano as he and the creature walk between gated pastures, and his face turns in your direction, catches you drinking icy cider on the porch while you catch your breath between tasks. 

This time when he catches your gaze, he lifts his free hand, forefinger spearing up at the sky. Too far to call out to each other, you have no way of asking what the gesture is for, so you step down from the croaking porch into the crabgrass and look up.

There hang, above you, newborn wisps. Clouds ashy at their bellies.

But clouds are just clouds. They aren’t rain.

The reckoning comes an hour later. 

You dismiss the first, shy drop. A fluke, a fleeting blip of your imagination. Then the second: clear and wet on your forearm. Then a third. Soon it’s unavoidable—above you gray has gathered like dust bunnies beneath a couch, the bright summer shaded by the weather’s impossible will—and the rain that falls is not a patter, not a whisper, but a stony fist fight. The kind of rain that comes sweeping and determined, that has something to prove. 

It’s like autumn has taken the stage two months too early. Childlike in its eagerness to command your attention—a downpour harsh and giving. 

You emerge at the end of an arbored aisle to see Javier cut stoic against the shaded sky just shy of the boundary between your properties, chest wide and proud, just as drenched by the onslaught of rain but not fazed in the slightest. Too cavalier to smile but its essence hangs in the air between you, silver as any raindrop, unmistakable in meaning. He nods in the direction of a stable not far from the first shelter of elder oaks and without a word or invitation lopes off toward it, so fluid in his lazy strides, legs a little bowed and no small bit solid, hugged tight by denim that might as well be painted on.

You are following before your mind can think to.

You are hopping the fence.

You are dashing for the shadowed stable after him.

Breathless, hair kelped to your cheeks, clothes more water than textile, you cannot at first make out the stable’s interior, eyes not yet adjusted to the shift in light, ears booming with its cacophony. “Okay,” you say to the darkness in which Javier must be standing, blinking fast, wiping the rain from your eyes. “You got really fuckin’ lucky. What do you want?”

Embers warm in your chest—the first fronds of new wanting. You know what you hope he’ll say.

A flash of movement as your eyes adapt: Javier’s tanned arms reaching for you. His broad hands frame your face and you are not yet surefooted as he, swept up in his sudden, steady embrace. You hear yourself laugh over the barrage outside, silenced only by the blackness in his eyes—all that warmth and brown swallowed by his pupils. Your hands cuff his wrists, holding him to holding you without hesitation. 

It should be awkward, this first real meeting of your bodies. How Javier steps up to press the length of his torso to yours, sly in the subtle turn of his lips as he breathes one quiet word: You. But it isn’t. He slots his lips to yours like kissing you is just another step in his languid stride, graceful and planned, his arms dragging you against his steady frame. The softness of his mouth a welcome surprise. Dizzy on the first swipe of his begging tongue, you’re entirely unaware of Javier walking you backward until your shoulder blades hit the stable wall.

What a gift it is to be kissed and kiss with one’s whole body. Javier licks hotly into your mouth, sucking sweetly on your tongue or bottom lip depending on his whim, hands holding you flush to the fire of him. When he moves to your jaw, the soft flesh of your ear, you are a candle never before lit, touched a thousand times wrongly and made finally right.

Javier mumbles something lost under the bellowing tempest. Every raindrop riots on the sheeted roof. 

“What?” you pant, eyelids heavy with lust. Your shirt hangs open, as does his, both unbuttoned though you’d not noticed their undoing. Now visible in the gray light is the bronze of his freckled chest, the dark hair drawn from his navel to the waistband of his jeans.

You’d stare, but Javier then laps at the hollows of your neck, drinks rain from the dip in your collarbone, and you hum softly, entranced by his touch, eyes fluttering closed. He moves his lips closer to your ear. “Perfect,” he repeats, before his mouth is lost once more to the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your chest.

Meanwhile the path of your hands draws a symphony from him: low grunts and breathy huffs and, when your fingertips trace the hair on his stomach to graze his jeans, an earthy moan sweeter than any rainfall after any summer. 

Javier cants his hips against yours like he’s making a promise.

How sublime, the wet ask of his tongue down your stomach as he falls to his knees. 

Though he—after catching your eye, fingers frozen over the fly of your shorts until you nod—is the one to strip the layers from you first, you aren’t certain which of you is the one who’s praying, only that the reverence hangs heavy as a heatwave in the humid air.

Your head falls back against the stable wall. All but the roar of the storm is lost beyond your panting bodies as Javier kneels at the altar of you, shelves one of your legs on his shoulders, and laps hungrily from your aching heat. The pledge of his mouth sucks the air from you—your hands fly to the laurel of his hair, bathed locks slipping between your fingers as you clench and throb and tug, hardly conscious of the whimpers you let out in the wake of his tending.

Dutiful, he brings you gasping to the brink of some new chasm. Tongue expert in its tracing, circling, slipping, driving. Lifts his face to smirk just before you fall, dark stache glossy with your need and eyes blown black, and perhaps you’d be annoyed if Javier looked arrogant at all, but his confidence appears to you only assured. Resolute in his wanting. As if the world would have to come to a sudden, gasping end for his concentration to falter at all.

“Like that?” Javier asks, perhaps as winded as you. Genuine, you think, in his asking, though he must know.

You’re not sure if you remember how to nod or speak, but your hips buck on their own accord, desperate for him to see this through. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, his thick fingers squeezing your hips. “Think you do.”

Then his grin vanishes as he resumes and all at once you are tumbling, swept away in a landslide and earthquake at the same time as he slips two fingers into you, coaxing a rush of pleasure into his mouth. You might cry out his name, but the sound is lost to the din of the deluge.

When next you catch your breath, Javier is standing, denim wet and straining against the swell of his length. Hesitation is no longer a word you know or hold, already greedy for his taste, so you urge your mouth to his and lap the taste of yourself from his tongue, fingers busy with freeing him, the slick peeling of his jeans. You fall without realizing you’re falling, sunken to the ground with Javier’s cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. 

He might whine when your tongue flickers sweetly against his weeping head—but there’s no mistaking the desperate groan dug loose from the earth of Javier’s chest as you bring the whole of him into the furnace of your mouth, wet and tight and willing. Your moan sends a shiver through his body, then Javier’s hand shoots out fast as a gunshot, palm slamming into the wall to keep himself from toppling. 

“Shit—” he gasps, and you look up at him through dewy lashes to find his eyes have closed, lips swollen and jaw hanging open. 

Again, you hum. Make a game of the stroke and slide and swallowing that makes him quiver until it’s too good, too good, too close baby and he pulls you off him, drool slugging down your chin. His cock aching, surely, when you nuzzle your cheek against it, tempted to take it in your throat again. But you smile as he plummets to meet you on the ground, then swoon when he lays you out on the topsoil not yet drenched by the rain. 

“Wanna feel you first,” Javier murmurs, petting the hair back from your face, lapping the spit from your chin with his tongue before he unites it with yours. Lips plush, more tender than you expect amidst his fervor, the kind of kissing you can’t help but lose yourself to. You think you’d kiss him the rest of the day, through any night. Brows pinching when he pulls away, cupping the blaze of your burning cheeks with the palm of his hand, thumb swept across your upper lip as he gazes down at you with adoration.

“Need to fill you,” he groans. “Don’t I, hm? Dime, baby.”

Thighs spread to make room for him in the bowl of your hips, you pull him over you by the shoulders until he blankets you, covering all but a sliver of the rain-rich sky visible through the stable’s entrance, and the oak tree’s canopy lashing in the fevered gale.

Is his shirt below you now, somehow? You think it must be—spread carefully to protect your needy flesh.

“Yes,” you breathe, as Javier kneels between your legs, fisting the base of his cock. “Yes, yes.”

A grin, but not of ego—he is only pleased. Pious in his watching the way breath shudders in your chest. Javier nods, brow dented low and serious, curls black with water and plastered to his face, and pumps himself once, then takes your ankles in his hands. Sets them flat on the ground, bending both your knees to frame him. Hands butterflied and wide, tracing the slant of your thighs to the bend of your hips like all of a sudden he has all the time in the world. 

Maybe you do. It almost feels like you do. 

Like this might not be a spell that breaks with the end of the rain.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

“I know,” you breathe.

With both hands Javier lifts your hips from the ground and pulls you toward him until your core presses against the underside of his cock. He hmphs, transfixed by this silken meeting, and thrusts his hips once, gently, rubbing himself between your folds. You whimper at the friction, cunt fluttering, begging. 

Javier clicks his tongue as you claw at his forearms, hips pitching in his hold to ask for more, and this time there is perhaps a drop of pride in his cunning gaze. Glad to be the one you stir for, the one you choose.

“Needs me, hm?” he coos.

You paint the air between you with his name.

“I know,” he murmurs, guiding himself to you now, nudging his tip against your clit once, twice, then notching.

Then rhapsody. The urging in and dragging out, the sweet perfection of Javier inside you, taking space that now seems like it was made for him from the start. “Fuck,” you hear yourself say, more breath than voice, and Javier grits his teeth as he feeds his cock to you slowly, throbbing and whole.

��So soft,” he grunts, resolve slipping—his hips snap against yours on the next thrust and you yelp from the bliss of it. Teeth bared above you, Javier yanks you flush against his slender hips, buried to the hilt as he tries to catch his breath. “Shit, baby.”

Thighs clamping around his waist, you writhe, plant your palms on his sternum, desperate for more. 

“Javi,” you plea, and in a flash Javier spreads his hands over your hamstrings, pins your thighs to your stomach, and bends over you, fucking you into the ground.

Your teeth bump when he moves to kiss you, then he tilts his head and it’s all saccharine again: his tongue lapping sweetly into your mouth, mustache scraping against your cupid’s bow. Like this, the angle is exquisite. So deep it’s like he’s everywhere, stretching you out and stringing you taut and Javier must feel it too because he starts to grind, the thatch of dark hair at the base of his stomach rubbing against your clit as he grazes his teeth along the underside of your jaw.

“That’s it,” he mumbles. “Damelo, baby, quiero sentirte.”

You shatter, or bloom, you can’t totally decide. Exaltation in a single moment, your whole body electric in its trembling, clenching, gasping. Javier falters only when your body comes down from its high, emboldened to move again. Folded as you are, you can only whine and moan and sparkle as he once more takes up a rhythm. Smooth and hot as cider on a cold night, his cock glistening with your need as he pulls out and presses in, patient again.

“Perfect,” he prays.

It’s possible that this is heaven.

You don’t know when it stopped, but the skies have quieted. A lick of sunlight casts into the stables and falls over the expanse of Javier’s back and shoulders as he rocks into you again and again and again. Hand weaving into the curls at the nape of his neck, you hold him to you as his pace begins to stutter.

Javier licks the column of your throat, purring against your neck, “Lo quieres, baby? Hm?”

“Yes,” you tell him, one arm winding around his shoulders. “Deep.”

He kisses you once, then pulls back just enough to watch your face, his own lust-tense and sneering as his high builds and climbs. You swipe your thumb across his bottom lip, tell him to let go, and he is beautiful—lit copper and gold by summer’s warmth as he drops his forehead to yours.

Perfect in his promise, Javier offers all to you, fills you wholly, his body tense and then unraveling. His weight drops onto you properly as he paints your cunt with his seed. When you grunt he lifts just enough to free your legs without leaving your heat, and you lock your ankles over the small of his back.

Javier nuzzles his nose to yours.

You aren’t sure how long you stay like that, but when you’re standing again, his hands guides your weakened legs back into your shorts. You button each other’s shirts instead of your own. 

Outside the stables, the earth sings petrichor, grateful for the fleeting flood. Across the fence beyond the tall grass your orchard sparkles, glittered with rain as you stand beneath the oak tree gazing out in gratitude. Javier’s hand ghosts over your spine and you feel a rash of goosebumps break out as if he’s once more touched your skin. 

His breath is warm against your hair, the apple of your cheek. “Don’t wait for rain next time,” he whispers, then slinks off regal and graceful as a wildcat, clicking his tongue to call out the horses to the pastures now marbled with loam.

It doesn’t rain again for weeks, but you go to him anyway, hopping the fence that cradles your homes to seek his arms.

moodboard by @perotovar & dividers by @saradika-graphics

tag list & some mutuals:

@thethirstwivesclub @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @hediondoamor-blog @tuquoquebrute @thundermartini

@littlemisspascal @luxurychristmaspudding @tonysopranosrobe @evolnoomym @jessthebaker

@burntheedges @studioghibelli @la-eterna-enamorada29 @goodgirlwannabe @guiltyasdave

@spacelatinos4life @sweetpascal @biggetywitch @wannab-urs @pedgito

@jolapeno @pastelpinkflowerlife @ak-vintage @rav3n-pascal22 @sixhours

[hookedonhuge]

Coach's Special Massage

Getting your big, beefy pecs groped by your coach was not how you imagined your Tuesday night. 

You were the star player of your team. You were a natural born athlete and you had the body to match it. Every muscle in your body was huge; balloons of cements that were hard as steel and looked ready to burst. It was all thanks to your dedicated exercise routine that you followed religiously for years on end.

But one day, your coach approached you and insisted that you needed a massage therapy session. Something about trying to alleviate your stress after the scandal that came to light. Something about cheating on your girlfriend with other girls. No clue which ones they were talking about. The number ‘three’ kept coming up but your team and coach must have known it was way more than that. 

To be honest, you weren’t stressed one bit, but you weren’t going to turn down a massage, that is, until you found out that it was your coach giving you the massage and not some hot masseuse. Of course, he didn’t tell you that until you were already lying down on the massage table fully naked except for a small towel that barely covered your large package. You protested but your coach was stern, he was, after all, the only person you ever listened to (and that was only some of the time). His deep voice was commanding yet calming, just the right combination to be able to get you to give up the argument. You supposed your muscles needed a good cooldown after your killer workout that day anyway.

You had never met anyone as strong as yourself, and were certain you never would. However, coach was actually quite strong too, and it was perhaps why you showed at least a little bit of respect towards him. However, having your chest fondled by his large, calloused hands was quite the role reversal for you. He pressed deep into your muscle tissue with his thick fingers, uncovering all sorts of knots in your expansive chest. It hurt but it felt amazing. 

After coach had given your pecs a thorough rub down, he moved onto your giant tree-trunk legs. It was when he was massaging your inner thigh that coach pressed down on a particularly sensitive spot in your muscles that made you wince in pain. For the first time during the session you opened your eyes and you met coach’s firm gaze by accident. Sweat dripped from his prominent brow and he was panting from exertion. You never realised how big he was. Those veiny arms, those meaty pecs, those sculpted abs, he was just a coach but he could have passed as an olympian. It shouldn’t have been a surprise that someone as strong as coach was needed to give someone as big as you a proper massage. 

Coach continued to knead your thighs like dough. He was able to make your hard muscles soft, as if he was unlocking some hidden strength inside of them that made them expand. Like a loaf of bread rising in an oven, your muscles were becoming large and fluffy in response to coach’s special massage.

He continued working his magic on your body, as he did his hands made their way further up your inner thigh. Coach’s intensity never waned and his forceful and methodical strokes continued to cause you pain. It was a beautiful, deep, healing pain that exposed a feeling of vulnerableness that was buried within you. It was uncomfortable to feel that vulnerability yet as soon as his fingers released their tight bind a reassuring warmth flooded in to replace it. That cycle of comfort and discomfort, it was overwhelming and at the same time made you completely content. 

By this point, coach was completely in control of you. You anxiously anticipated his every touch, your entire being yearning for his return whenever his hands left your body. Your emotions were connected to his fingers, as if he were a puppet master, and he graciously continued to pull your strings instead of leaving you hanging.

As coach’s hands made their way up even further up your thigh, they reached parts of your muscles that were unbearably tender. Having those spots massaged, it made your skin glisten with sweat and it laboured your breath. You felt like you were burning; you were hot, coach was hot, it was all hot. It wasn’t just hot, it was sensual.

You hadn’t realised, but the towel that was covering your crotch was ever so slowly being lifted up by some great force underneath. It was only when it slid down and landed on your impeccably toned lower abdomen that it dawned on you the effect that coach’s massage was having. 

“It’s only natural.” Coach said to you in a hushed tone. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” It was all the reassurance you needed at that moment. Coach’s hands were so far up your thighs that they were almost brushing against your heavy balls. His massage was reaching a new level of pain, and to accompany it was an equal level of pleasure.

When coach’s knuckle grazed the underside of one of your nuts, it was as if a circuit had been completed. You were electrified. The feeling of pressure on your deep muscle tissue, the feeling of the humid air blowing across your nipples, the feeling of coach’s sweat falling from his face onto your sculpted abs; it was all too much. Your manhood pointed directly to the ceiling, now displaying the full extent of its impressive length and girth.

Coach grabbed it.

His hand, a man’s hand, grasped firmly onto the base of your shaft. It was heaven. Heaven for a sinner. That’s what made it so great. The fact that it was wrong, all wrong, but right, undoubtedly right. Boiling hot skin against boiling hot skin. The fires of hell met the fires of hell, and it was heaven.

He was so slow at first. He wanted you to feel every crease and callus on his hand. Enough time for you to understand the anatomy of his hand; understand the size, power and function of each muscle in it. You learnt how each tiny pore on his palm absorbed sweat and the amazing texture it created. You might have failed biology in the past but at this moment you understood it all.

Then it got faster. It started at the head, the head that was sensitive, swollen, and begging for release. Then down every countless inch, tracking along the thick, serpentine vein that ran its length. Finally, it slammed into the base, pummelling into the spongy balls below and sprang all the way back up. It was one step performed one after the other, and it was also all at once.

Then it got even faster. It was a whole body experience. All the training, all those years in the gym, it led up to that moment. Every muscle working in unison to stop you from exploding. Your breath stopped. Your thoughts stopped. Coach stopped.

The massage resumed. It was his other hand now, and it was your balls. Your balls that were completely filled to the brim, so much so that the skin had no ability to stretch any further. Yet, coach still massaged. He pressed, he squeezed. His thumb glided to one side and the mass displaced into the other side. He was an expert.

“Your past.” His voice. Deep, calming, instructive. His words were all you needed. “Can’t be forgiven, but we can move on from that.” He tightened his grip on your balls. “You are far too good to give up on.” He started stroking the length of your shaft again. “So let’s just put all this girl stuff behind us.” He started slowly. “Instead, focus on your team. Your team of men.” Then he picked up his pace. “Men. Strong men, like me and you.” It became faster. “Men who will support you, fill all your needs.” And faster. “All your desires.” You couldn’t hold it in much longer. “Men.” You were on the very edge of your climax. “Just men.”

For the first time in your life you moaned. You moaned loud and shamelessly. It was completely contrary to the person you were before. Luckily, the person you were before is gone. When you erupted like a volcano, like a burst pipe, like a fire hydrant; nothing was left behind. Your brain had melted into a white, creamy liquid and it was shot out of you. Then it rained back down on you like a tropical shower; hot, humid, and sticky.

You were on a better path now. A path towards becoming a bigger person, both morally and physically. It was all thanks to him. Coach. He showed you the power of men that you foolishly thought you already had. You learnt that night the power of men coming together, and what a wonderful feeling it is.

[fatteenbabe]

Everything is getting so hard...

"I've gotten so far. So close to the fridge. Just a few more steps..." I think to myself, while struggling to breathe and covered in sweat. My hunger is the only thing distracting from the exhaustion in my legs, which is bordering on pain. My heart is racing, and I take the next step. I begin wheezing, and I take the next step. My vision gets eye squigglies, and I take the last step so I can prop myself up on the fridge and FINALLY catch my breath. After a few minutes, I open the fridge. My expectations of a feast fit for a queen were not let down. I (as quick as I can) start putting plates of leftover hamburger, bacon with extra butter, and a loaf of bread on the kitchen table, and for a drink I get half a gallon of whole milk. I dig in, feeling so proud that I managed to stay standing for so long. Almost 5 minutes. So much longer than I've done recently. Either way, I'm done. Once I get back to my bed I'm not getting up ever again. But that's something to worry about after second lunch. I've still got hundreds more pounds to gain.

(Based on a true story)

[finelinefae]

you & I (prince!h)

synopsis: harry is a royal in love with a serving girl

word count: 5.7k

contains: fluff , nothing crazy I don’t think

. . .

Y/N was a simple serving girl. An orphan by the age of twelve after her mother and father died of influenza, she learnt to live alone and did so graciously. She knew that there was no point in arguing with the forces of life and so she spent much of her time doing small jobs in order to buy a small something to eat in the evenings and keep a roof over her head.

"Y/N, where have you been?" Maria looked at her wide eyed with hands on her hips as she wiped the sweat from her brow.

After a long time of searching for a permanent job, Y/N met Maria at a local market in the town centre of the village. She was at her worst, begging for scraps of food or something that would stop her stomach from rumbling for at least a little while. Maria was kind enough to offer her a tangerine and a job at the Duke's mansion where she would be a serving girl for as long as she could.

She didn't earn a lot but it was enough to get by and she even managed to save up enough to buy a little cottage home outside the town where she had her very own vegetable patch and an apple tree in the front garden.

"I'm sorry Maria, I came across a stall at the market and they were selling fresh loaves of bread. I thought it would be perfect to serve for the Duke with his breakfast." She placed the brown bag on the kitchen counter and took out the loaf of bread.

"Y/N my darling," Maria shook her head, she was use to the girls antics and couldn't help but let it slide. Maria was unmarried and couldn't have any children of her own so, in her eyes, Y/N was a gift sent from heaven and she cared for her as a mother would for her own child. "Pequeña soñadora." (Little dreamer) She wiped the dirt from Y/N's cheek and kissed her forehead.

Y/N grinned and grabbed her apron off of the pegs where the other servants would hang up their aprons as well. She sat on the bench close to the back door where she replaced her small, battered, brown pumps with black, lace up shoes which has a small heel to them.

She grabbed the trays of food which would be served to the Duke for his breakfast. "And what mood is the Duke in today Anthony?" Y/N leaned over and smiled, Anthony was the Duke's servant and was always giving updates on how the Duke was acting.

"The usual my sweet," He says, "Make sure you put a few more raspberries on his pancakes, might do the trick in cheering him up." Y/N nods and carries the tray to the dining hall, Ariana and Taylor following behind her.

They two double doors creek loudly as they're opened by the doorman. Y/N curtsies in front of the Duke and Duchess, keeping her head down as she brings them their breakfast. "Your breakfast my Lord." Y/N speaks, clearly.

"Thank you Y/N." The Duke addresses her and awaits for his plate of breakfast to land in front of him. Y/N takes the plate of raspberries and pours a few more onto his pancakes just like Anthony told him too.

Suddenly, the double doors open again and the sound of clicking shoes against the marble flooring catches Y/N's attention. She looks up as she reaches to grab the pot of tea and makes eye contact with a set of piercing, green eyes.

"Good morning father, sorry I'm late." Harry Styles, son of the Duke, a Marquess, enters the room and sits down in his usual spot opposite his mother.

"And what is your excuse this time boy?" The Duke responded, Y/N's body temperature changing from being so close to the Marquess.

"It was a perfect morning for hunting, took Banksy out with me and went out into the forest." Y/N pours tea into the Duke's mug before walking over to Harry, her pulse raising with every step she took.

"Did you catch anything?" The Duke feasted on his breakfast as he spoke, food getting caught in his greying moustache.

As Y/N poured the tea, her heart hammered against her chest when she felt Harry move his hand to brush against hers. She had a steady hand but was close to pouring the hot tea all over him.

She looked down at Harry who was still looking at his father, pretending the interaction didn't happen but she knew exactly what he meant by it.

"Will that be anything more my Lord?" Y/N asks, it was usual protocol.

The Duke says nothing and waves her off, giving her the signal to leave. Y/N leaves the dining room but doesn't hesitate to turn back and glance over at Harry who's already smiling right back at her.

Breakfast was over and Y/N was given a five minute window before she had to help make lunch. She reached for her coat and wrapped it around herself, looking over her shoulder before walking outside through the back door.

Once she had reached her destination, she looked around and was elated to see the head of brown curls walking towards her. His lean, long legs walking hastily knowing she had such a short amount of time to talk.

Without a moments hesitation, he picked her up and spun her around in his arms, a giggle eliciting from her lips. "Oh my beautiful girl." He grins, happiness apparent in his appearance. "How has it been just little under twenty four hours since I last saw you yet I have missed you ever so much?"

Y/N bites her lip, she could already feel her cheeks aching from a want to smile at his words. "I missed you too Harry." She leans forward and pecks his cheek but he shakes his head, leaning into her and placing his lips onto hers.

"I'd die happy, right here with you." He pulls away and looks at her so deeply into her eyes.

Y/N frowns, her mind was always plagued over the fact that her love with Harry was forbidden. She was a mere serving girl in a house that belonged to Harry's father and would soon belong to him.

"What's wrong baby?" Harry rubs his thumb under eye, feeling her skin beneath his touch.

Y/N nuzzles her cheek against his hand, "Do you ever wonder what life would be like outside these walls?" She murmurs, admitting her desires all of a sudden.

"What do you mean?" He looks at her confused.

"Harry you know there is no possibility for us to be together within this kingdom. Your father is a royal and you are too, as much as you hate to admit it," The more she spoke, the more Harry grew frustrated by her words because as much as he detested the true state of their relationship, he also knew it was true. "But out there my love, there is so much for us, so much we can do. I've seen it."

Harry knew of Y/N's past, she had told him once on a night she would never forget. The night they had their first kiss under the stars in the garden that she adored spending so much time in.

"What are you suggesting?" He knew what she was suggesting but he also knew his little love was so full of dreams and it hurt him knowing she had no way of reaching them considering her class.

She felt her lips turn downwards slightly but she tried to smile, her expression bittersweet knowing she was off in one of her daydreams again. "I'm not suggesting anything Harry, it's merely a dream I have. I know your duty lies here with the Duke and you will live out your life in this mansion where you will marry a rich, beautiful woman and have plenty of children who you will pass the name down to. Whilst I, a poor serving girl, will be at your side until my last dying day."

She tried to pull away from him, the words upsetting her no matter how true they were. She felt Harry grip onto her arm softly, not wanting to hurt her but wanting her to stay. "My sweet girl what on Earth are you talking such nonsense for?" He spoke, "You know I've never wanted to be Duke and the only beautiful woman I will marry is you. You and I will have plenty of children which we will pass our name down to and we will be at each others side for eternity, long after death."

Y/N smiled at his words, imagining the life she could have if his words ever came to life, but they couldn't. "Harry-"

"Baby," He interrupted her, "run away with me."

Her lips parted in shock at what he was suggesting. She shook her head in much disbelief.

"You have no idea what you are saying." She speaks as if she wasn't suggesting it a few minutes ago.

"Oh I know exactly what I'm saying," He smiles, cheekily and pulls her into his embrace.

She looks up at him, resting her head on his shoulder as she whispers into his ear, "The life you'll live Harry, it's nothing like it is here. There are no servants waiting on you and serving you three meals a day. We may not know if we'll even get breakfast let alone supper and we'll have to run away from the village. You'll be missing and the Duke will have no one to give his title to, the Styles name ending with him. Think about this."

"My love I have spent many nights thinking about this, I spend all my nights dreaming of a life with you where we don't have to sneak around to be together. We can live somewhere far away where I can touch you," He runs his fingers down her arm and goosebumps arise, "Feel you," He whispers so close into her ear and digs his fingers into her waist and she gasps but doesn't halt his actions, "Worship you." He kisses the spot under her ear.

"You'd give it all up for me?" She wonders, in awe of the man she was falling in love with.

"I'd give up my life for you." His lips brush against hers, moving in closer to get a kiss from her.

"Y/N?" Maria called from the kitchen.

Y/N pulls away from him, knowing her five minutes were up and she had no choice but to go back and help the other servants. "Your leaving already?" Harry sighs, holding onto her hand so tightly she couldn't let go.

"Lunch is soon to come around so I have to help out in the kitchen." She wished she had more time to spend with him. "Are you still coming over tonight?" She had been excited about tonight considering she and Harry had been planning it for the last two weeks. He was planning on coming to her cottage since the Duke was leaving after lunch for formal duties at the crown court. He wouldn't be back until the morning which gave Harry much opportunity to sneak away and visit her in her little cottage.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world baby." He kisses her passionately before she can leave.

"I love you Harry." She whispers.

"I love you more and don't forget about what I said." He calls after her as she runs back to the kitchens.

She walks in through the back door in a daze, holding her hands to her heart and looking up at the ceiling. Being with Harry always felt like a dream.

She could feel someones eyes on her and looked forward to see Maria glaring at her. She shook her head after they made eye contact, "Estas entrando en aguas peligrosas pequeña soñadora." (You’re entering dangerous waters, little dreamer)

Y/N bit her lip and brushed her off. She knew what she was doing by being with Harry but she wouldn't give him up. She had done that far too much throughout her life and she wanted to be selfish just this once.

Lunch came about quicker than expected and the kitchen was already starting to get hectic as the servants plated up the food for each member of the family. Y/N was preparing the wine which she was going to serve and listened as Maria spoke to the other servants.

Anthony came in to alert everybody that the family were already waiting for their food and everyone picked up the trays of food. Y/N smiled, feeling giddy about seeing Harry after the conversation they had this morning.

The doors opened and she could already see him sat in his usual seat beside his father and opposite his mother. Y/N realised they had caught them mid conversation, her ears perking up to hear what they were talking about.

"Harry, are you prepared for the ball this Saturday night?" The duchess asked, a smile overcoming her features.

"In all honesty mother, it's barely crossed my mind." Harry sighs, his eyes glued to Y/N as she pours the wine in the duchess' glass.

"Well I've had Gerald go to the town to buy your garments. We need to looking spectacular since it's the perfect opportunity to find you a bride."

A loud thud catches the family's attention, their eyes diverting to Y/N who's picking up the jug of wine she had dropped on the floor. "I'm so s-sorry My Lord and Lady." She curtsies, apologising to them profusely.

"It's perfectly alright dear." The duchess places a hand on her to calm her down.

She ignored Harry's eyes on her as she got back to serving the wine. "I've already told you mother, I will do no such thing as finding a bride." He speaks.

"Nonsense Harry," It was the Duke's turn to speak, "We all agreed you would find a bride before the sixth month which is vastly approaching."

Y/N could feel her heart slowly breaking, Harry had never mentioned any of this to her. The sixth month was only a month away which meant they had little to no time in finding a bride.

"You cannot force me to marry father." You could hear the tension in Harry's voice as he tried to control his anger.

The Duke scoffs, "I think you'll find that I can because I am your father and above that the Duke. You are a Marquees Harry, you will be taking my title and carrying on the bloodline so, yes, I can force you to marry."

The servants were trying to go about their business knowing of the rise in tension in the room but Y/N couldn't ignore what was going on. Harry was going to find a bride and he didn't tell her of the short amount of time he had to find one.

"You and mother have always said to marry for love - I cannot force myself to fall in love with somebody." The Duke ignores Harry's words so he looks to his mother for help but she shakes her head, trying to stop him from angering the Duke even further.

Harry looks over at Y/N again, he knew she was hearing every word the family was saying and his heart felt heavy when he noticed the glassy look in her eyes as she kept her head down to avoid him.

Unable to control his rage, he hits his closed fist against the table, the entire thing shaking and startling everyone around him. "I have done so much for both of you, taken part in every duty you have signed me up to when you both know I'd rather die than keep my title. The least you could do is accommodate my one desire of refusing to marry someone I do not love." He spits, eyes filled with fury at both his parents.

The room is filled with an eerie silence with nothing but Harry's heavy breathing as the servants stand away from the table to one side, keeping their heads down.

Finally the Duke looks up at Harry, "You will be at the ball this Saturday night boy." Harry doesn't bother staying to hear the rest, he stands up and storms out of the room. The Duchess turns to the servants and apologises in a flustered state at the actions of her son.

Lunch was over before it had even begun and the servants had no choice but to clear up the plates which were still loaded with uneaten food. "Unbelievable." Ariana muttered under her breath, it was never fun when they had slaved away in the kitchen only for their food to go un-eaten.

Y/N was too far in her own head to respond, trying to mentally heal the heartbreak she was feeling after the whole ordeal at lunch. She carried the cups away with her and left the room to deliver them to the kitchen.

As she was about to turn the corner, she felt a tug on the end of her dress and was startled to see Harry, sympathy in his eyes. She could tell by the look on his face that he wanted her to follow him and, as much as she tried to fight herself, she followed him.

Harry pulled her into a vacant room that wasn't often used regularly. Y/N stood with her arms crossed waiting for him to talk. He paced back and forth and Y/N made no effort to calm him down even though she could see the torment across his features.

He finally looks at her, "Can I kiss you please?"

Y/N doesn't get the chance to say anything before he walks over and cups her face in his hands, kissing her lips. Y/N melted into him like she did every time. No matter what was going on between them, he never failed to make her feel so wanted and that was something she never often felt growing up.

But she couldn't deny the incessant reminder in her head that even though she was wanted now by him, she may not be in the future. After Saturday night he could make someone feel the exact same way and she refused to put herself in a situation like that.

"Harry," She pulled away, "Don't come over tonight." She hadn't even realised she had started crying until she wiped away a stray tear from her face.

She forced herself out of his embrace and turned away from him. She could hear him calling her name from behind. However, she knew Harry was stubborn so she had no choice but to be the one to walk away.

It was for the best. They had both always known that their relationship was doomed from the very beginning and now was the time to accept that.

Y/N walked home in the dark after a hard day at work. She carried a whicker basket with a loaf of bread inside that Maria had kindly sneaked her after supper was served in the evening. Considering the day she had, she was glad to have a little something to look forward to.

At the sight of her tiny cottage, her shoulders relaxed. She was so happy to finally be at home and away from everywhere else where she had time to think to herself. She immediately walked to the kitchen to heat up the loaf of bread and prepare a vegetable broth to have for dinner.

As she was about to add in her chopped carrots, a knock sounded at the door. Her eyebrows furrowed when she tries to this of who could be here at this time of day. She walked to the front door and held her ear to it in hopes it would give her an idea of who was there but it was impossible to make out any sound.

"Y/N it's me." Her breath caught in her throat when he spoke, her mind dividing her opinion of whether or not to open it for him. "I just want to talk to you, I-I want to explain everything and I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier but you have to believe me when I tell you all of this is what my father wanted... All I want is you."

Y/N was holding onto the door knob as she listened to him speak until one choice outweighed the other and she opened the door to reveal a sad looking Harry. He was a disheveled mess, his hair all over the place like he'd been running his fingers through it over and over in frustration.

Despite the flash of guilt that came to her, she stood her ground, crossing her arms and glaring at him. Harry couldn't help but grin as she tried her best to look angry, he knew she wouldn't hurt a fly. "You're so cute." He says, not caring how angry she was. He was always going to compliment her no matter what mood she was in.

"Did you follow me?" Y/N wondered, he had never been to her home before which was why tonight was so exciting for them.

"Maybe or maybe I asked Maria." He shrugged. "Can I please come in?"

Y/N wanted to keep him outside so he wouldn't think she'd forgive him so easily for not telling her about the deal Harry had with his parents but she was cold and tired and her soup was still on the stove. So, she moved to the side and allowed him entry.

Harry's face softened and he thanked her as he passed by. Y/N released a sigh and lead the way to the kitchen where she walked to the stove and went back to making her soup. "Your home is perfect, exactly how I thought it would be." Harry speaks, admiring the simplicity and cosiness of the home, wishing he had something remotely similar.

"Exactly how you thought it would be?" She wonders, smiling to herself since her back was to him.

"Mhm," He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, she couldn't help but sink into him. "Soft and pink." He murmured, "I'm sorry Y/N. I know I should have told you about the whole thing with my mother and father but I never thought it mattered when my plan has always been to run away with you."

Y/N turned around in his embrace and looked at him confused, "What are you talking about?"

"Baby, since the day I met you you had me wrapped around this tiny little finger," He held up Y/N's hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips before placing it to his cheek so he could feel her soft skin, "I've always had dreams of running away with you, living a life of simplicity with just the two of us and maybe a few little ones too." He placed his hand on her belly and butterflies swarmed under his touch.

"You're crazy, you heard what your father said Harry. Maria likes to call me a little dreamer but she has yet to meet you," She pushed him away and turned back around to take the soup off of the stove.

"Why do you act like this isn't something you dream of as well." Harry was starting to get annoyed with people telling him that what he desired wasn't achievable.

"Of course I have dreamt of running away with you many times and-"

"The let's do it," He steps in front of her, picking up both of her hands in his, "Let's leave this place and be together."

She could see the true desperation in his eyes and she wanted nothing more than to say yes, "W-we can't."

Harry stepped away, "Why? Why can't we?"

Y/N looked at him and felt the flood gates fall open, tears running down her cheeks, "Because I am in love with you Harry." She confesses, having never confessed it before, "I am so in love with you my heart could burst and it's that exact reason I have no choice but to give you what's best. Maybe in another life, where class wasn't important and being poor was no longer a cause of death, we could be together but I love you so much and I want nothing more than for you to have everything you need."

Harry was speechless. "Y/N," He reached for her, pulling her into his chest as she cried. He touched her so delicately, looking into her eyes and seeing the love and heartbreak twirling around together in an achingly beautiful dance. "I love you too."

She sobbed even harder and kissed him on the lips, "Thank you for loving me so strongly my love but you have to understand, I don't want to be the next Duke. Not because of you or anyone else, it's a feeling I've had for as long as I can remember. My whole life I've been told what to do by my father and mother but you were the only person who saw me as something other than a Marquees. You've been the only thing I've needed to know I need to take control over my own life and so I need you to run away with me. Please, Y/N."

Y/N had been fighting hard for so long, knowing what was best for him and knowing how many problems this would cause if she were to say yes. She was tossing between her mind and heart but her heart was always going to win, it always did. "When?" She whispers.

Harry exhaled, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. He kissed her so fiercely, harder than he had ever done before. They were finally going to get what they had both dreamt of, "Tonight. I've already told Maria and she's asked her husband to get us as far away from here as possible."

"You spoke to Maria about this?" Y/N was surprised Maria knew this was happening and even more surprised she was willing to give them money for their escape.

"It was the only way for me to know where you lived." Harry confessed. "You'll have to leave all this behind but we'll find a home and make it ours."

Y/N's heart warms. The soup was long forgotten about now as she ran about packing a small bag of her most valuable possessions to take with her.

Harry nodded in reassurance at her and lead her outside where he already had a horse waiting for them. It would be their main source of transport until they could got to the harbour where a boat would be waiting to take them away.

"Are you sure of this Harry?" She wanted to double check before they carried out the life changing decision.

"I've never been so sure of anything in my life." Harry says and helps her onto the horse. She glances back at her cottage. It was bittersweet leaving it behind, it was the first home she purchased in her whole twenty three years of living after being homeless but now she was going to be living somewhere new with Harry and money wasn't something she had to worry about for the time being considering Harry had bought a few valuables of his own for them to sell in order to start their new life.

They reached the harbour just as the sun was starting to rise. Y/N jumped off the horse and ran over to Maria who was arguing with her husband over something to do with the safety of the boat. Maria opened her arms when she noticed Y/N running towards her, "mi pequeño soñador." Maria teared up, "Be safe my love and don't forget to write to me."

Y/N nodded, crying with Maria who had been the only person before Harry who had always been there for her. Maria's husband was going to be taking them to the next border so they would be far enough to find somewhere to hide away.

"Baby," Harry reached out for Y/N's hand as he stood on the boat waiting for her.

"Thank you Maria for everything." Y/N cried and took Harry's hand, glancing back at Maria.

She waved to her as the boat began to sail away. She was sat in-between Harry's legs with her back against his chest, "I love you." He whispered, kissing her cheek.

"I love you too." Y/N responded, looking out at the sunrise feeling excited for her bran new life.

. . .

Four Years Later.

The sun shone through the window as it began to rise. Y/N felt the warmth from the sun rays hit her bare back as she lay in bed in the softest, white sheets. Harry ran a finger up and down her spine as he watched her sleep.

He pressed his lips to her bare shoulder and up her neck, "Are you hungry sweet girl?" He whispered.

Y/N smiled and nodded her head, slowly opening her eyes and meeting his green ones. Before Y/N had the chance to reply, the door to their bedroom creaked open and in waddled a their little baby.

"Mmmmaama!" Marie squealed, wearing nothing but a pullover around her waist. She was three years old but looked a year younger, she was born pre-mature and since Y/N was already quite small, Marie was tiny.

Harry's head fell onto Y/N's bare chest as he let out a groan, wanting time with his beautiful wife which was very rare considering they had a very clingy toddler.

"Dada no!" Marie tried to crawl onto the bed, clinging onto the blankets in a tight fist to try and pull herself onto the bed.

"C'mere Ri Ri," Harry chuckled, picking her up and placing her between Harry and Y/N.

"Maaamaaa!" Marie squealed and reached for her mother.

"Good morning little dove." Y/N kissed her chubby cheeks.

Harry smiled, he loved watching his girls interact together. "Hey Ri Ri, wanna come with dada to pick some fruit from the garden?"

Marie squealed, not really understanding what her father had said but agreed with him anyway. "Let's go cherry, let mama get dressed." He kissed Y/N on the forehead before grabbing the baby.

This was their life now.

They had ran away together four years ago and it was the best decision either of them could have made. For a while, both Y/N and Harry struggled to make a life for themselves. They were staying in a small hut as Harry went to work on a farm whilst Y/N worked at a local food shop.

They were so close to giving up in that moment but Harry was prepared to keep his promise of the life they both desired. They ended up travelling further down south after saving up enough money to buy a permeant place to live where they found a small cottage.

After a while, Harry had found a job on a job which gave him enough money to get by. Y/N also had a small job working three days a week at a hat shop but a year later she fell pregnant with Marie so for now she was only working twice a week.

There was no word on what happened to the Duke after Harry's disappearance. Both Y/N and Harry tried their best to avoid any talk of the Duke and Duchess but it didn't stop them from hearing rumours in their local town.

Y/N got dressed into one of her favourite dresses Harry had bought her for her birthday two years ago. She put on her boots to go outside where she saw Harry, wearing nothing but black trousers and boots as he held Marie who was now dressed into something besides her pullover.

She walked over to them and pressed her hand to Harry's bare back, catching his attention. Marie was picking apples off of the apple tree that had even planted in their back garden before they had bought the house.

Marie held up the apple to Harry, "That looks perfect Ri Ri," She giggled and put the apple in the brown basket.

"Marie decided we were going to have pancakes with fruit for breakfast." Harry updated Y/N.

"Oh that sounds wonderful." Y/N kissed Marie and then stood on her tiptoes to kiss Harry.

"You look beautiful." Harry says, his compliments never failing to make her blush. "Can we have another baby?"

Y/N laughed but he was completely serious about it, "Harry-"

"Let me put a baby in you." He pouted, "It'll be fun!"

"Fifteen minutes for nine months of pain? Sounds like fun to me," Her pregnancy with Marie was really difficult and swore her off having kids for the rest of her life.

“You know it’s a lot longer than fifteen minutes thank you very much.” He pinches her sides, "I won't force you because I know it's your body, m’love but just know whenever your ready I'll be right here to fulfil your wishes." He smirked and Y/N nudged him.

"Mamaa look!" Marie held out her chubby hand that was full of raspberries.

"Wow dove! Can mama try one?" She crouched down and opened her mouth for Marie to place a raspberry. "Delicious." She hummed and Marie giggled.

Y/N stood up and looked to Harry, "Maybe we can have another baby."

Harry grins, "I'll call Estella." He says, referring to Marie's babysitter.

He wraps one arm around Y/N's waist as they both stand and watch Marie picking berries in the home they dreamt of having together. He kissed her forehead, "I'm glad you ran away with me." He speaks softly into her ear, happy with the life he finally got to choose.