#custom house drafting | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jobean12-blog · 2 years ago

Text

Perfect Kind of Trouble

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 4,566

Summary: You’re new to the neighborhood and you’ve landed a great job bartending at one of the local spots. So far it’s been a good change and things are going smoothly, that is, until Bucky Barnes, the neighborhood’s most eligible bachelor, walks into your bar and sets his sights on you.

Author’s Note: I love the idea of Bucky chasing after a girl who gives him a run for his money! Hope you enjoy! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Dividers by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!🥰

Warnings: Lots of fluff, flirting, tension, Bucky might be a bit possessive but in a good way and he definitely goes for what he wants and that’s you, some sass in there, Bucky is protective too :) and Nat is the best wingman ever!

“Oh my god, he’s here.”

You stop drying the glass in your hand and go stiff, side eyeing your friend Nat.

“Who Nat?”

She doesn’t answer and instead slides closer to you, leaning her head toward your ear.

“Bucky Barnes.”

“Who?” you ask again, starting to crane your neck to look.

“Don’t!” she snaps then instantly softens her tone. “Just meet me in the back in two minutes and don’t make it look suspicious.”

You give her a tiny nod and go back to your work on the glasses but you can feel the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. You can feel his stare.

“Ok. What the hell is up with you?” you ask when you shut the door to the back room.

She’s pacing back and forth and it’s making you nervous but when she meets your eyes you relax slightly at the smile on her face.

“Bucky Barnes,” she repeats.

“Yeah? And? I have no idea who that is!”

“Of course you don’t!” she muses. “You wouldn’t know because you only moved here a few weeks ago.”

“Righttt…so, who is he?”

“Just the perfect man.”

“How do you know?”

“Everyone knows.”

You quirk your brow and cross your arms over your chest.

“Well, everyone who lives in the neighborhood,” she laughs.

“If he’s so perfect I’m sure he’s married with two point five kids, a dog and a house with a white picket fence.”

“There are no white picket fences in Brooklyn babe,” she says. “And you’d think that but he’s been a bachelor for as long as we know him.”

“Then he’s probably a player and an asshole!” you state.

“I mean sure, all the women, and men, talk about how hot he is and how much they want a shot and boy do they try but as far as I know he doesn’t date.”

“I don’t get it,” you say.

“Me neither!” she agrees. “But he hasn’t been at this bar in forever…”

“Maybe he wanted a change of scenery?” you say with a shrug.

“OR MAYBEEEEEEEE,” she starts, her grin growing. “He heard there’s a new girl in town and he’s here to see you!”

“You’re insane! And he sounds like a player to me.” you huff. “I’m going back to work. Come on, you have to point him out to me. I at least want a look.”

“I won’t need to. You’ll know who he is…”

At her wistful tone you roll your eyes, pushing open the door and walking out with determined steps.

When you hit the bar you discreetly scan the seats. You don’t see anyone that stands out, mostly just the usual crew that shows up on a Saturday night for four-dollar drafts.

A customer calls you over and you head in his direction with a smile. You’re just greeting him and taking his order when you feel that familiar heat at your back, your skin tingling.

Once you’ve got the drink order you turn toward the bar only to lock eyes with the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. It momentarily stops you in your tracks and if it weren’t for Nat lightly bumping your shoulder and whispering, “told ya so,” you would stay rooted to the spot to stare.

Instead you blink several times and look away, trying to remember what drink you’re supposed to make.

When you’ve finished making it you deliver it to the customer and try to take another peek down the bar.

“I’m not taking his drink order,” Nat singsongs when she comes to stand beside you. “That’s all you.”

Your mouth falls open and you give her a glare with narrowed eyes. She just smiles brightly and sashays to the other end of the bar to take another order.

With a huff of annoyance you square your shoulders and turn toward Bucky. As you approach him his eyes light up with his smile.

“Hi, what can I get you?”

He returns your greeting and sticks his hand out.

“I’m James Barnes but you can call me Bucky.”

You wipe your hand on the towel at your side and shake his. The shock of electricity at his touch doesn’t seem to be one sided when you feel the slight squeeze from his hand. You introduce yourself, hoping you don’t come off as confused at his direct attention.

“Apparently you’re rather popular around here?”

It comes out as a question and he chuckles.

“Don’t believe anything you’ve heard,” he says with a wink.

“So what about a drink?” you ask, focusing on doing your job.

He orders and before he can say more you rush off to fix his drink. You drop it off with nothing more than a smile and move toward the next person who calls for your help.

As you’re making your next few drinks you notice Nat chatting with Bucky and you can’t help but wonder what they’re saying.

You move back and forth behind the bar, trying to ignore the feel of Bucky’s eyes, but he finally catches your attention and waves you down.

“Another?” you ask.

“Sure doll, thanks.”

While you’re pouring his drink he tries to keep you engaged.

“So Nat told me you’re new to town?”

“Yeah, moved here at the end of last month.”

“Do you like bartending better here in the city?” he asks.

You look down at the bar and scold with a single name.

“Nat.”

Bucky leans in. “Don’t be mad. She’s just trying to help me out.”

You lean in too, elbows on the bar and your head tilted his way.

“You usually need help? From what I’ve heard you can have your pick of anyone.”

At the slight scrunch of your nose he can tell you’re not saying it with a positive tone.

“Not my style. I’m pickier and right now, I need all the help I can get because I think I’m in real danger of striking out.”

His eyes drop to your lips and when they turn up every so slightly he relaxes.

“What is your type?” you ask. “Maybe I can help you out too.”

He scans you slowly and the proceeds to describe you perfectly, the tension building in the inches between you with his every word.

You steel yourself and lift your chin. “Does that usually work?”

“It’s not a line. Meant every word doll face.”

“Do you use these endearments on all the girls? I bet they love it.”

“Nuh uh,” he answers adamantly.

You nod, looking completely unconvinced.

Nat reappears at your side. “You have no idea how much I hate to interrupt this, but I need three long island iced teas at table four or they’re gonna have a hissy fit.”

You straighten yourself. “Oh sorry! Of course. I’m on it.”

You’re busy for the next forty-five minutes but Bucky never leaves his spot and every time you meet his eyes they are heavy with intention as they follow your every move. You can feel them, the heat singing every inch of your skin.

At least two women have approached him at the bar but they both walked away after a few minutes of mundane conversation and lack of interest on his part.

As much as you hate to admit it you can’t help but steal glances at him too, though you try to keep them quick and subtle.

He’s broad shouldered in the tight tee shirt he’s wearing, his biceps on full display under the stretch of the fabric and his dark hair is loose at his shoulders. His full lips are framed by a dark scruff that also covers his cheeks and is peppered with patches of gray.

Your fingers mindlessly caress the glass you’re holding before you catch yourself and look away.

You drop off another glass of whiskey with a smile and he nurses it, shooting you a cocky half smirk when he catches you staring at him. It’s like the intense silence is some sort of foreplay.

Feeling his gaze along your skin, drinking you in and driving you wild, you do your best to keep up with orders.

When things start to slow down and customers go home, you finally make your way back toward Bucky, drawn to him, despite your best efforts.

“Couldn’t avoid me anymore?”

“I wasn’t really…”

The words taper off at the sharp lift of his eyebrow.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Apology accepted,” he smirks. “So, do you have plans when you get off?”

You don’t answer, instead fiddling with his now empty glass. He lays his hand on the bar, his fingers just an inch form yours.

“Are you really gonna ignore my question doll?” he chuckles.

His fingers slide closer and he brushes his thumb over your knuckles, gauging your reaction. You giggle at his second question and his eyes drop to your mouth as he licks his own lips.

You’re almost lost in the bubble but then the world outside comes roaring back into focus when you hear Nat yell “last call.”

“Work…I still have to work.”

His lips part on an exhale but he let’s you go.

You rush around the bar first, clearing glasses and debris before heading over to one of the tables where three guys sit in conversation.

Distracted, you lean over the table, trying not to interrupt them. But the blonde closest to you runs the back of his hand up your arm.

It makes you cringe.

“Hi there,” he says.

“Hey,” you answer coolly, shifting away from him.

One of the blonde’s friend gives you an apologetic look, scolding Rob before he hands you one of the empty glasses that’s far out of reach. You reach for it and as soon as your fingers wrap around it, Rob grabs your hips and yanks you into his lap.

You drop the glass to the floor and it shatters before you push against his chest, loudly yelling, “what the hell?”

Rob starts to speak but you’re suddenly lifted in the air and whirled around then planted gently on your feet behind Bucky’s broad back.

Bucky now has Rob’s tee shirt fisted in one hand as he gets in his face.

The bar goes silent and the next thing you hear is the low growl of Bucky’s order. “Don’t touch.”

Bucky slowly lowers Rob’s feet to the floor, keeping a careful eye on him. His eyes narrow a split second before Rob bellows, “motherfucker!”

The asshole rears back and punches Bucky clean in the jaw.

You gaps in horrified shock, but Bucky grins, his tongue peeking out to test his lip and you can’t help how your eyes linger there.

“You threw the first punch shithead,” Bucky says before winding back and punching Rob in the gut.

All the guys now rush toward their friend, muttering curses at him as they drag him to his feet and eye Bucky warily.

The owner of the bar, and your boss, Barry, comes over and gets in their faces. “Get out and don’t come back!”

They drag their belligerent friend out as quickly as they can, apologizing to you, or maybe Bucky, the whole way.

“What just happened?” you ask, your voice quiet.

Bucky steps close to you, his knuckles brushing over your cheek, light as a feather.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes are filled with emotions. Worry, fury, fear, and tenderness.

“I think so. That was just…crazy.”

Nat wraps her arm around your shoulders comfortingly. “Let’s go get Bucky some ice, ok?”

You glance down at Bucky’s hand, puffy and red.

“Oh no,” you say, gently taking his hand in yours.

He smiles. “It’s fine. Been there, done that.”

You watch him go back and sit at the bar, most of the other customers now cleared out. When you come back out with the ice and ointment your gentle, “you okay?” pulls him from his musings.

“Yeah, no big deal. As long as you’re okay?”

You sit next to him, resting his hand on your thigh and carefully pressing the ice to his knuckles. He stares at his hand on your skin.

“I don’t know if okay is how I would describe how I’m feeling right now…that was…”

Your words trail off when you can’t find a suitable label for the last ten minutes.

“Sexy?” he suggests, deadpan.

Your jaw drops open in offense.

“What? NO!”

He breaks and his lips spread wide in a grin.

You deflate and bump his shoulder, not trying to hide your own smile.

“Seriously though,” you say, shaking your head. “You didn’t have to…why did you do that?”

He looks at you evenly, his voice soft. “Look I’m not some crazy guy who goes around lookin’ to beat people up doll face. But you shouldn’t have to put up with shit like that. I’m sure that wasn’t the first time that piece of shit has pulled a stunt like that, but hopefully next time, he’ll have some decency and sense before laying hands on a woman without an explicit invitation.”

“Well in that case…that’s pretty nice.”

He scoffs with a lopsided smile and his eyes drop to your lips; his hand still pressed to your thigh. His head tilts and he leans in slightly, watching your lips part. He curls his fingers around your thigh but winces at the pull on his knuckles.

You see it and pull back, looking down at his hand.

“Let me get you fixed up.”

Once you have him bandaged up he whispers, “thanks,” still staring at his hand held in yours.

“You ready to go, or do you need to close up first?”

His question is light.

“Go where?”

“Out with me. Ice cream? A walk? Anything you want.”

“It’s the middle of the night. I’m not going anywhere but home.”

“Or we could go to the twenty-four-hour deli on the corner and get ice cream sandwiches then I’ll take you to the roof of my building and we can watch the sunrise.”

Your light touch traces along the calluses on his fingertips.

“Are you usually this friendly to everyone who is new to the neighborhood?” you ask behind a sly smile.

“Not at all doll. Only for you. You’re special.”

Your jaw goes rigid and your eyes narrow. “You can stop whatever game you’re playing.”

You pull back, releasing his hand and starting to put the first aid kit back together.

“What just happened? I’m not playing games,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “But I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”

“It’s fine. I need to go help Nat close up.”

You stand and walk to the door, your head held high. He’s not going to fool you with his sweet words.

The next evening is slow so you spend most of it helping Nat stock the bar and clean. The hours pass by and nothing exciting happens letting your thoughts wander to Bucky. Then, as if on cue, the door opens, and you automatically look over to see who the latest customer is.

Bucky fills the doorway.

Your breath hitches and you can’t look away. He’s more dressed up tonight. A dark button down opened at the collar and dark jeans that are tight across his thick thighs.

You can’t help but think he’s here to meet someone for a date. The jealousy that surges through you is surprising and infuriating. That is, until he walks up to the bar and sits down. Right in front of you.

“Hey, doll.”

“Hey, Bucky.”

“What can I get you?” you start. “Or are you waiting for someone?”

“Yep,” he says, popping the p. “What time’s your break?”

“Oh,” you breath out. “Um…I don’t really get a long one…”

You start to wipe down the bar aimlessly, remaining quiet while you wait. You can feel him watching you, his eyes tracking your every movement.

He calls over Nat and asks, “can I get two of the special for tonight, please?”

He’s speaking to Nat but looking at you, daring you to disagree.

When you stay quiet, the corners of his mouth lift ever so slightly, victory lighting up his eyes.

“If you want to take it to-go for later, that’s fine. But I thought it’d be nice to have dinner together and figured ya wouldn’t want to go out with me after I fucked up last night.”

“So dinner while I’m supposed to be working is a better option?” you shoot back.

He cringes, despite the lack of heat in your accusation then sighs defeatedly.

“I’m trying here. I want to get to know you better. I promise my intentions are good.”

You stare, getting lost in his beautiful eyes before you scan the rest of his face. He seems more vulnerable now and you want to believe him.

Nat comes back with two plates of steaming food and sets them down.

You give in and unwrap the silverware, digging into a bite of baked potato.

“Mmm,” you moan around the taste.

He freezes with his own bite halfway to his mouth, and mutters under his breath. “Are you trying to kill me?”

You fall into easy conversation about what he does for work, how you like living in the city and everything in between.

After you explain why you moved, spilling the truth between bites, he replies with, “I’m glad you picked Brooklyn.”

His fingers slide over yours and the touch is full of heat. His eyes follow the movement and his jaw tightens. He threads his fingers through yours, holding your hand across the bar.

When he meets your eyes, his are hooded and dark. “How about that ice cream tonight with a roof top view doll?”

The ‘yes’ is on the tip of your tongue as your body leans over the bar, but then you remember that you want more than just a fling and even though he said his intentions are good you can’t help but wonder why a guy like him is still single. You’re not looking for a fling.

You untangle your fingers from his, pulling back.

“Thank you, Bucky. Really. But…”

He nods, not letting you finish before he reaches into his back pocket and sets down some cash to cover the dinners.

“See ya soon doll.”

The bar is closed on Mondays but Tuesday has you running beers up and down the bar for game night. Bucky’s back. Same time, same seat.

“You need a break doll? Something to eat?” Bucky asks before he takes a sip of beer.

He sets it down as he waits for your answer, studying you intently.

You grab a French fry from his plate and wave it around before bringing it to your lips. He grins wolfishly, catching your wrist in his hand and before you know what’s happening, he’s snagged the fry from between your fingers with his teeth. His tongue snakes out to the lick the salt from your fingertips, then he chews with a self-satisfied smile.

“I’ll let you have the rest,” he says, holding one up to your lips.

You tentatively lean forward, watching him warily in case he tries to pull it away, then chomp down.

“Just let me know when you want more,” he croons.

You continue to work, constantly aware of Bucky and the way he never takes his eyes off you. You check on him regularly, engaging in some deep conversation even with the little time you have.

As your shift nears its end he calls you over.

“Ice cream and rooftop tonight?” he asks, setting money down on the bar to pay for his food and drinks.

“I can’t tonight.”

He smiles. “No worries doll face. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next night comes quickly, your tired feet aching from marching back and forth between the bar and the pool tables since it’s half price games tonight.

It’s getting late, and despite your best efforts, you can’t help but wonder where Bucky is. Maybe the last time you turned him down was the final straw. You feel a deep twinge of disappointment at the idea.

The door opens, and you look over, your eyes filled with hope, but it’s just some random couple.

You’re stomach grumbles and you realize you’ve had dinner with Bucky the last few nights and now that it’s late and he hasn’t shown you haven’t eaten.

Checking that everyone has full glasses you wipe your hands and head for the kitchen, hoping to snag something to eat.

The chef, Suzanne, greets you warmly. You ask her for a bowl of the soup and she hums in agreement, yelling out for Charlie.

A guy you’ve never seen before pops around the corner.

“Hey, I’m Charlie, the sometimes kitchen help,” he explains holding out his hand.

“Nice to meet you Charlie.”

You give him your name and tell him you’re the new bartender.

His face changes instantly, eyes going wide and his brows shooting up to his hairline. He pulls his hand back quickly.

He’s still smiling but he seems guarded all of a sudden.

“You forgot to mention the most important part…Bucky’s girl.”

“What?” you say incredulously. “I’m not Bucky’s girl! We’re just friends. He just stops by for dinner and a drink!”

You know it’s more than that. Charlie nods like he knows it’s more than that.

“Sure, whatever you say. But no offense, I’m gonna take his word for it. I’ve never seen him do anything like this before. It has the whole neighborhood talkin’.”

With that he disappears, only reappearing a few moments later with your soup, then he runs off again.

You inhale the soup, not wanting to leave Nat alone and rush back to the bar to check the drink orders.

Nat slides up next to you. “Those drinks for table six?”

You don’t answer her, instead filling her in on what happened in the kitchen.

“Charlie said I’m ‘Bucky’s girl.’ I’m not his girl. What does that even mean?”

“Aw that’s sweet! He’s never said anything like that before and I would know. Been living here my whole life.”

“No it’s not!”

“I think it’s sorta romantic,” she says wistfully. “He’s all in, claiming you far and wide when you haven’t even realized what’s right in front of your face!”

She punctuates the last words of her sentence as she stares you down.

“What’s right in front of my face?” you ask, unwilling to concede that it might be the tiniest bit sweet…in a cave man sort of way.

“He’s here,” Nat whispers, but it’s more of squeal.

You turn toward the door, your whole face lighting up even though you’re still mad at the claim he made. The door is closed, Bucky no where in sight.

Nat’s finger is suddenly in your face. “That! You want to see him. You like him coming here to see you too. Shit, when was the last time someone made this much of an effort for a date!”

She throws her hands up! “Just go out with the man!”

“You mean have sex with him?” you bite out, not forgetting about her earlier warnings.

“Either or, maybe both! What could it hurt?”

“Me!” you say defensively.

Nat’s expression softens. “I think maybe I gave you the wrong idea about him…” she fumbles. “What I really mean is I think maybe we all had the wrong idea about him.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugs with a heavy sigh. “Bucky is man. A hot as fuck man,” she teases. “And he does have a reputation…but only because everyone wishes they could get a piece of him. I really don’t remember the last girl he went out with. So either he’s really quiet about it, but if you haven’t noticed in this neighborhood everyone is up everyone else’s ass, or he hasn’t really dated.”

Nat eyes you carefully, curiously.

“Oh shit,” you mumble, laying your face in your hands. “I do want to go out with him, but I’m scared…have you seen him?”

Nat grins. “Oh yes. I have and…”

“He’s gorgeous. Like drop dead gorgeous,” you finish for her.

“Exactly,” she agrees happily, a dreamy look on her face.

You swat at her shoulder, getting her attention and gesturing to yourself.

“What? You look amazing!” she says. “It’s not like he hasn’t seen you at work before.”

“You don’t think is just a thing because I’m the new girl in the neighborhood?”

“Do people do things like that where you’re from?” she asks. “And no!” she finishes, shaking her head.

Just as her words sink in your heart sinks with them.

“Doesn’t matter anyway. I blew it, he’s not here tonight.”

“Yes he is.”

The door opens and when you look over, it’s him.

Finally!

The air charges across the space between you and you know something has changed and when his eyes meet yours it’s almost as if he knows it too. He nods toward the door, silently asking if you’re ready for that date.

“Hey Nat, you think if I ask Barry to let me off early…”

“I swear if he says no I’ll kick him in the balls myself,” Nat screeches.

You rush back to the office and find Barry sitting behind his desk. Your question rushes out and he holds up a hand to stop you before you even finish.

“Go,” is all he says, but the smile he gives you reaches his eyes.

You cross the room to Bucky, his eyes wandering over you with possessive heat and unguarded want.

When you’re standing right in front of him, your toes touching, he asks, “you ready?”

Your lips lift ever so slightly and when his large hand cups your cheek your eyelashes flutter closed. His motions are slow, teasingly so, but he’s giving you time to stop him. He bends down, letting his intentions be quite clear.

He kisses the corner of your mouth then brushes his lips over yours, so lightly, you can feel his breath. You sigh into him and his hands slide over your curves and down to your waist, his grip tightening.

Nat let’s out a cheer, effectively interrupting the moment but you can’t help but smile at her excitement.

Bucky doesn’t let go of you, his hand sliding into yours as he pulls you out the door and onto the street.

“Hey,” he says soothingly.

“Hi,” you say, tucking your chin.

His fingers press under and he lifts your eyes. “You good?”

He waits patiently for you to formulate a reply.

“I just…I’m not sure…what you expect.”

“Anything, doll. I want to know you, spend time with you.”

Dropping his voice lower and bringing his lips to the shell of your ear, he whispers, “kiss you again…for real this time.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Okay,” he agrees, his voice heavy with intention as he takes you in his arms again and drags you into his chest.

Your lips meet, tender and soft at first but as your fingers dance up his arms and grip his biceps, he growls and takes it deeper.

You moan into his mouth, working your hands higher into the hair that brushes his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he groans when he feels you give his hair a little tug.

He pulls back and you chase him for one last kiss which he happily obliges in.

“I promised you ice cream and a roof top sunrise,” he murmurs. “And I keep my promises doll.”

@book-dragon-13 @sebstanwhore @late-to-the-party-81 @goldylions @laineyreads @randomfandompenguin @lookiamtrying @beccablogsthings @justkinsey @hallecarey1 @blackwidownat2814 @flordeamatista @buckysdollforlife

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #beefy!bucky x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #beefy!bucky #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader

2K notes · View notes

thirsty-lakedream · 10 days ago

Text

Hunky Appliances: Design Flaw

Are you an single bachelor or bachelorette looking to spice up your home and fill it with companionship, all without any need of true social interaction? Well we are happy to Introduce Hunky appliance. Our realistic bots are designed to replace all your boring appliances with 200% efficiency. We have models for any kind of chore, from cooking your food, cleaning your house, and much more. Visit our website to be the first in line to get this revolutionary product or call 1-XXX-XXXX to preorder yours today!

When I initially saw that ad, I jumped at the chance. I’m a pretty lonely guy, and I never made a real connection. So the proposition got me excited, I spent no time ordering my new appliance. The fact that you can’t fully customize the companion was a little disappointing, but the wide catalogue of hot models allowed me to find the 3rick model.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting my new android companion arrived and for awhile things were amazing! Not only was he a great time to look at, but he happily completed all the tasks in the house. From cooking, to laundry, all the stuff I couldn’t be bothered with he performed without any issue.

It was all great! Until it suddenly wasn’t. That hot summer day, nothing sounded better than take a nice dip in the pool. But when I went out that morning I found my neighbors dumb tree shed its leaves making it look like a swamp. Without thinking I asked Erick to clean it and he quickly complied. That’s when I found out these Hunky Appliance bits were not built for submerging in water! As soon as he touched down in the water, he started to spazz out and glitch! Sparks shot out of him like a fireworks display and his voice turned grainy and unnatural. Then suddenly he shut off, motionless floating there like a corpse.

It’s been a couple hours since and I’m worried I just lost my favorite appliance due to my dumb mistake. He’s out there in the backyard still, I’m hoping the sun and the rice I poured into his body will help soak up the excess water and he’ll be functional again. If you are thinking of investing in a hunky appliance, make sure to fully read the manual, especially the warnings on what not to do!

Had this story in my drafts for a good year now, finally finished it! Thanks @cutestabber for the idea!

#android #robot #my writing #malfunction #male asfr

87 notes · View notes

derinthescarletpescatarian · 7 months ago

Text

The big book FAQ for Derins books

I've been asked all of these questions so very many times, so here's the answers.

Can I print out and hand bind your story?

What you do with my story in your own damn house is none of my business. Buy the ebook and hand bind it if you want (it's probably cheaper than buying the print book, and I make more money on ebook sales, so win-win). Painstakingly copy and paste and edit the chapters for free from the free online version, if you prefer. So long as you're not selling copies to people, what you do with the book when it's yours is your business.

Send me photos if you want. I've seen some rad homebound copies of my stories and I want to see more. You guys are so creative.

Can I translate your story to another language for a school assignment/personal project?

Yes.

Can I make an audio version of your story and post it online?

So long as you link back to the original text version, yes.

Where is the first TTOU book available in print?

It's available in these places. It will be available through Ingram and Amazon's various networks, so expect it to show up in more digital storefronts over the next week or so. Or your local bookstore can very likely order it in for you, if you ask them.

Will the free version of TTOU stay online?

Same as Curse Words, I will not be taking down the unedited first draft that's currently online any time soon. However, I also won't be putting any special effort into maintaining existing links to it.

If I want to give you the largest royalty cut, which version of your book should I buy?

Buy whichever version is most convenient for you. The ebook and print versions exist because readers asked for them to exist, not because I expect to make money from them.

I make the most from the ebook versions, particularly if you buy through Smashwords, but the best way to support me is through ko-fi, where you can get advance chapters for the books I'm currently writing, not through book purchasing.

Your cheapest option for the books, paperback and ebook, is through my ko-fi shop, where distributor markups can be avoided. But paperback supplies are currently very limited via this method.

What really happened at the end of Copy <|> Paste?

I said everything I want to say in the story itself.

What is [fictional character or society]'s opinion/future/history/custom with regard to --

See previous answer.

Are any of your books going to be released as audiobooks?

Probably not. Fairly compensating audiobooks readers is very expensive and I won't be making AI versions.

When will the Curse Words books be sold in print?

When the art for them is ready.

What's your opinion on [latest drama or scandal surrounding a different writer]?

This is probably the first I'm hearing of it, I have no relevant information about the issue to share with you.

Should I message you about typos found in the free online drafts of your work?

You can if you want to, but if the typo doesn't interfere with story clarity, I'm probably not going to bother with it until it's time to edit the story for print.

162 notes · View notes

resdraft · 1 year ago

Text

Elevating Homes with Expert Drafting Services by ResDraft

Our team of skilled draftsmen combines technical expertise with artistic flair to craft precise and innovative designs tailored to your unique needs.

#expert drafting services #drafting services Arizona #custom house drafting #RV Garages #drafting services phoenix #drafting services Texas #casita drafting

0 notes

samuel-de-champagne-problems · 2 years ago

Text

Testing One, Two, Three (S.R. Smut +18)

Summary: (Spencer Reid x Fem Reader) Spencer comes home, after a long week of being away, with a bag full of (sexy) surprises.

Content Warnings: Sex toy use, praise kink, dirty talk, mutual self pleasure, coming undone, overstimulation, very light submissive (Reader) dominant (Spencer) dynamics, talk of anal sex & pegging

Word Count: 3.3K

Note: This is one that I have had saved in my drafts for a very long time! And I just had the inspiration to finish it a couple days ago.

Testing One, Two, Three

It wasn’t strange for Spencer to make trips to the grocery store, to the used bookstore, or the pharmacy before making his way back to Y/N’s storybook Tudor home after work.

This evening proved to be not unlike the others. Spencer, driving his powder blue Volvo pulls into Y/N’s driveway. She watches from the windows as he takes out his satchel, his overnight bag, and other large black shopping bags. It didn’t look like it was from the grocery store and their local bookstore didn’t give customers plastic bags. Curious, Y/N unlocks the door for Spencer, deciding to meet him at her front stoop instead of in the kitchen or the hallway like normal.

“Hey there, love,” Spencer says, the nickname brushing off his lips with ease. He looks tired and worn down. Y/N thinks that traveling through two different time zones and not getting enough sleep is a way to do that to a person, but she decides she’ll keep that to herself and just usher Spencer to bed earlier tonight.

“Oh, Spence. I really missed you,” she confesses, breathing in his familiar scent. It's a little different. He smells like cheap hotel shampoo and stale coffee, not like his usual minty and green tea body wash and expensive coffee beans.

Spencer sighs into her neck, swaying slightly as he holds Y/N in his arms on her front stoop. His bags, even the mysterious black on, lay neglected on the ground by their feet.

“I know, Y/N. I know, sweetheart,” he reassures, rubbing his hand up and down her back in a comforting gesture. “I got you something. Well, really it’s for us. But for you, mostly I suppose,”

“You’re acting clingy and squirrely,” she assesses, leaning back to look at Spencer’s unreadable face. He simply shrugs, as if to say you’ll find out when you find out.

“I need caffeine,” Spencer remarks, as he insists on carrying all the bags into the house by himself, “And something comfy to wear. I’ve been in this shirt for the last two days. There was a break in the case 41 hours in and we couldn’t break for the hotel. It was too out of the way,”

“Oh my poor boy,” Y/N exclaims, helping Spencer shed his cardigan and standing with him as he takes his shoes off, “What about a nice hot shower and then some leftovers. I made chickpea curry last night. We have leftover rice and garlic naan, too,” she offers.

Spencer, offering his thanks, grabs at his tie. His shoulders tense with exhaustion and something unreadable. He’s not usually mysterious. Usually, Spencer’s nothing but an open book.

“You alright?” Y/N asks, doling out the portion of chickpeas and rice on the delicately decorated plates she received for her 25th birthday.

“Fine,” Spencer says, clipped and detached.

So unlike him.

“Hmm. Well how was work? Anything interesting happen?” Y/N asks, attempting to spark conversation with her boyfriend. They’ve only been dating for a solid five months; enough time for whatever it was to have run its course. If Y/N didn’t know any better than she should expect herself to be circling the drain tonight along with dishes that would certainly be neglected for a pint of Java Chip.

“Fine,” Spencer says, nodding thanks for the plate of food. He shovels in a couple bites, seemingly uninterested in continuing the conversation.

So unlike him.

Usually, Spencer would be clamoring to talk to her. It wasn’t too long ago that they spent long nights sharing a bottle of red and talking about everything from books to movies to the meaning of life.

“Alright, Spencer. Cut the crap. Are you breaking up with me? Because if you are–?”

Shock washes over Spencer’s face. And he doesn’t wear it well. He does a spit take and it’s nearly as foolish as it looks like in movies. Spencer’s eyes grow about three sizes bigger.

“What? Break up with you? God, no,” he stammers, the sentiment clear although his efforts lacked clarity.

“Okay.” Y/N says, tossing Spencer a napkin to mop up his mess of curry and water. “Good to know. But why are you acting so….squirrely?”

Shifting in his seat, Spencer attempts to remain calm. His eyes, a honey brown with a cool brown rim, flit to the mysterious bag he brought in from his car. It was as if she could hear the whirring of the gears clicking into place. She follows his gaze to the bag.

“You bought something. Something that you’re either nervous about or embarrassed? So it can’t be books. And it’s not something innocuous like a throw blanket or pie dish. And judging by your breathing growing heavy, it’s something….salacious.”

Spencer’s thin upper lip twitches with delight. He hums, neither confirming nor denying her claims. His eyes flicker with playfulness, a contrast to moments ago when Spencer’s eyes flooded with fear and shock.

“You’re smart.” Spencer concludes, smiling with knives. He stands to presumably grab the black bag that has caused so much intrigue. “Should have been a profiler with a mind like yours.”

“I’ll stick to what I know.” Y/N tells him, her interest in the bag only growing

when Spencer places it in front of her on the table. “Let me guess, we’re at the stage in our relationship where you can buy me sexy underwear without it looking like you’re sleaze,”

Chortling, Spencer blushes profusely. His feeble attempts at hiding the bag's contents fail miserably as they only pique Y/N’s interest. His eyes are wide with wonder and anticipation in the kitchen light.

“It’s not lingerie.”

“Alright, well whatever it is, Spencer I’m sure I’ll love it. You’re being so jumpy, it’s making me think you’ve got some really kinky sex toy in here,” she says, reaching her hand into the bag to finally examine its contents. She’s good at reading faces. From the old man who reads French Literature on the Metro to the young barista at the local coffee shop, Y/N, like even Spencer admitted, is pretty well versed at reading people. Which is why, for a split second she reads pure terror in Spencer’s eyes.

“Oh shit,” she says, turning the box in her hand and reading the label. “You bought me a wand?” Her voice goes up an octave as if she’s just realizing what she’s holding in her hands.

Spencer, now thoroughly, embarrassed, covers his face with his hand. His cheeks are tinged a lovely pink and he peeks through his fingers, apparently still eager. “Will you kill me if I say that’s not the only thing in there?”

“Spencer Reid!” she shouts, slapping his hands on the table with glee and excitement. It was the very thought of Spencer Reid in a sex shop that sent both shivers down her spine, like an electric shock and shock waves of laughter through her system. “You went into a sex shop.”

“Yes, Y/N,” Spencer contends, his tone playful enough, “But please continue your teasing. We’ll see how cocky you’ll be when you’re on the receiving end of 5000 RPMS. And that’s the lowest setting,”

“Is that a threat?” Y/N asks, leaning in closer to Spencer. Her cleavage is eye level to Spencer’s line of vision. His eyes dart there to the bag and back to her eyes.

He shakes his head. “A promise. Continue,” Spencer instructs, pointing towards the bag. She listens, fishing her hand in the large bag.

“That’s a clitoral stimulator.” Spencer explains, “The website I got recommendations from says that it simulates oral sex. It has eleven settings,” he continues, watching as Y/N’s eyes grow big at the thought of the toy in her hands.

“Hmm, eleven?” she muses, putting it down next to the menacing looking hitachi wand.

“Another one? Spencer, how much money did you spend on toys?” she says aghast as she takes out yet another item from the bag.

“It’s a Lush vibrator.” Spencer explains, waving off Y/N’s concerns for his wallet. “It’s actually connected to my phone. That means I can control it, even when we’re apart. Which, considering how much we’re apart, just might come in handy.”

“This must have cost a lot of money.” Y/N speculates, staring at the three presents facing her on the countertop. “You really didn’t have to. You really shouldn’t–”

“Y/N,” Spencer says, her name sounding deadly in his breathy timber, “It’s my job to make sure you’re satisfied. And I thought it would be a little fun to bring in some…reinforcements.”

“That’s certainly more forward thinking than my last boyfriend. He was under the assumption that toys stole his thunder. But between you and me, and like every other woman he slept with, it’s probably because he hardly ever made me finish.”

“Really?” Spencer says, looking shocked. “And he was still insecure about bringing toys into the bedroom?”

Laughing, Y/N tosses her head back in a chortle. There was something endearing about Spencer’s genuine shock.

Spencer, looking half bemused and half proud, shifts in his seat. “So are we going to test them out or what?”

Twenty minutes later, they were both in her bed. Y/N, on her back, with her feet planted firmly on the bed, watches as Spencer studies her carefully. Sweat pools in her cleavage and she grabs the sheets, needing something to grip as yet another wave of pleasure washes over her body. He had already coaxed an orgasm out of her with the clitoral stimulator.

Spencer, fully dressed, holds the wand against her. He has a notebook to her left with small scribbles of notes detailing how fast she’s edged with each different toy. His scribbles, messy and disorganized at best, grow increasingly illegible. Spencer’s creases his brow, a sign of his intense determination, and is fuzzy as Y/N gazes down at him. She watches his look of stoic concentration, something that she finds entirely too attractive. But considering he plans on bringing her to climax time and time again tonight, she’ll give into her flights of fancy.

“Think you like this one.” Spencer comments. He switches the wand to his less dominant, but still skillful hand to make notes on the pad. A self-satisfied smirk grows on his face, a sign that he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

“It’s really good.” she says, her voice betraying her already limited resolve. Spencer’s fingers lie casually on her thighs, searing marks into her legs that vaporize her skin. When he touches her it’s like her limb liquifies and her skin melts. She wants his fingerprints to sear into her skin, finally becoming part of her.

“Yeah,” Spencer asks, a sarcastic smirk playing on the corner of his mouth, “Tell me more, sweetheart. Tell me how good it feels.”

Spencer’s words are punctuated by the head of the toy rolling against her clit. He never keeps it in one place longer than a couple of seconds, either not wanting to overstimulate her too soon or to keep her on her toes longer for him.

“It feels so…good. Better than it used to. Before I had you,” she stammers, the words clunky in her mouth as she concentrates on Spencer’s deft hand at her core and his warm lips against her neck.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Before you had me to keep you nice and full, you had to use things like this. But I’m gone too often for you. I need to know my sweet girl is taken care of. So we’re going to test all of these toys out tonight. Till you’re drippy little mess, begging for me to finally fuck you.”

Spencer’s sloppy kisses climb the slope of Y/N’s neck. He leaves whisper-wishes into the nooks of her skin, each one filled with promises and love. It’s a stark contrast; the sweet kisses to his hand that holds the vibrator: the bane of her undoing.

“You know Hitachi wands are excellent for clitoral stimulation. This one has only one vibration pattern, but eight different speeds. Now that sounds like a challenge. And one that I’d like to break.”

Y/N’s brow furrows as she gazes at Spencer with a deep concentration. He breathes against her neck, a trail full of wet kisses plotting their revenge against her sensitive skin. Spencer’s fingers hold the wand deftly as he concentrates the sensation against her clit. Y/N’s feet move up the bed, dragging the crocheted blanket with them.

“Holy shit, Spence!” Y/N curses, her breath bated as the wand’s vibrations kick up a couple of levels.

“That’s my girl. You like the fourth setting. Remember that, baby,” Spencer says, his lips curved into a proud smile as Y/N’s hips jut upwards in tandem with the toy, “Just like that, Y/N. I can tell you’re close. Give me another. One’s not enough for my greedy girl. And who am I to deny such a pretty face and a wet pussy. It’s all mine after all.”

She feels the wand leave her clit and venture up to her stomach. Y/N’s muscles react like falling dominos at the sensation. She tenses as the vibrations shoot up and fry her nerves. Spencer licks his lips at the sight of her arousal sticking to her bare torso. He carefully dances the wand up to her nipples, watching with glee as they pebble even further in response to the vibrations.

“One day I’ll give you an orgasm from just playing with these nipples. I’ll lick and kiss and suck on them till you’re dripping and begging for my cock to fill you up.”

“Jesus, Spencer.” Y/N pants, her hips buckling as her climax reached its peak. “Can I come, please? Please let me come again? I need it so fucking bad, baby.” Her tongue peaks out from her lips, wetting the surface as Spencer peered up at her. She grabs his collar to drag him up for a kiss just as she finally teetered off the edge, yet again.

Spencer separates from the kiss, his lips puffy and red from Y/N’s frantic mouth. He smiles, gently caressing her head in a gesture that was entirely too sweet for their current situation. She feels Spencer’s erection in his pants; it had to be almost painful by now.

“What was that two or three?” Y/N asks, a self-satisfied smirk plaguing her face. “I think we might set a record or something.”

“That was two.” Spencer corrects. He takes more notes in his little notebook. “Of at least four or five. Depending on how much you beg later.” He slips off the bed and fishes through the bag. “Now, I think I have an idea for which I’d like to try next.”

A bright pink silicone dildo with a flared based, freshly washed, lays in between them on the bed. Y/N raises her eyes in surprise.

“Most men wouldn’t be too thrilled to have something other than their penis fuck their girlfriends, you know.”

Spencer shrugs. “Yeah, but there’s a lot that we can do with it.” He claims, “Like double penetration or even, uh,” He blushes and stumbles over his next comment, “And pegging.”

Y/N grins as an overwhelming sense of arousal washed over her. “Oh,” she says, skimming her fingers around Spencer’s neck. His skin is ridiculously soft, “we are so tabling that one for later. I would love to see you a mess for me instead.”

Spencer grins. “Fuck, that’s good, Y/N. So good.” He kissed her forehead. “I wanna watch you ride it. Like you would my cock.”

Y/N nods, as Spencer shifts on the bed, allowing for her to assume a crouched position. She looks at Spencer, his eyes laden with lust and love. He sits, legs spread in an attempt to accommodate his hardened erection in the old arm chair. He looks too good to be true, his cheeks are tinged with a blush, the dances that line between innocence and corruption. His notebook is forgotten, as he needs the entirety of his attention focused on the sight before him.

“Good girl.” Spencer mutters, his hands resting on his thighs, but they twitch restlessly. It was as if he needs to physically hold himself back from ravishing Y/N at the sight of her crouched on her bed ready to fuck herself with a dildo her purchased for her. “Lower yourself on the toy. Give yourself an inch into your sweet little cunt.”

His voice is deep, yet soft as he guided her pleasure expertly. She groans as the toy breaches her cunt, the full sensation is welcomed after the last hour of the wand and clit stimulator.

“Don’t you wish it was your cock fucking my cunt, Spencer?” Y/N asks, her right hand wrapped around the flared base of the toy and the other holding herself up. Her abdominal muscles stunned with strain as her body remained in a crouched position, but the promise of release goaded her on. “You’re so hard, baby. I can see it from here. Don’t you want to touch yourself?”

Spencer bites his lip. He nods as his hands undo his belt and his hips lift up enough so he can shimmy his pants and underwear to his knees. He wraps a hand around his cock, hard and glistening with arousal, and rubs upward with a tight fist. Spencer’s teeth dig into his bottom lip as he continues to watch Y/N lower herself onto the toy.

“Give yourself another inch, sweetheart.” Spencer instructs as he fucked his fist. He swipes his thumb over the tip of his cock. “Fuck I wish it was your mouth or your pussy on my dick.”

“God, you have the prettiest cock.” Y/N pants, the toy filling her up more and more as she sinks lower onto the base. “But now that we have this toy, maybe you can fuck my ass? I know you’d like that, baby.”

“Dirty girl,” Spencer praises, a smile covering his face as Y/N’s thighs quiver, “Tell me does that toy fill you up nicely? I had to pick out the best one for my girl.”

“Yes, yes,” Y/N answers, her voice rough and raw, “So good….I feel so full.” The pink dildo filled her cunt.

“Good. Good.” Spencer says, his hand moving up and down his cock at a hastened pace. “Show me how you’ll ride it when I’m not here to fuck you, baby. Show me how you’ll fuck that tight cunt.”

Spencer’s words provide the encouragement for Y/N to hoist herself up and down on the dildo. She would've laid flat on her back, a position that would have been easier on her thighs and core, but the angle she’s able to reach makes the suffering all worth it.

“Fuck…so good, Spencer. But I don’t think I can come from just this…it’s not…it’s not enough for me.” Y/N explains. Spencer knows that. He understands the science behind the female orgasm enough to know that many women are unable to reach climax from vaginal penetration only.

“I know, sweet girl. Don’t you worry.” He promises. “Bring your fingers to your clit

and give yourself some nice tight circles.”

She listens. Her fingers draw tight circles around her clit. Y/N bites her lip as she feels her pleasure build and build. “So good. So good.”

“I know, I know. Grind against the heel of your hand. You go wild when I do that, love. Like a little fucking minx. You can’t get enough.”

The tension builds in her stomach as she grinds against the heel of her hand. Cursing, Spencer watches with lust-laden eyes as Y/N writhes on the bed. Sweat forms against her brow as her feet dig into the mattress and her thighs burn in exhaustion. Until she finally feels that familiar burst of pleasure release.

“Fuck, fuck,” She curses, so caught up in her own pleasure the room seemed to spin around her. “I–I…Spencer, I’m coming.”

Her release washes over her as she slumps down into the bed, finally spent with all her energy expended. She can barely hear Spencer shuffle over, nearly tripping over his feet since his pants remained gathered around his ankles.

“Holy shit.” Spencer curses. “That was the most sensual thing I’ve ever seen.” He looks at her with half awe and half love. He pulls his underwear back up and kicks his pants off as he sits on the bed. “Are you alright, babe?”

Y/N groans, her cunt is raw with overstimulation and it is like every single nerve in her body is lit on fire in the best way possible. She offers Spencer a weak thumbs up that morphed into an equally weak fist bump. He obliged and gave Y/N a sweet forehead kiss in return.

“So toys are a plus for us,” Spencer muses. He adjusts the pillows on the bed and helps Y/N sit up in a more comfortable position. “Thank you for this. I really enjoyed it. And I’m, you know, glad you’ll be occupied when I’m gone.”

Y/N’s face flushes as a warmth resembling love covers her entire being. “I should be the one thanking you,” she counters, “Wait…I didn’t get you off.” She says, sitting up and then failing as her tired body gave out.

“That’s a problem you already took care of,” Spencer protests, gesturing to his stained underwear. “I had already come untouched by the time you told me to touch myself. You put on quite the show, sweetheart.”

She raises her eyes in disbelief as Spencer chuckles and kisses her cheek. “I’m glad you found that equally pleasurable. I don't think I’ve ever come as hard as I just did. And I doubt it’ll ever happen again.” She rises from the bed, with the help of Spencer. He grabs her waist as they make their way into her bathroom.

“Is that a challenge?” Spencer says, with a cocky smirk

“Fuck yeah it is,” Y/N said, “but I think I need like three weeks to recover.”

Thank you for reading! Please remember, I appreciate you reading, reflagging, and commenting on all of my fics. I love your feedback and appreciate your support & community more than you'll ever know.

Tag List (I don't want to bother anyone, so just tagging people I mainly interact with)

@reidsbookclub @foxy-eva @reid-ingandweeping @boldlyvoid

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds smut

877 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 1 month ago

Text

Several groups representing “startup nations”—tech hubs exempt from the taxes and regulations that apply to the countries where they are located—are drafting Congressional legislation to create “freedom cities” in the US that would be similarly free from certain federal laws, WIRED has learned.

According to interviews and presentations viewed by WIRED, the goal of these cities would be to have places where anti-aging clinical trials, nuclear reactor startups, and building construction can proceed without having to get prior approval from agencies like the Food and Drug Administration, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, and the Environmental Protection Agency.

Trey Goff, the chief of staff of the startup nation known as Próspera, tells WIRED that he and other Próspera representatives working under an advocacy group called the Freedom Cities Coalition have been meeting with the Trump administration about the idea in recent weeks. He claims the administration has been very receptive. In 2023, Trump floated the idea of creating 10 freedom cities. Now, Goff says that Próspera’s vision is to create “not just 10, but as many as the market can handle.” They hope to have drafted legislation ready by the end of the year.

“The energy in DC is absolutely electric,” Goff says. “You can tell in meetings with the people involved that they have the mandate to do some of the more hyperbolic, verbose things Trump has mentioned.”

Three Paths Forward

According to Goff, Freedom Cities Coalition has briefed White House officials on three options for creating freedom cities. One is through “interstate compacts.” In this scenario, two or more states could set aside territories with shared tax and regulation policies, with some state-specific carve-outs. Under existing law, these compacts can’t be revoked, though they can be dissolved under certain circumstances.

If an interstate compact is approved by Congress, it becomes valid under federal law. Goff says the coalition is considering Congressional legislation that would give “advanced consent” to any freedom city compacts. That way, Congress wouldn’t need to approve each individual city.

Two other options are creating federal enclaves with special economic and jurisdictional zones, or having Trump issue executive orders to create each new freedom city.

“It depends on what Trump and the White House want to do,” Goff says. “Whatever pathway they want to take, we want to help them make that a reality.”

The White House did not respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

A Network of Backers (and Detractors)

Freedom Cities Coalition was created by an entity called NeWay Capital LLC, which owns several trademarks for Próspera. Since opening on the Honduran island of Roatán in 2020, Próspera has been attracting tech workers and startups by promising low taxes, few regulations, and a businesslike government that considers its citizens to be akin to customers. Its financiers include Pronomos Capital, a venture capital firm backed by Peter Thiel and Marc Andreessen, and Coinbase.

Startup nations outside the US have largely relied on the creation of special economic zones (SEZs), where the regular rules governing businesses are waived, often in order to attract foreign investment. The hope, it appears, is to bring a similar model to the US.

Notably, the current government of Honduras considers Próspera and its special economic status to be illegal. The country’s previous president, Juan Orlando Hernández, gave Próspera a permanent charter to operate on its own terms. However, many Honduran citizens opposed Próspera, arguing that it has increased poverty and worsened biodiversity in the area. The Honduran Congress passed a law in 2022 repealing the allowance of SEZs, and Próspera sued the Honduran government shortly after. The lawsuit is ongoing.

President Donad Trump mentioned the idea of freedom cities on the campaign trail in March 2023. He promised that if he was elected president, he would hold a contest to pick 10 winners to build their own freedom cities on federal land. Trump hasn’t referred to the idea in public since, but Goff says he’s confident that it wasn’t a throwaway line from the president.

“It’s not just a marketing tactic—they take it very literally,” Goff adds, referring to members of Trump’s team. “They intend to follow through with all of the promises they made on the campaign trail.”

A Second Legislative Push

Freedom Cities Coalition isn’t the only group currently lobbying the Trump administration. Frontier Foundation, a 501c4 organization, is working in partnership with the nonprofit Charter Cities Institute to bring freedom cities to the US.

Jeffrey Mason, the head of policy at the Charter Cities Institute, tells WIRED that several other groups have recently joined their effort, including the Housing Center at the American Enterprise Institute and the Foundation for American Innovation. They’re drafting legislation that Mason says should be ready “hopefully sometime in the next several months.”

He adds that members of these groups are having “casual conversations with people in the White House,” in addition to Republican and Democratic members of Congress.

In a 2025 memo shared with WIRED, the Frontier Foundation argues that “domestic innovation and production has been significantly impeded for decades by outdated and unnecessarily restrictive federal regulation.”

Allen tells WIRED that using federal land would lower the cost of development for startup cities. The Frontier Foundation suggests that federally owned land outside western cities like Boise, Idaho; Grand Junction, Colorado; and Redmond, Oregon would be suitable candidates. “If we're able to get a legislative transfer of land from the US government to make a public-private partnership, or a trust, or even a private corporation, then it's a lower cost of capital,” he explains.

The Frontier Foundation memo also recommends allowing private landowners to become freedom cities and to “allow municipalities to vote to become Freedom Cities, allow Freedom Cities to expand with the consent of the contiguous land owners.”

When asked why the Freedom Cities movement has chosen not to focus on revitalizing existing post-industrial cities like Detroit or Toledo, Ohio, Allen tells WIRED that “when you're building these new facilities, you need to sort of start from scratch.” He noted that Joe Biden signed an executive order instructing the federal departments to lease federal lands to be used as data centers in the final days of his administration.

“There's so much capital and there's so much political will, but yet there's an inability to develop these technologies,” says Allen. “And the inability comes from lack of space and too many regulations.”

But Gil Duran, a former political consultant and author of the Substack newsletter Nerd Reich, warns that building new cities from scratch could have negative consequences. “To be outside of the law and above the law, what does that mean for the rest of the country?” he asks. “It seems like you're going to start hollowing out other places in order to have these places where the rules are suspended and don't apply anymore to certain people.”

Goff says that unlike Próspera, which has an entirely different tax structure from surrounding Honduras, freedom cities in the US would likely pay a similar amount in state and federal taxes as other American cities. The main difference would be how the cities are regulated.

American Dynamism

One company that stands to benefit from the rise of freedom cities is Minicircle, a longevity biotech company focused on developing gene therapies to extend human lifespans. The company’s seed funding came from Thiel and OpenAI CEO Sam Altman, and it currently has offices in both Austin, Texas, and Próspera. Minicircle cofounder Mac Davis is also working with the Frontier Foundation.

Davis says that Minicircle’s gene therapy clinical trial on the protein follistatin—which he claims increases muscle mass without side effects, and also has life-extending benefits in mice—was only possible in Próspera, but noted he’d like to see that change.

“I'd like a ‘longevity city’ where everyone and their dog is on gene therapy,” Davis says.

Davis adds that he can imagine many other companies benefiting from freedom cities, including SpaceX, the defense hardware and software company Anduril, and Oklo, a nuclear fission startup chaired by Sam Altman.

Many of the industries Allen says he hopes to foster in Freedom Cities–energy, nuclear, semiconductors, and defense technology–are, not coincidentally, ones “a lot of venture [capital] is going towards” as funding moves away from SaaS, digital, and internet consumer brands.

“The theme is American Dynamism,” he says, referencing the 2022 manifesto from venture capital firm Andreessen Horowitz, which argues that “the scientific and operational excellence of consequential technology companies made up for the shortfall of our flailing governmental institutions.” Since 2021, venture capitalists have plowed more than $100 billion into defense tech startups alone.

Some tech companies have been considering revitalizing nuclear power in order to sustain AI data centers, which use a huge amount of energy. Amazon signed several nuclear power agreements last year, Google made a deal with a nuclear power company in October 2024, and Meta is asking for proposals on how the company can leverage nuclear power.

Goff tells WIRED that he thinks freedom cities could also be used as manufacturing hubs and shipbuilding ports, allowing builders to bypass the environmental review process. Mason says the American Enterprise Institute, which is partnering with the Frontier Foundation and Charter Cities Institute, is eager to find ways to use freedom cities to increase housing.

Mason says he’s most excited about speeding up innovation in sectors like biotech and using nuclear power to power AI data centers.

“There's a lot of exciting opportunities here, especially as we need a lot of data centers,” Mason says. “There's a lot of land that you can tap.”

But Duran says that the same deregulation that could be seen as pro-business will likely not favor those outside Freedom Cities’ ultrawealthy backers. “These are going to be cities without democracy,” he claims. “These are going to be cities without workers' rights. These are going to be cities where the owners of the city, the corporations, the billionaires have all the power and everyone else has no power. That's what's so attractive about these sovereign entities to these people, is that they will actually be anti-freedom cities.”

54 notes · View notes

gripefroot · 3 months ago

Text

Docked (Part 1)

Not even wooden shutters with rags stuffed in the slats to keep the draft out, charmingly framed by yellowed lace curtains, keep the noise out.

Curiosity piques with the patter of running footsteps past the musty old house, but you keep your eyes on your, hopefully, customer. The old lady picked up and put down every dish you’d brought over the course of the last half-hour. With a courtesy cup of tea you’d poured yourself at her command long gone, with only the chipped old cup left in your hand with the dregs of tea leaves, the blasting horn of a ship shakes the house on its timbers.

The old lady doesn’t hear. She hears very little.

“This does remind me of my wedding crockery,” she says, picking up a painted blue teacup again, holding it to a lamp. That’s all the light she allows in her house. The windows are stuck shut to prevent her from catching a cold. Yes, even in late summer, when you’re on the verge of heatstroke if you don’t feel a cool breeze soon.

“And this one—” a pink, flowery design “—is so like my late mother’s . . .”

The horn blasts again. A shiver goes up your spine, curiosity gone fevered. It sounds like his horn, doesn’t it? Could he have arrived? Could he be there? Used to hearing the horn from your cottage in the hills, hearing it from town right by the harbor makes it a deeper bray, nearer and more thrumming. There’s no way to know for sure if it’s him . . . besides going to the harbor to see.

“But I just don’t know which to buy,” the little lady frets. Her hands shake, the cup thankfully soon nestled again amongst the straw in the crate.

“Take your time,” you’d told her upon arriving, but that had been hours ago, and Law could be there. There would be no repeat of the reassurance.

Through the blocked window, people pass. Your ear tilts toward their conversation, hoping for a clue that it might be him, it could be him.

“—crane from the mill—”

“—mumblemumble new rope—”

What could that mean? What could that mean?

Scooting to the edge of the overdressed chair, you set the teacup on its saucer on the table holding your crate. Of all the days to be asked to bring samples to the house-ridden! She’s a dear old lady, truly, but her tug on your heart is nothing like Law’s. Even the thought of Law holds a firmer sway than anything else. That it could be him. It could, it could.

“Oh! I forgot that I made sandwiches for you.” The old lady primly brushes her skirt, gray curls bobbing around her face. “Would you fetch them from the kitchen? That’s a sweet girl, you are . . .”

It isn’t until the afternoon is nearly gone, with the crate under one arm where a receipt is tucked for the old lady’s long-awaited order, and a sandwich quarter in your mouth and two more in your hand, that you’re released from the stuffy prison. It could be days until the scent of patchouli leaves your nostrils, but that’s quickly forgotten as you dash down the dirt road toward the harbor.

No ships. Not a single one. Not even a dingy or a buoy, bobbing in the waves that drift into the natural harbor from the sea. Skitting to a stop, you swallow a bite of sandwich thickly, misery pricking your eyelids. Well, it isn’t the first time you’ve been disappointed, but it won’t be the last . . .

The bay is flanked on both sides by hills, reaching into the soft blue sky devoid of clouds. The summer greens the slopes like a painter’s brush, only the briefest tint of gold in the very tops of the highest trees hinting at change. It’s always been lovely, but then and there, it hurts like a weight in your belly. The horn could have been any passing ship . . . it could have resupplied and moved on twice over in the time you’d been delayed making a sale. If it had been Law, he would have stayed longer. So it hadn’t been him at all. Only a wish and a dream and now, it’ll be a lonely night on the bluffs with supper for one.

Well, it’s nothing new.

Turning from the barren harbor, you sigh, taking another bite of sandwich. It tastes of ash. And then your feet stop moving, stuck in place at the scene unfolding in front of your eyes.

The lemon-yellow globe of the Polar Tang: not in the harbor at all, but lifted by a crane and secured on the earth with wooden stakes and numerous cords of rope. The reason it was hoisted from the sea is immediately obvious. The outer shell bears a deep scrape, the long shape reminiscent of a cat’s claw defending itself. White-suited crewmen dot around the ship; some around the scrape and some using brooms to clean algae from the belly of the Polar Tang. But among them, you don’t see Law. Was he—could he have been hurt? Or killed? Was the scrape deep enough to have flooded the ship with seawater? Or had the gushing pressure pulled him out?

Sand drags at your feet, slowing your path to the Polar Tang until firm dirt and flattened grass replace it. Crockery clatters in your crate, which you set down beneath a tree for safekeeping, stuffing the last bit of sandwich into your mouth.

“Shachi!”

Shachi, mid-scrubbing a patch of darkened algae, stops, head turning until he sees you. He smiles, waving. “Did you hear the horn? Captain said you’d come and help clean up the ship.”

“Oh, did he?” Irritation—a fluttery, aching version of it—makes saying something clever or useful difficult. So he wasn’t hurt, or drowned. Relief overtakes the irritation. “Where’s Penguin?”

“Getting kerosene for Ikkaku to start welding this shut.” Shachi jerks a thumb at the giant scrape.

“What happened?”

“Sea monster.” He says it in a grim voice. “We were lucky to escape. Thought we were goners.”

“You must have been close to this island,” you say. “You couldn’t have gotten far in that condition.”

“Nope. We were headed here anyway. Captain had something he . . .” Shachi’s face goes visibly blank beneath his hat, as if thinking very hard, and apparently comes up short.

“He what?” you prompt.

“I’m not sure.”

With that helpful tidbit of information, you grimace. Shachi whistles too loudly and too obviously as he dips his broom again into a bucket of suds to resume scrubbing the algae.

“Where is the Captain, Shachi?” you ask in a drone.

“No idea.”

“Did he go into town?”

“Could’ve.”

“Is he on the ship?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Did you see him walking away?” Frustration makes your question shorter than intended. Shachi is likeable, as is everyone on the crew, but the vagueness of his answers while he was obviously hiding something tickles your temper.

“No,” Shachi says, and you can’t tell if it’s a lie or not.

You make it three stomps away, ready to start screaming for Law if he doesn’t magically appear, before Bepo appears, black eyes shining from his tufts of white fur.

“Help us!” he pleads, clasping his paws together in front of him. “Pretty please, oh, please!”

“How much will you pay me?”

“Anything, anything!”

Of course, Bepo wouldn’t pay anything. Pay was decided by a ship’s captain. And this Captain was nowhere to be seen, nowhere to be bargained with. Besides, flirting about payment was reserved for Law and Law alone. A burst of laughter broke out between crew members (one of which soaked the other and then got a bash on the head from a broom in return.) With a sigh, you unbutton your jacket.

“It looks like fun,” you tell Bepo. And sooner or later, Law will come back, and I want to see him.

Without the skill to repair the tear in the ship’s hull, you’re regulated to a broom and soapy bucket. Boots stick out from beneath the ship, where it’s lifted by the wooden supports. Algae must be growing there, too. But you find a place far from Shachi to start scrubbing, wondering what exactly is directly inside the ship from where you are . . .

Autumn might kiss the hilltops but the sun still beats the valley. Heat radiates from the metal ship, worsening the sweat that comes from hard work. The algae is stubborn, too, or the soap is weak. Other crew members work nearby, uniforms stripped to the waist in the heat; easy to talk to and easy to laugh with. Very few ask questions about you, and on the occasion that your eyes move from the ship to your companions, odd glints or curious tilts are visible in their visages.

They know who I am. Or, they suspect something.

But why be embarrassed? It’s Law that should be embarrassed.

With each portion of the Polar Tang back to shining yellow, you pick up your bucket and move to the next section. And the next. And the next. The blue of the sky darkens, the sun finally dipping beneath the hills to give some relief to your baked skin.

“Has anyone got a ladder? A ladder?” But all the ladders are in use. You puff out tired breath, staring at the patch of algae higher up on the hull. The broom won’t reach it.

He owes me for this. Big time.

It’s different from Law helping with Fire Night. You aren’t sure how, yet, but it must be.

“No ladder,” Bepo says regretfully, arms full of metal sheets meant for the welders. “But I can lift you up.”

“May as well,” you say, preparing in your mind a speech to ask for gold bars or chests of jewels or something else a merchant captain wouldn’t be able to afford, just so he can think he wins when you settle for something simple.

Bepo is a soft seat, mounds of warm fur around your legs where you sit on his shoulder. He holds your ankles in place, yawning loudly as you scrub, scrub, scrub the blasted algae.

For no other reason, I will never own a ship.

“It had giant yellow eyes,” Bepo says, a contented storyteller while he has the excuse of ‘helping’ in the basest sense of the word. “And I counted the fins on its belly—not two, or four, or six. Eight! Eight fins!”

“Did it bite the ship, then? Is that what happened? “Oh, no, it had terrible long arms and legs with claws longer than spears. Sharp, too. Fastest bugger I’ve ever seen. Couldn’t outrun it. Captain set a tricky little trap for it, but it barely worked, and if it hadn’t, we’d be halfway through the monster’s intestines by now.”

Bepo describes the trap; a sizable room that the monster had unwittingly swam into and consequently had its head severed from its body with its jaws wide open to bite the Polar Tang in half. It’s a gruesome scene, playing around in my mind, but with each close call fervently described, your stomach turns from what could have happened.

“—only a few injuries, too,” Bepo says. He categorizes each one, the injured crew members taken to the doctor in town as soon as they’d docked.

“Couldn’t your captain have healed them?” you ask.

“Usually, but this time he was injured, too.”

Injured?

Shachi had said nothing of injuries! Suddenly Law’s absence makes sense. Suddenly, your annoyance that he hasn’t made an appearance and you’ve been cleaning his ridiculous lemon of a ship isn’t so important. Without realizing, your scrubbing ceases, and it isn’t until Bepo glances up that you startle into the present.

“Uh, are you done?”

“Let her take a break already, Bepo.” A voice drawls from some distance, away, your heart skipping a beat. Bepo turns, taking your wobbly balance with him. Beneath the shady leaves of a tree, Law is stretched out. His hat lays on the grass next to him, fingers laced behind his head. Floppy, black hair hangs in front of his forehead and around his ears. Bandages stick out from his tank top. But he mustn’t be in mortal danger, if he’s snoozing beneath a tree.

“How long have you been there?” you squawk. Bepo lowers you to the ground, rubbing the back of his furry neck once you’re firmly on your feet.

“Long enough,” Law says.

“And you didn’t say anything?” The broom clenches in your fist. Much like a weapon, if you knew how to wield one. But you could wield a broom, and that might be threatening enough. Stalking toward the tree, you scarcely notice the hive of crew around the ship going on with the chores.

His eyes are slits, through which the gleam of his black eyes follows your approach. Something akin to a smile lifts one side of his mouth.

“I was taking a nap,” he says. “Doctor’s orders.”

“You are the doctor!”

“Well, I’d better take my advice, hadn’t I?” Law yawns, covering his mouth with one tattooed hand. He winces when he lowers it. But his injuries are driven from your mind when you see what he’s laying on.

“My pillow!” The shriek in your voice would embarrass you, another time, but fear and annoyance make those sorts of things seem unimportant. “Where did you get that?”

“From your bed, of course.” Law settles back into your pillow, against the tree. “An injured man like me can’t be expected to find bark comfortable, now can he?” He eyes the broom in your hand.

“But my—but my—” Your voice trembles. “Where’s my crate of crockery?” This is the same tree you’d left it beneath. It was nowhere in sight.

“At your cottage.”

“But—”

Now Law smiles, really smiles, but it isn’t the sweet smile that he gives you in private. It’s a wrenching, coy thing. “I thought you’d thank me for lugging that pottery up to your cottage for you.”

You snort. “You haven’t lugged a day in your life.”

“Well, I saved you from lugging it, then.” Law pauses. “I have a gift for you.”

“You owe me two,” you tell him. “I’ve been working for hours scrubbing your dumb ship.”

“Oh, I’ll pay you back for that.” The low tone of his voice skitters across your skin. “But I need you to be patient with me. You can be patient, can’t you? I’m a bit laid-up at the moment.”

“Your attitude seems to be in fine shape,” you say, dropping the broom.

“And yours is unusually snappish. Didn’t you like Bepo’s company?”

“I like Bepo just fine. But I didn’t come looking for him.”

“Oh?” That insinuation is in his voice again. “Well, I’m looking for something myself, too. Doctor’s orders, and all that.”

“Something? Not someone?”

He means to tease, and unfortunately, he succeeds. The smirk makes his features arrogant. “Doctor says I need a real bed to rest in.”

“There’s a hotel in town.” You bend over, reaching for your pillow—it’ll be covered in dirt now, the wretch—but Law pushes all his weight into it, and you try unsuccessfully to pull it free. His smirk is gone, eyes drifting to the neckline of your tank top.

Hmm.

Grabbing the pillowcase with both hands, you pull again, lighter this time to mimic real effort. The action pushes your breasts closer together, bulging over the neckline. Success: Law’s throat bobs, eyes gone half-focused. Some of his weight loosens from the pillow. The tip of his tongue wets his lips. Bingo.

One final yank frees the pillow. Law’s eyes widen when his back hits the trunk of the tree. Smiling, one hand on your waist and the other tossing the pillow over your shoulder, you laugh.

“You’re easier to best than you think,” you tease.

“I let you best me,” Law counters. He’s smiling, too, with a tinge of that secret sweetness.

“If you’re going to crash in my bed, which I assume you mean to, you’ve dirtied your own pillow,” you tell him. “I get the clean one.”

“I can live with that.”

You hold out a hand. Law stares, then reaches for it. With a heavy grunt he gets to his feet, swaying slightly as he clutches his middle.

“Was it the sea monster?” you ask in a low voice. You want to reach out and touch the bandages; to see what damage is beneath, but he grips your hand too tightly.

“No.” Irritation snaps his dark brows together. Then, grudgingly, he says, “A shelf fell on me while I was dealing with the sea monster.”

His obvious mortification turns your amusement into hilarity. Laughing, you wrap his arm around your middle (for support, no other reason.) He leans against you, lips tight in a sign of long-suffering.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you vow.

“Yeah, but you’re gonna laugh about it every day for a week.”

“I like to laugh. Thank you for giving me a reason.”

Law is here. The bubbling joy of it makes laughter easy. Matching steps so that Law isn’t jostled too much is a tricky dance, but by the time the main road through town comes into sight, the pair of you are making better time.

“Where will your crew stay?” you ask. “Or can they still bunk on the ship?”

“They can bunk on the ship,” he says. “Or beneath the stars—the weather is fair enough.”

“And the other injured?”

“At the hospital in town.”

“You didn’t want to stay at the hospital?”

“I don’t like watching other doctors work.” Law tries to shrug, but mostly he bumps you. “Telling them what they’re doing wrong makes them angry and angry doctors don’t take care.”

He pants in your ear, walking clearly an effort. His face is pale, paler as night spreads across the sky.

“Kinda glad that monster got us,” he grunts. The road grows rockier out of town, the path winding up the hills. “I was expecting to have to leave in the morning, but since the ship’s got to have her maintenance until she’ll sail smooth again, we’re stuck here a while.”

“Oh, no,” you say sympathetically. “I am so sorry. What a disappointment for your plans to fall apart like that . . .”

Law growls. You laugh.

“What’s my gift?” you ask.

“At your house.” A few more heavy steps up the hill. “I thought you’d be home. That’s why I went straight there. I wasn’t avoiding you.” The lack of harshness in his voice makes it more real—his sincerity. He’s trying to explain himself. Why you had to wait so long to see him. Why he wasn’t there when you were. Away from town, away from his crew—all that honesty comes easier out of him.

And that heals a lot of wounds.

“You don’t have to bring me presents, you know,” you tell him. “I only tease you about it because—because I only want to know that you think about me when you’re not here.”

“Of course I think about you.” Law says it like it’s obvious. He sees it differently. He’s not the one that stays in one place, reliant on the other to come back, time and time again. He doesn’t know the fear of not knowing if there will be an again.

But sweet words and tender assurances don’t flower. It’s not his way. But when his body presses against yours and his breath tickles your ear and his fingertips press into your waist—words aren’t needed. Not really. But words remain longer than touches, and he only visits a few times a year . . .

The cottage is dark. You hadn’t lit a fire before going into town early that morning, expecting to return long ago. Law sinks onto the edge of the bed with a soft groan. Starlight comes through the open window, making the angles of his face harsh. His eyes are closed.

“I have tea for pain,” you say. Sure that he won’t topple over, you go to the fireplace first, to strike a flint against tinder. Golden light fills the cottage, driving out the night.

“I’m fine.”

Rather than argue, you prepare the tea: carrying the kettle outside to fill at the water pump, then hang on the iron crane bracketed into the brick around the fireplace. Dinner will be needed, too. Law stretches out on your bed, punching the dirty pillow into place beneath his head before slinging an arm over his eyes.

“If you were in that much pain, you could have transported us here with that silly power of yours,” you tell him, crumbling willow bark into a mortar to grind into tea.

“Wasn’t in pain then. Walk did me in.”

“What kind of shelf was this, anyway?”

“Heavy one.”

“When I imagine you in my bed, I don’t daydream nursing you back to health.”

“Lucky you.” His head tilts, favoring you with a smile across the cottage. Weak as he was, his smile is as potent as ever, and you nearly grind your thumb into the tea leaves. “But don’t worry. I’ve already thought about how we can get around this.”

“Oh?”

“You can sit on my face.”

“Oh, I see,” you say. Steam rises from the kettle, flames licking the bottom of it. “You’re expecting me to do all the work because—am I getting this right?—a little shelf just grazed your ribs.”

Law’s laugh is hoarse. You dump the tea into a mug.

“I miss you when you’re not around,” he says.

Silence.

“You don’t have to leave every time,” you say.

More silence.

With a rag wrapped around your hand, you lift the kettle to pour a stream of water into the mug. Woodsy willow-scent fills your nose. Law doesn’t reply, not even when you carry the mug to the bed. His eyes are hooded, but they meet yours fearlessly. Stubborn man, but not so stubborn he refuses you. He sits up, face contorting in discomfort.

“Let it cool for a little while,” you say, and that’s that.

He’s out cold before the soup is done. Pity makes your stomach a heavy stone, watching firelight flicker on his pale face. One arm is draped over his middle, blankets pulled to his waist. His neck is kinked. What has he gone through, since the sea monster attack? Could this be his first prospect of uninterrupted sleep?

Yes, that’s most likely. A ship damaged as the shredded Polar Tang would need the captain to get it safely into harbor, not to mention his injured crew. Poor thing.

He doesn’t move, while you prepare dinner and eat. He doesn’t move when you close the shutters and curtains and bank the fire. And he doesn’t move when you crawl into bed beside him, taking advantage of his silence to lay close to him. Not so close to bother any part of his body that might be hurting, but close enough to feel his warmth and presence, soothing the ache in your bones; the yearning for him.

A/N: I have so much fun writing this pair that this particular "one shot" got out of hand lmao. The next part is half done already so it shouldn't be too long of a wait. LMK if you like it!

#one piece #trafalgar d law x reader #one piece fanfiction #trafalgar law x reader

57 notes · View notes

qnomnstrs · 4 months ago

Text

College Student! Yuji x Older! Female Reader

Yuji is 20 while reader is in 30s. No curse AU

Now that I'm on break I'm hoping to get all my drafts pushed out. Sorry if this feels rushed, im lazy.

Warnings: 18+ Smut, oral M! recieving, oral F! recieving, coercion, friends to lovers, 69 position, angst, minimal plot with porn, mentions of Uncle Sukuna, mentions of parental loss

Yuji talks in Pink

Reader talks in Blue

Word Count 2.8K

You lived close to a university, in a cul-de-sac. You purchased your own home! You lived here for 2 years now and loved it. You had a nice backyard, garage, and a two story home. It was a small two-story house but it was just for you, it worked. All the extra space let you have an office and Studio. You were living the dream. It was easy since you didn’t have any kids. During this self growth era, you have tried dating here and there, but found you work best single. You still have plenty of friends and visit often with your elderly neighbor.

The cul-de-sac was peaceful. You took up morning walks, to take in views and get out of the house. The campus was only a few blocks down, so you would even walk past all the people and scenery. You often stopped at the Café on campus or sat by the water fountain.

The one thing that wasn’t your favorite: the boarding house across the street from your home. They had parties occasionally. They would toilet paper the cul-de-sac homes, including yours. It was young adults having fun, being independent. It’s not like they had huge parties in the movies. The noise was often controlled. Still, it wasn’t your favorite thing. Next time you bought a house you would be sure to look out for any boarding houses.

Today you found yourself cleaning up said toilet paper off your front lawn. It was officially summer and there was a big party for the graduates. You continued to pick up the toilet paper, searching over your lawn. You sighed thinking your grass was getting long again. It was such a chore to mow every week and weed wack. You looked around for any remaining pieces of toilet paper. There was some behind your shrubbery. You bent over the shrub in an attempt to clean it.

“OH! Um excuse me miss?”

You swiftly turned. A man stood directly behind you. He must have come to ask you something, right as you bent down in front of him. You didn’t even hear him approach. He was younger than you. He wore a tank top and was quite muscular. He had pink hair, which you thought was cute. We love a guy who isn’t afraid to wear pink. He had a school lanyard on his keychain, presenting him as a college student.

“Sorry didn’t see you there! Yes do you need something?”

“I was wondering if you needed any lawn services for the summer. I can mow, trim shrubs and take care of weeds.”

“Hmm well I normally do it myself because I don’t want to pay a lot for lawn care. So how much is it?”

“For your yard… its not quite half and acre, so 20 a week . 30 for shrubs and weeds”

“Wow that’s actually not bad. Are you not going home for the summer?”

“I live in the boarding house right across from you. I stay there year-round. I have lived with my uncle since I was young. He’s great but I’d like to have my own space now. I can’t quite afford an apartment yet. That’s why I’m going around the Cul-de-sac trying to mow lawns for money.”

“Well, if you want money, I suggest raising your prices”

He laughed “well it takes an hour or two per house, so I make 20 an hour on regular houses.”

“that is very true I might have to start my own lawn care business.”

“Hey! This is my block! Don’t you dare try stealing my customers now.”

You both laughed. It was really easy talking to him. The social anxiety seemed to dissipate. He has such a warm bright energy that was just so comforting.

“oh I’m sorry I forgot to ask your name. I’m y/n the owner of this house.”

“Im yuji. You seem a little young to own your own house miss” yuji said so effortlessly flirty. You rolled your eyes at his compliment. You still smiled at his charm .

“Well I definitely own it and I’m definitely like at least 10 years older than you so I’m not that young.”

Yuji scratched the back of his head and chuckled in embarrassment. “well anyways if be happy to start this week if you’re interested.”

“sure thanks Yuji.” He waved and walked off to the next house.

It wasn’t long before Yuji came back that week. He would bring his own mower and other supplies. You looked out the window, to confirm that it was Yuji, in your yard. You went to go grab cash and have it ready.

The summer heat kicked on early this year. The sun was beating down hard. Yuji was dripping in sweat. He took off his shirt and wiped his face. His muscular frame now exposed. You lingered at the window a bit longer than intended. He spotted you, smiled and waved. You blushed and waved, quickly moving. You didn’t want to look like you were staring, because you definitely weren’t. You decided to prepare some ice tea for him. That’s why your eyes lingered too long, was because he seemed so hot, you told yourself.

Yuji came to the door once done. You invited him inside for a drink. He happily accepted. It was a nice break for him. Your house was in his route during the middle of the day. This was a perfect time to relax and get to chat with you. You figured others would offer him a drink as well, especially your elderly neighbor. They absolutely did but Yuji only ever accepted your offer.

A few weeks went by, Yuji came over every week and you invited him inside every week. You enjoyed the company. You’ve gotten to know him a bit better. He was such a gentleman. He was caring and sweet. His personality was so refreshing. You often looked forward to seeing him. This time though, Yuji seemed a little fidgety. He was not acting normal.

“Hey yuji are you okay? I hope the heat didn’t get to you.”

“N-no im fine I just- listen y/n, I’ve been wanting to tell you that I really like you. I enjoy spending time with you and was wondering if I could take you out sometime.” Yuji looked at you right in the eyes when he confessed. He was nervous but he wanted to show his determination. You flinched not expecting that.

“Yuji…. I appreciate the offer, but I think I will decline. You’re very nice and I like our talks but I’m a little old for you. I’ve dated quite a bit and one of my biggest things was I always said yes. Even if I wasn’t attracted to someone I said yes. I figured those feelings developed later. I realized I should be interested before I say yes. I learned to have more expectations and our age gap bothers me, I don’t think I’d feel like I’m in an adult relationship. You’re still in college too. I hope this doesn’t make you to upset. I just don’t want to lead you on. Its better to talk about it up front. You’re a very nice person, you should look for someone closer to your age.”

Yuji sighed and rubbed his face.

“honestly…..I think that made me like you even more. Thank you for being so honest. I just really like getting to know you. I admire you a lot you know? Your very mature and so well put together. That’s the type of person id want to be with. Don’t worry I’ll still clean your yard well.” He tried laughing it off. You smiled and felt a little ache in your heart. Yuji probably wasn’t feeling too well, you basically said you don’t think he is man enough to date you. He left shortly after with a smile still on his face.

After that Yuji still continued to come every week. You still invited him inside and he still accepted. It was almost as if nothing happened, almost.

It was Saturday, your day off. It was around 10am and you still slept. Yuji wasn’t coming until 1pm. You heard a knock at the door. You went downstairs and answered.

“hey y/n sorry if I woke you up. I just finished your yard. I had a few cancelations today, so I finished a little quicker.”

“OH! no that’s okay- sorry I slept in a bit today. You still can come in, I need to grab my wallet.”

“are y-you sure? I can come back later if you want?”

You walked away to your end table by the couch. The door was still open with yuji in the doorway. You bent over not realizing you were still in your oversized shirt and no pants. Your panties were exposed for Yuji to see. His eyes widened and he stared right at your ass. You wore a plain pink thong. So, your whole ass was showing. He tried to look away, to give you some decency but he couldn’t. His eyes traveled lower to your clothed pussy. He could see the outline of your labia. The thong left little to the imagination. His cock twitched in his pants, slowly coming to life.

“yuji you’re fine come inside. I made some muffins yesterday help yourself.”

With your back still turned, Yuji rushed inside, to the kitchen. He tried getting away from you, as fast as possible. You blinked, confused why he was so rushed. Maybe he really likes muffins? You walked into the kitchen, to see Yuji stuffing his face with muffins.

“wow they must be good huh?” You chuckled and placed the money on the table. Yuji looked up and your nipples were hard. He could see the color of them too, through your sheer white shirt. He tapped his foot restlessly. His cock was now fully erect.

“Um yuji are you-“

“y/n! Please! I’m a man still you know!”

You looked at him puzzled. What did that have to do with anything? You looked down and realized you were in your night outfit. You blushed profusely.

“oh my God! I’m sorry I didn’t-“

You stopped rambling as you saw Yujis erection in his pants. He was huge. Damn thing was resting on his thigh. You gulped. Of course this damn guy had to have a thick cock. He spoke pulling you out of your thoughts. He definitely noticed you staring. He made a desperate plea in the midst of the situation.

y/n please can I-… eat you out?” He once again looked into your eyes with a fierce determination.

“what!?”

Yuji clasped his hands together, “please y/n we don’t have to date or anything just please let me eat your pussy please. God it’s all I want”

You clamped your thighs together and bit your lip. You didn’t mean to tease him like this. You forgot Yuji is still a guy with needs to. It turned you on to be wanted like this. It still felt wrong. You were sure what to do. But then again, what is exactly stopping you? Yuji is a handsome guy, killer personality, and huge cock.

“..o-okay”

“Really!?”

“yes really”

He smiled. You both got comfortable in the living room. Your heart was beating out of your chest. You went to sit on the couch.

“No I want you to sit on my face.”

“what? That wasn’t apart of the deal!”

“Please y/n just-”

“Okay fine”

Yuji laid on the couch, you carefully moved your legs around his head. You haven’t lowered yourself yet. Yuji gulped and grabbed your hips. He gently pulled you lower and slipped your thong to the side. You were now fully exposed and he got to see all of you. He groaned starting to plant kisses to your pussy. You moved your hands into his hair. You squeaked at his eagerness. He flattened his tongue and took a big lick. He lapped at your folds roughly pushing his tongue against you.

He removed his hands from your hips to unzip his pants. You couldn’t see him behind you, pulling out his cock. One of his hands went back to your hips while the other jerked himself. He wasn’t ashamed to loudly rub himself and groan into your pussy.

He nibbled at your clit sending a wave of pleasure down your legs. Your thighs twitched as he continued. You were getting distracted by the noises behind you. You could hear the dry rubbing of his hand. He was moving up and down very fast. You started to hear squelched noises from him roughly rubbing the precum on his slit. You bit your lip, you wanted to see his cock.

“Yuji I want to turn around it feels better that way.” You lied just wanting to watch him pleasure himself. He almost didn’t let you get up. You moved and looked into his wide eyes. You shouldn’t have. He looked so desperate. His lips were shiny coated with your fluids. You switched and planted yourself back on him. Now facing his cock.

He shoved his tongue into your hole moving it in circles. You squirmed and squeezed his head with your thighs. You gasped out and whined at his aggressive movements. Yuji was acting like he was starving.

You watched as he continued the assault on his cock. It was flushed red, especially his tip. The way he was mistreating it, dry rubbing, must have been a little painful. He was practically rubbing his cock raw. It seemed he was getting off at you watching him. He put on a little show, he was desperate for your attention.

You licked your lips. You really shouldn’t be doing this. Your brain is clouded with lust. It felt so good to be ate out. And the thick veiny cock in front of you was calling your name. Without warning you bent down, pushing his hand out the way and deep throated his cock. You groaned at the stretch in the back of your throat. You felt yuji yell into your pussy. His cock was raw and sensitive , being in your mouth was sending him over the edge. He began rapidly kissing your entrance. It was like he was thanking you. He continued sloppily kissing your pussy, fantasizing his cock was entering you pussy. Both of his hands gripped your hips pushing you harder into his face. He started lightly thrusting his cock into your mouth. You began sucking him off like it was the last cock you’d have. You went up and down. As you came up you kissed his tip and licked around the head. Yuji whined.

“Please y/n be gentle my head is really sensitive right now.”

He spoke into your pussy. You didn’t listen, however. You continued to assault his tip loving the taste of his cock. You felt this was payback for this predicament. Yuji became whiny licking your clit.

“Y/n please I can’t last long if you-“

You deepthroated him again sucking hard. As you went back up you sucked his slit. You were giving the tip of his dick a hickey. Yuji tried moving his hips, pushing you off. It was too late he came, hard. He groaned into your pussy a few times. Yuji came in your mouth, and you spit it back out all over his lap.

You were about to speak when yuji buried two fingers in your cunt.

“Wait Yuji!” You moaned, forgetting all about your pleasure for a moment.

“Y/N I wanna show you I can take care of you. I wasn’t supposed to cum first. Let me pleasure you, please”

Yuji’s fingers pumped in roughly rubbing against your walls. He hit all those sensitive spots. His fingers curled and prodded. You whined. He added his tongue back to the mix. He licked around your opening, where his fingers connected to you. He then focused on your clit, with gentle nibbles. Then he shook his hand back and forth. The sensation was something you’ve never experienced. Your pussy fluttered and you came. You squirted on his hand and face. You moaned as he continued the sensations while you rode your high. Your body tensed. No one has ever made you squirt from just fingers before. You got off of his face, catching your breath.

“What the hell was that?”

“You like that trick?” Yuji sheepishly laughed “Sorry it was payback for making me cum quick.

For a moment everyone was silent. Many emotions and thoughts surfaced. Yuji looked at you. He wanted to say something but waited for you to make the move.

“Yuji is that date still on the table?”

#rin writes #jjk smut #jjk x reader #anime #jjk yuji #yuji x reader #yuji itadori #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen

62 notes · View notes

lipglossanon · 1 year ago

Text

Gloom

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Serial Killer!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader <one shot>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, troubled reader, violent/dark thoughts, flirting, Leon abusing his bartender privileges 😆, for once no smut!

not proofread; this has been languishing in my drafts and I’m tired of looking at it—don’t know if I’ll add to it or not

title from Gloom by Djo

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Clawing anger stirs in your chest, pricking you like the briar bushes outside your granny’s house. It feels like you’ve tumbled face first into the thorny tendrils, pointed tips digging into your skin, blood dripping like sweat across your skin. Shaking off the phantom sensations, you peer back out across the dance floor.

You smile, pretending to be happy, mask firmly in place. Good people grin and bear it, don’tcha know? Eyes landing on the table full of people you’d rather never see again, almost without conscious thought, makes your skin itch. The feeling of unfairness fizzes in your blood like carbon bubbles. You hate them. Hate these feelings all stirred up like a kicked hornets nest.

You hope they get hit by a truck, shanked in an alley, acid thrown in their eyes. It’s hateful and spiteful but you can’t stop the thoughts once they start. Maybe they’ll fall down the stairs and break their leg, bleed out a slow death all alone. Or pushed off the roof of a building, not so tall they have a heart attack before splattering across the cement. Maybe they’ll trip holding a pair of scissors, the pointed end puncturing their eye—

“You need another drink?”

The voice pulls you away from staring across the room to the bartender standing behind the counter.

“No,” you shake your head, eyes dropping to your glass, water still near the rim.

“You seem a bit perturbed,” he offers, propping his hip against the drink station, arms crossing and showcasing his thick biceps.

“It’s nothing,” your airy response only makes his eyebrows raise in amusement.

“I’m sure that group over at the table would love to hear how they’re nothing,” he grins when you glare at him.

“What do you care..” your eyes glance at his name tag, “Leon?”

“I don’t,” he shrugs easily, “but you do and I hate to see a pretty lady in distress.”

You snort, eyes rolling, “I’ll bet you say that to anyone with tits.”

His grin widens, “True, but I always mean what I say.”

Someone on the other end flags his attention and Leon leaves you to your intrusive thoughts and untouched water. Your lip curls in a sneer as someone gets up from the table he mentioned and walks over to the bar. They flirt with Leon who you notice gives you a quick side eye before making a round of drinks.

Once he’s finished up, he walks back over to you with a smarmy little swagger.

“Miss me?”

You shake your head, gaze still zeroed in on the bitch taking the handful of drinks he just made back to the table. More people come up to the bar and Leon slips away, busy for several long minutes. While he’s mixing whatever cocktail an older lady and her friend ordered, your eyes widen in surprise to see a few people at that specific table suddenly make their departure towards the restroom.

“It didn’t kick in as fast as I thought,” Leon muses next to you— a little put upon sigh slipping out for good measure, “they’ll definitely be calling it a night once they’re not puking their guts out.”

Delightful vindictiveness makes you smile broadly at him; it must surprise him because he only looks at you stupidly as you thank him.

“Didn’t I tell you I hate seeing a pretty lady in distress,” he recovers quickly enough, a pleased smile making him seem boyish and sweet, “besides they seem like stuck up cunts. And not the fun kind.”

You watch with a sort of childlike awe as he goes about the rest of his shift, chatting up customers and making drinks. The table of cunts, as he so politely put, cleared out once the others returned looking sick.

“I’m off work in ten minutes,” he appears next to you, making you jump.

“And?”

He drums his fingers on the side of your glass, “Might wanna get your last call in before I walk you home for the night.”

He slips away before you can argue and ten minutes later, he’s helping you with your coat and holding open the door. Once you’re a comfortable distance away from the bar, you turn to him.

“What did you use?”

“Ah,” he taps the side of his nose with a grin, “that would be telling.”

Your eyes narrow and he laughs.

“Just a little something I like to keep on me,” he ducks to the side to whisper in your ear, “it’s not the worst thing I’ve used on someone.”

He pulls away, looking pleased as punch, and it makes your heart flutter in excitement.

“Thanks,” you offer, looking back to the sidewalk in front of you, “it was nice.”

“Oh my absolute pleasure,” he sighs happily, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, “do they come in every week?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip in thought, “usually at the same time.”

“Shall I give them something a bit stronger then?” He murmurs quietly, eyes glittering when you pause to look back at him.

“There’s something wrong with me.”

You didn’t mean to blurt that out, but it is what it is; he shrugs, total nonchalance, that makes you frown.

“I want them to hurt. I want them to feel awful. I wouldn’t mind if they died.”

His smile’s a sharp brittle knife, “I can help with that last one.”

Your heart flutters again, and you twist to face him fully.

“You mean that?” Your eyes stare into his calm blue gaze, “you don’t even know me.”

“Does it matter?” He grins playfully, “besides you seem like the kind of girl who would appreciate it.”

Those intrusive thoughts come back, flashing the various ways you’ve pictured those same people being hurt. Your hands reach up to curl your fingers in the collar of his jacket.

“Do you want help?”

He laughs delightedly, his own hands gripping your hips before sliding up to pet your ribs. He slides your noses together, before hovering his lips over your mouth.

“How do you want to help me, sweetheart?”

#leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy #resident evil fanfiction #serial killer!leon kennedy #fem!reader

189 notes · View notes

formulaforza · 2 years ago

Text

—strawberry wine

and all the times we used to have. (nothing defines a man like love that makes him soft). pairing: daniel ricciardo x female reader warnings: language, angst babyyy love, mackie... 5k ish. this is. definitely something. perhaps it should have stayed in the drafts but dani selected it from a group of it's peers yesterday evening.

It’s been years since you last spent enough time at the vineyard to be considered even a part-time employee. It’s hard to be there, now, in a way it didn’t used to be. Watching it fade away into obscurity and beg someone–anyone–to buy the property to land so your family can get out without generational debt. The fields just hold so many memories, an ancestral kind of history; your first job, the place you had your first drink, where you fell both in, and out of love for the first time. Being there now, watching it die a malignant death is just… sad. There isn’t anything poetic about it.

You long for the days of the peak, of never ending days spent behind the counter in the barn selling wealthy people on the aesthetics of a small, family-run vineyard. Of your father hosting tours and your mother tastings, of you, pink nose and shoulders kissed by the sun, picking grapes by hand. Of the days where help still had to be hired.

For a while there, it seemed like there was a never ending rotation of teenagers and twenty-somethings willing to do manual labor for minimum wage–thirteen an hour–from sunup to sundown. They’d even host the occasional tour on busy Saturday evenings, would be compensated in under the table bottles of wine and cash tips. None of them ever stuck around longer than a couple months, found better jobs indoors, closer to school, better pay. Well, nobody except Daniel.

Daniel worked at the vineyard for… four-ish years, with varying availability depending on seasons and school and racing.

Sometimes, when you lose yourself to sentiments and fantasy, you imagine a world where the Vineyard never faced any competition, where it is still thriving and you take over your mother’s job when she retires. Daniel still works there, maybe in the fields where he was always supposed to be, or maybe front of house guiding tours and helping you with tastings. Life is simple and plain and at the end of every night you lock the barn doors and go home together and eat dinner and grocery shop and do your taxes. Daniel strums the guitar on the porch when it rains. Life is easy and fun and you laugh more than you don’t.

It’s silly, really. But first loves are always silly.

He is one of the many memories that haunt the property, walking the lines of grapevines feeling more like a walk through a fogged out graveyard than anything.

Even now, all these years later, you can still see him sat in the swivel chair in the office doorway, throwing grapes at you while you attempt to run the dusty cash register. It’s a cool July afternoon and he’s got a stupid grin on his face and can’t look anywhere but you.

Daniel is kind of like those people you know you’re given young so that for the rest of your life you know what real feels like. They’re more a lesson than a lover, unfortunately.

—

You move through the place like you own it, which, you suppose technically you do, in some will locked away in an accountant’s filing cabinet, this all belongs to you. Right now, though, you’re seventeen and just returning from school, already setting up your homework on the end of the counter, a spattering of greetings from the local customers and the local hands, the people who know that this is more of a natural habitat than anywhere else on the planet will ever be.

Danny also moves around the place like he owns it, which, if it was up to him he probably would. He hums your name as he moves past, taps the opposite shoulder to the one he leans over, reading your textbook over your shoulder. “It’s seventeen,” he quips.

“It’s a history textbook,” you reply, eyes unmoving from the page.

“Seventeen-seventy, cunt.” There’s a half-empty bowl of fruit sitting on the counter. He leans over you to grab an orange. “Captain Hook and such,” he adds, hosting himself up onto the counter with a thud. You’re sure one day the old wood is going to give out on him and he’ll fall straight onto his ass. Part of you hopes you’re around to see it, the other knows that he’ll find a way to not only make it your fault, but also tease you about it for a minimum of six months.

“Fuck off, Danny,” you punctuate, just loud enough for him to hear.

“It’s Daniel, now.”

You snort. Finally, you give him your attention. “Danny is too unprofessional for a hot-shot Red Bull junior driver like you?”

“See,” he pops his thumb harshly through the peel of the orange, the citrus scent wafting out into the humid air. “You get it.”

You pout. “I’m still going to call you Danny.”

“No you won’t,” he laughs. God, the smell of orange is overwhelming, the kind that lingers long after the fruit is gone. When Danny goes back to work in a few minutes, tosses the peel and into the trash by the office door, he’ll still linger in the room with the smell of citrus.

“I will.”

“You know what,” he hums, biting into a slice. “Let me make you a deal.”

You smile, shake your head. “Shouldn’t I be the one making you a deal?”

He groans against the fruit, “Can you just?”

When you look up again, lean back in your chair and cross your arms, he has orange juice running down the side of his hand, all sweet and sticky and summery. “Fine.”

He smiles goofily, all fucking proud of himself just because you agreed to shut up for thirty seconds. “You can keep calling me Danny, but only if you let me take you out this weekend.”

“Danny,” you protest. This is far from the first time he’s tried to plant the seed of a date with him. It’s had to’ve been a year, by now. You know he’d drop it if you would just give him an answer, but a year later you still haven’t been able to deliver anything definitive.

He shrugs. “‘Dem’s the rules, honey.”

Maybe what you say next is your greatest mistake, or maybe it was what you were always going to say. Maybe you feel like you can say it because he leaves again soon, for longer than ever. You won’t have to live with the consequences of your actions, of your words. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s simply that you think Daniel is far too proper a name for the sticky-handed vineyard tour guide you’ve grown particularly fond of. Danny is much more fitting for him, which is most certainly why you say, okay. When are you picking me up?

—

You drive out from your parents house with your dad in his old Ford Bronco. It’s half rusted out and half chipped blue paint, with worn leather seats and a steering wheel somehow more worn than the rest of it. Seven black tree air fresheners hand from the rearview mirror, new car smell. This relic is well past that–he’s been driving it out to the property literally forever, and this trip won’t be any exception.

You hardly recognize the place, you think as you slam the squeaky door shut with enough force to make sure it really latches.

The fields are overgrown with tall grass and shrubs and mustard flowers. The trunks of the grapevines act as headstones for the sprawling field of dry, sunburnt plants. You don’t think anyone has been out there with a plow in months, if not years.

The barn, the one you grew up in, has been lost with the rest of the place to time. Red paint chips off the wood in massive flakes. The branding that had once run in big wooden letters along the top of the door have all since fallen, leaving a sad outline of your family name in its weathered wake. Two padlocks, one rusted shut, sit on the lock. Every step you take kicks up more dust.

You’re removed from your thoughts, from the hauntings and the sentiment and the memories, by the creaking of the tailgate on your father’s truck. Stuffed in the back of the Bronco are your afternoon tasks; a pair of bulk cutters for the padlocks, a new, state of the art keypad lock given to your Dad by a realtor, a post hole digger, and five for-sale signs haphazardly packed any way they would fit.

You spend most of the next couple hours digging holes along the road, filling them with the wooden posts of the for-sale signs, looking disapprovingly at the thirty-something in a suit that has been tasked with selling the unsellable property.

This is, what… the fifth person you’d hired to sell this fucking place. Soon enough, you’re going to be sticking up For Sale by Owner signs with a hand-written phone number in black sharpie along the fences that were supposed to keep animals out. Realtors were never in the budget to begin with.

—

You’re waiting on the old front porch when he pulls up in his beat-up truck, John Denver playing through the open windows, his hand moving in the wind up the entire dusty driveway. You don’t know what he can see, that your Mom is watching out the kitchen window with a friendly smile.

You’ve got your best sundress on, one that you’d debated wearing for almost thirty-six hours. The first week Danny worked in front of house with you, he spent the entire shift flirting with one of your Dad’s friend’s daughters. He said that sundresses are a crime committed against teenage boys and that when he meets God he’s going to have words with him over pretty girls and their affinity for said sundresses.

You’d laughed then, because you thought it was silly. You remembered it because you thought the new kid was kind of cute, in a you work for my parents and I could never think you’re cute way.

“Fuck,” is the first word out of his mouth, before the car door is even closed behind him, followed quickly by a check of his watch and “am I late?”

“No, no,” you smile, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair behind your ear, standing to your feet on the wooden stairs. “You’re early, actually. I think,” you chuckle. “I’m just,” you can feel your cheeks flushing. “I’m just excited.”

“Yeah,” he moves to you quickly, nervously. In the way only teenage boys on a first date do. “I’m excited too.”

“You look nice,” you say, stepping down the final couple of steps and meeting his waiting hand. “Your hair. I feel like I only ever see you in a hat.”

“Thanks, yeah,” he laughs. You’ve always loved his laugh, even when he’s annoying you and annoying customers and annoying himself. His laugh has always been good. “You look beautiful. I’ve never seen you, I mean. Not that you don’t always look–”

“Danny,” you interject as he opens the passenger side door.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he offers a smile and closes the door. Just before it latches shut, though, you hear him finish his sentence. “Thank you.”

He takes you to King’s Park, to the botanical garden after a stop for ice cream. He tells you that he’s had a crush on you this entire time and you ask him to tell you something you don’t already know. It’s then, in the botanical garden next to the water garden, that he tells you about his quote-en-quote ‘silly, kind of, like, backup dream, I guess’ where he has his own vineyard, brews his own wine and spends every day half drunk and wholly happy.

He stumbles through the entire telling of it, which is how you know he’s not fucking with you. He never gets nervous when it comes to fucking with you.

Perhaps that is where your silly, kind of like, backup dream started. The one where you and Daniel are working at the vineyard together and life is all death and taxes and grocery bills but somehow, in the midst of all the dull normalcy, you’re both happy as happy can be.

—

“Someone is out there looking at the place today,” your father tells you over the phone. You try to talk every day, a habit you’ve both picked up in the past couple years, in the time and space since you’ve turned thirty.

“You’re kidding,” you say. You’re sitting at the kitchen table, shoveling spoonfuls of some health-conscious cereal into your mouth (another post-thirtieth habit). “Who?”

“I don’t know, kid,” you swear you can hear the frown on his face, the deep smile lines and the frustrated forehead wrinkles from months in the direct southern sun. “Probably some fucking developer.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, maybe,” he sighs. “If I’m right, I’d bet they break ground on a neighborhood within the year.”

Your sigh matches his. You can’t even imagine it, front yards and vinyl flooring and white walls built on a foundation of your childhood memories. It’s like going back home, to your childhood home that you sold so many years ago, and discovering it’s been bulldozed, wiped clean from the face of the Earth. “That’s so sad.”

“I know, but, well. You know, honey. It’s not like we have much choice.”

You nod. You do understand. You understand more than you wish you did. “I know. I know. Still pretty fuckin’ sad, though.”

There’s a long silence. The kind of silence that can only be shared by a father and a daughter; a silence that speaks more words than the dictionary can hold. “She’d understand it,” he finally speaks. “She wouldn’t fucking like it, but she would understand it.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know she would.”

—

“Are you going to kill me?” You giggled, stumbling over your feet. Danny is leading you on the property, one hand over your eyes, the other on your waist, guiding you poorly.

“And be the first fucking suspect?” He laughs. “I think not.”

“Okay, then where are you taking me?” You beg. It's been going on like this for some half hour, before he even covered your eyes.

He laughs. You laugh. All the two of you do is laugh. “Can’t you lighten up?”

“Not when I’m being led to my death. No, I can’t!”

He stops, turns you around a hundred and eighty degrees and takes his hand off your eyes, fingers digging into either of your shoulders. “Babe," he says, and you'd think he was about to tell you he killed someone.

You mimic his seriousness, find humor in it. “Babe.”

“You trust me.”

“Do I?” You smile. He cocks his head to one side and rolls his big brown eyes. You would commit crimes for his eyes. “I do.”

“Okay, so then fucking trust me.”

“Okay,” you nod, closing your eyes.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Okay," you reach blindly for his hand, bring it to your eyes to block the light from them once more. "I trust you. Let’s go.”

After a short, terribly blind walk, Danny finally stops. You’ve been able to hear the river that flows out the back of the property for twenty minutes, but it’s close enough now that you can smell it; the sticks and the rocks and the mud and the water. You can practically feel the splashing of the water bouncing off the boulders.

“Okay. Open,” he instructs, removing his hand from your eye, moving his arms to hug you from behind, arms wrapped over the front of your chest.

You open your eyes to find a picnic, carefully set up with a spread of dinner and drinks and dessert, complete with a plaid flannel blanket and candles that smell like citronella masked with lavender and a bouquet of white roses already in a water filled vase. “Danny,” you hum, leaning your head back against his shoulder.

He kisses your temple, whispers against your hair, “Happy Anniversary.”

“Danny,” you drag out the letters of his name, of the nickname he only lets the people he loves call him by. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy and special.

“Honey,” he mocks you, sways behind you.

“This is too much,” You crane your neck to look at him, and then turn your whole body so you’re flush against his chest, close in a way only you get to be. “You’re so sweet.”

He laughs and it vibrates in both of your chests. A feeling you’ll never tire of. “I mean, this is not too much. Arguably, this is too little.”

“No,” you back away, out of his grip and take small steps backwards, towards the picnic and the waiting meal, pulling him along with you by interlocked pinkies. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Well,” his grin grows. “I can’t argue with that.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, because you do, because you’re eighteen and everything in this life is so simple and black and white.

“I love you, too, and–”

“Oh my gosh,” you cut him off, wide-eyed and giddy. “Wine with strawberries?”

He nods. “Strawberry wine, if you will. For the winery with no strawberry fields.”

“This is better,” you state, with the utmost confidence, without even a sip or a sniff or any idea of what white wine he’d used as a base for his little cocktail.

“Definitely not, but sure.”

“It is, because you made it for me. That makes it perfect.”

—

You’re completely removed from the actual buying and selling of the property. It isn’t up to you to decline or accept or field offers, that’s all your dad. The place is still his, at least for a couple more weeks while all the paperwork processes.

It was an anonymous buyer, according to your Dad. Cash offer, over asking price. He’s not sure how the real estate agent managed it, and honestly? Neither are you. Objectively, that land isn’t worth the cost of cleaning it up. Everyone in their right mind knows it. You just come from a particular bloodline where the mind never was quite right when it came to the vineyard.

What shocks you most, though, is that the anonymous buyer–supposedly–is interested in restoring the place rather than bulldozing it.

“They asked me about the dirt,” your dad tells you on one of your daily phone calls. “Wanted to know about berries.”

“Berries?”

“Yeah, strawberries or raspberries or something like that.”

You scoff. What kind of fucking idiot is buying this land? It might just be a herd of manufactured houses after all. “Well, it’s too hot here for raspberries. Everyone knows that.”

“I know, that’s what I told them. They could probably grow strawberries in July or August.”

“Are they trying to make strawberry wine or something?” And, as if this is some fucked up kind of movie, and not real life, it all comes back to you. Every memory, every moment, all at the thought of fucking strawberries in wine.

“Good fucking luck to them, if they are.” Your grandparents entertained the idea of it once, all the fruit wines. It’s a fucking shit-show, according to legend. Hell to try and make, Heaven to taste. It just wasn’t worth it for them. But apparently now it’s worth it to someone.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, bite and bite until you’re worried you’ll draw blood, that you’re a single tooth away from popping a hole clear through the skin. There’s no way, there’s genuinely no way, right? “Dad?”

“Shoot.”

“It’s not.” You almost stop yourself, you almost have some common fucking sense and realize just how vast the world is and how completely unlikely it is that– almost. You almost stop yourself. “The anonymous buyer, it isn’t Daniel, is it?”

“Daniel?” He scoffs on the other end. “Better not be that fucking cunt.”

You smile, the kind of smile that you know you should feel guilty for having. “He’s not a cunt, Dad.”

“I never fucking liked that kid.”

You’re right–you think. You’re right, Dad. You didn’t like him. “You loved him.”

“No, I lost all my respect for him when he left you like he did,” his voice is laced with a calm seriousness. He’s always been your blind defender.

“Yeah, Dad,” you pause. Now’s as good a time as any, you suppose. “I’ve been… that’s not exactly how it went down.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Daniel didn’t leave me, and even if he did, Dad, he wouldn’t have done it then.”

—

“What the fuck are you talking about, you’re breaking up with me?” His voice cuts through continents. He’s somewhere in the UK, or maybe Italy, or maybe Asia. You honestly can’t keep track anymore, can barely keep track of the days of the week that you’re living much less the ones he’s in.

“It’s exactly what I said, Daniel,” you say, try to keep your voice as level headed as possible, to juxtapose the way your mind races, the way your heart rate spikes and your palms sweat and everything in you hurts. “Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“No, no. I’m making this fucking hard,” he’s riled up enough for the both of you. “You don’t just. This isn’t how this works, babe. You can’t just break up with me.” He’s raising his voice with you. You can count on one hand and have fingers left over the amount of times Danny has yelled at you, and this is the first time it’s not scary.

“I can, and I am,” your voice comes from your throat, choked out over the lull of your entire body begging you to please, please don’t do this. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry!” He yells, the last letter sound cracking with the realization of his actions. “You’re not sorry. If you were sorry, you wouldn’t be doing it.”

“Okay, sure. Whatever.” He doesn’t make this easy, not that you’d expected it to be easy. You’d hoped for something cleaner, though. Less mess. “I’m having a great time breaking your heart.”

“Just. Why? Why are you doing this? What happened? What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, D,” you sigh. You didn’t know that your heart could physically hurt. You thought that was some crap that they made up for movies and songs and poems, some grand metaphor for how sad you get. “I can’t be a girlfriend right now. To anyone.”

“That’s such bullshit.”

You can feel yourself shutting down, closing every part of yourself off, running on pure survival instincts. “I know. I’m a cunt.”

“You aren’t… fuck me. I mean, fuck, dude.” He laughs. There’s not a thing about it that sounds happy. “I know you don’t want this, I know it. Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s going on and I can help you and everything is going to be fine, baby. Just. Please.”

“Daniel.”

“Why are you calling me that?!”

“It’s what you like to be called!” You yell back, feel the burn in your nose and your cheeks and the sting in your chest.

There’s silence for so long you wonder if he’s hung up, if you’re supposed to. It’s minutes before he speaks again. “Not by you, it’s not.”

—

It’s been just past a year since the place got sold, and nobody from your family–nobody–has been there since. You moved out of town years before the sale, and your Dad has joined you, wants to be near you in his ever increasing age and always deepening wrinkles. When the arthritis sets in, someone needs to forge my signature for me, he tells you.

It’s not until her birthday that you’re back in Perth, that you’re struck with the sudden spark, with the idea to drive past the vineyard, to see what idiot is trying to plant raspberries in the Australian heat, to see who's living in your shoes and wearing your clothes and sleeping under your bed like a monster.

“I don’t know that we should do that,” your Dad says. “It’s going to make you sad.”

You shrug in the passenger seat of the old Bronco. “We’re in the parking lot of a cemetery, so,” you offer a near silent chuckle. “I think we’re a bit past sad.”

“Okay,” he nods. “There’s something you should know, then.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a neighborhood.”

“No, no. It’s a vineyard. Strawberries and grapes in the fields.”

“Well, good then,” you nod, glide your hands through the air outside the open window. “What’s wrong with it?”

He shrugs, drums his fingers on the beat up steering wheel. “You remember when you asked me last year if it was Daniel?”

“Dad. Don’t.”

“Well, I didn’t know it then, but–”

“I’m serious. Don’t tell me this, please,” you’re a second away from sticking your fingers in your ears and humming a nursery rhyme to keep the unsaid unspoken.

“Daniel bought the place, hon.”

“My Daniel?” You squeak. You haven’t felt this young in a while. Or this small.

He laughs, turns to face you with a look that begs you not to be so damn daft. “The only Daniel that means anything to anyone in this family.”

“When did you find out?”

“As soon as they put the sign up. I was still living out here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You have so many questions. You don’t think there’s any you actually want answers to.

“What good was it going to do? I never thought you’d be back here.”

“Well. I’m back.”

He nods. “You’re back.”

You’re back. You never really left, you don’t think. It’s not something you can do around here. Perth is in your blood the same way wine is, some grand, immovable part of your soul. You suppose Daniel is there too, taking up a plot of land in your soul that can never be sold. He lives in you like summertime and sadness and strawberries. Strawberries. Him and his fucking strawberry white wines.

“He’s got strawberries?” You croak. Tears pull on your voice but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You’re grown now, it’s time to fucking act like it.

“Strawberry wine. First batches just came out last month. I heard it’s pretty good.”

“I bet.”

“You still wanna go?”

You nod, cold and stunted. “Yeah.”

You see the cars before you see the barn, they’re overflowing out of the parking lot and stopped on the side of the dirt road that leads to the drive. You’ve never seen it so busy. It looks like the pictures your parents used to show you, the ones where the place was fresh and new and shiny. The barn has a fresh coat of red paint, the parking lot is repaved and half full of ATVs with a logo for DR3 Wines printed on either side.

Above the door, a matching phrase, in simple white wooden letters–like what once was–hangs, announces the place to passers by.

Inside, it smells like wood, like lavender and citronella and alcohol. There are pictures on every wall, carefully framed photos of everyone in the world besides him. The counter is that same old slab of wood, the one that you always hoped he would fall through. On the wall behind is are more 4x6 photos than you can count, all unframed, all messily taken. He’s in some of those, holding a camera or posing with friends or hugging a grapevine. There’s one with you, right in the middle. You and he and your Mom on the back field picking grapes. It’s taken by your dad, you still remember that morning clear as day.

There’s another of you; a selfie taken on a point-and-shoot, the two of you with glasses of white wine and strawberries. Next to it is a picture of Kristen Bell and Dax Shephard leaning against the counter, half-drunk glasses in each of their hands.

Framed, on the edge of the counter, right beside the register, is a photo of the place when he first started working there, of your Mom and your Dad standing proudly in front of it. You took it. You left it in the office when your Dad decided to lock the doors for good. Our Story, the plaque below it reads, with a QR code to scan.

It leads to a linktree, to social media links and tasting menus and a merchandise shop. The last link, though, is stomach curling. It’s her name, your Mom’s. Fighting for her, it reads. When you click it, you’re taken to a website that encourages donations, that spreads awareness and promotes research, that thanks Daniel by name twice in two paragraphs for his consistent and generous donations and support.

Before you can make a bee-line for the exit, to tell your Dad that he was right and this was a mistake, you’re met with a red-faced teenage girl asking you if there’s anything she can help you with. “No, uh,” you swallow hard. “My parents were the previous owners, we just stopped in to see the place.”

“Oh my gosh, would you like a tour?”

“Um…” you pause, because you don’t know if you can handle being here. Seeing the place like this again. “Danny’s not… Daniel isn’t here, is he?” She shakes her head. You nod. “Then yeah, I guess. Let me just grab my dad?”

—

You get an invite to a VIP tasting at his vineyard two weeks after your visit. It’s scheduled during the F1 summer break, so you have no doubt he’ll be there, and if that wasn’t clue enough, his handwriting glaring back at you on the invite is about as obvious as obvious can be.

I hear you’re snooping around the old stomping grounds. I’d love to be there when you do it. Bring your Dad if he’s free. It’ll be a good night, lots of strawberry wine–the real shit this time. All love, (always your) Danny.

read part two, everywhere, everything, here!

942 notes · View notes