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A Lawn-Mowing Fantasy (female)


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I started thinking about, well, allergies to freshly cut grass, and got a bit carried away, so here's a stream-of-consciousness-fantasy/drabble :twisted:  Oneshot, obviously. 

Cross-posted from tumblr. 


Picture this cutie mowing the lawn. She’s wearing a pair of tight shorts showing off her long, slender legs, a nice low-cut tank top - maybe without a bra underneath - and her hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, but strands coming loose and hanging in her face. She is flushed from the exercise and the sun alike, a drop of sweat running down her neck and down between her breasts. The washed-out black top looks more dark grey than black, but where it sticks to her sweaty skin it darkens to its original shade. The scent of freshly cut grass hangs heavy in the hot air, a nice, summery fragrance, but one that makes her nose prickle. 

She has read all the tips for hayfever sufferers, don’t mow the lawn yourself (she has to, who else would do it?), wear a mask (she forgot, like she always does, and now is too determined to just get it over with asap), be properly medicated in advance (well, duh, she’s not an idiot! She just kinda... forgot that too..), but it doesn’t change the facts, the lawn must be mowed, she must do it, and she’s really fucking allergic. 

Her throat is dry and itchy. Her eyes have that sandpapery feeling to them, but they’re also watering constantly and she has to blink away a veil of allergic tears to be able to see where she’s going. Her nose is running too, and she keeps letting go of the mower with one hand to either rub her nose trying to convince the itch to keep calm, or wipe moisture from her upper lip and then wipe it off on her shorts. Messy and disgusting, perhaps, but she really doesn’t care right now. 

That prickle travels higher up her nose with each unavoidable sniffle, and she can’t really fight it any longer. A quick, watery-eyed glance in each direction just to make sure none of her neighbours are outside to witness this little show, and then she just gives in to the inevitable and sneezes openly, straight ahead, an impossibly wet sneeze where every droplet is illuminated by the sun, even creating that rainbow effect for a moment. 

That sneeze was very wet even for her, and she’s always a rather wet sneezer. It also unleashed the flood; now her nose is dripping with watery liquid, and she stops for a moment, looks around again to make sure nobody is looking, and brings the lower part of her tank top up to her face and wipes the mess off. This move exposes her stomach for a couple of seconds, but this wouldn’t embarrass her too much if anyone saw. What embarrasses her is the size of the wet spot when she lowers the fabric again. And the desperate, overwhelming need to sneeze. 

The scent of freshly cut grass is very pleasant – unless you’re as allergic to grass as she is, because then the pleasantness of the scent is brutally overridden by the sensation of inhaling tiny needles. Her breath begins to hitch in a buildup to what’s promising to be a desperate, itchy, juicy sneezing fit, but all she can do is to mentally surrender herself to her hayfever. 

It wins every time.  


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