Why Is It So Quiet On Here WHERE IS EVERYBODY

Art’s such a mess when he jerks off, like he’s ashamed but can’t stop himself. He’s curled up in his bed late at night, one hand down his boxers, the other gripping his pillow like he’s imagining it’s you. His shirt’s pushed up to his chest, thighs twitching as he ruts into his own fist, breath all shaky and wet. He moans into the sheets, trying to muffle it, but he still lets the need slip out—“please… fuck, please, need it… need you…”

He talks to no one, like you're there watching, like you’d laugh at him for being so desperate. He gets off on the humiliation—imagining you calling him needy, perverted, your voice in his head while he begs just to finish. “would be so good for you, promise… wanna be used, wanna be yours…”

His face is flushed, lips slick from sucking on his fingers, and when he finally comes, it’s messy and weak, like his whole body gives out. He keeps stroking even after, whimpering through the overstimulation, already aching for more. He’s addicted to the thought of you, to the way it makes him feel small and ruined. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

oh danny lyon i want you

am i right or am i right

i miss my boyfriend (mike faist)

i absolutely love this community because everybody here is SO talented. i'm not trying to idolize anybody but genuinely i'm in such awe of everybody here :( i love reading fics with such amazing quality and i love interacting with you guys because you're all SO NICE

thanks to these sillies for bringing us all together xoxo

a little shoutout list because i love you all:

@voidsuites @diyasgarden @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @happenssweet @222col @x0teric & so many more <3

LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

part one ・ part two

summary: After surviving the Stanford massacre, you try to start over—move away, change your name. But Art, Patrick and Tashi were never caught. Strange messages and disappearances begin again, and the paranoia you thought you’d buried resurfaces. You’re not sure if you are being hunted… or if they’re luring you back in to finish what they started.

cw: 1.5k words. apt!scream au. paranoia and stalking. psychological trauma. gaslighting. violence (implied). threatening messages. fear and dread. obsession. loss of control.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams, @sohighitscool, @shahabaqsa0310

You don’t dream about the knife anymore. You dream about the silence that came after it. The moment you realized no one was coming. The moment their hands let go of your throat—not because they took mercy, but because they wanted you to live.

You were their final girl. And you didn’t ask for that.

After the attack, the cops found your dorm soaked in blood—whose? You never knew. Your screams woke up the entire west quad after escaping the athletic building lockers. You gave them names—Tashi Duncan, Patrick Zweig, Art Donaldson—and you gave them details. You told them where the rest of the bodies were buried; little secrets the killers had told you before letting you go. Which drawers held the Ghostface masks. What the blood under your fingernails meant.

But they were already gone. No phones. No footage. No fingerprints. Like the whole thing had been a story you made up during a psychotic break.

But you know the truth. They let you live. And monsters don’t vanish forever.

You moved across the country six months later.

New name. New school. No tennis courts. No whispers of Ghostface. You enrolled in a tiny liberal arts college in Vermont where no one had ever heard of Tashi Duncan or her star-crossed boys. You found an apartment—alone this time. No roommates. No shared keys. The walls were thin, and the pipes moaned in the winter, but at least it was yours.

You even got a therapist. Sometimes you lie to her. Sometimes you don’t. Mostly, you tell her you’re fine. Mostly, you try to believe it because life goes on.

But it starts with little things, at first. A knock on your door when no one’s there. A lightbulb unscrewed. A voicemail filled with static. You chalk it up to anxiety. Or trauma. Or both. The mind plays tricks when it’s lived too long in fear.

Then you find a postcard. No return address. No note. Just a photo of Stanford’s tennis courts. You stare at it for hours. Your hands don’t stop shaking for days.

You start checking your locks.

Twice. Then three times. You push furniture in front of the door. You stop answering calls from unknown numbers. You carry a knife in your jacket, one in your bedside drawer, and a third tucked between your mattress and the wall.

You tell yourself it’s just leftover fear; a scar from a time when your life wasn’t your own. But sometimes, at night, you hear the floor creak, and you know you locked the door.

You see her at the grocery store, just for a second. An hallucination, a dream, something real. A flash of dark curls. Her beautiful skin. That posture you could recognize anywhere—the cocky, impossible tilt of someone who never lost anything in her life.

Tashi.

You drop your basket. Run to the end of the aisle. Gone. You ask the cashier if they saw her, they say no one matching that description came in tonight.

You don’t sleep anymore. You stop going to the store. You stop going anywhere.

You install a camera. Just one, to be sure. Outside your door. You check it every night like a drug you can’t escape, refreshing the feed, watching for a shadow that never appears. Until one day it’s turned around, facing the wall.

Your therapist says you’re experiencing PTSD-induced paranoia and you simply nod at her.

But in your gut, you know, they’re still out there. And they’re not done with you.

The power goes out one night during a storm.

You light a candle. Sit in the kitchen. Try to calm the breathing that’s too shallow, too fast. You try not to think of knives or black robes or dripping masks. Then your phone buzzes. A single message. No number that you recognize.

“Still bleeding, final girl?”

You drop the phone. The screen cracks. You throw up in the sink that night, sweat spilling through every pores of your body with the fear consuming you. It’s like an awake-nightmare.

You go to the police the next morning. Again, like you had done before; a few days after Stanford, a week after Stanford, a month after Stanford – remembering the paranoia.

You tell them someone is stalking you. That you’ve received threats. That you survived a massacre and the killers were never caught. They write it all down.

They promise to look into it. They never call back. They never did.

You start to think you’re losing your mind.

You hear music sometimes. A tennis match broadcast faintly through the walls. A whisper behind your head when you’re brushing your teeth. You hear your name in the shower steam. You unplug everything. Cover mirrors to not see behind yourself. Start sleeping in the tub with the door locked, a knife in hand and every noise waking you up.

But they keep getting in. Somehow. They always get in.

You wake up one morning to find a trail of red shoe prints across your carpet and you almost throw up again. They are tiny tennis court prints. A racket on the table of your living room—you haven’t played tennis since Stanford. You never wanted to hear about it ever again.

Like someone dipped them in blood. You call the cops again. They don’t find anything, no prints, no camera footage; nothing.

The next time you see Patrick, it’s in a dream.

He’s sitting in your kitchen. Perfect posture, one leg crossed over the other, sipping tea from your mug like he’s lived here all along. “You’re slipping,” he says without looking up.

“I’m not.” You try to convince yourself – him, it’s all the same. Your heart is in your throat with the fear you feel. He’s not real, he’s not here; but he still has that hold onto you that you can’t escape. “You’re unraveling,” he continues. “It’s okay. You weren’t meant to live through it. That’s why it hurts so much.”

You try to scream, but your voice is gone. Patrick finally looks at you, and he’s wearing the mask. The scream is his now. Quiet and observing.

You try to leave town after a few days. Throw clothes into a bag. Book a motel two states away. You don’t leave a note. You don’t tell your therapist. You just go.

Halfway down the highway, your car dies like it was meant to be. Completely.

You sit on the shoulder, shivering, dialing roadside assistance. Then you check the trunk. Inside—under your spare tire—is a Ghostface mask. And a photo of you sleeping in the Vermont apartment.

You stop fighting it after that. You stop trying to convince anyone. No one believes the girl who lived. No one believes the crazy girl.

And they’ve made sure of that. They’re not just stalking you anymore. They’re gaslighting you from the inside. Everything around feels like a joke they created; a world just for you to suffer the lies and manipulation.

The final straw is the rabbit. You find it on your porch one morning. Tiny. White. Gutted. Its throat slit clean, like a signature – like something to remember them by. Pinned to its side is a note written in perfect, feminine script; the handwriting of Tashi that you can visualize back on the Stanford books.

“You should’ve died when we gave you the chance.”

You move the next day. You don’t care where. Anywhere but here.

The new place is better. Brighter. Busier.

There are windows that face the street, and you can see people. Real people. Families. Kids on bikes. Joggers with golden retrievers. It helps. For a while. You let yourself laugh again. Smile at strangers. Go out with friends you made in the tiny city.

You even start writing about what happened. Not for anyone else. Just for you. Just to get it out of your body before it rots you from the inside. Your therapist says it’s good progress. That you’re reclaiming your narrative.

That you’re healing. That you can be better.

And then, on a rainy Tuesday morning, you get a package. No return address. Inside: a VHS tape and a matchbook from Stanford’s campus bookstore. You don’t own a VHS player, but your neighbor does.

You tell her it’s for a film class and you watch it alone. It’s footages of you, in your old dorm. Sleeping. Showering. Crying into your pillow after the attack. You see Tashi in the corner of one frame. Art in another. Patrick whispering into the camera, smiling.

“We missed you.”

The walls start closing in again. You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You let yourself go.

You start hearing tennis balls thudding in the hall at night. You find your own handwriting scribbled across mirrors. You find locks broken that were never touched.

Sometimes you think about just walking into the woods, into the dark, into paranoia. But that’s what they want. They want you gone; but why?

So you start preparing. Not to run. To fight. To take back what’s yours. You buy cameras, wire your windows, train yourself to wake at every sound. You read books on serial killers, on survival, on how to set traps.

You wait. Because they’re coming. They always do. And this time, you’re not going to let them write the ending. But deep down; you know what you really fear.

Not that they’ll kill you, but that they’ll love you while they do it.

And that part of you… will love them back.

more ftm!art x reader if you can this awakened something inside of me

summary: it’s a rainy night, and all you want to do is take your time to worship your boyfriend, Art. in the safety of your shared intimacy, you help him fully go—trembling, messy and beautiful.

pairing: ftm!art donaldson x afab!girlfriend.

cw: +18. mdni. 1k words. submissive art. praising. dirty-talk. messy makeout. fingering (art receiving).

taglist .ᐟ @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @destinedtobegigi, @fwaist, @idyllicdaydreams

Art’s hoodie is too big on you, but you don’t mind. You’re curled up in his lap on your bed, legs tangled, the TV flickering across his face — not that you’re watching it. His hands are warm under your thighs, thumbs drawing idle circles. You shift to face him, brushing your nose along his jaw. He’s already flushed.

“You’re staring,” he mumbles, voice low and raspy, with that slight edge he gets when he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

“Can’t help it,” you whisper back, eyes soft. “You’re hot like this. Blushing. Trying not to lose it.”

Art huffs out a breath — half a scoff, half a laugh — and looks down, but you catch his face in your hands. You kiss him slow. Open-mouthed. Your lips move like a question: Can I? And the way he breathes out against you says yes, yes, please.

The kiss deepens fast — messy, wet, tongues tangling with a kind of quiet hunger. You feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, feel his hand tightening on your hip. His hips twitch up before he catches himself. “You’re shaking,” you murmur against his lips.

“I’m not—” he cuts himself off with a sharp exhale as your hand sneaks under his hoodie, resting just beneath his scars; thumb brushing against his skin.. Art shivered at the touch.

“You are. It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, then down to his neck, sucking softly at his pulse. “Wanna make you feel good.”

Art swallows hard. “Y-you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, slow and deliberate, watching the way his pupils dilate. “Let me take care of you tonight. You always take care of me.”

His breath hitches. That gets him. You know it does. You kiss him again, deeper this time, your hand sliding down to cup him between his legs — gentle, reassuring pressure. He whimpers into your mouth, hips twitching again. “There you go,” you coo. “Already so sensitive for me.”

His hoodie comes off easy. Yours follows. You take your time, making out like you’ve got nowhere else to be. Like you’re addicted to the taste of his tongue and the way he gasps when you tug his lip between your teeth.

When you slide your hand into his boxers, he tenses for a second — but you’re slow, patient. You touch him how he’s taught you he likes. Not rough. Just enough pressure to drive him a little crazy.

The moment your fingers touch him, he flinches — not from discomfort, just sensitivity. He’s already so wet. Your hand is instantly slick, and you groan softly into his mouth.

“Jesus, baby,” you whisper against his lips, dragging your middle finger through his folds, slow and steady. “You’re soaked for me.”

He whimpers, biting his lip. “I can’t help it—”

“I want you like this.” You kiss down the side of his neck. “It’s so fucking hot, Art. You feel so good already.” Your fingers part him gently, and your thumb brushes against his clit — just barely — enough to make his whole body jerk beneath you. He gasps, eyes fluttering shut.

“There it is,” you murmur, kissing the flushed skin of his chest. “You’re so sensitive tonight.”

Your fingers stroke over him again, this time more deliberately — back and forth, gathering slick, teasing his clit in slow circles. He arches up into your hand without even meaning to, and the sound he makes is barely human — a needy, breathless whine.

“Such pretty noises,” you breathe. “Let me hear more, baby.”

When you press a finger inside, he lets out a broken moan. He’s warm, tight, and fluttering around you — his thighs tense on either side of your hips. You keep your movements slow and deep, curling your finger upward until his back arches and his mouth drops open in shock.

“Oh—fuck—right there, right—”

“I’ve got you.” You kiss his ribs, his stomach. “You’re taking me so well. Look at you.”

You add a second finger slowly, watching his face the whole time. He gasps again, his nails digging into your shoulder, hips rolling helplessly into your palm. You curl your fingers just right, dragging them in and out at a steady rhythm, each stroke making him clench and shake.

Your thumb returns to his clit — this time with more pressure, circling in time with your thrusts. Art cries out, trying to muffle himself against your shoulder, but you pull back.

“No hiding,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He moans again, louder this time — hips bucking, thighs trembling. His eyes are glassy, lips wet, sweat beading at his temples. You speed up your pace just slightly, fingers sliding deeper, thumb tighter on his clit, and his whole body starts to stutter.

“That’s it. Just like that,” you whisper hot against his cheek. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“I—fuck—yes, yes, I’m—”

“Come on, baby. Let me feel it. Let go.”

His orgasm crashes through him like a wave — thighs shaking, breath catching, hips grinding into your hand as he comes with a loud, raw moan. You don’t stop until he’s whimpering, twitching, so sensitive he’s pushing at your hand even as he rocks through the aftershocks.

You ease your fingers out gently, cupping him one last time as he pants beneath you, eyes glazed and lips parted. You kiss him slow and deep, one hand brushing the damp hair from his forehead.

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his mouth — still messy and hungry, but softer now. “That was so good,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re so good for me.” Art blinks up at you, dazed and red-faced, a lazy smile pulling at his lips.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

You grin. “You’re so fucking good for me.”

And you kiss him again until the room fades around you and all that’s left is the warmth between you, the slow drag of breath, the softness of afterglow.

pleak ash my angel, I beg for a song

my sweet!

how about this one...

ASH MY ANGEL… may i receive a song…

hi my love 🥰🥰 ofcourse you may

the weather's got me lovinggg this song these days

hahaha oh my god OH MY GOD.

MIKA DARLING YESSS you deserve 200000 more followers but this is a start <3 is this my time to request the dodge mason massaging you after a fall from a horse thing we talked about ...

200 FOLLOWERS GAME.

ASH!! thank you so much for this oh my God! i had a spark of imagination for this so hopefully you’ll like it! 💕 here’s Dodge Mason massaging you after a bad fall. fluffy but hinting at something more. 🫶🏻

You didn’t cry when you fell. Not when your ribs slammed into the packed dirt, not when the air was punched clean out of your lungs, and not when the horse spooked and left you behind like yesterday’s news. You were fine. Or so you told everyone.

Dodge didn’t believe you.

Which is why you’re here now, laid out on your stomach in his dimly lit bedroom, shirt bunched up just enough to reveal your bruised back. The air smells like peppermint oil and laundry detergent. His hands—big and steady and warm—press slow circles into the knots gathering just beneath your shoulder blades.

“You tense up every time I touch you,” he says, voice low and rough. “What’s that about?”

You huff into his pillow. “Because you’re touching me.”

That earns a small laugh, something rare and secret, like the glint in his eyes when he looks at you for too long. “I’m trying to help.”

“You are,” you admit, breath catching when his thumbs dip lower. “But maybe don’t sound so smug about it.”

His hands trail lower, finding the bruises blooming over your hips. He hesitates, fingertips ghosting the edge of your waistband. “You hurting here too?”

“Mhm,” you breathe.

“You gotta tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s not.”

And it isn’t—not the pressure, not the heat curling low in your stomach, not the way his hands are careful but firm, like he knows exactly what kind of touch you need. You feel him shift above you, the bed dipping as he leans closer, breath brushing your ear.

“You scared me today,” he murmurs.

“I’m okay now.”

He hums, mouth barely grazing your shoulder. “Yeah. You are.”

His hands linger longer than they should, fingertips slipping just under the waistband of your leggings, not pushing—just asking. And maybe you shouldn’t want this, not after falling off a damn horse. But his hands are gentle, and his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, and when he says, “Tell me what you need,” your body answers for you.

It’s him. It’s always been him.

HII ASH! can i have a song pleasee <3

hiii babe!! ofcourse you can !