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theoldsports · 6 months ago

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SOLUTION.

Art Donaldson x Reader | 5k words

SORRY SERIES LINK.

warnings: pregnancy, implied discussion of abortion, a boy groveling on his knees for his family, there’s a dog (a real one, not just Art), talk about Art’s forced weird athletic borderline disordered eating.

okay, i lied last time. THIS is my best work. this is very out of my brain and i hope you love it. holy shit.

Have you ever sat and listened to a leaky faucet? I mean, really listened?

Steady. Like a heartbeat, if you think about it.

Sometimes, though, if the leak is slow enough, it’s more like the kind of heart rate that sends the nurse with the crash-cart sweeping into the room to shock you out of an AFIB pattern. Or however that worked.

[Y/N] was listening to it. The dripping. The kitchen sink. It hadn’t stopped for days. When it began, it was steady. Now, it was irregular. It started the day Art left

Art had been away at an early season tournament. [Y/N] had an impossible work week, so Art had told her he was happy to go for the better part of the week on his own. They both knew Art really did hate to be alone in situations like that. He had always had one of his people there. His mom, Patrick, [Y/N]; one of them was in his corner at these things. This time, he was truly on his own. Art could not stand to travel alone. He had his team of physios and coaches, but not his family. [Y/N] was going to swing by and surprise him at the end, but her boss had leaned into her for trying to take more days off during release season for the big summer blockbusters. Plus, someone did have to watch the dog.

This context about Art’s being away is important. It’s not that Art was the epitome of a handyman, but he really liked to feel like he was contributing to their home’s ecosystem when a lightbulb went out or a switch needed replacing. The man was incredible with the small things. Yet, [Y/N] sat at the kitchen table with a frown on her face, trying to rough in an outline for an article. With the faucet dripping. If Art were there, or if she was with Art three states over, the faucet wouldn’t be dripping against the porcelain basin.

It wasn’t like the wifi signal was strong enough anywhere else on the property for her to up and move either.

drip drip drip. Said the faucet.

[Y/N] was damn near the point where she was going to run upstairs to the bedroom and get the baseball bat Art kept with the express purpose of running down the stairs in his briefs and cracking up on possible intruders. All she could think about was bringing the wood down against the glass and cheap metal on her kitchen counter.

A new house would have a working sink and a bathroom counter that wasn’t too small and a halfway decent wifi signal.

Instead, [Y/N] set her face down upon the cool blue faux granite countertop. The temperature helped ease the feeling of the hyperbolic corkscrew being driven between her eyes. The dripping kept dripping and [Y/N] wanted to cry.

This agony wasn’t all the sink’s fault, though.

[Y/N] saw on the tennis channel before she even got a call from Art that he’d won that weekend. He still hadn’t called. The lack of a call from made her feel ashamed. Not a soul there to celebrate the success with him. She felt an immense sense of guilt slide across her skin because she wasn’t there to witness that smile he got when he won. Sweaty and angry, but relieved every time. He still got that look when he won. Art was a machine on the court, and a competitor not worth counting out at this point in his career. He still looked surprised and delighted every time he, of all people, hit the winner. [Y/N] loved that look. Art loved how she would celebrate with him after a win, too.

[Y/N] prayed Art made his flight without delay that evening. Selfishly, because she wanted her boy back. Also because Art was mortally terrified of airplanes. Planes made him feel out of control due to lack of trust with the pilot. Without that phone call from him, [Y/N] was scared knowing he was out on his own and that he likely felt anxious enough to give a horse a heart attack. She would have no way of knowing if something had happened between the match end and now.

She did know that the sink was leaking.

She also knew her period was two weeks late.

That, Art couldn’t fix on his own. In fact, it was fairly obvious that the delay was more or less Art’s fault.

[Y/N] hadn’t yet taken a pregnancy test at that time. If she took the time to take one, it would make everything the obvious answer a reality she would have to deal with. She had scares before. Ones that she had never, and would never, tell Art about. She would wait for her delayed—not missed!—period and everything would be fine. Like the other times. It had to be fine.

She checked her phone. It was a blue slidephone with small rhinestone stickers she had applied to the back. Still nothing from Art. He said he would call first right after the match, but he still hadn’t actually called, so maybe it was time to call first. It had been hours since he said he’d ring up. It wasn’t a major concern that Art would blow her off. Ideas of danger and uncertainties flooded her head.

“I’m the one that wants marriage so bad. Not Artie. What if he says no? Or not now…?”

[Y/N] sat on the beach with her back against Patrick’s shins. Art and [Y/N] were completing their first year completely post college. [Y/N] and Patrick were twenty-four and Art was almost twenty-four. His November birthday set him behind.

Patrick’s hands were on her shoulders and his body in a beach chair behind her while they both stared off over ocean as the sun set. “You’re actually stupid if you think he’ll deny you, [Y/N].”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to step on his game, or whatever. The guy is supposed to ask. Isn’t this going to be… emasculating or something?”

“Emasculating for Art? For pretty baby? Yeah, okay,” Patrick teased. [Y/N] threw a fistful of sand at him. “Christ, okay, okay. Cool it.” He spit.

Art had run back up toward to hotel to grab his water bottle, while Patrick and [Y/N] stayed at the dunes. [Y/N] wanted to propose to Art by trip’s end. She thought it would be sweet. Art was extremely forward when it came to her her, but he hadn’t been forward about the whole proposal business. He seemed scared about marriage. [Y/N]he would do it herself.

She was grateful for the time alone with her best friend too. Sitting and doing nothing, or partying. Either was more than welcome. “He’s not going to say no,” Patrick continued. His mouth casually leaned close to her ear. “Because it’s insane how whipped you’ve got him.”

“Don’t say that—“

“He wants to have your babies. Ask him. Trust me, he’ll say yes and he will be all the hell over you.” His fingers worked into [Y/N]’s shoulders, feeling the tension there. He took his hands off of her when Art came running down the beach.

[Y/N] heard a click in the lock. Her head flopped to the left, still pressed against the counter, to glance at the door. Her heart rate increased. She was so tired and the speed of the situation so fast, that she didn’t both moving or attempting to defend herself.

Most fortunately, when the door swung open, it was her Art. The sun was going down behind him. He looked a bit ragged and had a racket bag over one shoulder and two duffels in the other hand. She sat upright sharply on the kitchen barstool. “Pretty baby!”

All Art’s gear hit the floor. The door was left open behind him (taking a big chance that their Labrador mix, Cheese, didn’t run down the stairs and bolt out and away). Art walked toward [Y/N], arms extending. His strong arms pulled [Y/N] in close to his chest. She rested her head against his soft gray t-shirt. Her own arms embraced him back and one of her hands tucked comfortably into the back pocket of his jeans. “[Y/N]… I missed you.” Art said into her hair.

“I missed you… I-I… You didn’t call. How did you get here—“

“Final match actually started on time, so I gambled on moving my flight to the earlier one. I didn’t have time to call if I was taking the early one. I should’ve texted. I got nervous with the-the flight. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

[Y/N] leaned back to look at him. There was no more welcome sight in the world than Art Donaldson. Irish genetics saw to it that Art was freckled from the spring sun. With shaggy hair boyishly covered by a baseball cap tipping back dangerously, he practically glowed. Even though he looked like shit. His sunglasses were hanging on his shirt. [Y/N/] tilted her head up, signaling for a kiss. Hungrily, Art leaned forward to take as many kisses as he wanted. His lips tasted like spearmint gum. Like always.

Cheese did run downstairs when Art’s hand climbed up the side of [Y/N]’s throat and when her own hand started to squeeze from under the fabric of Art’s back left pants pocket. Art had to pull regretfully away to grab Cheese by the collar and shut the front door.

Delightedly, Art did gteet Cheese with ear-scratches and a belly rub. Art received the customary licks and a tailwags in return. Cheese was always pretty down when the whole family wasn’t together. He walked and played a bit, but when his dad wasn’t around, Cheese kind of deflated. He had spent most of the time laying flat on Art’s side of the bed. It was obvious the dog was grieving the disappearance of his boy.

When Art bent down to pat his beloved Cheese, [Y/N] stood from her chair and bent at the waist. She pulled Art’s hat off and set it on the counter. Gently, she kissed Art on top of the head. With a scratch not unlike the ones he gave to the canine to the back of Art’s neck, the man looked up at her from the ground with a half-smile.

“Congrats, baby,” [Y/N] said. Art cut his eyes curiously from her to the tennis channel on the TV playing in the next room. That had him realizing where she would have gotten the information of his win from so efficiently. “How was the tournament? I’m sorry I couldn’t—“

“Sure, sure, but I bet Cheese here is pretty glad you were home,” Art said and stood up with one final pat to Cheese’s flank. “The whole thing was great. I… I’m kind of surprised I won, if I’m being honest.” Art said, wrapping an arm around [Y/N]’s waist.

Naturally, her hands flattened against his toned chest when he tugged her towards him. “I’m not. You’re fucking good at tennis, Art.”

His ears reddened in embarrassment as he tucked his face into [Y/N]’s neck to hide his face. Art was used to praise and loved it more than anything, no matter where it came from. Every compliment from [Y/N] was worth a hell of a lot more. Art hated thinking about why that was the case. He knew why, though. She had seen he and Patrick play and even then thought Art was good. Art still won the match when it came to [Y/N] and he would never tell her that.

“Hush…” He mumbled into her neck, planting a biting, teasing kiss there. She laughed. He laughed. “I played against an eighteen year old kid yesterday. He played really well,” Art leaned back to look at her again. “You saw, I’m sure,” he indicated the TV with a nod. “He would’ve won this weekend if I hadn’t won that match. Just… I’m twenty-six. Made me feel old.”

“…Glad you won, then.”

“I said if I hadn’t…”

“Well, if you’re sooooo down on your win then congrats on flying home all by yourself like a big boy.” [Y/N] smirked.

“Oh, you’re gonna be like that, huh?” Art withdrew his hands from his wife’s body and put them teasingly on his own hips.

[Y/N] nodded. “Yeah. If you’re old, imagine how I feel.”

“Ancient, probably.”

Art leaned in for another kiss. She pushed him back playfully. “No! You called me old!” [Y/N] laughed.

She leaned one way, then the other to avoid Art’s beautifully wrinkled nose and smiling mouth. “Please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry! You’re-you’re not old!” Art said and attempted to trap her with his arms and give her a kiss.

[Y/N] turned hard over her shoulder and ran up the stairs. Cheese gave a woof from the couch when Art chased after her. Art spent his life chasing after her.

“No! You can’t kiss me! Doghouse! Bad Art! Bad!” [Y/N] accused jokingly. Art jumped up the stairs. He took them two and three at a time.

Art backed her against the bathroom door. Nowhere left to run. His rough hands settled on her hips. “Gotcha. You’re pretty fast for an old lady, y’know. Late for bingo, or—“ Art smirked when he leaned in to kiss her.

[Y/N] shut him up with a kiss. She had missed his stupid boy babbling. His mouth was soft against hers. Art put one of his hands on the wooden door beside her face to hold himself up. The other hand found her belt loop, keeping her body close to his.

“I love you,” Art whispered between kisses. “I love you so much, honey. I missed you.”

[Y/N]’s head leaned back against the door with a soft thud. Her breath caught in her throat. “I love you t—mmh!” Art leaned in for another kiss.

The joy of being Art Donaldson’s wife was that he never got tired of touching her, or being physically close. Sometimes, [Y/N] would look over at him while she was writing, or making dinner, and he would be staring, or slowly extending his hand to her and seeing how long it took for [Y/N] to acknowledge his presence. It never ceased to make her feel beautiful. “Can we…” his fingers danced over the button on her jeans.

“Can we what…?” She asked coyly.

Art blushed, but smirked and lowered his lips by [Y/N] ear. “Can we fuck? Please?” He asked too politely for as dirty as those words were. Like the good midwestern boy that he was.

She tipped her head back further. Art kissed her neck with all the energy he could muster. “Can I not make you dinner first? You-you a cheap whore as well as old now, too?” [Y/N] jeered. Art snorted a laugh. The warm air from the giggle spread over [Y/N]’s skin, causing goosebumps to raise. “I’m never letting you leave home alone again, then.”

Art nodded against her skin, sucking and licking a spot they both new would bruise dark. The sound she let out was absolutely disgusting and Art loved it. “I would prefer to never be let out of your sight, personally.” He said when he pulled away.

“Come on, house boy… We’re havin’ dinner. And you’re gonna eat some bread,” [Y/N] said, pointing a finger at Art’s chest. He started to put up a fight about the ultra-low nonexistent amount of inactive carbs he was eating during the season, but [Y/N] kept chattering. “Stop talking. Your brain doesn’t work right without carbs. Braindead. Come on, dinner.”

“You’re bad for me.”

“I know.” [Y/N] smiled.

Normally, [Y/N] drank a cup of coffee when the pair made dinner. Art knew the pattern. He made her the cup of coffee every time. It sat mostly unfinished that night, though. She found herself heating and reheating it in the microwave as they cooked. She started to space out as he recapped the tournament in full detail, as she requested. If Art noticed, he didn’t let on. [Y/N] noticed, though. Little stood between her and coffee. She didn’t want to drink it. That was violently unusual.

“Hey, I’m gonna go piss. Can you—“

“Watch the sauce?” Art asked, indicating the creamy pesto she had on the stove while Art cleaned and cut vegetables.

“Mhm.” [Y/N] confirmed. Art slid over to take the spoon from her. He placed a hand at the bottom of her back as she walked away. Art fit perfectly into her life. It wasn’t fair how right he was for her.

She went to the upstairs bathroom instead of the downstairs one. She hoped that didn’t set off Art’s sixth sense about the way-things-had-to-be. Once upstairs, [Y/N] wasted no time yanking open the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. It was overflowing, naturally. Makeup, supplements, condoms, hair ties, pill bottles, loose painkillers. It was a disaster. There was also a pregnancy test.

A laughing Art had given it to [Y/N] as a joke the morning after their wedding night and she had hit him hard enough to bruise across the chest. The test sat wrapped and in the box behind the mirror every day since. Just in case.

[Y/N] had officially arrived at just in case.

She gingerly tossed the empty box under the sink so Art wouldn’t see it without looking for it. Then, [Y/N] undid the buttons on her overalls and, well, took the test.

Lacking the time to sit and watch it come back positive or negative, [Y/N] tossed the clean cap on the stick, slid it into the pocket of her overalls, washed her hands and went downstairs like nothing was wrong.

Except she knew something was wrong. Now she felt like she had a loaded gun in her pocket. She was too cautious with her movements due to the fear that the test would slip out of her front right pocket in front of Art.

She was damn near about to step into the pantry and shut the door just to see if the pee stick had one line or two. If he wasn’t already suspicious, that would do it. [Y/N] felt that the anxiety created was easily the worst anxiety she had ever had. Oops.

[Y/N] got quiet. She was talking less and listening more. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but she was a chatterbox. Art would notice her blanched face and wrinkled brow eventually, she worried.

Ever the perceptive bastard, Art did. When he sat beside [Y/N] at the counter to eat a bowl of pasta with more inactive carbs than he had eaten in six months, he kept cutting his eyes at her. His bare foot nudged her ankle. Her dish was relatively untouched. “You good, babe? You’re being weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You are being weird because you’re not being you. I’ve barely asked you how you’re doing with all the excitement. Long day?” Art asked, setting down his fork to drag his hand across the back of her shoulders.

“Yeah, a bit.” [Y/N] said. What she meant to say was I have a pregnancy test and I bet it is positive in my pocket right now and I’m so terrified that I can practically smell my pit stains right now, baby. But she didn’t say that.

Art spun to face her, taking in her expression and demeanor. There was that contemplative knot perched between his eyebrows. The back of his hand landed calmly on [Y/N]’s forehead to check her temperature. “Art…” [Y/N] said, pushing his hand down.

“No, hang on.” Art said firmly. He tried to put his hand back on her face. Instead, not having a clue what it said, [Y/N] reached into her front right pocket and slammed the pregnancy test down between them. Art retracted his hand and flinched back a bit at the sudden movement. The test was face down on the counter.

Art’s eyes cut from the test back to her. His face was suddenly very solemn. “Are you—“

“—I dunno. I didn’t-I couldn’t look. It’s been in my pocket for twenty minutes. No idea.”

“Do you think you are?”

[Y/N] shrugged and looked at her bowl. It looked too green. sick sick sick. drip drip drip said the faucet.

“Do you want to know if you are?” Art asked wide-eyed. “I want to know, personally. Do… Do you?”

Again, [Y/N] shrugged. “If we don’t look, it’s not real.”

“…That’s stupid.” Art shook his head.

“You’re stupid.”

Art sighed. “I’m gonna look. I mean, I’m going to turn it over,” his eyes frantically reached for [Y/N]’s. He grabbed her hand with his to get her attention. “I’m going to look. Is that okay with you?”

“Yeah.” She whispered and it was okay.

And she was pregnant.

Two blue lines stared at them.

“Fuck.” [Y/N] said. She felt both elated and humiliated. She wanted so badly to be a mother. She wanted to cry. How could they keep it? The timing was wrong. She hadn’t agreed to this. The two of them had so many fights about it. She barely understood how this happened. She thought they were being so careful. It didn’t make any sense. Every precaution she could think of had been taken at one point or another.

And the fucking faucet was still dripping. She could hear it. drip drip drip. Over and over.

“Fuck.” She said sliding out of her chair and standing unsteadily. That wasn’t the result one should feel when they get something they have spent so long wanting.

Art ran his hands through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t be smiling when she looked so worried. His face betrayed the wide smile he hoped to hide. That’s exactly what he wanted to see. Fuck.

“Honey… Hey, hey. You’re okay. This is awesome. C’mere.” Art said like he was diffusing a bomb. His arm were wide open to hold her.

“Art…”

“No, uh-uh. Just come here. Please.”

Cautiously, [Y/N] made her way into her favorite pair of arms in the world. “It’s not supposed to be like this.” [Y/N] choked out as Art held her.

“Shh, I know, I know,” Art said calmly. His left hand’s fingers brushed her hair away from her face. “But that’s how it is now. We have to accept that and solve for the next move, right?” It was silent for a while after that. [Y/N]’s arms were tightly wrapped around Art’s shoulders and their bowls of pasta were certainly cold. She felt that she had ruined everything.

She glanced at Art’s face. The small smile betrayed him. “Art… We can’t. Not now.” she had told Art not now so many times that it felt forced and rehearsed. Now that [Y/N] that was actually pregnant, she wanted nothing more than to stay pregnant. The timing was far from good. She had articles that were still very due the next day. She had a husband who very much traveled often for work (who she traveled with too). She had Cheese, who was staring at her weird over the back the couch because he didn’t understand crying.

“What do you mean we can’t?” Art said quietly. “We-We can. We… have. We are… Actively.” He fumbled.

“We can. We did! But… You know now’s not a good time, baby.” [Y/N] countered weakly.

Art’s hands never left [Y/N]’s waist. “Let’s run pros and cons.”

“Pretty baby.” She said accusatorially. Good old analytic Art…

“Let’s run pros and cons.” Art repeated unflinchingly. He sprang up off of his barstool to gather a sharpie and a legal pad from some drawer. Art uncapped the marker harshly with his teeth. Cap between his teeth still, he asked: “Do you want it?” while he found a clean, smooth page.

Before she could respond with her head, [Y/N] responded with her heart. She nodded a yes to him immediately. “Do you?”

Art capped the back end of the marker to free up his mouth. “More than anything ever, I think. It would probably kill me a little bit, actually, if… Yeah. I understand and it’s all up to you, honey, but… Yeah.” His hand created a PRO column and a CON column on the page.

Under PRO, Art added the items he knew would cause no trouble in his blocky capitalized handwriting:

FINALLY START FAMILY

NATURAL/EASY START

SEASON ALMOST OVER

[Y/N] HAS FLEXIBLE HRS

DREAM COME TRUE??

WILL BE GR8 PARENTS

[Y/N] nodded in approval. She couldn’t think of more pros, but Art handed her the marker and she started in on the CON list:

OLYMPICS??

ART’S NEVER HOME

EXPENSIVE

SMOKING/COFFEE

CHEESE JEALOUS?

TOO YOUNG!

Art drew the line at giving up stimulants and assigning the dog human traits and struck both of those off the list with a frown.

Frankly, Art thought the cons list turned out rude.

“I haven’t qualified for the Olympics yet,” he protested. “And if I do, imagine how early on that would be. Before all the hard stuff.”

[Y/N] replied with the thing they both knew was the most real problem. She had waited forever to say it out loud. “No offense… You are never home anymore. You’re busy all the time. Which I get. It’s your job. You’re good at your job. But look how excited the fuckin’ dog got to see you because you were gone so long. You are never here. We can’t put a human in doggy day camp all the time. It would be fucking impossible to raise—“

“I’ll quit,” Art said, wincing. He wouldn’t. [Y/N] felt that this was a bluff. He tried in vain to hide his expression of shame. “I’ll quit tennis.” He said. He wasn’t going to.

“That would worsen the problem. No money.”

“I’ll work at the 7/11. I’ll be a construction worker. I could be a fuckin’ coach. I actually have a degree, y’know, I can use it. I’m more than a racket. I don’t want you to feel alone here. I want to be here for all of it, I can—“

“You know I’m alone here a lot, babe. A lot. You don’t… You’re in a position where you’re unable to help constantly. Because you’re gone. That’s okay. I married you knowing that, right? But a baby, Art? That’s not fair.”

“I’ll bail on a season. I will. I just…” Art stared at her. “Please. I’m begging you. See this kid through with me.”

The sharpie was forgotten on the counter along with dinner. Art’s knees landed on the floor before [Y/N]. Art practically lived on his knees in front of [Y/N]. He gathered [Y/N] hands in his. “Please. It’s your call, but hear me out. Because that thing is part of both us. I don’t want you to hate or resent me or the little stinker forever, but you want it. I know that. Hear me out.” His beautiful two-tone eyes stared up at her.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“I will give you anything. Please, my world is you. Not tennis; you. I’m telling you, I-I would leave that behind to be anything you need right now. Just ask it. You’re my fucking priority, you got that? I just.. I… Please? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I want to keep it too, but—“

“Then what’s the big deal?” Art asked hopefully.

“It isn’t a good time. It’s too soon.”

Art’s mouth trailed kisses across his wife’s stomach and hips and hands and arms. He let this go on for several minutes. “Please,” Art whimpered pathetically into the skin of her wrist. “Please, please, please. I will do anything, my love. I’m on my knees here,” Art looked up at her through thick lashes. “We can do this. Both of us together. I’ll do whatever you want. You know I will. This can be good for us. I’m really sorry we’re here, but here we are, hon. What time’s going to be the right time? Please. I love you.” Art pleaded desperately.

[Y/N] knew this was going to be a disaster. But she wanted to keep it. What time’s going to be the right time? rung in her ears over and over, like the faucet. They had put so much time into arguing about the time and the place that would be right for a family. Now it was right in front of them. Her hand caressed Art’s face. She loved it when he groveled like that. This time, on his knees and everything. On instinct, he nuzzled his face into her hand and looked up at her through long lashes.

“Will you fix the faucet? It’s been dripping all week.”

“Anything.”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it. I’m going to think about it. The baby.”

“You will?” Art’s teary eyes widened.

“Objectively, this is a terrible fucking idea. We both know that. But if it’s really so terrible, why do I feel, like… happy about it…”

Art’s face lit up. It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. [Y/N], honestly, found it very hard to say no to Art. His arms wrapped carefully around her thighs while his head rested against her middle as he knelt. [Y/N] could feel his silver ring through the denim of her overalls. “God, I love you. I love you, [Y/N]. We’re not going to regret this. Holy shit…”

“Love you too. We’re gonna… We’re gonna try, maybe? This doesn’t feel real. Does this feel real? I…”

“It feels like a dream is what it feels like,” Art mumbled into her clothes. “I love you.” Art said, pressing a kiss to her stomach.

“I love you.”

“I’m gonna be a dad…” Art almost wept. “If you, y’know, but… Shit. I’m sorry.” Which part he was apologizing for was unclear.

At that, [Y/N] laughed and tangled her fingers in his curly blonde mop of hair. “Yeah, you’re gonna be a fucking dad, pretty baby.” She smiled.

[Y/N]’s next instinct was to say: I have to call Patrick. Then she remembered couldn’t call Patrick.

TAGLIST (ask to join):

@diorrfairy @donaldsonsdarling @muthafuckingstargirl @shysstuff @soberbabes @avylanchce

apologies for tag issues. i’ll dm those it didn’t work for!

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson imagine #art donaldson x you #art donaldson #challengers movie #challengers #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #sorry series #father art

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pritiblog1992 · 2 years ago

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Bigg Boss 16 Finale: MC Stan Wins Trophy, Car And ₹ 31 Lakh

#big boss 16 winner #big boss 16 #mc stan wins

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rrrrinmaru · 4 months ago

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calculated risk (but boy am i bad at math) (sylus x mc) (nsfw)

wc: 4.3k rating: E warnings: NSFW content, dirty talk, blowjobs, skull fucking, orgasm denial, slight spanking (ass and pussy) brief: you lose a bet to sylus and you have to do whatever he wants for 24 hours // part 2 here

It starts, as most things do with Sylus, an incredibly poor decision on your part.

It can’t be helped—when Sylus smirks at you, one eyebrow raised as he gives you a challenging look, you know it’s only going to end in either one of both ways. You taking him up on the bet, or the both of you in a training room with you trying your damned best to figure out how many bones of his you can break.

This time, he hadn’t even disclosed what the prize would be. “Patience, dollface,” he murmured when you told him to lay the terms out upfront. “Isn’t it fun when you don’t know everything?”

“And I suppose it’s fun for you to keep me in the dark?” Control freak, you thought to yourself, but the bet was simple and there was no way you would lose.

Sylus had shrugged, spreading his hands in a helpless pretense.

It didn’t matter. You were confident. You were going to win.

“I gotta go with A,” Luke says slowly, smacking his lips as he speaks. “I like the spices. No clue what’s in it though—pepper, and er, I’m going to go with cinnamon? Or something similar?”

You could strangle him. Who the fuck puts cinnamon in tomato and eggs? You didn’t even see Sylus go near that section of the spice cabinet.

“Do you even know what cinnamon tastes like?” You can’t help but ask.

Luke licks his lips again. “Yeah, I ate a whole spoonful of cinnamon once because Kieran dared me to, and I was out of it for days. Boss got really mad, haha, remember that?”

Sylus sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He choked,” he says unhelpfully when you look to him for more information.

“He exhaled cinnamon for what felt like hours after that,” Kieran notes from the side. “I wanted to get a scan of his lungs to see how tainted from cinnamon they were, but Boss grounded us.”

“Anyways, it may not be cinnamon, but it’s definitely a c-something,” Luke declares confidently. “I like it. A is the winner for me.”

“Cilantro,” Kieran tells him. You can’t read his expression through the fox mask, but you like to think he’s rolling his eyes. There’s exasperation in his voice that reeks of an older brother forced to reckon with the stupidity of a younger sibling, an unstoppable force crashing headfirst into an immovable object.

Luke snaps his fingers, leaning forward to spoon another mouth of scrambled egg into his mouth. “It’s good. Who made this one?”

“I have to vote first,” Kieran reminds him. “But I’ll go with A too. It’s saltier. I prefer things with a stronger taste.”

“Hm.” Sylus turns to look at you, cocking his head. “It appears we have a unanimous decision. Our fear of needing a tie-breaker game didn’t even materialise.”

You stay silent. Your arms are folded across your chest, and you get the errant thought of whether you could stamp on his shoe hard enough to break his big toe. Probably not, but giving up without even trying is a defeatist attitude.

“Woah,” Luke says, looking furiously between the both of you. “Boss made this?”

Kieran suddenly goes very silent. He brings a fist up to his mouth and starts coughing lightly, but he also resembles a cat attempting to cough up a hairball.

“I did,” Sylus replies, looking quite pleased. “Surprised?”

“Er,” Luke says simply. “Er, congrats. Kieran, do you know how to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre?”

Kieran coughs again. “I’ll do it on you if you do it on me first.”

“Deal.” Luke hurries to stand, his chair screeching against the floorboards from the strength of his push. “Can we excuse ourselves? Our role here is done, right?”

Sylus jerks his head at the exit, and the both of them scramble to the door. As they leave, you think you can hear Luke mutter something that sounds like “I didn’t know I would like soapy eggs, but there’s a first for everything, right?”

Kieran shoves him in the shoulder in response as they both leave. And Kieran goes to great pains to ensure the door is closed, firmly, behind him.

“Let me try that,” you demand, reaching for Luke’s chopsticks left on the edge of the plate.

A strand of twisting red energy wraps around your wrist, yanking it to a stop.

��There are clean chopsticks,” Sylus chides. From across the kitchen, a covered bowl and a pair of chopsticks are brought over by tendrils of red and black energy.

He leans back, hips pressed against the counter as he collects the bowl and chopsticks. The lid lifts of its own accord and floats over to rest on the nearby countertop.

Sylus picks up a piece of egg and holds it out to you.

“… You made a separate serving for me?”

“I had my suspicions. If I won, you would have demanded a taste test to ensure I didn’t rig the competition.” Sylus tilts his head, as if daring you to disagree. “Was I right?”

Instead of answering, you lean forward to take the piece of egg into your mouth. Your lips close around the end of the chopsticks, and you stay like that for a moment, looking up at Sylus from under your eyelashes.

Sylus’ gaze deepens.

You pull off, leaving the chopsticks wet with your saliva as you chew on the food in your mouth. It’s good. Pretty good. Salty, but in a good way. It would go excellently with a fresh bowl of rice.

You’re actually kind of irritated. Why is Sylus good at making scrambled eggs and tomato? Did he pencil that into his busy schedule—illicit trading activities at 10 am, cooking lessons at 12 pm, a shoot out in a back alleyway at 3 pm, and prowling the streets of the N109 Zone from 11 pm to 4 am like some kind of avenger?

“It’s not bad,” you admit mulishly. “But it’s not better than my cooking. I’d say it’s at the same level.”

“Crowd opinion begs to differ. There’s no shame in losing to someone better, sweetie.”

Oh, you’ve just about had it with him. But a bet is a bet, and Sylus won without any obvious cheats. Luke enjoying the soapy taste of cilantro is something you could never have predicted; if Sylus used this fact to his advantage, you can’t even hold a grudge against him. You would have done the same.

“Give me that,” you say, holding a hand out for the bowl and chopsticks. “So, what’s the prize?”

Sylus doesn’t hand you the bowl immediately. He puts the chopsticks into his mouth, licking them clean before dipping them into the bowl again and picking out another piece of egg. He holds it out.

You lean forward, of course, lips parted as you expect him to feed it to you.

Instead, he turns the chopsticks around and places the egg into his mouth. He hums as he chews on it, nodding like he’s pleased at the taste.

You snap your jaw shut. You give him a dirty look, pressing forward to brace your palms against the countertop, on either side of his hips. Like this, he’s trapped.

Your chest is pressed up against him. Your hips align with his. You go on the balls of your feet, forcing him to lift the bowl and chopsticks higher so he doesn’t hit you in the face.

“You think you’re so funny,” you grumble, staring him down. “Bet, reward, now. Tell me what it is so I can be mentally prepared.”

Sylus doesn’t respond at first. He glances down at you, amusement written all over his face, and lets go of the bowl. Strands of energy catch it, bringing it to rest on the counter behind him. The chopsticks are brought along as well, leaving him empty handed.

“You’re standing in a dangerous position.” He puts the knuckle of his index finger under your chin to tilt your head up. “If you offer yourself up like this, I’ll take advantage.”

He tilts his hips forward, rolling intently against your abdomen. The prominent bulge presses into your lower stomach, right above where your womb is, and you flush scarlet.

You move to pull back, but Sylus moves one hand lightning fast, reaching behind to cup the curve of your ass and pressing you even tighter against the hard line of his arousal through his slacks.

He even squeezes, eyebrows rising in a challenging fashion as he waits to see how you’ll respond.

You know he just wants to get a rise out of you. Unfortunately, it’s working. Your insides clench uncontrollably, wanting to cling tightly to something.

Somehow, Sylus always succeeds at making you feel empty.

“As if you don’t take advantage on the daily.” You shift your stance until your thighs are spread around Sylus’s leg. He watches you adjust yourself, that mildly interested look affixed on his face as you straddle his thigh.

Once you’re satisfied, you roll your hips forward, grinding down on the thick thigh to put pressure against your core. It’s a syrupy heat, starting from your tailbone and crawling up your spine. You press further into Sylus’s growing hardness, and he lets out a pleasant hum, tilting his head back to soak in the weight against his cock.

His fingers tighten against your ass. His grip is heavy, holding you tightly enough that you wonder if they’ll leave bruises against your skin. Five pretty bruises, black and blue on your ass.

“Harder,” he coaxes hoarsely. “You can do better than that. What are they teaching Hunters these days?”

Your thighs squeeze threateningly around him. But that puts pressure on your clit, making pleasure surge deliciously inside you and you do it again—Sylus seems to catch on and he pulls you along the length of his thigh with the hand on your ass.

“Definitely not how to ride the unspoken ruler of the N109 Zone,” you shoot back breathlessly.

He lets out a startled laugh. “You flatter me, sweetie.”

“Stop evading the question,” you remind him, even as you steadily roll your hips against his thigh. Slow, regular grinds as you rub your cunt against his pants. You wonder if your pussy is wet enough to leak through your panties. You wonder if your panties are drenched, sticking to your thighs. You wonder if you’re making his pants damp, and whether he can feel it leaking through to his skin.

Judging from the way he suddenly grips your ass with more force at a particularly smooth slide, you think he might.

“Remind me, what question were we speaking of?”

“Bet. Reward.” You slide one hand across his abdomen, stopping right over his belt buckle. The nail of your index finger catches against the metal—this isn’t the first time you’ve wished you had some kind of Evol that involved the manipulation of metal. “Want me to go on my knees?”

The pad of his thumb smooths over your lower lip.

“Should I put this cute mouth to good use? I think I should,” Sylus murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he looks down at you. “But let’s talk about the bet first. The reward is simple.”

His other hand skates lightly along your outer thigh. Light as a feather, his fingers skimming along your skin so gently that it makes you itch. You almost want him to press hard, the same way he’s gripping your ass, instead of this light, itchy sensation spreading across your body.

His fingers creep up, running under the hem of your dress. They trace the edge of your panties, nails scratching faintly against the cotton.

“I get to do whatever I want with you for the next twenty-four hours,” he says, voice curling with satisfaction. His eyes are creased slightly, the smile sinking through his gaze. As if to drive his point home, he pointedly looks you up and down, dragging his gaze over every inch of your body.

He’s lucky. If you were still clear-headed, you would have scoffed and told him to change the bet. Sylus might have convinced you after a while, but it would have taken time. At least half an hour of convincing, you reckon, with lips on your neck and fingers down your panties to get you worked up enough to say yes to a bet as insane as that.

Twenty-four hours? To do whatever he wants?

Now, with your drenched pussy and your throbbing clit, both just begging for attention from him—this plan sounds pretty good. With the way his fingers playfully run across your panties, the tip of his thumb glancing off your swollen clit then darting away, as if it was an accident, as if he didn’t intend to do that, when you both know damn well he’s very acquainted with your clit—

“Go on,” you gasp, chasing after his sly fingers. Pressure, you need more pressure. If he squeezes your clit between his fingers, even through the wet cotton of your panties, it might be enough. “What do you want me to do?”

“Choices, choices. That mouth looks hungry for something, doesn’t it?” He presses his thumb into your clit harshly, making your body jerk at the sudden burst of electricity that surges through you. Sylus rubs it languidly, watching you shiver on his thigh, then he draws that hand away and brings it to his face.

You watch, pupils dilated and mouth open as he lifts his thumb to his nose and inhales deeply. His eyes flutter shut, lips parting as he rubs the pad of his thumb on his tongue. Behind you, his other hand flexes, tightening his hold on your ass.

“Mm,” he hums, slowly opening his eyes to look at you. “Delicious as always, sweetie. You’ve completely wet your panties.”

“Sylus,” you whine, pulling insistently at his belt. “Tell me what you want, or I’ll just do whatever I want to do.”

“How naughty. Thinking of breaking the rules of the bet this early?” His hand leaves your ass and you almost move to slide off, but there’s a sudden sharp sound and a stinging pain—your cheeks turn red at how that spank made your insides tighten up. “On your knees, dollface. Show me what that talented mouth of yours can do.”

You go, the tips of your ears blushing when you see the blatant wet spot on his slacks your greedy pussy left on him.

Sylus uses your mouth like a fleshlight. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty, mouth open and wet, teeth hidden behind your lips as he holds your head in place and fucks into your mouth. Saliva pools in your mouth, your tongue numb from how loose you’re trying to keep your muscles. You just need to be there, fingers locked around Sylus’ ankles, knees spread on the ground and your arousal dripping on the floorboards—

“Good girl,” Sylus croons, head tilting back to expose the long line of his neck as his hips snap forward. “So fucking obedient for me, aren’t you? Tongue out, sweetie, let my cock slide right in—mmhmm, that’s right, you know what I like, don’t you?”

His fingers are tangled in your hair. There’s no gentleness in the way he holds you there—his grip on your hair is tight, your strands circling his fingers at least twice. He’d stroked your hair right at the beginning, when you were sliding to your knees and dragging the zipper of his pants down with your teeth. Then he’d wound your hair around four of his fingers once, twice, twisting his wrist, pulling sharply so you’d feel the strain at your scalp as you licked up the length of his cock.

He’d told you to clean it up, so you did. You flattened your tongue along the thick line of his cock and you dragged it up, eyelashes fluttering as you traced the fat protruding vein under the head of his cock. You got his cock nice and slick, shiny from spit and precum.

And now he’s fucking into your mouth, salty precum dripping down your throat as your cunt clenches around nothing. He grunts, a low punched-out sound that makes your clit throb. You’re the reason he looks so disheveled, sleeves rolled up messily to his elbows, slacks pulled open just enough for you to slip his cock out and suck on it—

The worst thing about Sylus, you think in a haze, the heavy weight of a fat cock in your mouth so all-encompassing that you don’t have many brain cells left for clear thought, is that he loves to talk. He can’t keep his fucking mouth shut, especially during sex.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice gravelly from arousal. His thrusts are becoming more haphazard, losing the regularity from seconds ago. There’s a familiar stutter and his cock pulses on your tongue, the fat head going so far down your throat you almost seize up, but you hold it back. You can take it. You want to take it. “Do you want it in your throat or on your face?”

You make a noise, the sound muffled from Sylus’ cock. He laughs, a breathless sound, and the ache in your scalp intensifies. Oh, he’s close.

“You’ll have to speak up, dollface.”

The whine that leaves your lips is louder this time, your fingers tightening around Sylus’ ankles. If your nails dig into the skin, leaving trails of scratch marks, all it does is make Sylus groan, hips jerking as he slams into your throat.

“Hm, I can’t hear you,” he notes, eyes glinting as he looks down at you. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? You have to take whatever I give you, sweetie. Open that throat up for me, nice and pretty—ngh, fuck—”

You bare your teeth just enough to scrape the underside of Sylus’ cock. He’s not afraid to mix his pain with his pleasure, and the sting of teeth biting at his sensitive length while he fucks into your face is something he’s told you is addictive. You know he likes it. You know it makes him tremble, and you see it in his crimson eye when he hunches over, abdomen tightening as his cock twitches.

“Close,” he growls through gritted teeth. “Suck on it, sweetie. You have to work for the reward you want. I don’t—haaah, fuck, I don’t give handouts.”

You obey, eyes closing instinctively as you suck on his cock. His cock is leaking badly, precum sliding down your throat. You swear you can feel the head of his cock all the way down, right to the base of your throat, right at your clavicle. It truly feels like he’s hitting it that deep, bruising the insides of your mouth and throat until you won’t be able to eat right or breathe right for days.

You swallow desperately, throat working furiously around the head of his cock, that tight wet heat that drives him crazy, and he bites out a curse as his hips jerk forward, cock throbbing as come spills into your mouth.

He doesn’t let up. He keeps fucking into your mouth, hips pumping as he slides his cock back and forth on your tongue. You suck at his cock, swallowing mouthful and mouthful of come down your throat. Your entire world narrows to a pinpoint, to the grounding weight of his pulsing cock on your tongue, the ache in your mouth, the sting of your scalp—there might be tears in your eyes, or sweat from overexertion, but your vision is blurry when you look up and watch Sylus watch you.

Sylus watches you with hooded eyes, mouth open as he pants for air. His lips curve up when he sees you open your eyes, looking down at you with a pleased expression while he rides out the aftershocks in your wet mouth.

“How obedient,” he says, breathing heavily as he lets one hand go and moves to stroke the side of your mouth with his thumb. He cups your jaw, wiping away a trail of spit from your lips, then reaches down to follow the outline of his cock in your throat. “Swallow.”

You swallow, and his eyes darken as your throat bobs around his cock. He must be able to feel it on both ends—his cock, trapped in that endless wet heat; his fingers, feeling the movement of your muscles under your skin, feeling his heartbeat in his cock through your throat.

He continues fucking your mouth until the spurts of come finally taper off. Even then, he seems content to let his cock stay in your mouth, rubbing along the textured roof of your mouth and against the scrape of your teeth.

Eventually, he pulls back. Sylus’ cock leaves your lips, inch by inch, until his back is against the counter again and only the tip of his cock is left in your mouth.

You can’t help it. Now that there’s more space, you move your tongue instinctively, curving it along the over-sensitive head of his cock and licking into the slit.

Your eyes are trained carefully on Sylus’ face as you do this. He shudders, lips spreading in a smile even as his grip tightens in your hair.

He gives you this look, half-lidded eyes and a lazy, satisfied smile as you mouth at his cock.

“Good girl,” he says hoarsely, pulling your hair until your mouth slides off his cock. It bobs in front of you, still half-hard, and you risk your luck with lapping at the fat cockhead.

Sylus stops you by yanking your head back even further. He pulls up, forcing you to your feet, then he unwinds his fingers and smooths your hair down.

You pant lightly, trying to get your breathing under control. Your mouth feels like one big bruise, and you clear your throat before even attempting to speak. Your voice is going to sound completely fucked, you know, and some part of you revels in it. That you’ll walk around sounding like someone just brutalised your throat, because someone did.

Sylus doesn’t do anything. He just stands there, the long line of his body stretching out before you as he drops one hand to cup your waist. You eye him, then eye the slowly growing stiffness of his cock—when you look back up, he has that familiar, smug challenging look on his face, like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

Oh, you know what you want. You take his free hand and bring it under the rucked up hem of your dress. Your panties are sticky with arousal, and you’re certain you leaked enough fluid for his cock to slide in without any stretching, but you like fingers in your cunt. You like Sylus’ fingers in your cunt, specifically.

Thick and callused fingers, broad enough that two of them feel like four of yours. You like the way they can hunt down that sensitive spot inside you with deadly precision, and you like the way he taps insistently at it like he’s pulling a trigger on a target. You like it when he crooks his fingers inside you and finger you stupid while his thumb flicks insistently at your clit.

You even pull your drenched panties to the side so Sylus can slip his fingers in. You’re being so accommodating, so sweet and nice and obedient, all hopped up on endorphins from having a cock in your mouth and watching Sylus come—

He runs his index and middle finger through the seam of your pussy, gathering up your sticky wetness. He reaches up to pinch your clit, finding it with shocking accuracy even though his hand is hidden beneath your skirt, and you let out a surprised moan, your knees shaking from the pleasure that bursts inside you. You are going over the edge the moment he sinks those clever fingers inside you, you just know it.

But he draws his hand away. You’re so shocked that you let him do it, let him pull his hand away and bring it to his face again, almost an exact copy of what happened earlier. You watch, pussy clenching around nothing as he presses those two fingers together and pulls them apart, letting thin silvery strands of your arousal stretch in between the fingertips.

Sylus rubs them together again, then puts those fingers in his mouth. He looks at you, holding your gaze as he sucks on them, throat visibly moving as he swallows.

“Sweet,” he notes, nodding in approval. “A sample before the main course.”

You stare blankly at him. Your clit is throbbing, desperate for attention. “Sylus,” you demand, reaching for his hand again. “I want—”

“I know what you want.” His hand cups your exposed pussy. His palm is hot, heat radiating off his skin as he rubs slowly along your slick cunt. “But for the next twenty-four hours, you’re at my mercy.”

He slaps your pussy, so suddenly that it makes you yelp, both hands reaching out to grip his bicep in a bid to stabilise yourself. It stings, so pleasantly that it makes your clit tingle—you want more of it, more of everything and anything, as long as he makes you come. You’re so close it’s not even funny. One more slap could push you over the edge, as long as he does it hard enough and right across your twitching, swollen clit—

“Go take a shower,” Sylus suggests, eyes dark as he stares you down. “I’ll find you when I want to, dollface.”

“You—!”

His smirk just makes the heat in your gut flare up. You want nothing more than to push him on his back and straddle that face, wipe that smile off with your cunt and force him to eat you out until you’re shaking from overstimulation and crying over his tongue.

But a bet is a bet. And you respect the sanctity of a reward, even if it frustrates you to no end.

“You are infuriating,” you hiss, and stalk off to find a change of clothes.

#love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #恋与深空 #러브앤딥스페이스 #恋と深空 #秦彻 #rin writes l&ds #sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace smut #lnds smut #sylus smut

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redstonedust · 4 months ago

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the woke left want you to believe you can't dig through the center of the earth because of the "mantle" and "core" . but have you even seen it? they're hiding the secrets of fast travel because they're in the pocket of Big Airplane. but i know the truth. and if you're a real thinker chad mafia boss winner, you'll start digging. go on. start digging. with your hands. join me in the hole. join me in the hole. join me in the hole.

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hindi-india · 2 years ago

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Bigg Boss 16 Winner : बिग बॉस 16 में क्या अर्चना गौतम बन सकती है विजेता?

दोस्तो नेशनल टेलीविज़न पर बिग बॉस शो को आते हुए काफी समय हो चूका है और लोग बिग बॉस 16 के विजेता का बेशब्री से इंतेजार कर रहे है लेकिन क्या आप जानना चाहते है की कौन है जो बन सकता है बिग बॉस सीजन 16 का विजेता चलिए बताते है आपको बिग बॉस के घर में ट्रेंडिंग में ��ल रहे कुछ सितारों के बारे में और हम जानेंगे की क्या अर्चना गौतम इस सीजन की विजेता बन सकती है या नही. बिग बॉस 16 का विजेता कौन है? दोस्तो…

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#Big Boss 16 Winner

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ataraxiaspainting · 7 months ago

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The Chauffeur.

Yan Aventurine x F Reader.

Synopsis: Life has always made losers out of people like you. You dream even now that that could be changed. But can it really?

Warnings: Yandere themes, manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, drugging, misogyny, abuse of power, and mentions of violence.

Word Count: 3.2k.

*~*~*~*

When thrust into a world filled with illusions of chance, one can only hope that change will soon arise.

The company, the appearances, the losers, the winners; nothing ever changes, not even the dreams that things will.

How you are treated is a gamble all on its own too, despite you wishing it were not so. Lady Luck has yet to smile upon you, but instead of gifting you with snake eyes, she gives you the utmost displeasure of being slapped, being threatened, or having your salary lowered. You sometimes wish she would just give you the lowest score on a physical die instead of an invisible one.

You wish she would have made you less appealing to unwanted stares, would have made you have a burned face that would scare off anyone as soon as they looked at you. Hell, even make you be an old woman begging for spare change. That would be a better existence than to live in this body, where you are forced to wave and smile and conceal the bruises and slap marks whenever they appear in a place not covered by your dress. Not that your dress covers anything.

You have three jobs in this casino. Your first one is to spin the wheel or make the letters visible after all the bets are placed and the speaker gives you the signal to do so. Your second one is to always look presentable, your boss’s definition of “best”. Appearances will bring in more onlookers, he said. Just get yourself all dolled up. Okay, toots?

You conform every time your clothes change in color, size, and pattern because after all, they could just replace you with someone more willing.

After all, you have your mouth to feed and your own back to clothe.

So, you endure not all of it, but most of it. You endure the times your assigned makeup artist has called you a whore for not letting him stay in your room during his breaks, the times the suited mascot of this place squeezed you a bit too tight when you were told to take a few photos with him. You pretend not to notice things like that, because if you start a conflict who knows what will happen?

The applause of onlookers is always paired up with lewd comments about your body instead of congratulations to the winner.

The heels you are paid to wear always manage to make you trip onto someone, or rely on some flirty stranger to help you walk to and fro. Your manager told you to grow your hair out when you first started working here, and when it finally reached the desired length he gave you very few options when it came to which hairstyle you wanted. If you remember correctly, it couldn’t have been more than four. All of them had curtain bangs and waves. There was even one, you think, that had something to do with bleaching.

You opted for the one that let you keep the most of your natural hair pattern, not that that was a lot.

Your dresses always come with a slit to see one of your legs. Temptations bring in more dreams, and with dreams come people wanting to be big shots. That is what your boss said to you after you questioned your given work wardrobe. You did not want his glare and mocking laugh to be aimed at you any longer, so you nodded and went to change. He praised you for it later, but your brain protected itself by not remembering what he said.

All you can recall is the way you shuttered at him wrapping an arm around your bare shoulders, a lit cigarette in his hand.

You don’t shutter as often anymore after he scowled and threatened to place it on your palm.

Your world is simpler than it was before when you were sleeping on the streets and given just barely enough to scrape by. You only have three jobs to do, but the third one holds the most importance. Sabotage the gamble. Never let them win unless they hold enough power that your boss permits you to stand back.

There have been very few instances of that happening, but they happen nonetheless. They are this casino’s equivalent of a blue moon. There are telltale signs before you are told of their status. Their clothes are always glittering like an invisible spotlight is on them. They always have guards, and people sticking to their arms like glue just itching for a taste. It is an even rarer sight to see one of them being chosen to be their partner for the night. You can tell when a person can buy you off with their proportion of pocket change. Not that anyone has, much to your gratitude.

This man is just like them. You can sense the ego dripping off of him, and can sense how much all those rings on his fingers cost.

This is the real deal. You can tell. That earring of his is probably worth twice that of all of your organs. That is being generous with the price you would most likely hold on the black market. In reality, perhaps thrice. That is not even going into his pink sunglasses, which have tiny gems stuck on the sides.

He has a gun holster, you think, but the gun itself is nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps one of his men is holding it for him. Perhaps.

From the corner of your eye, you see your boss amongst the crowd, nodding slowly at you. He is sitting in a booth a bit more distanced from the others, three women on either side of him. Every time he sits there, it is your first signal that something is surely going to happen. Good or bad. This time it is good, and you will end the night with nothing less than a few thousand credits for playing your part well. Last time it was bad, and you ended up having so much more than a simple slap on the wrist.

He has three dice between his pointer and middle fingers. One green, one teal, and one dark blue. They are each twelve-sided from what you can see, but the sigils remain unseen by you. Maybe for the best, you think, you don’t want him to take up as much memory space as he already has.

All you want is for this shift to be over, but with this unplanned patron skipping the line of gamblers to gamble himself, who knows how long until the dice stops rolling?

Your fellow staff members look happier, displaying genuine smiles on their faces. Not that you can blame them though, most of them are new hires because your boss tends to fire people on the daily.

“Hold on a sec, please. Madam, I would like to use my lucky charms before you spin the wheel. If you don’t mind, that is.” The man requests. It is not a sincere question, you note, because he clasps onto the dice in his palm so lightly like they are gravity-resistant.

Instead of looking at him, you look at your boss first. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to you any longer with what looks like one of the women being straddled on his left thigh. Hmm. It’s your call then, you suppose.

“Sure,” You answer, trying to put on your best polite grin. “Who am I to deny such an… experienced gambler?”

“Thank you for the praise,” He replies, his free arm bending as he scratches the back of his head. “But you… misunderstand, I am just a simple bettor, nothing more.”

The positioned desk with a microphone attached has just become this casino’s newest playing ground. Faster than you can blink, the dice are let out of his hand and roll. When they stop, you can hear cheers and praises, as if they are all meant for him.

A spotlight is focused on him too, a color more dazzling than the brightest glittering gold.

“I’m going to choose the peach.”

You nod and spin the wheel, all of the colors blurring together, slowly but surely soon coming to a stop.

The pink area with the same peach is on the pointer, and the crowd all clap their hands and dance.

*~*~*~*

During your breaks, you are allowed to go to your recovery room to do whatever limited array of activities your bookshelf and dusty boxes under your bed had in store for you. The breaks are always nothing more than half an hour, but you earned the right to have your breaks’ minimal times be nothing less than ten minutes.

“I just… noticed you never play the games you so often assist, that’s all.” The blond stranger continues to follow as you speedily walk down the hallway to the backrooms. Little by little, the golden paint that coats the walls turns into a dull beige, a sure sign that your treasured little hiding place is near.

“I wish I could but right now I have my lunch break, sir.”

His speed is nowhere near diminishing, no, if anything it is getting more profound.

If you did not have unwanted company, if you did not have to worry about the security cameras in every corner of this part of the casino, if you did not have this job you hate to your very core, you would have torn the high heels off of your blistered feet.

But you cannot because you do have unwanted company, you do have to worry about the security cameras in every corner of this part of the casino, you do have this job you hate to your very core. So, the high heels stay on and make sounds with every step you take.

“Come on, Miss [First]. I know you want to.” You have been unable to get him off your back for the past ten minutes. Even when you attempted to walk around the less crowded parts of this casino in circles, he was there. “[First]. A lovely name, if I say so myself. [First], [First], [First].”

It takes everything in you not to frown or cross your arms. That could be considered rude, especially to someone as high standing as this man. “Utmost sincere apologies, sir, but I really-”

“Aventurine.” He interrupts. “It’s Aventurine, Miss. You don’t have to call me sir, you know. We’re alone here in this stank hallway. Without my money, I’m just like you, and I’m sure we can become great friends.”

“In my opinion, I believe that there are better people than me to form connections with, Mister Aventurine.” You try not to huff in frustration, but you could have sworn that one was let out.

In the distance, you see your recovery room, the number two on it turning off and on every few seconds.

It has always been that way. The only one who often gets renovations to their living quarters is your boss. The rest of you are nothing more than cow fodder to him, even his assistants.

“You should head back, Mister Aventurine.” You say, the smile on your face trying its hardest not to fade as you turn to look at him. “I don’t want your seat at the pinball machine to be taken from you.”

“And who do you think would have the guts to steal from me?” Aventurine smirks, one of his hands lowering his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. “No one is that suicidal, that’s the hard truth.”

He winks at you faster than you can get a grip on your door’s handle.

“Just think about it, m’kay?”

In a flash, he starts walking off, leaving you all alone.

*~*~*~*

“Ah, you’re back!”

Aventurine is at the start of the hallway, the part where the gold paint is the most pronounced.

“My break ended.” You say your answer quickly and simply as you walk past him. Instead of your high heels, you are wearing black flats.

Your feet were bleeding much more than usual when you finally made it to your room. Yeah. That is the excuse you will give to your boss if he asks. He seems drunk and is still at his little booth, not to mention it is dark in the casino at the moment, so there is quite a low chance he will.

“You don’t look so good.” Aventurine nearly shouts, causing you to walk even faster to make it to the wheel of fortune. “Did something happen?”

His voice is soon drowned out by the crowds of people talking. Just a few more seconds. A few more seconds, and he won’t be able to bother you much longer and he will head back to that pinball machine he has been hoarding for the past hour.

You move past the ogling eyes of drunk consumers and move past the guards, who always let you behind the stage without a hassle. Your flats don’t make nearly as much noise as the heels as you walk up the five steps.

You only have three minutes before the curtains withdraw from their positions, so you pull on your bun to make it tighter and put the stray baby hairs behind your ears. You brush any dust off your dress and then brush off any dust that is on the gambling wheel. The cleaners only work after all the shows are done and all the guests go home, so it is up to you to make sure the show is always looking its best.

You hear the countdown from the electric speakers and the onlookers.

“Five! Four!”

You take a few deep breaths.

“Three!”

You hear the confetti cannons turn on.

You close your eyes and think about the best possible future, one where you can be happy. Where you can be yourself. Where your smiles are real. Where your happiness is real. Reading for as much as your heart desires. Trying all the delicious-looking food no matter how strange it may look.

“Two!”

Instead of hearing the number one, you just hear more cheers.

The curtains move to the designated sides of the stage, and the near-blinding spotlight shines at you. You smile, waving at the crowds of people, until you see something that nearly causes your facade to crumble down.

Aventurine stands there at the start of the line, holding his three dice just like before.

*~*~*~*

You avoid Aventurine just long enough for the casino to close for the night. It was not an easy task by any means, but somehow retreating to the bar on the job and making simple conversations with other patrons and fellow staff members was enough to repel him.

Since it is after hours, the bartender has gone back to his room to sleep after downing five shots of Spade. He will be hungover tomorrow, that much is certain.

Ah, to only work when it is far past dusk. A dream only for your boss’s most favored employees. Aside from the bartender, there is his guard, who has been seen for the past few months being so drunk that he cannot even stand; he has to sit on the floor.

There is no room for you in that little club. But your gut tells you that it is better this way, for no one unfavored can see what goes on inside.

It is only you in this bar now, spinning around on the stool closest to the gates that lead to the other side. It’s you. Despite this job, despite everything, you are still you. All you ever have to be is you. Only you.

The glass in front of you is half full. Half full with Melancholy. It is only slightly bitter, the rest of the flavor profile being floral and refreshing. This type of shot glass is only reserved for people as high standing as Aventurine due to the little scattering of gold at the rim.

They are stuck there so they won’t choke whoever is drinking from the cup. For once, your boss put his resources into something partially useful. If only he would do the same with your salary and put some more credits into it.

The door’s chiming bell rings. You hear the front door then close. Did the bartender forget to lock the door?

Should you say something? You don’t want to get in trouble with your boss tomorrow, and his hangover will certainly make his wrath ten times worse than it already was.

The sound of footsteps doesn't fade, and another sound accompanies it soon enough; Aventurine’s voice.

“Hey. Just wanted to drop by. See what you’re doing this late all alone, you know?”

Before you can turn around and politely ask him to leave, he sits on the stool beside you. Vibrant eyes make contact with yours.

A hand goes on your shoulder, squeezing with a purpose; to keep you quiet.

“Are you drunk? You smell like Blossom Dew and Soothing Soda. Heavily.”

He's exaggerating, you know this. You've barely had a sip. It's not nearly enough to get you intoxicated. Not at this early into the after-hours. You still need to have a few more beverages before heading to your room for the night.

“Mister Aventurine, I am going to have to ask you to leave.” As he chuckles, your body instinctively reacts, possibly as a protective response. You wouldn’t blame it for acting this way, even under ordinary circumstances.

“I don’t think you’re in the right place to be making orders like that. Maybe if you worked for the IPC, but you’d have to work at the speed of light to get anything close to my ranking.” His hands slither from his sides to your glass, tilting it so he can see the dark yellow liquid within it. “Hmm. Do you not have a high alcohol tolerance, Miss [First]?”

“I do.” You rebuke. He shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t think I should believe you, honestly.” With one of his hands, he takes off his pink sunglasses, putting them beside your cup. “Maybe if you drank the rest of it in one gulp.” With a slam, he puts a stack of credits on the table. “Go on, do it and I’ll give you enough credits to leave Penacony forever. I promise.”

Who are you to decline such an enticing proposition, despite your distaste for the man's company? This employment, with all its hardships, can vanish if you are simply granted the funds. Thus, you hastily consume the remainder of your beverage without deliberation.

You’re too focused on the bet at hand to notice the unusual saltiness.

With a wide grin, he applauds enthusiastically, his cheers echoing through the stillness. However, his clapping abruptly ceases, leaving behind an unexpected emptiness. In its place, a throbbing headache emerges, surpassing the intensity of any typical morning-after discomfort.

The fall into a state of unconsciousness is far from effortless; it feels more like a sudden, jarring blow to the face, sharp and agonizing.

“I’ll keep my word, that is a gambler's responsibility after all."

#author aya #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere honkai star rail x reader #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere hsr #yandere aventurine #yandere aventurine x reader #aventurine x reader

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hazelfoureyes · 8 months ago

Note

Ok I need a Lucifer x Reader fic based on Griftwood by ghost pretty please ( just listen if you haven’t heard it you’ll understand)

Listen, I went the opposite direction I think you wanted? Lol gonna work on brevity and get more snack sized smut out on weekdays and entrees on he weekends

[Warnings/Promises: snack sized, Lucifer x GN!AngelReader, lil smut smut, Fuck Sera, Luci corrupts absolutely, all hail dat dick, sacrilegious as fuck]

🫸🏼minors DNI🫷🏼

Lucifer avoided the heavenly embassy for obvious reasons. The vast halls, the empty and useless pews, it was, in a word,

“Creepy,” He hissed.

He was surprised to find the reception desk manned. Very rarely did heaven actually send anyone down to hell. Oh, wait.

You were stunned already to see Lucifer, so when he poked your nose you let out a tiny squeal.

“Oh shit! You’re real!” Lucifer took a step back, “Sorry about that! Not used to an … actual person.” He gave a little bow, “Forgive me?”

The fact is no one wanted to go to hell for desk duty, so the job was actually a punishment reserved for the most misbehaved. You had to intentionally set fire to Sera’s robes to get that severe of a scolding. She was reluctant, but it had been threatened (promised) to you last time you (intentionally) caused trouble. Rumors were abuzz about Lucifer, and you just had to see for yourself what the Great Big Boss of Hell was like.

Rosey cheeks, bright sharp smile. He didn’t look as scary as you had imagined. You expected a seven foot eight inch tall behemoth with fire pouring from his mouth and blood stained horns.

The devil, the real one, looked quite sweet.

A tiny existential crisis washed over you. Maybe there was a reason they didn’t want people down here. Why they made it sound oh-so-terrible.

“You still in there?” He leaned over the counter, tapping at your forehead. Your hands flew up, capturing his finger and bringing it down.

Warm.

He froze, a little shocked you would touch him. Your smile went crooked, cheeks blushed.

“Uhhh you good?” He pointed with his free hand to where you still gripped his finger. You nodded, a hum of confirmation. The blush rose up until you were fully red in the face.

The realization struck Lucifer like heavenly lightning, “Oooh, I see what’s going on here.” A wicked smirk taking you by surprise. “Did you want to meet me, little one?”

You broke out into a sweat, “Yes.”

Lie! Why didn’t you lie?!

He leaned over the counter, “Did you do something bad to get sent here?” Was there fire behind his eyes?

Uneven breaths, “… yes.”

Lucifer’s knee came up and over as he crawled onto the desk, “Should the King of Hell reward you for such bad deeds?” His eyes had gone red now, your hand still on his finger.

Your knees began to shake, “Y-yes.”

His face was inches from yours when your legs gave out, both of you falling to the floor.

Horns tall, yellow pupils dilated as he straddled you. “I think you’ll find I’m a generous ruler.”

It made sense. As Lucifer bent you over the reception desk and fucked you from behind, you could completely understand why they made this job posting sound horrid. Heaven would be empty if every winner could freely interact with Lucifer. You’d damn humanity too, if that was the cost. His hips snapped against your ass with divine determination, sweet praises on his forked tongue.

The sounds of your gasps and his skin on yours echoed through the pristine white and gold halls. Like a pastor giving his sermon, he made the most delicious promises as you bent at the altar.

Could heaven hear you? Your chants of “God, Oh God,” shifting to, “Lucifer! Luci—fer”, when one of his hands came down, fingers stroking your heat?

“What do you pray for, my curious Angel?” He growled, a flame you couldn’t see licking past his lips. “I’ll grant you anything”

Your cheek was sliding across the marble, small line of drool smearing on your face. Claws raked down your back, the stimulation making you shake.

Your fingers reached for his thighs, failing to take purchase. Lucifer took both of your wrists in one hand and held them at the small of your back for leverage. Your legs bent up, toes curling as you came around his sweetly punishing cock.

Taking a few deep breaths, you rolled your hips back against him, “More.”

Lucifer laughed and lifted one foot onto the desk to add more force behind his thrusts, “Say please.”

am I too horny? No. No, the cardiologist is wrong.

╭──────༺♡̶༻──────╮ Masterlist ╰──────༺♡̶༻──────╯

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list): @cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , fizzled-phoenix , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @fjorjestertealeaf , @pansexual-opera-house , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @roxxie-wolf , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @phobophobular , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @surusurusuru , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum , @ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot

#lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer smut #lucifer x you #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin lucifer #gender neutral insert #gender neutral reader #gender neutral y/n #the band ghost #ghost

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lipglossanon · 8 months ago

Text

Red Flags and Long Nights

Real Dad!Leon S. Kennedy x daughter fem!reader (one shot)

hello hello 👋 this is the fic written for the milestone celebration poll winner (real dad taking accidental viagra); big big thanks to all of you who have gotten me here!! 💜 💜 I’m so thankful everyday that you guys choose to read/like/share/interact with my fics and just me in general! 🥰 so without further ado, I hope you enjoy this one shot!!!

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, INCEST, dead dove content, dad/daughter incest, groping, slight cnc, dirty talk, breast play, oral (m receiving), kissing, teasing, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread 😅 some of it was written while sleepy so hopefully it makes sense haha

title from Red Flags and Long Nights from She Wants Revenge

<<prequel: Oh By Gosh, By Golly>>

One day, your mom calls you up out of the blue wanting to talk about planning a family vacation this year. Somewhere with sandy beaches and clear blue water. Something over an extended weekend once everyone can take off work. She’s already talked it over with your dad and he’s agreeable as long as it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg.

As she talks, you pull open your calendar and look over your work schedule. Once you find a date that works, she promises to text you the details of the Air B&B she plans to book. You bid her goodbye and hang up the phone, quietly excited about a beach trip even if it is with your parents.

You keep busy as you slowly count down the days; long graduated from college but still struggling to find work in your major, you’ve had to settle for any job opportunity that will pay the bills. Luckily enough, you were hired to work at the local post office. It’s not a glamorous job by any means, but you do get federal holidays off and your boss is pretty lenient with you. It’s a cinch to put in your PTO for the extended weekend you plan to spend with your parents.

The morning you drive down to the beach house is pleasant; it’s early enough you miss out on a bunch of traffic which helps you save enough time to splurge a little and grab some coffee. Following the GPS, you get to the beach house in the afternoon with plenty of sunshine left to enjoy. Your parent’s car is already parked outside so you don’t have to worry about figuring out how to unlock the joint.

You grab your small suitcase and make your way into the lovely three story home. As you walk up the gravel sidewalk, you take in how secluded the area truly is and how lucky your mom was in getting such a nice place. You’re pretty sure it cost out the ass, but hey who’re you to deny such generosity?

The door swings open before you touch the handle and your mom pulls you into a hug.

“Oh honey, I’m so happy you could make it!”

Breathing in the perfume embedded into your brain from childhood, you give her a quick squeeze back before pulling away.

“Me too,” you smile, “this place is amazing!”

She laughs and moves further into the house, looking back as you follow along behind after closing the door.

“A friend of a friend owns this place so it was pretty easy to get. Even your father can’t throw one of his little hissy fits about the cost,” she rolls her eyes and you breathe out a laugh.

“Where is he?” You look around but only see the open kitchen leading off into the dining room.

“Down at the beach,” she points to the sliding glass doors on the other side of the living room, “I told him I wanted to stay up here for when you arrived.”

You nod and smile at her again, “Thanks, I appreciate it. I’m gonna go put my stuff up and change then we can head down ourselves.”

She nods, “There’s a handful of bedrooms on the second and third floor. Your dad and I are staying in the master down here so you have your choice of rooms.”

“Nice, be back in a sec,” grabbing your luggage, you climb the stairs to scout out where you want to sleep.

You pick a cute room on the third floor; it has a little balcony with a couple of chairs that gives you a fantastic view for miles around. You toss your clothes into the dresser and quickly change into your swimsuit. Grabbing a towel and some sunscreen, you slide on your sandals and make your way back downstairs. Your mom, wearing a big floppy hat, is already standing outside the sliding doors.

You chatter with each other, just catching up on your day to day, while you both make your way down the little path that leads out onto the beach. As soon as your sandals hit the sand, you see a huge beach umbrella.

“Glad to know he won’t burn,” your mom laughs, toeing off her own sandals to walk barefoot over to your dad.

Following her lead, you take off your sandals and carry them over to the blanket underneath the shade of the umbrella.

“‘Bout time,” a groggy baritone meets your ears.

“Shush, Leon, it didn’t kill you to nap on the beach now did it?”

Your dad just mumbles a reply to your mom before raising up. He squints over at you, eyes heavy lidded from sleep as you set your stuff down.

“The drive okay?”

You laugh and finally look over at him, “It was fine.”

His blue eyes sharpen as they read your expression before darting down to give you a once over. Your nipples tighten against your will and his gaze seems to linger there for a split second before flicking back up to your face. Plastering on a fake smile, you sit down and grab your sunscreen.

“Want some help with that?” Your dad nods to the little bottle in your hands.

“S-sure.”

You kinda hope the ground splits open to swallow you whole, but instead you just move over to where your dad is sitting up on the blanket, hand outstretched to grab the sunscreen.

“Well while you two do that, I’m going to go take a dip,” your mom beams at you, completely leaving you alone to wallow in this newfound awkwardness.

Keeping your back to your dad, you feel his broad calloused palms drag the slick lotion all over your back and shoulders, deftly massaging it in. For the last few years, there’s been a line of tension between you and Leon. An accidental kiss under the mistletoe where you both used too much tongue to be appropriate (any tongue isn’t appropriate but you’re blaming the alcohol everyone had been drinking).

Since then, you’ve both watched the other. Glances too heated to be innocent, brushing against each other unnecessarily… and now with his sun warmed hands rubbing across your back, your brain empties as your body buzzes with arousal.

It’s why it takes a second for you to realize that your dad has moved on to rubbing in the sunblock across your ribs and over your clavicle. His hands come up and cup your breasts, stiff nipples showing through the fabric.

“Gotta make sure to get everywhere,” his breath gusts past your ear as his hands slip under your top and massages the fat of your breasts.

“Ohh,” you whimper quietly, cunt pulsing warmly in time with your heartbeat.

He squeezes and rubs across your soft skin, fingers plucking at your stiff peaks until you moan brokenly.

“Dad,” your breathy exaltation has him pinching and twisting your nipples before groping your breasts roughly in his hands.

“‘M almost done,” he licks the shell of your ear and your thighs twitch, “you’ve got such nice tits, princess. Don’t want’em to burn.”

You press your hand over your mouth to muffle the whine you let slip. With one last harsh pinch to your nipples, he lets go, scooting back away from you.

“Should be good to go,” he grins at your dazed look, “don’t keep your mom waiting.”

Shaking your head, you blink rapidly and slowly climb to your feet. As you pass by Leon, his hand reaches up and smacks your ass hard.

“Be a good girl, okay?”

“Y-yeah, dad.”

You pad out to the ocean, waving to your mom as she looks for seashells in the shallow water. Wading out far enough for water to hit your chest, you finally let yourself sigh out loud.

“What in the fuck?!”

You rub wet hands over your face as you gaze out onto the horizon. Flirting is one thing, but getting felt up by your dad is definitely crossing the line. You shiver, clit still throbbing as you reach down to press your palm against your cunt. Even as messed up as it may make you, you wish he would’ve slipped his hand down and fingered your pussy.

The sun glaring off the water makes you squint even as you enjoy the scenery, trying your best to squish all the other thoughts and feelings you’ve had in the past half hour down into a little box you can open later. It works for a time, until the squinting becomes too much and the glare is driving sharp little needles into your brain.

Leaving the water, you make your way over to your mom as she scoops up more shells with a net.

“I’m gonna head in, got a bit of a headache,” you wince as the sun bounces off her watch into your eyes.

“Let me walk with you,” she frowns, “you’re looking a little washed out.”

You nod and follow her back up to the beach blanket, eyes skirting over where your dad’s lounging reading a book.

“We’re headed up to the house, do you need anything?”

Your mom grabs her bag and your stuff as your dad sets his book down onto his lap. He looks at you then back to his wife.

“No, once I finish this, I’ll be heading up, too.”

She hums and takes you by the arm, helping guide you back to the house since the pain beats a tempo behind your eyes and makes your vision a little blurry. Once in the house, she helps you upstairs to your room. In doing so, she makes sure to stop in at the bathroom on the bottom floor to point out the migraine medicine in the cabinet.

Entering your room, she sits you down on your bed. She tucks you in and makes sure to close the blinds before walking back into the hallway. Turning, she gives you a concerned look.

“I’m going to head into town. It’s about an hour's drive from here so I won’t be back til later. If you need anything, call, okay?”

You hum in reply already drifting to sleep in hopes you’ll feel better once you crash for a few hours. The nap helps and by the time you come to, your headache is completely gone. Waking up is a chore however; it takes you a minute to realize where you are, eyelids sticking together, gummy with sleep.

Raising up on your elbows, you reach over to the side table and grab your phone. Eyebrows pinching together, you blink sluggishly until you can read the time. It’s only late afternoon even if it feels like you’ve slept through the night. Climbing out of bed, you change before leaving your room with a plan on grabbing some water from the kitchen.

It’s noticeably quiet as you finally step out on the bottom floor. Your mom must still be gone since you don’t see her shoes by the front door.

“Fuck.”

You hear the muttered curse from the half open bathroom door that you’re walking past heading to the kitchen.

“Everything okay?”

You slowly press the door all the way open and your dad fumbles with a towel before placing it over his lap as he sits heavily down on the edge of the tub.

“I thought you were out with your mother,” he bites out, tone sharp.

“No,” you frown, leaning against the doorjamb, “I had a headache and took a nap. Are you alright?”

He blows out a breath and scrubs a hand over his face.

“I’m fine. What time did she say she’d be back?”

You shrug, “Couple of hours I think. I don’t really remember.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Should I call—“

“No,” Leon nearly shouts, “no, don’t. It’s not a big deal.”

“Dad, I can help I just need to know what’s wrong,” you step closer into the bathroom.

He laughs without any humor, “Sure.”

You go to ask him why when your eyes catch on the bottle sitting by the sink. It’s similar to the migraine medicine you saw in the medicine cabinet earlier, the one your mom pointed out if the nap didn’t get rid of your headache. Who knew your dad needed help getting it up?

“Did you..?”

You trail off, feeling awkward and nervous and disgustingly turned on to think your dad’s dick is hard underneath that flimsy towel.

“Yes,” he sounds tired, “I thought it was the other medicine.”

“Ohh,” you bite your lip, brain completely in the gutter as your eyes drift down to his lap, “I mean, I can still help.”

It seems insane but your dad’s not stopping you as you shuffle closer to stand between his legs. His blue eyes stay steady on yours as you kneel in the floor, knees digging into the soft rug in front of the tub. Leon tugs his briefs down and his cock slaps against his stomach, precum drooling from the head. He’s so hard, the foreskin has drawn back from the tip showcasing how red and swollen his cock has gotten from the medication.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, eyes greedily taking him in.

“Fuck, don’t look at it like that,” he groans, hands gripping the tub so tight his knuckles blanch.

“You’re just really big,” you press the dough of your thighs together, trying to put a little pressure on your throbbing clit, “you’ve got the fattest cock I’ve ever seen, dad.”

You watch as precum blurts from the tip to drip all down his length while he moans low in his throat.

“Christ, you’ve got a filthy mouth,” his pupils are blown as he gazes down at you, “since you like how big my dick is, sweetheart, why don’t you show me, hmm?”

Your tongue licks up all the precum leaking down his dick before softly suckling on the head.

“Oh fuck, that’s it,” he grunts, “suck that cock.”

Moaning, you bob your head down, tongue tracing the thick vein you can feel on the side as you sink down inch by inch. Your dad pulls out to trace your lips with his drippy tip, smearing precum across your mouth like sticky gloss. You moan and press a kiss to his dick, tongue lapping at the crown until he’s rocking back into your mouth. Humming low in your throat makes his cock kick in your mouth, precum coating your tongue.

“Damn, so good,” he groans, hand smoothing across your jaw, cradling it as he pulls his cock out, “never get head from your mom anymore. Feels so good.”

More slick wets your panties as you mewl, throat clicking as you swallow around his thick length. You hungrily suck his cock, tongue circling his head before dipping into the slit to taste more of his precum.

“Like sucking me off, sweetheart?” he tosses the fringe away from his eyes while he rocks his hips, pushing himself deeper into your throat with smooth strokes until you gag heavily.

“Love that, choke on it a bit more and I’ll be spilling down your slutty throat.”

Thick strands of saliva bridge between your mouth and his dick like shimmery spiderwebs as he slips out. You moan when he ruts his cock across your tongue. Leon groans and reaches down to tap his cock against your lips before feeding it back to you. Whining, you suck him deeper into your mouth, licking across the head before messily bobbing your head further down his thick length.

“I'm about t’cum, swallow it all up, princess,” he thrusts a few more times before pulling out until the tip is sitting fat and heavy on your tongue.

Leon grunts and moans as hot thick spurts of cum fill your mouth. Swallowing quickly, you try to keep his cum from spilling out around your lips, but it ends up leaving a sticky mess to drip down your chin in thick strands.

You watch as he groans, stomach flexing while you suckle on the head of his dick, making sure to not miss any of his hot jizz as his balls empty into your mouth. After giving the tip of his dick a kiss, you pull back and wipe the spend from your face with the bottom of your shirt.

Your cunt feels soaked, panties sticking to your pussy lips as you shakily stand onto your feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Your dad stands up beside you, cock still hard and leaking, making you whimper. Pulling his briefs back up, he leaves his shorts and shirt lying on the floor. He grabs you by the forearm and leads you out of the bathroom and all the way upstairs into your room.

“No surprises if your mom comes home early,” he informs you, pushing you further into your room followed by closing and locking your door.

Heat radiates from your cunt, more slick dripping into the already soaked gusset of your panties. Leon shoves you back onto your bed before climbing on top of you, kissing you heatedly as he sinks down onto your body. You wrap your legs around his waist while you run your hands through his messy hair. You're so turned on you can’t think straight anymore.

“Thatta girl,” he coos, pulling back to drop kisses across your neck, “can’t wait to feel your wet little pussy, baby.”

You whimper and pull him back up into another kiss. This time he licks into your mouth messily, spit dripping from the corners of your lips to slide down your jaw. You feel him grind his cock against you before pulling away.

He sits back on his haunches and slips his briefs off, maneuvering until he can toss them into the floor. Next, he leans forward and grips the bands of your panties and shorts. You help him, shimmying to move your clothes down off of your legs. As he moves those into the floor, you slip your shirt off and let it too fall onto the pile of clothing.

“God, love your tits,” he groans, shoving his face into your breasts, mouth licking and biting every inch of skin they come across.

His mouth suctions around a nipple, tongue teasing the stiff bud as he tweaks the opposite one with his fingers.

“Dad,” you moan, nails digging into his scalp.

“What?” He coos, “your dad can’t show his appreciation?”

A whine rasps from your throat and Leon laughs meanly before biting the swollen bud he was sucking. With a grunt, he moves across your sternum, leaving hot open mouthed kisses across your chest until he can suckle and tease the other nipple, fingers plucking and pinching at the now wet one.

Your hips writhe, leaking cunt dragging against his stomach as his cock grinds against the cleft of your ass.

“Gonna let daddy stuff your tight wet cunt?” He chuckles as your eyes flutter as he lathes your nipples with broad swipes of his tongue.

“Yes,” you whisper, “wanna feel you split me open. You’re so big.”

Whining on the last word, you rock down, feeling his tip catch against your pussy lips and driving you crazy.

He growls and sits back on his heels, taking his cock in hand to smack it against your clit.

“So slutty,” his pupils swallow the blue of his eyes, “want daddy to stretch this little hole out? Show you how a real dick feels?”

Nodding along with his words, you suck your bottom lip into your mouth, teeth sinking into the plush skin.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, spitting in his hand to slick his cock before pressing the head against your soaked heat.

Using his thumb, he presses his cock down so the tip slides into your hole. Keeping it there, he rocks against your hips, sinking inch by inch into your pulsing cunt as his thumb keeps his cock steady. Pulling halfway out, he flexes his hips and thrusts forward faster than before.

“Even your mom doesn’t let me go raw anymore,” he chuckles, bottoming out so fast you choke on air, “so this is a real treat, sweetheart.”

“Ohh god, dad,” you moan, voice high as he starts sliding his cock in and out of your pussy, rough thrusts that make your breasts bounce.

You whine when he grinds against you, his pelvis rubbing over your swollen clit just right. His balls smack against your ass on every thrust, the loud plap plap plap of skin driving your arousal even higher.

“Dad, fuck, s’too much,” you gasp out another whine, head feeling dizzy as your blood rushes, arousal making your pulse feel heavy in your throat.

He groans and drops his weight down on you, bare skin sticking together from the sweat building between your bodies. Leon kisses across your neck, mouth grazing your skin with barely there nips that makes your pussy flutter around his cock.

The thatch of hair at the base of Leon’s cock grazes your sensitive clit, sending little electric shocks of pleasure that brings tears to your eyes. You feel so good, you can’t stop the slutty noises from leaving your mouth. Rutting into your body, your dad’s fat cock grinds against the spongy spot along the front of your cunt. Slick gushes from your pussy as he hammers your g-spot so perfectly you can’t help but squeeze him tighter and tighter.

“Princess,” he murmurs in your ear, “is this little pussy gonna cum? You’re so soft and wet— I can feel you tightening up around me. God so much tighter than your mom, can’t believe I’ve been missing out.”

His words push you over the edge. You babble out little chants of dad, dad, dad until a guttural moan spills from your throat, thighs jumping as your pussy clamps down on Leon’s dick like a vice.

Your low moaning twists into a scream as his hand sneaks down to rub and tease your clit. Instead of your orgasm tapering off, it ramps up, gaining speed until it hurtles you into cumming again.

“Aww, she’s gripping me so tight,” Leon mocks sweetly in your ear, “yeah, that’s it, sweetheart.”

“Dad,” you whimper, tears clumping your eyelashes, “dad, please.”

A moan rumbles from his chest and he humps your cunt faster, cock never pulling completely out as he ruts inside your slick pussy walls. Half a dozen thrusts more and he’s growling down at you, pressing his cock balls deep into your cunt, thick cum spurting from the tip of his dick to stuff you full.

“Oh so tight, baby,” he sighs, hips pressed against yours as he spills inside your snug little cunt, “your little pussy fits me like a glove.”

Shuddering, your walls milk another small load of cum from his heavy balls and he pants noisily against your clavicle. He presses up onto his forearms, hips swiveling to pull his cock halfway out before sinking it back inside, a mix of your creamy arousal and his spend making a ring around the base.

“Good, huh,” his laugh tinges on mocking, “don’t worry, ‘m not done with my daughter’s cute pussy, gonna keep you here for as long as it takes.”

After that, it’s all a pleasurable blur. You're unsure how many orgasms your dad has given you at this point, but you know he’s only had three and his cock is still so thick and hard.

“Think this one will be it, princess,” he grunts, hoisting your limp thighs up, the bend of your knees slotting perfectly over the bend of his arms.

You can only pant in reply, mouth as dry as cotton. He notches the head of his drooling dick at your entrance, dragging the tip up to smear the cum from his last creampie all over your used cunt.

“One last load for your greedy little pussy,” he grins down at you, “then we can take a shower.”

He sinks his cock into your sore pussy at the same time he leans forward, pressing your sweaty bodies together. Your eyes roll back as the tip of his cock kisses your cervix, thighs shaking against his arms.

“So deep,” he groans, “best cunt I’ve ever fucked and to think it belongs to my sweet daughter.”

Your pussy spasms and clenches down on his thick length as you cry out. Brain melting pleasure seeps down your spine as he pulls out to grind across your g-spot before fucking back into your cunt roughly.

“S’good, dad,” you mewl, mouth drooling as he hammers his cock into your sensitive hole, “so good.”

“I know,” he croons, “I feel good, too. Not g’nna be able to give up this sweet little pussy. She grips me too good, baby, I’m gonna want her all the time.”

Another orgasm slams into your body, pussy pulsing and sucking his cock into your hole as your head thrashes against the bed. Leon’s hands grip your wrists to push them down against the bed so you don’t scratch him.

“Fuck, milking your dad’s cock like you’re made for it,” he groans, humping into your pussy with deep strokes until you’re crying from overstimulation.

“Shh, shh, just take it a little more, ‘m about to cum,” he licks into your mouth, biting on your bottom lip before pulling back, “that’s it, take it, take your dad’s dick deep into that hot, greedy little pussy.”

Hiccuping a sob, your cunt steadily milks his cock as he buries himself all the way, as deep into your pussy as possible. He grunts against your skin as he grinds his dick against your cervix, spilling rope after rope of cum to paint your walls white. The sticky heat makes your clit throb even as your body aches, wanting to succumb to exhaustion.

The distant question of how your mom isn’t back yet buzzes at the corner of your consciousness. You must slur it out loud cause Leon laughs as he pulls his softening cock from your puffy leaking cunt.

“She texted you to say she got stuck in a traffic jam and the road’s blocked for a few hours,” he sighs as he slaps his cock down onto your messy pussy, a wet splat that makes you wince.

“Dad, ‘m sore,” you pout.

“So sorry, baby,” he coos, a grin overtaking his face, “want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Chest fluttering at the thought, you go to agree when your phone buzzes with an incoming call. Leon grabs it to silence it but turns to look at you.

“It’s your mom,” he chuckles, handing it over to you, “better see what she wants.”

Sliding it open, her voice rings out clear in the quiet of your room.

“Hey honey, your dad didn’t answer but I wanted to say I’m about five minutes from the house if you wanted to preheat the oven for this frozen pizza I picked up,” she laughs to herself, “well, it was frozen.”

Your dad sits down on the edge of the bed, listening in to the conversation.

“Okay, sure, we’ll see ya when you get here,” Leon nods at you, “bye, mom.”

After she says goodbye, you put the phone back on the side table.

“Well we should get cleaned up,” Leon helps you stand on weak legs, “I’ll help you to the tub and I’ll head downstairs.”

“Thanks, dad,” you smile up at him and he drops a kiss on your cheek.

“Of course,” he leads you out into the hallway, helping you inside the little bathroom next to your room.

He sits you down onto the toilet, turning on the shower to allow it time to heat up.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss on your temple, “I know it’s all kinds of fucked up, but I still love you.”

Heart beating double time, you give him a crooked smile, “I love you too, dad.”

He presses his lips together, looking like he wants to say more, but he blows out a harsh breath and walks back out into the hall.

“I’ll handle the oven and your mom, you just come downstairs when you’re ready.”

“I will,” you say as he swings the door shut.

Sitting there with your thoughts, you let yourself feel. Satisfaction filters through followed by a smidgen of guilt and shame. You hate that your mom is an innocent party in all of this, but you don’t regret letting your dad fuck your brains out. And since this is a complete one off, it’s just a little family secret that you’ll both be taking to the grave.

Once steam wafts from the shower, you stand up and step into the warm water. You whimper as the heat works on your sore muscles. By this time tomorrow, this will all seem like some really deranged fantasy you dreamt up. Finishing up in the shower, you dry off and make your way back to your room. Getting dressed, you descend downstairs, the smell of pizza growing stronger.

“Oh there you are! Feeling better?”

Your mom comes around the counter to feel your forehead.

“Yeah, I just slept it off.”

She ushers you to sit down at the table and brings the pizza over, your dad following behind with the drinks. Your mom sits to your right and your dad sits across from you both. He catches your eye and winks, making you look down at your plate out of shyness.

“Eat up, I’m sure you’re wore out from the hard day,” his mirthful tone draws your gaze back up.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat and take a drink, “it’s been a hard day alright.”

#lipglossanon #lipglossmasterlist #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x y/n #mind the tags #dont like dont read #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy smut #real dad!leon s kennedy x daughter fem!reader #resident evil fanfiction

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mostlysignssomeportents · 10 months ago

Text

Sympathy for the spammer

Catch me in Miami! I'll be at Books and Books in Coral Gables on Jan 22 at 8PM.

In any scam, any con, any hustle, the big winners are the people who supply the scammers – not the scammers themselves. The kids selling dope on the corner are making less than minimum wage, while the respectable crime-bosses who own the labs clean up. Desperate "retail investors" who buy shitcoins from Superbowl ads get skinned, while the MBA bros who issue the coins make millions (in real dollars, not crypto).

It's ever been thus. The California gold rush was a con, and nearly everyone who went west went broke. Famously, the only reliable way to cash out on the gold rush was to sell "picks and shovels" to the credulous, doomed and desperate. That's how Leland Stanford made his fortune, which he funneled into eugenics programs (and founding a university):

https://www.hachettebookgroup.com/titles/malcolm-harris/palo-alto/9780316592031/

That means that the people who try to con you are almost always getting conned themselves. Think of Multi-Level Marketing (MLM) scams. My forthcoming novel The Bezzle opens with a baroque and improbable fast-food Ponzi in the town of Avalon on the island of Catalina, founded by the chicle monopolist William Wrigley Jr:

http://thebezzle.org

Wrigley found fast food declasse and banned it from the island, a rule that persists to this day. In The Bezzle, the forensic detective Martin Hench uncovers The Fry Guys, an MLM that flash-freezes contraband burgers and fries smuggled on-island from the mainland and sells them to islanders though an "affiliate marketing" scheme that is really about recruiting other affiliate markets to sell under you. As with every MLM, the value of the burgers and fries sold is dwarfed by the gigantic edifice of finance fraud built around it, with "points" being bought and sold for real cash, which is snaffled up and sucked out of the island by a greedy mainlander who is behind the scheme.

A "bezzle" is John Kenneth Galbraith's term for "the magic interval when a confidence trickster knows he has the money he has appropriated but the victim does not yet understand that he has lost it." In every scam, there's a period where everyone feels richer – but only the scammers are actually cleaning up. The wealth of the marks is illusory, but the longer the scammer can preserve the illusion, the more real money the marks will pump into the system.

MLMs are particularly ugly, because they target people who are shut out of economic opportunity – women, people of color, working people. These people necessarily rely on social ties for survival, looking after each others' kids, loaning each other money they can't afford, sharing what little they have when others have nothing.

It's this social cohesion that MLMs weaponize. Crypto "entrepreneurs" are encouraged to suck in their friends and family by telling them that they're "building Black wealth." Working women are exhorted to suck in their bffs by appealing to their sisterhood and the chance for "women to lift each other up."

The "sales people" trying to get you to buy crypto or leggings or supplements are engaged in predatory conduct that will make you financially and socially worse off, wrecking their communities' finances and shattering the mutual aid survival networks they rely on. But they're not getting rich on this – they're also being scammed:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4686468

This really hit home for me in the mid-2000s, when I was still editing Boing Boing. We had a submission form where our readers could submit links for us to look at for inclusion on the blog, and it was overwhelmed by spam. We'd add all kinds of antispam to it, and still, we'd get floods of hundreds or even thousands of spam submissions to it.

One night, I was lying in my bed in London and watching these spams roll in. They were all for small businesses in the rustbelt, handyman services, lawn-care, odd jobs, that kind of thing. They were 10 million miles from the kind of thing we'd ever post about on Boing Boing. They were coming in so thickly that I literally couldn't finish downloading my email – the POP session was dropping before I could get all the mail in the spool. I had to ssh into my mail server and delete them by hand. It was maddening.

Frustrated and furious, I started calling the phone numbers associated with these small businesses, demanding an explanation. I assumed that they'd hired some kind of sleazy marketing service and I wanted to know who it was so I could give them a piece of my mind.

But what I discovered when I got through was much weirder. These people had all been laid off from factories that were shuttering due to globalization. As part of their termination packages, their bosses had offered them "retraining" via "courses" in founding their own businesses.

The "courses" were the precursors to the current era's rise-and-grind hustle-culture scams (again, the only people getting rich from that stuff are the people selling the courses – the "students" finish the course poorer). They promised these laid-off workers, who'd given their lives to their former employers before being discarded, that they just needed to pull themselves up by their own boostraps:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/10/declaration-of-interdependence/#solidarity-forever

After all, we had the internet now! There were so many new opportunities to be your own boss! The course came with a dreadful build-your-own-website service, complete with an overpriced domain sales portal, and a single form for submitting your new business to "thousands of search engines."

This was nearly 20 years ago, but even then, there was really only one search engine that mattered: Google. The "thousands of search engines" the scammers promised to submit these desperate peoples' websites to were just submission forms for directories, indexes, blogs, and mailing lists. The number of directories, indexes, blogs and mailing lists that would publish their submissions was either "zero" or "nearly zero." There was certainly no possibility that anyone at Boing Boing would ever press the wrong key and accidentally write a 500-word blog post about a leaf-raking service in a collapsing deindustrialized exurb in Kentucky or Ohio.

The people who were drowning me in spam weren't the scammers – they were the scammees.

But that's only half the story. Years later, I discovered how our submission form was getting included in this get-rich-quick's mass-submission system. It was a MLM! Coders in the former Soviet Union were getting work via darknet websites that promised them relative pittances for every submission form they reverse-engineered and submitted. The smart coders didn't crack the forms directly – they recruited other, less business-savvy coders to do that for them, and then often as not, ripped them off.

The scam economy runs on this kind of indirection, where scammees are turned into scammers, who flood useful and productive and nice spaces with useless dross that doesn't even make them any money. Take the submission queue at Clarkesworld, the great online science fiction magazine, which famously had to close after it was flooded with thousands of junk submission "written" by LLMs:

https://www.npr.org/2023/02/24/1159286436/ai-chatbot-chatgpt-magazine-clarkesworld-artificial-intelligence

There was a zero percent chance that Neil Clarke would accidentally accept one of these submissions. They were uniformly terrible. The people submitting these "stories" weren't frustrated sf writers who'd discovered a "life hack" that let them turn out more brilliant prose at scale.

They were scammers who'd been scammed into thinking that AIs were the key to a life of passive income, a 4-Hour Work-Week powered by an AI-based self-licking ice-cream cone:

https://pod.link/1651876897/episode/995c8a778ede17d2d7cff393e5203157

This is absolutely classic passive-income brainworms thinking. "I have a bot that can turn out plausible sentences. I will locate places where sentences can be exchanged for money, aim my bot at it, sit back, and count my winnings." It's MBA logic on meth: find a thing people pay for, then, without bothering to understand why they pay for that thing, find a way to generate something like it at scale and bombard them with it.

Con artists start by conning themselves, with the idea that "you can't con an honest man." But the factor that predicts whether someone is connable isn't their honesty – it's their desperation. The kid selling drugs on the corner, the mom desperately DMing her high-school friends to sell them leggings, the cousin who insists that you get in on their shitcoin – they're all doing it because the system is rigged against them, and getting worse every day.

These people reason – correctly – that all the people getting really rich are scamming. If Amazon can make $38b/year selling "ads" that push worse products that cost more to the top of their search results, why should the mere fact that an "opportunity" is obviously predatory and fraudulent disqualify it?

https://pluralistic.net/2023/11/29/aethelred-the-unready/#not-one-penny-for-tribute

The quest for passive income is really the quest for a "greater fool," the economist's term for the person who relieves you of the useless crap you just overpaid for. It rots the mind, atomizes communities, shatters solidarity and breeds cynicism:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/24/passive-income/#swiss-cheese-security

The rise and rise of botshit cannot be separated from this phenomenon. The botshit in our search-results, our social media feeds, and our in-boxes isn't making money for the enshittifiers who send it – rather, they are being hustled by someone who's selling them the "picks and shovels" for the AI gold rush:

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2024/jan/03/botshit-generative-ai-imminent-threat-democracy

That's the true cost of all the automation-driven unemployment criti-hype: while we're nowhere near a place where bots can steal your job, we're certainly at the point where your boss can be suckered into firing you and replacing you with a bot that fails at doing your job:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/11/robots-stole-my-jerb/#computer-says-no

The manic "entrepreneurs" who've been stampeded into panic by the (correct) perception that the economy is a game of musical chairs where the number of chairs is decreasing at breakneck speed are easy marks for the Leland Stanfords of AI, who are creating generational wealth for themselves by promising that their bots will automate away all the tedious work that goes into creating value. Expect a lot more Amazon Marketplace products called "I'm sorry, I cannot fulfil this request as it goes against OpenAI use policy":

https://www.theverge.com/2024/1/12/24036156/openai-policy-amazon-ai-listings

No one's going to buy these products, but the AI picks-and-shovels people will still reap a fortune from the attempt. And because history repeats itself, these newly minted billionaires are continuing Leland Stanford's love affair with eugenics:

https://www.truthdig.com/dig-series/eugenics/

The fact that AI spam doesn't pay is important to the fortunes of AI companies. Most high-value AI applications are very risk-intolerant (self-driving cars, radiology analysis, etc). An AI tool might help a human perform these tasks more accurately – by warning them of things that they've missed – but that's not how AI will turn a profit. There's no market for AI that makes your workers cost more but makes them better at their jobs:

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

Plenty of people think that spam might be the elusive high-value, low-risk AI application. But that's just not true. The point of AI spam is to get clicks from people who are looking for better content. It's SEO. No one reads 2000 words of algorithm-pleasing LLM garbage over an omelette recipe and then subscribes to that site's feed.

And the omelette recipe generates pennies for the spammer that posted it. They are doing massive volume in order to make those pennies into dollars. You don't make money by posting one spam. If every spammer had to pay the actual recovery costs (energy, chillers, capital amortization, wages) for their query, every AI spam would lose (lots of) money.

Hustle culture and passive income are about turning other peoples' dollars into your dimes. It is a negative-sum activity, a net drain on society. Behind every seemingly successful "passive income" is a con artist who's getting rich by promising – but not delivering – that elusive passive income, and then blaming the victims for not hustling hard enough:

https://www.ftc.gov/business-guidance/blog/2023/12/blueprint-trouble

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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