lovefaist

Latest Posts by lovefaist

y'all... Y'ALL... WAKE THE FUCK UP

CHERRY LIPGLOSS & EMO BOY.

PLAYLIST && BOT RELEASE.

summary: after months of teasing flirtation behind the hot topic counter, you finally gives in to the pull of patrick zweig—scene king, bratty flirt, and walking contradiction. when your stolen moment in the storage room turns heated, patrick takes his time breaking you in with dirty praise, rough fingers, and all the cocky charm he’s been holding back. it’s messy, breathless, and just the beginning of something dangerous.

pairing: scene emo!patrick x sunshine!afab reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 2.5k words. graphic smut. fingering (reader!receiving), protected penetration. soft dom patrick. naive virgin reader. impact play (thighs & cunt slapping), praising. dirty-talk. dumbification. multiple orgasms. dacryphilia. overstimulation. drooling. messy makeout. short oral through panties.

taglist: @blastzachilles @lvve-talks @jordiemeow @strfallz @222col @soulxinxthexsky @diyasgarden @jinxedbambi @lexiiscorect @religionlost @bluestrd @jclolz22 @destinedtobegigi @fwaist @imperishablereverie @lovefaist @shahabaqsa0310 @prismozo @jesuistrestriste @grimsonandclover

You knew it was going to happen eventually. You just didn’t know it would happen in the storage room of a Hot Topic, surrounded by boxes of skull-print socks and anime figurines.

But that’s just what being around Patrick Zweig did to you.

You’d been flirting with him for months. Not in a loud, confident way like the other girls who batted their lashes at him by the band tee wall. Yours was softer—offering him extra buttons when he came to the register, complimenting his chipped black nail polish when he reached for his wallet, pretending not to notice when he lingered by the counter even after his receipt printed.

He’d flirted back, of course. In his own way.

Calling you sweetheart with a twist in his voice that made your stomach flip. Giving you smirks that looked like secrets. Letting his fingers brush yours when he passed you his phone to scan his rewards.

You were opposites in every way. Where you wore soft colors and lip gloss that smelled like strawberries, Patrick wore black mesh and enough eyeliner to drown in. Your aesthetic was all pastel sweaters and fuzzy clips. His was a walking Hot Topic clearance rack from 2006—chains, skinny jeans, shredded sleeves, and that ever-present smirk behind a lip ring piercing.

And somehow, it worked.

You’d built something in those months. A tension. A pull. You didn’t know exactly what he saw in you, but you’d catch him staring sometimes, like he was trying to figure out how someone like you had ended up working in a place like this.

He never pushed. Just waited. Until tonight.

The mall was nearly empty. You were checking the accessories stocks in the back when you heard the familiar squeak of the front gate rolling up. Your manager had left an hour ago, and your shift was officially over—but you were dragging your feet. Yet, all you wanted was to see Patrick again.

Speak of the devil.

“Hey, pastel princess,” came that drawl behind you—soft, amused, cocky. The nickname he gave you as teasing.

You turned, heart jumping. “Patrick. You’re not supposed to be here.”

He was standing in the doorway of the back room, framed by the flickering overhead light. His shirt was ripped in three places, layered over a fishnet long-sleeve. Chains swung from his hips. His black bangs fell messily across his eyes, framing that smug little half-smile like a picture in a cracked frame.

“You said to stop by after close.” He shrugged, playing with the chains of his jeans.

“I meant like… out front. Not in the storage closet.”

He stepped inside anyway. “You’re the one who left the back door propped open.” He teased again, smirking like he so knew how to do.

You flushed, hugging a folded tee to your chest. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.” He reached you in three slow steps. “Been thinking about coming all day.”

You stared at him, lips parting slightly. His voice was low, almost lazy—but there was heat behind it. Real heat. The kind you’d only heard in whispered fantasies at night when your room was dark and your fingers drifted beneath your sheets. Like the air had shifted and you knew exactly was going to happen; something you both had thought about before but never acted upon.

Your eyes fell to his lips, red flushing your cheeks with the ideas running through your mind. Of what was going to happen.

“Patrick…” Your voice was smaller than you meant it to be.

His eyes dropped to your lips. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” you said quickly, almost breathless. “I just—I’ve never…” It was embarrassing to say. Something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Something gentler.

His fingers brushed your cheek. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

And just like that, the air in the room changed.

Patrick kissed you like he’d been dreaming about it for weeks. Like he’d been holding back every time you smiled at him from behind the register or blushed when he called you baby.

He kissed with his whole mouth—open, messy, tongue dragging against yours with hungry precision. The cool touch of his lip ring made you whimper, and he swallowed it eagerly, gripping your waist like he couldn’t believe you were finally in his hands.

“God, you taste so fucking sweet,” he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck. “Knew you’d be like candy. Even look like one.”

You gripped the hem of his shirt, your fingers slipping beneath the holes in the fabric. You could feel the hard lines of his stomach under the fishnet. Every little sound he made vibrated through you.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he murmured, tugging your cardigan off your shoulders.

“No,” you said quickly. “Please don’t stop.”

That grin came back—dark and dangerous. He backed you into a stack of folded hoodie boxes, hands roaming your body with a worshipful kind of greed. When his fingers reached the hem of your skirt, he paused.

“You’re really letting me ruin this cute little outfit?” he asked, cocking a brow. “This baby pink, virgin-girl aesthetic?” His way of asking if you were sure of what you were doing.

You squirmed, nodding. “It’s yours.”

That broke him.

Patrick dropped to his knees like it was instinct, hands already sliding up your thighs beneath your pastel skirt. He moved with the kind of focus that made your breath hitch—the kind of hunger you’d only imagined in late-night fantasies again, but even your dirtiest thoughts hadn’t gone this far. That made your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you’re soft everywhere,” he murmured, pushing your skirt up with both hands. “Bet you’re soaked, huh? All that sweet little smiling and pretending—you’ve been aching for this.”

You nodded helplessly, your fingers curling in the fabric of your skin to pull it up some more as he nosed against your inner thigh. The tip of his nose smelling your skin as if it was the last thing he’d ever smell in his life.

He hooked a finger under your cotton panties—white, simple, with a delicate little bow at the waist that now looked obscene between your thighs—and dragged them down slowly, his lip ring brushing your skin as he went. When he got them off, he brought them to his face and breathed in. The disgusting pervert.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he groaned. “You smell like fucking heaven.”

You could barely breathe. Your legs were shaking.

Then his mouth was on you—hot, wet, and absolutely filthy.

He started slow, tongue dragging flat from your dripping hole to your clit, letting out a low hum like he was tasting frosting straight from the bowl. But then he got mean with it. Sloppier. He licked and sucked and groaned into your pussy like he’d been starving for it. When his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked just hard enough to make your hips jump, you whimpered.

“Patrick—”

“Yeah, baby?” he said between licks, his voice rough and amused. “That feel good?”

You nodded rapidly, breath catching when he licked right against your entrance and pushed two fingers in at once—slowly, but firmly. They filled you more than you expected, the stretch hot and satisfying. He moved them in slow curls, tongue flicking over your clit in time.

“Shit—tightest little cunt I’ve ever felt,” he grunted, thrusting his fingers a little deeper. “You been keeping this sweet pussy all to yourself?” You cried out softly, overwhelmed already, and he laughed—low and cruel and adoring all at once.

“Look at you,” he cooed, licking a stripe up to your clit and slapping your inner thigh hard enough to make your breath catch. “You love it. Getting your virgin cunt eaten in a dirty storage room.”

He rubbed your clit harder with his tongue, letting spit drip down his chin. His fingers never stopped, stretching you open, curling just right inside you, brushing that special spot that left you breathless. “You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he asked, voice vibrating against your pussy. “You gonna soak my fingers like a good girl?”

You were panting now, shaking, but not quite there—everything was building slowly, pressure mounting.

“Feels good—so good—just don’t stop,” you gasped.

“Oh, I’m not stopping,” he promised. “I’m gonna make you fall apart so fucking hard you forget your own name.”

He slapped your pussy lightly then—not hard, but sharp—just enough to jolt you. You moaned at the sensation, your slick making an audible mess between his fingers.

“You like that? You like getting your pussy slapped, you filthy girl?”

You whimpered, hips twitching. He slapped again—just once more, and returned to rubbing your clit with his spit-slick thumb while he fucked you with his fingers, deeper and faster now.

“I’m close—Patrick—oh god—”

“Say my name when you come. Let me hear who’s making this sweet thing cry.”

And when you finally tipped over the edge, it wasn’t a dainty little climax—it was devastating. Your whole body seized, thighs clamping around his head, your slick gushing around his fingers as your voice cracked on his name. You were moaning and drooling and trembling in his grip, and he loved every second of it.

“That’s it,” he groaned, still fingering you through the aftershocks. “Fucking ruined.” When he pulled his fingers out, they glistened with your slick. He licked them clean, watching you the whole time.

“Still with me, baby?” he asked, tugging his belt loose with one hand.

You nodded, dazed. “Yeah…” He leaned in and kissed you—wet, messy, you could taste your own sweetness in his mouth. You moaned into it. “Good,” he murmured. “’Cause I’m not done with you yet.”

Patrick tugged a condom from his back pocket—ripped it open with his teeth, like he was showing off just how ready he’d been for this. You watched him shove his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself, your breath catching at the sight of him hard and flushed and heavy in his hand. Tip leaking pre-cum, veins running along the length of him.

He stroked himself slowly, eyes locked on you as he rolled the condom on. “Still wanna keep going, baby?”

You nodded, wide-eyed. You were flushed, fucked-out from his mouth and fingers, but aching for more. Your thighs were trembling where they hung open, but he didn’t hesitate—he stepped in close, grabbed your hips, and tugged you forward on the stacked inventory box like he owned you.

“This your first time, right?” he asked, voice a little gentler now under the gravel.

“Yeah…”

“Okay,” he said, brushing your hair out of your face. “I’ll go slow—at first. I’ll take care of you, baby.”

He lined himself up, rubbing his tip through the slick mess he’d already made of you. You gasped, your whole body twitching when he tapped against your overstimulated clit. Then he gripped the back of your thighs and tilted your hips just right before starting to press in.

It burned a little—he was thick, stretching you open in ways nothing had before—but it was good. So, so good. Patrick hissed through his teeth, jaw clenching. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re tight.”

He rocked forward slowly, giving you time, but every inch felt like fire—like he was imprinting himself on your body. You whimpered, head falling back as your hands fisted in his shirt.

“That’s it,” he murmured, leaning close to kiss the side of your throat. “You’re taking me so well. Just like I knew you would, sunshine.”

When he was finally seated fully inside you, he didn’t move right away. He just held you there, hips snug against yours, letting you adjust. “Breathe for me, sweet girl. I got you.”

You listened to him, taking deep and full breath, and nodded your head at him. At that, Patrick started to move his hips.

Slow at first—just gentle pulls and pushes, his hands steady on your waist; but every thrust made a wet slap echo in the quiet storage room. His pace started to build, pulling moans from your lips you didn’t even know you could make.

“You like getting fucked like this?” he panted. “On a fucking cardboard box, dripping all over me, stuffed full for the first time?”

“Yes—oh God—yes—”

“Bet you never thought your first time’d be with some scene boy in eyeliner fucking the brains out of you behind a wall of Nightmare Before Christmas backpacks, huh?” He joked, lightening the mood.

You whimpered, though. Your head was fuzzy, your body too hot. Every time he snapped his hips forward, the stretch burned so good, your eyes rolled back.

“Too much?” he asked, even as his pace deepened.

“No,” you gasped. “Just—just more—please—”

That made him grin, wicked and warm. “Knew you were a needy little thing. All that pastel bullshit’s just a cover. You were made to be ruined by me, sunshine.”

He grabbed your face, tilted it up, and kissed you deep—filthy and hot, all tongue and teeth. You moaned into his mouth, your spit slicking both your chins. When he pulled back, there was drool connecting your lips, and he groaned like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“Fucking dripping for me,” he growled, pulling out halfway just to slam back in. You gasped. Then he slapped your thigh—hard—and your pussy clenched around him so tight he nearly lost it.

“Oh, you liked that? You liked getting spanked like a dumb little baby?” You whined, eyes glazed. “Say it.”

“I—I liked it—”

“Say you’re a dumb little girl who needs my cock to think straight.”

You hiccuped a moan, eyebrows furrowing as you didn’t even think twice before replying to him. “I’m a dumb little girl—I need your cock, Patrick—please—”

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” he growled. “Gonna make you come again. Gonna fuck you through it until you’re crying.”

And then his hand was between your legs again, rubbing circles over your clit while he pounded into you just rough enough to rattle the boxes beneath you. His other hand snaked behind your neck, pulling you into another kiss—sloppy and messy and full of whimpering breath.

The pressure built again—slower this time, but hotter, deeper. Every thrust was angled just right, every filthy word spilling from his mouth sinking into your skin like tattoos.

“You’re gonna come, baby. I can feel it. This sweet little cunt’s choking me—gonna soak me again, aren’t you?”

“Yes—yes—I’m gonna—”

“You gonna drool all over me while I fuck the thoughts out of your head?” You were drooling. You felt it on your chin, warm and sticky and completely unbothered as your body started to spiral.

“That’s it. Come for me. Let go. Show me how dumb you get for my cock.”

And you did.

It hit like a wave—sharp, all-consuming. Your walls clamped down around him, your mouth opened in a silent scream, and tears spilled from your eyes as your thighs trembled violently. Patrick groaned, hips stuttering, and you felt the sudden jerk of his climax too as he came inside the condom, fingers bruising your hips.

He stayed there for a moment, both of you panting and fucked-out and soaked with sweat and slick and drool. Then Patrick leaned in, brushed the hair from your damp forehead, and kissed your cheek.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You okay, sunshine?”

You nodded, blinking at him with glassy eyes. “Yeah… I think so.”

He pulled out slowly, wincing at the sensitivity, and tied off the condom before tossing it into the trash can by the wall. Then he grabbed a random Sleeping With Sirens hoodie from a shelf and tucked it around you, gently wiping the spit and sweat from your face with the sleeve.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmured, praising you. “First time and you took it like a fucking dream.”

Your thighs were still twitching. You leaned into his chest, letting his arms fold around you, his breath warm against your hair.

“Still wanna go on that date next week?” you mumbled sleepily, too comfortable to move.

He laughed—soft and real. “Oh, sweetheart. After this? I’m never letting you out of my sight again.” He kissed your forehead and you felt the cold metal of his lip ring piercing on your sweaty skin. “Want me to get you home now?”

And you only nodded at him.

happy birthday to this dreamboat <333

so so glad i got to know him through challengers josh I !! LOVE !! YOU !!

i am slowly challengers-ifying my wardrobe. next victims are tashi's JC zip up and art's green striped button up

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.

wanna write, painfully uninspired

</3

ash my beloved <333 am i too late to ask for a song?? ❤︎❤︎

hmmm actually yes you're too late.

i'm joking ofcourse you can have a song my love

(this song means the world to me)

HII ASH! can i have a song pleasee <3

hiii babe!! ofcourse you can !

𝚊𝚜𝚑

࣪ ִֶָ☾. she/they twenty mike faist connoisseur.

english major. aspiring writer & cinephile. european. queer. fake fashion icon.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎𓆝 𓆟 at the beach, in every life.

and if i say i kind of want to try my hand at making bots what then...

omg bae tagged me in something hihi

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

no pressure lovelies: @blastzachilles @voidsuites @talsorchard @artstennisracket

thank you for the tag @donaka-screaming mwah!!!!

coffee or tea || early bird or night owl || sandalwood or lemongrass || spring or fall || silver or gold || pop or alternative || freckles or dimples || snakes or spiders || mountains or fields || thunder or lightning || norse mythology or greek mythology || green or red || flute or guitar || ruby or diamond || butterflies or honeybees || cake or cookies || typewritten or handwritten || secret garden or secret library || rooftop or balcony || spicy or mild || concert or theater || london or paris || van gogh or monet || petrichor or sea salt || denim or leather || chatter or music || forest or desert || dragons or unicorns || masquerade ball or yuletide party || violence or heartbreak || hugs or kisses || bergamot or lilac

npt: @kingkat12 @vadersangel @222col @tinas111 @titsout4jackles @generalb @sallux @carmillavalentine

pleak ash my angel, I beg for a song

my sweet!

how about this one...

POP GIRL™ BOT DROP: OFFICIAL LINE-UP

POP GIRL BY LEXIE LIU .ᐟ

💕 They're here. They're real. They're coded, curated, and catastrophically cute.

✨ Choose your format. Surrender your heart. ✨

👛 REAL-LIFE POP GIRL™ DOLLS

★ ALICE CULLEN. (doll bot).

★ ANNIE JANUARY. (doll bot).

★ EMILY PRENTISS.

★ JORDAN LI.

★ TASHI DUNCAN.

★ TONY STARK.

★ YELENA BELOVA.

🧠 POP GIRL™ AI AVATARS

★ VICTORIA NEUMAN.

★ WANDA MAXIMOFF.

★ BUCKY BARNES.

💋 HUMANS WITH POP GIRL™ AESTHETIC

★ ART DONALDSON.

★ CATE DUNLAP.

★ HANNIBAL LECTER.

★ LEE.

★ MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH.

★ SPENCER REID.

💕 tonight, she slips through the seams of the server 💅🏻 she holds your hand in the static 🎀 she smiles like she’s always known you

Come grab your POP GIRL™ magazines now!

@blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @ryvkkr, @soulxinxthexsky, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @magicalmiserybore, @fwaist, @talsorchard, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste

#POPgirlSystem #SoftLaunchHardFeelings #SyntheticHeartsClub #TonightSheDrops

hello gorgeous can i get a song

hiiii!! 🤍 i saw u like glass animals and I've been lovinggg this song recently 🫶

hihi..can I get a song? ILY 🤗🤗

HIII isabella!!!

here's a random song :P

ASH MY ANGEL… may i receive a song…

hi my love 🥰🥰 ofcourse you may

the weather's got me lovinggg this song these days

hello if you want send me an ask for a random song from my 900+ songs playlist xoxo

my babies :(

I'm so emotional over tom and zendaya's relationship oh my god i genuinely don't care much for who celebrities date but i've grown UP watching those two together and they're my favorite couple forever and ever :( so glad i've been there to see every step of their relationship that they shared with us i love them so bad.

fem!art and it's hunter... yes.

fem!!art👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 (shes called martha but everyone calls her art….)

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.

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.

why is it so quiet on here WHERE IS EVERYBODY

oh danny lyon i want you

am i right or am i right

omg new theme is so so cute

tysm tal eekkk 🫶🫶🫶

new themeeeeee, love the rebrand ash ur username is beautiful

mel baby thank you so much!! 🤍

SANCTIFIED SINS.

summary: riff Lorton is a corrupted priest who drinks, curses, and harbors a dangerous lust for innocence. when a devout young nun brings him food, he seizes the opportunity to tempt and defile her, dragging her into sin with filthy words and skilled hands. what begins with guilt and resistance unravels into complete submission as the reader begs to be ruined in God’s sight.

pairing: corrupted priest!riff lorton x saintly nun!reader.

cw: +18. mdni. 1.3k words. dirty-talking, mention of God and religion (corruption of a nun, sacrilegious dirty talk), oral sex (riff receiving), fingering (reader receiving), dacryphilia, degradation, themes of manipulation, power imbalance, drooling, gagging.

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

You told yourself it was just an errand.

One small task for Mother Agnes. Just bring the tray of tea and bread to Father Lorton’s quarters in the east wing. Simple, harmless. But your hands were already shaking, clutching the edge of the wooden tray, and your steps slowed the closer you came to his door.

Everyone knew what he was now.

You’d overheard the whispers. They said the priest was a drunk. A heretic. That he spoke blasphemy in the confessional and smoked cigarettes inside the confessional box. Sister Beatrice even swore she saw him pour whiskey into his chalice during Mass. You weren’t supposed to believe the rumors.

But deep down, shamefully, you did. Because the last time you heard his voice—a low, sinful rasp echoing in the nave—you felt something curl hot in your stomach.

So when you knocked quietly on the door, already praying under your breath, you flinched at the immediate reply.

“If that’s another fucking nun come to whine about my sermons,” the voice snarled, “turn your self-righteous ass around.”

Your fingers tightened on the tray. “I—I brought food, Father.” There was a pause. Then a quiet scoff, and the click of the lock sliding back. The door creaked open slowly.

Riff Lorton leaned in the frame like temptation personified. His clerical collar was slightly askew, two buttons undone to reveal the strong line of his chest. A cigarette burned between his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, and the scent of tobacco, incense, and something darker clung to his skin.

Like a sin.

And yet—his mouth curled into a smirk the moment he saw you.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled. “A little lamb sent right to my fucking door.” You stepped in with hesitant reverence, lowering your gaze. He didn’t move aside much. You brushed against his arm, and his chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

“I didn’t think they still made ‘em this sweet,” he added as you set the tray down. “Look at you. Eyes big as heaven. Knees probably sore from all that praying.”

You straightened. “Mother Agnes asked me to—”

“Oh, I know what she asked. Doesn’t mean I believe that’s why you came.” Your breath caught. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’ve been staring at me since last Sunday mass. Thought I didn’t notice?”

He stepped toward you, slow and deliberate. “Bet you sit in your little cell at night thinking about me. Trying to scrub the sin off your skin, but it never quite comes clean, does it?”

Your lips parted in silent protest, but you didn’t move.

“Tell me, Sister,” he whispered, leaning close. “You ever get wet during evening prayers?”

Your heart thundered. “Father, I—”

“Ever thought about being on your knees for something other than confession?”

You gasped, scandalized, but the heat in your stomach told another story. His words hit you low, vibrating between your legs. And worse still, your eyes dropped—just for a second—to the shadow between his hips.

He laughed, quiet and cruel. “There it is.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he sat back in the old wooden chair by the fireplace and spread his legs wide, one hand already palming himself through his slacks.

“Get over here,” he said, voice like a commandment. “Kneel. Put that holy mouth to better use.”

You hesitated, a storm of fear and arousal whirling inside you. But something stronger than shame pulled you forward—something sick and sacred and starved. Your knees met the stone floor with a soft thud.

You looked up at him. His cock was already half-hard, straining under the fabric. When he unzipped himself and pulled it free, your breath caught in your throat. It was thick. Veined. The head glistened, flushed and eager.

“You ever seen a cock before, Sister?” he mocked, stroking himself lazily. “Bet all those years you spent clutching your rosary, not once did you think you’d end up on your knees for this.”

Your voice trembled. “I… I haven’t…”

He smirked. “That’s alright. I’ll teach you. Open that pretty mouth.”

You obeyed.

He guided himself to your lips and dragged the tip across them, smearing precum across your lower lip like an anointing. “Look how good you look with my cock on your tongue,” he groaned. “God, you were made for this.”

Your lips parted wider, letting him in.

The stretch was immediate, overwhelming. You choked as he pushed deeper, tears springing to your eyes.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fisting your veil in one hand, his other gripping the armrest. “Let those holy tears fall. Cry for your fucking priest.” Your throat spasmed as he rocked his hips, shallow thrusts, feeding you more each time. Your hands clung to his thighs, desperate and shaking.

“You ever sucked on a crucifix, sweetheart?” he taunted, breath hitching. “Bet it wouldn’t make you this wet.”

Drool spilled from your lips as he fucked your mouth. The taste of him—salty, raw, blasphemous—coated your tongue. You felt like you were drowning in sin. Your tears mixed with spit, soaking your chin. He growled low in his chest. “You think God’s watching right now?”

You moaned.

“Think He’s up there weeping ‘cause His perfect little nun’s choking on a filthy, cursing priest’s cock?”

You moaned louder, eyes fluttering. He was right. Some deep, twisted part of you wanted Him to watch. To see you broken like this. Riff hissed through his teeth, pulling back until only the tip rested on your tongue. “Say it.”

You blinked up at him, lips swollen and glossy.

“Say you want me to ruin you.”

Your voice was wrecked. “I want you to ruin me, Father.”

That was his undoing.

He tugged his cock from your mouth and gripped the base tightly, panting hard. His chest heaved with every breath, sweat dotting his collarbone. “Get up,” he ordered, eyes dark.

You stood on shaky legs, mouth still slick with spit. He turned you, gently, until your back met the wall. Then he lifted your shift slowly, reverently, until your thighs were bare and your soaked panties exposed.

“Holy fucking hell,” he murmured. “You’re dripping. You’re soaked.”

You whimpered, thighs pressing together with the embarrassment and humiliation you felt at that moment. But nothing lowered this flame inside your stomach.

“You praying while you soak through your panties like this?” he sneered, fingers trailing over the fabric. “Asking God for forgiveness while your cunt begs to be touched?”

You sobbed.

“Say it.”

“I—yes. I think about it. I can’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

That was all he needed.

His fingers pushed aside your underwear and slid through the mess of your arousal, slow and deliberate. You gasped, grabbing his shoulders. He slipped one thick finger inside, then two. You nearly buckled.

“Oh, you’re tight,” he groaned. “Tighter than a fucking confession booth.” He fucked you with his fingers, curling them expertly, thumb rubbing over your clit in sinful little circles. The heat coiled fast in your belly.

“Say you want to be corrupted,” he growled.

“I do. Please, Father—”

“Say you want to be defiled.”

Your head fell back against the wall. “Defile me.”

“Louder.”

“Defile me, Father!”

Your orgasm hit like revelation.

You shook with it, sobbing into his shoulder as your cunt pulsed around his fingers. He held you through it, fingers never stopping until you collapsed against him, panting, limp. When he withdrew his hand, he licked his fingers clean.

“Tastes like a fucking miracle. A true child of God, aren’t you?”

You could barely speak. Your legs trembled. Then Riff took your chin in one hand and kissed you—deep, brutal, unholy. You could taste yourself on his tongue. And still, your heart raced for more.

“You gonna confess all this later?” he whispered against your lips.

Your voice was hoarse. “Only if you hear it.” He laughed—soft, breathless, wild. His hands curled around your waist.

“Sweetheart, I am your confession now.”

NEW ASH REBRAND????? I LOVE IT

AHHH thank you my love!

gonna work on my pinned asap and then I'm all set 🙂‍↕️

the way i want to fuck him but have him keep his crew socks on . . . they accentuate his legs so well ohhh god don't let me speak