wrote this super quick while listening to cut up by sailorr. hope u guys like. missing u all! i'm sorry for my absence ♡
"i'm so fucking mad at you," you squealed, the burn in your hips building with each smack of your ass against patrick's lap.
"yeah? ride me harder, baby, show me how mad you are," patrick moaned in response – much to your blissful annoyance. it was hard to stay mad at you when his cock was buried inside your weeping pussy, creamy slick gathering along his thick, veiny shaft.
you yelped, placing your hands on his chest for stabilization, readjusting your knees in the air on either side of him so you could slam down onto him, taking his direction despite your declarations of hatred and anger. apparently, that didn't make you indignant.
"fuck," patrick rolled his head back, reveling in the pleasure until his natural cockiness reared its head again, a smirk coming up over his features. "you're pissed, huh?"
"shut up, patrick," you huffed, biting down on your lip immediately after because his cock had brushed against the spongy pleasure point inside of you. your annoyance only elicited a huff from him.
he knew it would end up like this – he had to, it always did. to be fair, this time around, you had started it by flirting with andre at patrick's frat's party, obnoxiously slapping his arm with your hand, even squeezing his bicep to go the extra mile when you felt patrick's glare on you from across the room. but of course, you had found your way back to each other not too long after during that same party, kissing in the middle of the room, so there was no question of who you both really belonged to.
but patrick was in it for the long game, and by the end of the night, when you were ready to leave, you caught him hitting on zaria in the corner of the room, his hand over her head on the wall as his body practically cloaked hers.
so yes, you started it. but patrick had acted exponentially worse, at least in your opinion. still, each time you weren't with each other, you knew it served as meat for you to tear into, a plotline for your next episode of deep, passionate hate sex. it was a delicate performance, and you knew exactly how to teeter over the line without getting too emotionally invested. right now, all you could focus on was:
"fuck, bounce on my cock, baby, there you go. yeah, squeeze my fucking cock, show me how mad you are."
you were squealing uncontrollably now, unable to withhold the noises that escaped your throat, completely uncaring of any roommates or neighbors as you rode him like you had no final destination, finally keeling over onto his chest following your hot orgasm, knees buckling and your body meshing flush against his.
the rest of the night patrick sweetly kissed your forehead and wiped the sweat from your clavicle. that is, until you remembered something else you were mad about, and patrick being patrick, told you to come take care of it on his face.
Allows you to choose the origin of where you want the name to be from, whether you want a more feminine vs masculine vs androgenous name (as voted by users), random surname generator, and clicking on the name gives you important info like if there are any famous people with the same name, where it’s from, how common it is, and how people tend to see it, etc.
You can also search their name database by letter or meaning or origin, so if you know you want a character who has a name/surname that starts with an A from Ireland, there’s a whole list for you to choose from.
Census sites
Especially useful if you’re looking for a name from a specific place and/or time period. Just search “(country) census (year)” and you’ll find a database of real people who lived in that place at that time. No one can ever call your names unrealistic again.
For coming up with place names:
Fantasy name generator
This site can basically come up with any name for any person, place, or thing you might ever need. There are also specific generators for different fandoms if you’re looking to make an OC in an established world.
For finding that one word on the tip of your tongue:
One Look Thesaurus
This is my go-to. Not only can you find synonyms like a regular thesaurus, but you can also describe words like “unhappy smile” or “quiet laugh” to find the more specific word you’re looking for.
For coming up with ideas:
Word cloud
When I need to inspire a new idea, I write down all the things I’m interested in (hauntings, academia, lesbians, etc.) and put them into a word cloud to shuffle them next to each other. Sometimes seeing a concept in a new context can spark new ideas!
WWF Discord
This is my discord channel (shameless plug) for when you need to brainstorm off other people but don’t have anyone irl to talk to. We’re also happy to read and give feedback on writing, answer writing questions, or just chat!
For visualizing places and characters:
Pinterest
Pinterest can at times be a bit too sterile for my tastes, but if you use the right words, you can find more realistic photos of places. For example, adding “aesthetic” after basically any word will bring up a more broad collection of photos to help you flesh out places.
This is also a great way to find photos of people and fashion to help visualize characters. I’m bad at describing clothes, so I usually collect photos of outfits to help me know what my characters are wearing. Searching up “character inspiration” will collect more interesting photos and drawings of people who might not exactly be of our world.
(However, to make Pinterest not show you AI results, you have to go into your settings and check the “reduce AI” box. Luckily, it does mostly work.)
Death to Stock
Like pinterest but completely AI free (hooray!) Only drawback is that you have to pay a monthly subscription (about $20 CAD).
Cosmos
Very similar to pinterest but slightly more "artsy". I'm not super familiar with this one but I believe all the photos are human and you can save them and create collections with a free account.
Dupe Photos
Royalty-free stock image site with very Pinterest-core photos!
Minecraft
If you haven’t built your entire fictional city in Minecraft instead of writing, why not? It’s fun.
The Sims
This one is dual purpose because you can not only create your characters in Create a Sim, but you can design their houses. If you really want to go for it, you can bulldoze all the lots in your town and build your world from scratch.
For checking grammar:
Grammar Girl
Easy to follow definitions and examples, and if you learn better by listening, every article comes with a podcast to follow along with instead.
Grammar Monster
This one is my favourite for checking grammar rules because there’s tons of examples in graphics that helps for any situation.
Reedsy
Among other things, reedsy can connect you to professional editors within your budget.
For writing advice:
One Stop for Writers
This one was recommended from my discord channel and has all sorts of tutorials and resources for the writing craft.
My Blog Directory
Another shameless plug, but if you need writing advice on something specific, you can search through my directory to see if it’s there. If it isn’t, you can always send me an ask about it!
For an alternative to Google Docs:
Ellipsus
Think google docs but without AI. Yay!
(will update this list with any more suggestions or resources I discover 😊)
not to sound "woke" or anything (bc no one knows how to use that term properly) but it's tiring how exclusive fanfics are for black ppl. like when im reading a fic n the writer says something like "you blushed" or "she ran her fingers through your hair" even though it's a minuscule part of the story in the grand scheme of things, to me it is just a small reminder that im not accepted into these spaces or that my features aren't desirable enough to be described. it might be "just a fanfic" to u but all these little reminders build up over n over again n honestly it can js take the joy out of reading fics sometimes ngl.
there was a fic that was artrick x black!reader and they went to a black club to hang out with her, there was an after party and they both ate her out but I can’t find the fic and I think it was yours???
in honor of my 6 year tumblrversary sneak peek of this art oneshot i've been writing since april and won't finish for another year HAHAHA. love y'all ♡
long way home | older! art donaldson x college!black reader
no warnings bc i haven't got to the smut yet but they will fuck nasty in this
The flush mount ceiling lights along the ceiling of the train beamed over you as you stood on the edge of the train aisle, the floor adorned in a dark blue, striped rug. A few bodies brushed past you impatiently as you struggled with your stuff. Sounds of the station filtered inside the train’s open doors – the whizz of a passing train on the opposite side of the platform; suitcase wheels rolling like thunder against the station floor; the chipper auto-generated voice of a boarding announcement. You tried to suppress a grunt as you lifted your luggage up to your chest, the overhead carriage threatening to slam closed for the second time. You cursed yourself for shoving a second pair of shoes in. In all honesty, you really should’ve packed a weekender bag, you’d only be home for a few days.
“Need some help?” came a voice from beside you.
You turned to face the man to whom the voice belonged. You weren’t sure when he’d shown up, only that he was looking at you with a slightly amused expression, his mouth pressed into a relatable smile that was accentuated by the twinkle in his eyes. He was a WASP-adjacent, yet still boyishly handsome looking man. Mid-30s. A tame, short blonde haircut framed his face. You swore for a second that you could catch a whiff of some belligerently expensive shampoo. For a minute, the question flooded your mind of what hotel he must have stayed at prior to the train journey — maybe the Waldorf Astoria on Penn Ave. He looked like the kind of man who’d shell out somewhere between $2000-$4000 a night on a hotel room, judging by the crispy ironed baby blue L.L. Bean polo shirt tucked into his off-white chinos. But then, why was he here? All these thoughts flashed through your head as you met his glimmering, icy blue eyes, holding his gaze for a second too long.
“Thank you,” you replied somewhat sheepishly, albeit graciously. The man obliged, sweeping your bag from out of your hands and over your head, then into the overhead compartment with a swift grace.
You blinked once at the casual display of strength, then remembered to smile with a grateful nod as he turned to face you after closing the overhead. But part of you was still stuck on the flex of his bicep as he’d lifted your luggage with such ease.
“Thank you, thanks,” you repeated, watching him put his white, probably organic cotton weekender next to yours.
“It’s no problem,” he smiled warmly, inching into his seat at the window. You shuffled in next to him, clearing your throat. Suddenly, you were nervous. You felt like you were in the presence of some Wall Street CEO turned Good Samaritan, and that your every move would be closely scrutinized. You felt like you dimmed in comparison to whatever ostentatious display of wealth this man was showing— you, a college senior, wearing oversized grey sweats, slightly tattered Air Force 1s, and a too-tight blank tank crop under the matching hoodie. Then you realized you were really just nervous because he was hot. And probably more than ten years older than you.
You glanced over, half-hoping he’d be too engulfed in a business call to start talking to you, but you also recognized that you wouldn’t be looking over if you didn’t want him to talk to you. To your disappointment (and relief?), he placed a pair of earbuds in, the wire kind, and set up his laptop in front of him. You glanced over and saw that, as expected, he was replying to all kinds of emails. He opened one and it redirected him to some design draft — it looked like an overblown picture of him… playing tennis? He was high up in the air, photoshopped against a backdrop of a clear blue sky, knees bent in a wild jumping motion, his hand outstretched in the air and grasped around a tennis racket.
In big Helvetica font was the word “GAME CHANGERS,” with the “S” added in red, an edit. Who was this guy? You looked a second further for any more clues. There, in a smaller font at the bottom of the mock-up, was his name: “ART DONALDSON x NEW BALANCE.” Your eyes widened slightly, and you nodded slowly to yourself, impressed. An athlete fared much better in your book than a Jordan Belfort dupe. You racked your brain, trying to remember if you had seen this man before — you weren’t really a sports fan, so tennis was the last thing on your mind from day-to-day, but if he had a collaboration with New Balance, he must have some level of fame.
You thought your memory flickered to an ad you’d seen last summer during the US Open, where the players’ names and faces flashed across the screen. Maybe you’d seen him then, but you wouldn’t really know. You watched as he passively scrolled through the mockup and took quick glances at all the edits outlined in red. Your eyes traveled inconspicuously up to his face. Compared to the warm, youthful yet grounded presence he’d embodied just moments before, his eyes now seemed glazed over with boredom, or worse, disinterest.
He suddenly appeared… tired. You didn’t realize how long you’d been looking, studying his face until his broke away from the computer screen and his eyes met yours once again. Embarrassed, you nearly jumped at the recognition that you’d been caught snooping and subsequently studying his expression. But he only smiled, politely but genuinely, and you offered a meek one in return, shifting slightly in your seat. It was warm.
You shifted your attention to your own business, which you needed to mind before you got caught up again. So, for the next thirty minutes, the two of you sat beside each other in silence, each doing your respective work on your laptops. Every so often, your arm brushed against his, or his leg nestled close to yours for a millisecond. Each time you took in a deeper breath than usual.
Coincidentally, you’d both decided you’d had enough of your work at the same time. Art took out his earbuds, and you removed your over ear headphones, pulling out your phones to scroll.
You were broken out of your twitter-induced haze by his voice again. He’d turned his head your way and was talking,
“So are you a student?”
“Me?” you asked stupidly, blinking with wide eyes. Why you were so shaken by the simple question was out of your knowledge, and you were annoyed with yourself for being so antsy.
“Yeah,” he grinned, seemingly humored. “I promise I wasn’t snooping, but I saw the… the paper you were writing. Masculinity is Next to Godliness. Saw something about Super Fly. It’s a cool research topic.”
In that moment, you couldn’t possibly be more embarrassed. But then the thought flashed into your mind “for what?” Despite your initial feelings of inadequacy upon facing this quite honestly generic white man who happened to be attractive and charming, those feelings of inadequacy didn’t translate to your studies. You were confident in your work as a Black Film Studies major, and that confidence was vetted by vigorous approval from all your professors, other students, and the dean of the department. You and Art were both excellent in your respective fields — you could be the camera expert and he could take the role of the racket connoisseur. Surely there was space for the two of you. So rather than stammer mindlessly, you nodded, straightening up and turning slightly to face him.
“Yeah, I go to Howard, I’m a Black Film Studies major,” you explained. You recalled suddenly that he’d mentioned Super Fly, which made you narrow your eyes at him curiously. “You’ve seen Super Fly?”
Art laughed, noticing the unconvinced nature of your tone,
“Well, don’t sound so surprised.”
You couldn’t help but snort at the implication you had made — but really, what did this white man know about Blaxploitation films? You shrugged innocently,
“Not surprised! That’s cool.”
“So, you go to Howard… what’re you doing heading to New York?”
“Oh, I’m from the Bronx. Just here for break. Might’ve overpacked a bit,” you quipped, referring to earlier.
Art shook his head goodnaturedly,
“I do miss those days. I was an insane overpacker when I would come home from college. Just wanted to be… prepared for anything, I guess. Now not so much. I pretty much carry the same thing with me everywhere I go. Protein bars and tennis shoes.”
You couldn’t help but pick up on the hint of bitterness in his laugh. You softened a bit, as if you were adjusting your body and demeanor to attune to the travails of this wounded thirtysomething tennis star.
“You’re a tennis player, aren’t you?” you asked softly, as if asking him might put salt on whatever wound was there.
“I am. You watch?” he seemed to turn closer to you, no, into you, as well, looking at you, almost observing you so casually. It made you stir for a minute. You cleared your throat,
“No. But, and I promise I wasn’t snooping either. I saw the poster you have. With New Balance. And I remembered I’ve seen your name before.”
“Hmm,” he hummed. “So we’re both a couple of stalkers.”
The laugh that bubbled out of your throat made him smile. He found you endearing and cute in a way that made him want to nurture you.
“Guess you could say that. Sorry, it’s hard not to. Guess I was curious. You’re just so…”
You trailed off, realizing it was probably best for you not to finish that sentence. You didn’t want to come off presumptive or rude. But he pressed, looking at you in that way. He smiled with his eyes, the side of his mouth turning up with a slow curiosity.
“So what?” when he was met with silence, he chuckled slightly. “Come on, I won’t be mad.”
You shrugged, shaking your head to yourself,
“I dunno. You’re just… interesting.”
You glanced up at him at that moment, only to find that his eyes were already expertly trained on you. And there was something else in them other than humor that you couldn’t quite detect. You couldn’t take him looking at you like that, and in such close proximity. It reminded you how grown he was compared to you. He was only thirty three, but there was such a flair to him that made him seem so much more seasoned, much more weathered by life. It was simultaneously endearing and saddening. And that, on top of the quiet wealth that emanated off of him, made him such an enigma.
“I’m interesting?” you realized now how smooth his voice was, and how deep. How he seemed to tease you, wanting to coax something out of you by repeating what you said.
You looked away from him, suddenly under pressure from his unrelenting gaze. Then you started to ramble,
“I mean, you’re just really, you know, you have like, a presence to you. If that makes sense. I mean, I could tell you were rich,” you stopped yourself. “I mean, not rich, I- I don’t know your financial thing, so… probably shouldn’t say that. But if you’re collaborating with New Balance, you must be rich. So I thought it was interesting that you’re here on the train instead of like, a private jet or something. But maybe you’re super wholesome.”
You wanted to curl up and die after that word vomit, fearing the worst from Art, sure that he would nod silently, and not say another word to you for the rest of the train ride. But he just smiled, laughing a little louder now. You turned to look at him, and smiled in turn at the grin that encompassed his features, showing all his teeth. You could tell it was a laugh that was genuine, a laugh that he needed to have.
He seemed to understand the question you were asking without explicitly asking it, responding,
“My flight got canceled. Need to be back in New York by tonight for some press tomorrow, so I booked the next closest thing. But to be honest, I do prefer the train. It’s less nerve wracking than going through security and getting on a plane. So, I guess you could say I’m super wholesome… god, that’s so funny.”
You smiled warmly, glad he took your joke well, even though it was really just something funny you happened to say while spewing a bunch of words.
“Sorry,” you giggled, relaxing now that you could be sure that Art was not at all judging you, not after that.
“No, don’t be sorry. It’s refreshing. People can be so dull all the time. Worried about being so polite it’s like they’re gonna explode,” Art lamented. “I like a person who says exactly what’s on their mind.”
Another pointed look at you. This time, you held his gaze with confidence, though your heart was shaking. You smiled, letting your eyes flicker down his face and land at his lips, pink and rubbed over with cherry chapstick, for just a second too long.
“Well, sometimes I say too much. But, I guess that’s what I’m studying film for. When I’m doing a project, I can pretty much write and say like… whatever I want and I can do it in the name of the best medium of art there is. At least in my personal opinion.”
Art was grinning at you, growing more and more intrigued by you by the second.
“You remind me of someone,” he said, but he didn’t give you time to ask him what he meant before he was onto his next question. “So why is film the best medium of art there is? And what year are you?”
“Oh, I’m a senior. This paper I’m working on is my thesis,” you nodded slowly. “And honestly… movies are the one thing that we collectively gather to go see and make such an experience out of. You can leave a film with an entirely new sense of self… some mystery prerogative. And you’re not always completely sure what it is, but you know that the story you were just told on the screen woke up something deep within you. Plus, they’re incredibly accessible. Anyone can go to a theater or watch something on Netflix. And not only that, movies have everything. The visuals, the writing… acting, the music choices, the colors… sometimes the soundtrack of a film is more important than the film itself. Or at least, it tells the story so powerfully that it makes a movie like watching some super high tech concert. You have no choice but to be entirely gripped during a movie, watching every single frame, hanging onto every last word. There’s nothing else like it.”
Art nodded slowly, taking in your every word. He was impressed. Your passion was clear, and almost felt somehow deserved. It radiated off of every word that you said. Your words were chosen so carefully, but they slid off your tongue effortlessly. He admired how you ducked in and out of this girlish, coy persona to something so confident and self-assured. With every word you spoke, he felt more and more drawn to you.
“Hmm. I like that you’re passionate about this stuff. It’s like how I was with tennis,” Art replies. Was, you thought.
“Do you think tennis is the best sport?”
Art shuffled in his seat, looking forward at first,
“Well I’m biased. And as much as it’s changed for me over the years, it’s still the only sport I could ever play.”
“Why’s that?” you asked. You felt like an undercover journalist. Part of you wondered how many people got the chance to randomly strike up conversation with Art Donaldson. He was clearly a big deal in the sports world. You wondered if he wanted to talk to people, or if he was tired of everything tying back to his career. It seemed like a mix of both. He was searching for something deeper than the hype around all of it, the stats and the rankings and the allure. Maybe he’d get it with you, and maybe something more.
Art thought for a moment, stewing in the silence.
“Long time ago, someone told me that tennis is… a relationship,” he turned to face you at that moment, and suddenly you felt transfixed by his glare. Like some invisible switch had flicked and you were talking about something entirely different from tennis. He appeared so serious, the most stern you’d seen him all day. But he was also searching for something in you. And he could find it. He knew he would.
Warmth flooded your body. You saw no need to retreat or scatter back like a scared kitten. You leaned into it, into him.
“A relationship.”
He nodded, his eyes flickering over your face. Whatever game this was, you were both playing.
“Mmm. It’s not about the game. It’s about the person on the other side of that net. You get to know them more intimately than anyone. And yet you don’t touch each other once. And everything they feel… you feel. It’s like meditation when you get into the flow, there’s something tantric about it. It’s my favorite part. Studying the other person. Even when you lose, it’s euphoric. Because you’ve got this deeper understanding that no commentator, no fan in the audience will ever be able to understand. You and that person just merged into one.”
“So you like to study your opponent,” you reply.
“I’m studying you,” he retorted, with an ease and quickness so smooth you could’ve jumped, but you didn’t. You played into it, matching the slight smirk that was easing into his features,
“Really? Am I your opponent?”
“Do you want to be my opponent?”
He asked you the question so pointedly, his face stern and pointed down at you, and as you processed what he’d just asked you, you saw something mischievous shade his features, his closed mouth relaxing into a boyish smile. You raised both brows as if challenging him, though you had momentarily shrunk under his heated gaze.
“Maybe,” you quipped, smiling just so.
Art lifted his chin up in response, nodding slowly and dragging out that same word like it was just so significant,“Maybe. Hmm. You don’t sound so confident about that. You scared?”
I’ve fallen in love with your works!! this is the kind of inclusion we need (as a blk girl myself) and i just wish that some other writers would literally…understand and not be bigots. ANYWAYS!! YOU ARE GREAT!! 🤎
thank you so much ! and no shade i'm not sure why i got that question when we should really be asking other writers why their readers are so obviously white! and even if i'm not directly describing "black features," i do tend to add details that indicate the reader is black, just in a way that only black people can pick up on. like yes, she's applying her beauty supply lip gloss, she's wearing a bonnet, she's code switching. she's blackity black like i don't know
i hope you don’t take this as hate, but! why do you specify that the reader is black even if you don’t describe a certain race/feature?
because i want to and bc i want black readers on here to feel like something is for us even if i’m not describing a certain feature. and that’s because most of the time, fanfics i read are coded for a very white reader & it’s obnoxious and obvious to other black people even if not intentional LMAOOO. i’m a very pro black person and so i everything i do is for black people period!
i think it’s important to create community for black readers even if i’m not super specific about the details. a space where black readers can gather and commune. and besides i usually try to put in a few details (describing the hair, skin tone, just the general vibe tbh) but no black person is the same so it won’t always fit everyone. that’s it really. 🫶🏾
contains: subby art, getting freaky on camera, idea i randomly got on the way home from work thinking about the effervescent trademark of a macbook photobooth picture
art is such a macbook boyfriend. when you're gone for long periods of time on family vacations he promises he'll still make sure he shows you how much he needs you, as per your request.
so, he gets his dick hard thinking about you while you're gone. lets the tip get leaky and engorged just from the thought of you before touching himself, picturing you telling him when he finally could. he sets up his macbook by his side and opens up photobooth. the grainy footage reveals his body flush against the bed, milky skin and tousled strawberry blond curls sprawled against his mattress. cock poking through his blue striped boxers. he presses the record button and the timer beeps its classic 3 2 1 countdown before capturing him, flesh and all.
he definitely lays sprawled out on his bed, body slightly tilted towards his open macbook so you can get a good angle of all of him. he starts with just the tip, swirling a finger around the sensitive bulbous pink flesh, trying to restrain from twitching. he can only go on with this for so long before he finally lets his hand shlick down his dick, which is now wet from the dribbling precum.
his abs and biceps flex with each stroke of his hand around his dick. he's got the stuffed animals you gifted him pressed against the tan bedroom wall behind him. he makes sure his face is in view so you can see him when he pinches his eyes shut in pleasure, a desperate pout tugging at the corner of his lips as he moans,
"i miss you mommy, fuck i miss you."
he lets his head roll back, lets himself sound needy and whiny, lets his pink lips fall open so scandalously. his cheeks flush pink as he glances at himself in the camera. his eyes roll back in his head at the sight of him jerking himself off, but he's really thinking about you, wishing you were doing it for him. on your knees at the edge of the bed, tits spilling out of your bra as you stroke his cock torturously slow, a smug expression playing at your lips as you raise your eyebrows at him expectantly, silently telling him what he already knows — "don't come until i say so."
his breaths are open-mouthed now, where before they were heavy and through his nose. his chest is starting to rise and fall faster than he can control. he's squeezing his cock for the pleasure and to withhold from cumming too fast. next time he'll make sure he has a pair of your black lace panties within reach — he'll even spray them with your signature sol de janeiro scent, wrap them around his wet cock as he jerks frantically up and down.
he's moaning louder now, his voice up an octave as he pleads,
"fuck, m-mommy i need to cum. i need to cum, please i'm gonna cum."
he's thrusting into his hand now, wishing his warm, wet hand was as tight and squishy as the inside of your pussy wrapped around him like a snake strangling its prey. he knows he looks so pathetic like this, flailing and fucking his hand in his empty room, while you're thousands of miles away.
his voice is whiny with need, eyelids flickering uncontrollably as he lets out a guttural groan, back arching off the bed, his stomach turning deliciously as he blasts ropes of cum into the air that eventually land on his stomach.
his last words before he catches his breath, the rise and fall of his chest slowing with each passing moment. he leans over with a sigh until only the lower half of his face and his body are in view of the camera. smiles that signature lopsided grin and presses the stop button.
needless to say you're in for a treat tonight. and you'll pay him back later for his hard work.
it really frustrates me to think about how people are inevitably going to take Remmick’s one (1) singular statement about how much he resents the way the Irish were colonized and forcibly converted to Christianity and use it as fuel for “actually he had a point” and “he was right actually” and “he’s not really the villain here” posts, when the whole point is that Remmick is, through the vampiric hive mind he’s creating, forcibly assimilating people into yet another manipulative and parasitical system. he doesn't value the cultures of the people he assimilates—notice how all the vampires he turns dance to his culture's music using his culture's dances, and how he only uses the languages or knowledge other vampires have to offer when he needs to manipulate someone. Remmick is extremely transparent about the way he sees the people he turns as resources to exploit.
he’s perpetuating a cycle that he claims to hate and resent, and I think the movie is pretty damn clear about the fact that he doesn’t see anybody as valuable or useful to him except as prey and as pawns—otherwise he would just, you know, focus solely on people who actually consent to being turned. but he looked sad in that one scene and he’s an apparently attractive white cis man so people are gonna bend over backwards justifying all the harm he did.
Hello my friend, I am very sorry, I am very tired from the lack of food, I cannot do anything, I became sick because of the situation, the crossing has been closed for more than two months, my children go to bed hungry, there is no one to support them but me 😔 The price of food is high, even flour for a day, I cannot buy it to make bread for them, they need you, your donation will mean a lot
Hello there! 🌸💫
I hope this message finds you in good spirits 💕
I’m reaching out with a humble request to help my family in Gaza. Could you please reblog my pinned post or contribute $10 to help us meet our basic needs and provide essentials for the children in my family? 🙏🏼
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side note i know this is more of a patrick trope but i've been thinking a lot about older domlike art and i rarely see anything depicting art in this light, nevertheless a dom art... so we needed this. smut with a bit of degradation and an age gap. art is sorta mean and sleazy muahahahaha. and yn is down bad and detrimentally horny. super quickly written and a mess and just word vomit tbh, just h word today so why not
dilfy blue collar art who's super stressed because of the auto repair shop he runs but that all goes away once you're bent over the hood of the red camaro chevy that's been in the shop for a week now and he's sliding into your wet hole slowly, bottoming out and completing with a slow, raspy, "fuuuck" that sets your insides on fire and makes you clench around him. you're wetting him even more now and he can see and feel your arousal drench him further as your tight pussy grips around him.
"oh fuck, you like that don't you?" it's almost like he's replying to your pussy, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
"yesss," you mewled, your cheek flush against the hood of the car and your tits splayed out before you, unashamed of just how much you wanted this, and how clear it was right now. when you came in days ago, dressed head to toe in pink, sporting fresh goddess locs and heels far too high for an establishment like this, art was but a grumpy, slightly disheveled car mechanic. despite the blue jumpsuit and the smidge of dirt against his cheek, there was still something sexy about him, something you couldn't put a finger on. maybe it was the rasp in his voice, or the twinkle of his tired blue eyes, or the slow maneuvered confidence with which he walked and talked, the kind only a man of his age could possess. someone sure of himself entirely, and tired of the bullshit.
you'd of course called your dad to make sure you weren't getting overcharged, but you flirted with art nonetheless. and it took him way too long to catch on — probably because his mind was on a million other things and he didn't feel like he was in any position to be flirted with by someone of your prowess.
it didn't necessarily click until your boobs were basically on top of the service desk and you were batting your lashes up at him, reaching out to grab at his bicep with a curious cock of your head and asking if he went to the gym, or if he was this strong from working on cars all day. asked him if it got boring, if he had anyone special keeping him company. complimenting his slight massachusetts accent when he laughed and said: "no, no special lady, if that's what you're asking me. just a bunch of idiot employees." told you since you're so sweet he'd throw in a free car polish for you. ignored the bulge in his pants tightening when you gasped: "really?!" with wide, doe-like eyes.
he'd thought about it more often than he should've — jerked off to the thought of you right when he got home (and in the bathroom at work before that), picturing this very moment. and now that he was inside you, he knew his hand would never do — he knew this was a problem. but for now, he allowed himself to throb inside you at the sound of your voice, purring "mhm" as he started to push in and out, slow and steady. you were so wet, it didn't take too much effort.
"just fuckin' slides right in," he muttered under his breath, letting the pace quicken, his hips starting to snap against yours, reveling in the sound your ass made clapping against him. "you like getting fucked like this?"
"mhm," you squeaked, unable to respond properly because of the speed of his thrusts now, how deep he was inside you, making you stir.
"yeah?" it wasn't lost on you that he'd simply pulled his cock out through his jeans, while you were completely naked before him, and it made you squeeze around him harder. "fuck," art groaned, holding your hips briefly with his hands to level himself while he started to slam into you, chuckling to himself at the screech you let out. you met his eyes as you turned to look at him. the pout on your lips was nearly unbearable— he felt like he was in college again and had to stop himself from coming too soon. he slapped against your ass and leaned over, his chest flush against your back so he could whisper in your ear.
"you like this, huh? like getting fucked like a dirty little slut in my shop like this? on top of a customer's car? that what you wanted this whole time?"
"yes, yes, daddy, that's what i wanted," you weren't even trying to be snarky, he was fucking you too good for that.
art groaned loudly, burying his head in your neck for a moment, in disbelief at how much you were like putty in his hands, how easy it was to get you to submit like a little slut for him.
"showing your fucking tits every time you came in here. flirting with me in front of my employees so i can't do nothin' about it. making me jerk off to you in the fucking bathroom," his hips snapped harder every sentence, like he was punishing you for each instance of your unabashed flirting.
"ooh, fuck," you squirmed beneath him, pushing your hips back in tandem with the harsh slaps of his thrusts. "i'm sorry daddy, just wanted — mmm — jus' wanted you."
"wanted me to fuck you, is that it? hmm? needed to get fucked?" he probed, slowing down his pace just so he could hear the desperation in your voice when you responded,
"yes! needed to get fucked by you. o-other boys can't fuck me like—like you can. boys my age."
"yeah, that's right, baby. they can't fuck you like i can. they don't know what to do with your sweet little pussy," art nodded, smirking down at the sight of your ass flush with his thighs.
you nearly screamed when art's fingers met your clit while he was still inside you, your legs shaking behind you. he was fucking you so fast and hard you thought they might give out.
"don't come until i say so," art leaned over you again, his lips flush against your ear, kissing your neck softly — a stark contrast to the way he was fucking into you with abandon.
"please-"
"no," art grunted, his hand coming around your neck to lift it up so you could look at him. "you don't come until i say so. keep begging for it."
so you did.
and when he finally told you: "that's it baby, you can come. come all over this cock, you've been such a good girl," you did just that, cumming all over him while you saw white, and maybe some stars. you were barely coming down by the time he came, pulling out and letting it paint your ass cheeks.
despite being in a car shop, art was thorough with aftercare, holding you in place against the hood of the car for a few moments until the shaking stopped, and cleaning you up with fresh towels.
