Im Gonna Fucking Cry
im gonna fucking cry
FAIRY!ART HEADCANONS
pairing: fairy!art x cottagecore princess!fem!reader
tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @imperishablereverie, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna
⟡ art is the kind of fairy that looks like he was born from a wish—soft-spoken and starlit, with wings that shimmer like frost on spider silk. they catch the light in rippling colors, translucent as soap bubbles, delicate but fast. when he flutters around you, they make the faintest hum, like the air itself sighs in his presence. you swear they glow stronger when he’s near you—especially when he’s flustered. which is often.
⟡ he’s angelic in the way dew is angelic. not perfect. not polished. but fragile and wild and full of wonder. he wears a tunic of moss velvet and sun-dyed silk, stitched with golden beetle-thread. his hair is a halo of honey curls that never fall the same way twice, always a little windswept, like he’s just tumbled out of a flower bed. his cheeks are berry-pink and his nose is dusted with freckles, as if he’s been kissed by clover pollen. he smells like crushed violets and rain.
⟡ “you left out honey again,” he mumbles once, not looking at you. he’s hiding in your herb shelf, crouched behind the rosemary, eyes wide and guilty. “so i… thought you wouldn’t mind if i took a bit.” you don’t mind. not even a little. but you pretend to be stern anyway. just to see the way his wings droop. just to make him pout.
⟡ he calls you “the big one” when he doesn’t think you can hear. like you’re a marvel. a myth. a towering creature of warm hands and soft breath and gentle curiosity. sometimes he calls you “my lady,” half-teasing, twirling a blade of grass like a rapier. but when you stroke his wings—carefully, reverently—he gets quiet. “you shouldn’t touch them,” he whispers once, his voice a tremble. “they’re… they’re very delicate.” and then, softer: “but… you can. if you want.”
⟡ he brings you tiny, ridiculous things: a thimble of moonlight. a moth’s eye, opalescent and still. a string of pearls no bigger than dewdrops, fastened together with spiderweb thread. once, a shard of mirror, cracked and glinting, so you can “see yourself how he sees you.” you don’t dare ask what that means. but your throat tightens anyway.
⟡ he’s shy with affection. not because he’s afraid of you—but because he’s so clearly not. you’re something bigger. older, maybe. like the forest itself whispered you into being. when you brush his curls back or cup him in your hand, his breath catches. when you hum while you work and he lays in the crook of your neck, his whole body stills—like he’s listening to the bones beneath your skin sing. “you smell like warm sugar,” he says one morning, all tangled in your scarf. “and… safety.”
⟡ sometimes you find him asleep on your windowsill, wings curled in like petals closing for the night. sometimes curled in the hollow of your palm, arms tucked under his cheek, breath rising and falling like a cat’s. he mumbles in his sleep. always your name. or maybe just your scent. or maybe the little nickname he made up for you that no one else knows: “my thornless rose.”
⟡ he gets jealous. adorably, irrationally jealous. of squirrels. of bees. of the wind when it tangles in your hair. “i was going to do that,” he grumbles once, watching a butterfly land on your wrist. “stupid flutter-bitch.” he doesn’t mean it. but you still laugh so hard you drop your basket of blackberries.
⟡ he is terrified of cats. once, you came home to find him clinging upside-down to the rafters, shouting: “death beast! orange! hungry!” it took two spoonfuls of honey and three kisses to coax him down. he refuses to speak to the cat now. but he’ll sit on your shoulder and glower at it with his arms crossed like a miniature warlock.
⟡ your favorite thing is how easily he laughs. not giggles. not chuckles. laughs. big, bright bursts of sound like sunlight spilled in a field. like he’s never been taught to keep joy quiet. he’ll dance in your teacups and leap across your rolling pin, leaving smudges of berry juice behind, just to make you smile. “do you like it when i do that?” he asks, flushed and breathless. you say yes. so he does it again. and again.
⟡ “you don’t want a crown?” he asks once, tiny legs dangling from the rim of your mixing bowl. you’re elbow-deep in flour. you shake your head. “good,” he says. quieter. “you don’t need one. you already feel like a kingdom.”
⟡ when you’re sad, he doesn’t ask questions. he just lays himself across your heart and sings in that strange, lilting tongue you don’t recognize but somehow understand. the language of rain and roots and wings. it feels like someone brushing your soul with the back of their hand. afterward, you sleep better. always.
⟡ sometimes he forgets how small he is. puffs his chest out. tries to protect you from bees and beetles and the odd nosy owl. “i’ll hex it,” he says darkly, waving a twig like a sword. “don’t you dare, artemis,” you whisper. he pouts. “that’s not my name.” you arch a brow. he blushes. “but i like when you say it.”
⟡ he leaves you love notes. or what he thinks are love notes. scribbled on birch bark, inked with berry juice, full of half-spelled flowers and symbols only fae understand. once you deciphered one. it said: your laugh makes the trees hold their breath. you folded it into your locket. he pretends not to notice. but he glows the first time he sees you wear it.
⟡ he loves when you hum. loves when you knead bread. loves when your hands are smudged with jam and he can kiss the tips of your fingers like a knight returning from war. “i could live in your pocket forever,” he says once, curled into a spool of thread. “i’d never ask for a crown. just crumbs and kisses.”
⟡ he wants to protect you. in the only way a fairy can. with enchantments. with bloom. with joy so old it tastes like the first spring. he weaves soft spells into your aprons. presses tiny sigils into the mud near your doorstep. he never says what they’re for. but the wolves stay away. and your dreams stay warm.
⟡ “you’re not what i expected,” he whispers, once. you’re half-asleep. fire crackling. his tiny form tucked under your chin. “i thought princesses were cold. porcelain. like glass you couldn’t touch. but you… you’re soft.” his wings flutter. his voice hitches. “you made space for me. in your hands. in your heart.”
⟡ art smells like all the sweetest things in the world—crushed sugar petals, sun-warmed clover, the faint fizz of lemonade in late spring. when he curls into the pocket of your apron, you swear the scent clings to the fabric for hours. it’s like having a piece of a dream stitched to your hip.
⟡ he doesn’t just flutter—he twirls, spins, zips in little loops like a dandelion seed caught in a spell. when he’s happy, his wings sparkle like frost caught on silk thread. when he’s really happy, they chime. softly. like bells far away in a fog. once, you heard it and forgot what sadness felt like for a whole minute.
⟡ when he gets excited, he can’t help but glow a little—literally. a faint golden shimmer pulses under his skin, especially at the tips of his ears and in the whorls of his tiny knuckles. “stop looking,” he squeaks when you notice. “i’m not blushing. i’m—charged. from pollen. obviously.”
⟡ he’s hopeless with doors. they’re too big. too stubborn. so he knocks—gently, rapidly, with both fists—until you come open them. once you asked why he doesn’t just slip under. “rude,” he said with an offended flick of his wing. “besides. you always answer.”
⟡ he nests. shamelessly. your wool basket? claimed. the curve of your favorite teacup? claimed. the bonnet you left on the windowsill? conquered. he drags little scraps of felt and flower fluff into tiny dens, curls up with a satisfied sigh, and guards them like a baby dragon guarding glitter. “this is where i do my dreaming,” he explains solemnly. “it needs to be soft.”
⟡ he sings to your garden when he thinks you aren’t listening. high, silvery notes that make the tomato vines shiver and the snapdragons bloom sideways. you caught him once, mid-aria, standing on a mushroom with his arms flung wide like a tiny opera star. he hasn’t recovered from the embarrassment.
⟡ “you shouldn’t keep me,” he says once, looking up from the curled curve of your palm. “fairies are wild. feral. mischievous.” and then, quieter: “but… i think i like being yours.”
⟡ he once got stuck in your bread dough. just stuck, like a honeybee in jam. you had to carefully peel him out and rinse him with warm water, and he just sat on your drying rack afterward, wrapped in a linen napkin like a soggy prince, pouting and mumbling about “ambush kneading.” you laughed until you cried. he tried to stay grumpy. he failed.
⟡ he gets hiccups when he eats too much jam. tiny, airborne hiccups that make him hover an inch off the ground every time. once he got so flustered, he flew into your cupboard and stayed there until you promised not to tell the bees.
⟡ he’s utterly, completely enamored with your voice. whether you’re talking, humming, sighing—it all makes his wings twitch. sometimes, he’ll pretend to be asleep just so he can lie there and listen to you whisper nonsense to the kettle. “it’s like honey being poured into my ears,” he told you once. then blinked. “that sounded gross. but i meant it nice.”
⟡ he gets tangled in your hair constantly. it’s not on purpose. (except when it is.) he’ll pretend he just happened to land there, but you’ll feel his hands combing through a curl and hear him mutter, “mine,” under his breath like a dragon counting gold.
⟡ when he really misses you—like when you’re out all day gathering herbs or walking into town—he leaves flower petals in your shoes. little folded ones, marked with silvery ink that reads things like come home soon, miss your hands, and i tried talking to the cat. she hates me still.
⟡ you once made him a cloak from the corner of an old silk scarf. he lost his mind. wouldn’t take it off for days. kept swooping dramatically around the kitchen like a leaf in a gust of wind. “do i look noble?” he asked, striking a pose atop your butter dish. you said yes. he hasn’t stopped talking about it since.
⟡ he measures time in pastries. “has it been one tart since you smiled?” “that was three scones ago.” “you promised to kiss me before the next muffin, and this—” dramatic pause “—is a muffin.”
⟡ “i don’t know what love is like for humans,” he says once, brushing pollen from your knuckles. “but if it’s like what i feel when you say my name… then i think i do.”
⟡ he doesn’t like thunderstorms. they make his wings heavy, and the air too sharp. but he’ll never say he’s scared. he just curls under your collar, shivering slightly, and says, “it’s cozy in here.” and you pretend not to notice the way he buries his face in your neck.
⟡ he once tried to impress you by catching a firefly. it ended badly. his hair singed. the firefly escaped. but he held out the glow cupped in his palms like treasure anyway and said, very seriously, “i brought you a star.”
⟡ his favorite place in the world is your shoulder. from there, he can press his face into your neck, listen to your breath, and whisper the tiniest compliments in your ear. “you smell like a story,” he said once. “the kind i’d live in.”
⟡ “if i was your size,” he says once, curled under your chin with his hand pressed over your pulse, “i’d kiss you until the stars begged us to stop.” you choke on your tea. he grins. and adds, “but for now… i’ll just listen to how your heart speeds up when i say things like that.”
⟡ “i think i’m in love,” he blurts one evening, after a honey tart and a lot of staring. you glance at him. he clears his throat. “with… um. teacups. and linen. and… and girls with wild hair and big hands who tuck me into thimbles like i’m something worth keeping.” you don’t say anything. you just scoop him into your palm, and he leans into it like a sunflower.
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lollipop | tashi duncan x patrick zweig x art donaldson x reader
warnings: SMUT 18+, porn with very minimal plot
The bass is sticky-sweet and sinful, the kind that slides down your spine and coils low in your stomach. Lights strobe like they’re trying to catch secrets midair, but none of them land on you—yet.
You’re leaning against the bar, mouth wrapped around a cherry lollipop and eyes scanning the crowd like you’re on the hunt. But you already know exactly who you’re waiting for.
You haven’t seen them in months. Not since New Rochelle. Not since you told them to lose your number, and Patrick laughed like it was a challenge. Since Art told you, with terrifying calm, that you’d come crawling back. Since Tashi just kissed your jaw, eyes unreadable, and walked away.
You hadn’t planned on seeing them tonight. You’d heard they were in town for the tournament, sure, but you weren’t stalking their schedules anymore. You’d come out with friends. You’d worn this dress for yourself. The lollipop had been a joke. A dare. Something stupid.
Except it wasn’t a joke. Not really. Everyone who knew you knew the lollipop meant something.
You used to walk onto the court with one in your mouth. Superstition, maybe. Distraction tactic. Or maybe it was just habit—your particular brand of psychological warfare. Patrick used to call it bait. Tashi called it smart. Art never called it anything. He just stared.
And now they’re all here.
Art sees you first.
He stops walking mid-stride, mid-laugh. His mouth still shaped around something clever, but no sound comes out. Tashi clocks the shift instantly, turning her head and following his gaze. Her eyes narrow.
Patrick, as always, takes the longest. But when he sees you, his mouth splits into a grin that’s all teeth and no kindness.
You raise the lollipop to your lips and bite down hard enough to crack it.
They cross the club like gravity. The crowd parts. You should leave. You don’t.
“You’re really here,” Patrick says, breath warm near your temple. “Cute dress.”
You twirl the lollipop between your fingers, not looking at him. “I wore it for someone better.”
“Yeah?” Tashi’s voice is close, cool, a whisper by your ear. “How’s that working out for you?”
You turn, smile too-sweet. “Pretty well, actually. Until now.”
Art doesn't speak. He just watches you like he’s memorizing something he plans to wreck.
Patrick leans against the bar beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “Still sucking on candy like a baby?”
You roll the stick over your tongue, slow and deliberate. “You're just mad I'm not sucking your dick anymore.”
“Not mad,” he murmurs. “Only a matter of time.”
Tashi’s hand slides to your hip. Her grip is possessive. Familiar. “We should talk,” she says, but she’s already pulling you toward the VIP section, not waiting for permission.
Art finally speaks. “She doesn’t want to talk.”
Patrick snorts. “Not with words, anyway.”
You go because it’s easier than fighting. Because you want to. Because you’ve already lost.
The VIP room is low-lit and velvet-lined. Music muffled. Private.
You’re barely inside before Patrick sits, spreading his legs like he’s home. Art leans against the wall, arms folded, gaze locked on you. Tashi pulls you to the center of the room and turns you to face them.
“On your knees,” she says softly, like it’s a suggestion. Like you won’t do it unless she asks nice.
You smile, sickly sweet. “I don’t take orders.”
Art pushes off the wall. “Sure you do. Just not in public.”
You sink. Slowly. Lollipop still between your fingers, now sticky with sweat and anticipation.
Patrick unzips with a lazy smirk. “Show us what that smart mouth is really good for.”
You glance up through your lashes, tongue dragging along your lower lip as you stroke him once, slow and warm, before you wrap your mouth around the head of his cock.
The lollipop clatters to the floor.
Patrick groans. “Fuck, I forgot how good you are at this.”
You hum around him, smug, spit already slipping down your chin. He grabs your hair, not hard yet, just enough to let you know who’s in control.
Tashi kneels beside you, mouth at your ear. “No teeth. No attitude. Be useful.”
You glance at her, eyes glassy, and she kisses your cheek like she means it.
Art unbuckles his belt with one hand. The sound is enough to make you clench around nothing.
“You’ll take all of us,” he says. “You love your lollipops, don't you, baby? We’ll see how sweet it tastes with three different flavors in your throat.”
And then there’s no more pretending.
Patrick thrusts shallow and slow, easing his cock past your lips, but it doesn’t stay gentle for long. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your head, dragging moans out of his throat with every wet, messy stroke.
“Don’t stop,” he pants. “You wanted attention? Fucking take it.”
Tashi’s nails dig into your scalp as she holds you still. Her other hand slips down, trailing under your jaw. “Messy little thing,” she murmurs. “You look better like this.”
You choke when Patrick pushes deeper. Your eyes water. Spit drips down your chin, onto your chest, and you don’t care.
Art is behind you now. You hadn’t even noticed him move. His hand slides down the back of your neck, soothing for a second—before he pushes your head farther down Patrick’s length.
“She can take it,” he mutters. “She’s done worse with less incentive.”
Patrick grunts. “Fuck, I’m close.”
Tashi pulls you off his cock with a pop just before he comes. You gasp for air, blinking through tears.
“Not yet,” she tells him, then turns to you. “Open.”
She climbs onto the couch beside Patrick and leans back, spreading her thighs. Her underwear is already discarded. You don’t remember when she slipped them off.
She smells like heat and sweat and control. You lower your mouth between her legs, tongue dragging through her slick folds, and she sighs like she’s been waiting for this since the moment she saw you tonight.
You lap at her slowly at first, just the tip of your tongue, teasing over her clit until she grabs the back of your head and rolls her hips into your face with zero patience.
Her moans are sharp and indulgent. One hand in your hair, the other pinching her nipple beneath the fabric of her shirt. She rides your tongue, thighs clamped around your ears, telling you exactly how she wants it.
"Faster. Right there. Don’t you fucking stop."
Your tongue aches. Your jaw burns. You flick and circle and suck until she gasps, trembling, thighs shaking as she clamps down, grinding into your mouth with a low, shuddering whine.
She comes like it hurts, like she’s been holding it in for far too long. And she keeps you buried between her legs until the aftershocks fade.
When she finally lets you go, you’re breathless, chin glistening, and Patrick is already grabbing you by the jaw.
“You ready now?” he rasps.
You nod, lips red and swollen.
He fucks your mouth without mercy this time, fast and brutal, his cock slamming against the back of your throat as he growls, “Don’t waste a drop.”
You swallow every bit of it.
Art is the last.
He pulls you into his lap on the floor, tilting your head up. His hand strokes your cheek—almost gentle.
“You think you’re still in charge?” he whispers, brushing your hair back from your face like he doesn’t want to see a single thing in the way.
You nod, breath catching. Barely.
He smiles. “Then prove it. Make me come without using your hands.”
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide. Just waits, watching.
You sink onto him slowly, tasting salt and heat, letting your lips wrap around the flushed head of his cock. He exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.
You go slow. Excruciatingly slow. Hollow your cheeks. Twist your tongue on the upstroke. Let him feel every second of your mouth, every flutter of your throat.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. His head tilts back, hips twitching upward as you swallow him halfway, then deeper.
You look up at him as he starts to lose control—his mouth parted, chest rising fast, hands gripping your hips like he’s fighting the urge to fuck up into your throat.
“Keep going,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Don’t fucking stop.”
You don’t. You push until your nose brushes the soft skin at the base of him, until his breath catches in his throat and he chokes out your name.
He comes with a groan, hand tight in your hair, cock twitching as you milk every drop from him. You swallow because you want to. Because he told you not to use your hands, and you want him to know you listened.
When he finally lets go, you slump against his thigh, dazed, used, lips slick and trembling.
Tashi crouches down and lifts your chin. “That’s better,” she says, like it’s a reward.
Patrick chuckles. “Told you it was only a matter of time.”
You close your eyes.
Sticky. Breathless. Satisfied.
And craving another taste.
-----
tagging: @kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow
bang bang bang punch punch pow pow. hair up, earrings out, etc etc.
AVA congratulations on 500! *dances*
for ask game > 🐓 you are in a fight, which tumblr account are you getting to help you?
HI THANK YOU SO SO MUCH!!!!! <3
this was honestly very easy for me to get down to two people, but i can't narrow it down any further:
@patrickzweigette and @jordiemeow i feel like we'd be a dream team. varying genres of humor and deadpan stares in a lethal mocktail.
No, Challengers (2024) does not have a train in it
gripping onto my vintage ghostface figurine and giggling with glee
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.
Need mike to do one of those whats in my bag videos
😭😭 literally. get him on vogue’s in the bag NOW
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