museboos

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stanning low profile people is so funny like… other fandoms are out here thirsting over their fav doing a calvin klein ad or a magazine phothsoot… meanwhile the sluttiest thing that could possibly happen to us is mike faist being spotted twice (documented. no hat.) and getting a job… all in the same month !!!

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Patrick Zweig as Harry Osborn

Patrick Zweig as Green Goblin

related Art & Tashi character mood boards

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this patrick specifically could take me back to the locker rooms and have his way with me

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this is beautifully heart wrenching give me more 😞😞

I’M DRUNK, I LOVE YOU.

art donaldson x reader

sfw. angst. unrequited love. confession. pining. ♡

You barely remember whose idea it was. You don‘t even have time to protest. It just happened, because that‘s what normal things are between you and him. It, like all things with Art, does. A birthday slash graduation trip that turned into a weekend at the beach. No plans, no budget, just a spontaneous one. So fucking reckless and irresponsible. YOLO, what he always says to you when he asks you to do something spontaneous with him. Trip. Movies. Resto. Everything. That was enough. That was always enough when it came to him. You said yes before he even finished the sentence. You always do. Don‘t need to ask twice. If he asks you to jump, you‘ll say how high. If he calls for an emergency, you‘ll come, even if his emergency is just picking which clothes he will wear for the match. And now you‘re here, crammed into the back of his car, half-sober, half-numb, trying not to think about how this might be the last time you see him like this without consequence.

Art is driving. One hand on the wheel, the other slung lazily out the window, sun catching the bones in his wrist. The wind keeps blowing his curls into his eyes, but he doesn‘t fix them. You want to reach out and do it for him, but you don‘t. He has that curly blonde hair you always want to run your fingers through. But well, you‘ve done enough of that, it‘s nothing new the fixing things he doesn‘t ask you to fix, offering pieces of yourself he never asked to keep. He glances in the rearview mirror once. Not at you. At her. Tashi. She‘s sitting in the passenger seat like she‘s always belonged there, and maybe she has. Maybe that‘s the part that hurts most.

Patrick‘s next to you, headphones on, mouthing along to some sad gay song like he‘s in a different movie entirely. Like he‘s annoying the fuck out of you about this situation. You‘re grateful for him, really, for his silence, for the way he doesn‘t ask you what‘s wrong. He already knows. He‘s the one who knows you and Art too closely. You tell him things, but he doesn‘t rat you out to Art. Sometimes you think everyone knows it already. Like it‘s not a secret anymore, well except for Art. It‘s just a punchline. Seven years in love with your best friend, and he still introduces you as his “bro” when he‘s drunk. You laugh too hard at his jokes. You always have. It‘s easier than saying you‘re scared he‘ll leave and forget you entirely.

By the time you arrive, the sun‘s too bright and the sand‘s too hot and you already feel like you‘re a mess. The air smells like salt and cheap alcohol. Art‘s shirt is off before the car even finishes parking. He runs straight toward the water, laughing, yelling something you can‘t hear. Tashi follows. You sit on the hood and watch them, beside Patrick who‘s ready to tease you already. To give you a reality check. You don‘t take a photo. The view is so beautiful, too bad you‘re not in the mood. You don‘t move. You feel like the only person on earth who knows they‘re living inside a memory. Patrick opens a beer beside you and offers one without a word. You take it. Drink half in one go. It doesn‘t help. You ask him something stupid like, “Do you think we‘ll remember this?” and he says, “Only if it hurts enough.” And god, you think maybe that‘s the truest thing you‘ve ever heard.

Later, when the sky turns heavy and violet, someone suggests karaoke like it‘s a joke. Like they don‘t know the kind of night they‘re summoning. But Art lights up, yeah, of course he does, and you‘re already nodding before you think better of it. Because you know he will ask. That‘s how it always is. One look from him and you forget your boundaries. You forgot to take. You forgot what you really are to him. You forget you ever wanted to have any. And the place is a patchwork of bad lighting and worn leather booths, and the mic smells like every feeling that‘s ever touched it. Art picks something old and loud, something to shout with his whole body, and Patrick howls through every line like he‘s exorcising something. You‘re on your second beer. Your third. You lose count by the time you‘re singing with Art, shoulder to shoulder, yelling lyrics you don‘t know into the same mic. He looks at you like a memory. You look at him like a prayer.

Then he says, “I love you,” in the middle of the chorus, smiling at you, but it‘s followed by “bro,” and that‘s the part that lodges in your throat. You don‘t even like that- that fucking term. It‘s a punch in your face. That one fucking word. That one stupid syllable that flattens everything you thought maybe tonight could be. Everyone claps. You do too. You smile like it‘s funny, like it doesn‘t hurt. But you feel it. In the pit of your stomach. You feel it wants to be cut out and thrown in the ocean. In your jaw, clenched around the scream you won‘t let out. Like you want to scream at him if he‘s blind.

Bottle after bottle, you find yourself sitting outside with a cigarette you don‘t finish and a heart that won‘t shut up. Art plops down beside you, drunk and golden, knees bumping yours. “You good?” he asks, voice slurred just enough to make him seem soft. You nod. Of course you do. What would you even say? That you‘re not sure you can keep doing this? That being his friend feels like bleeding in public and hoping no you can just hit him in the head to the point he‘ll have an amnesia and tell him you‘re his girlfriend?

Yeah, no, that won‘t work, so you just sit beside him. Let him talk about nothing. About surfing tomorrow. About how Tashi‘s good at it, apparently. It‘s not like you have anything against the woman, you don‘t. You can‘t just help to feel envious that will maybe, maybe make you say shitty things if you are just in front of Patrick. But you just nod again. You keep nodding. And when you finally speak, it‘s just to say, “Let‘s go back.” Not because you want to. Because if you stay here one second longer, you‘ll say the wrong thing - or worse, the truth.

You love the place you guys picked. But right now it just feels different. The room feels like it‘s breathing without you. The windows rattle slightly from the ocean wind outside, the curtains flutter like someone else‘s heartbeat. And Art is perched at the edge of the bed with his guitar in his lap, bare feet on the floor, hair damp from the shower. He looks golden in the lamplight. Familiar. Comfortable. You‘ve spent years memorizing this version of him. The quiet one, the one that only shows up at 1 a.m. when no one else is looking. The version that looks so peaceful. The one who loves music besides tennis. The one who- who gets your heart. He plays something without a name, just a slow set of chords, barely holding shape. Maybe it‘s something he‘s composing. It should soothe you. Instead, it burns.

He doesn‘t notice you watching him. Or maybe he does and doesn‘t care. You always have the chance to look at him because... because he lets you. Or probably he‘s just that oblivious. You‘re sitting on the floor with your back to the wall, knees pulled tight to your chest like that could keep it all in. The want, the ache, the exhaustion of waiting. The pining. He hums under his breath. You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“Seven years,” you say suddenly. It startles even you. He pauses, one hand still on the frets. You don‘t know why you bring it up but the following words you‘ll say will fuck you up, you just know that.

“What?” he questions, your words made him stop playing his guitar and look up at you.

You let out a shaky breath. “I‘ve been in love with you for seven years.” You quickly press your lips together. Feeling the environment. Feeling him how he‘ll react. Observing him. Overthinking many things.

It hangs there, heavy and soft, too real to take back. You watch his face. First confused, then careful. He blinks like he‘s trying to remember something important. You keep going, because if you stop now, you‘ll never start again. You will never say shit again if you are sober.

“I don‘t know when it started. Maybe when we were I don‘t know... seventeen? Eighteen? And you asked if I wanted to walk home instead of calling a cab. Or when you shared your fries and said you didn‘t want to eat alone. Or maybe it was every time you told me something that felt small to you, but I carried it around for days. I don‘t know. I just know that I‘ve loved you. Quietly. Constantly. For seven fucking years.”

He doesn‘t speak. He just stares with his mouth half-open, hands still resting on the guitar like he forgot they were there. You don‘t look away. Not this time.

“I don‘t want anything from you,” you say. “I just didn‘t want to leave without telling you. I wanted you to know that someone loved you that long. That hard. Even if you never noticed.”

And that‘s when he kisses you.

He kisses you like he‘s doing you a favor. Like it‘s the polite thing to do. You feel it instantly. The shape of it, the temperature, the lack. His mouth on yours is nothing like you imagined. It‘s soft, yes, and it‘s careful, but it isn‘t full. It isn‘t real. He doesn‘t touch you like someone who‘s been waiting seven years to feel your mouth. Like... like someone who will think like fuck I want her too despite of the friendship. He touches you like someone trying to soften a blow. Like someone stalling. You don‘t even close your eyes. You just wait for the part where it starts to matter and it never comes.

You pull away, slow and stunned, like your body already knew before your brain caught up. Your face is warm, but not from the kiss. Not from anything good. You feel numb. Like a robot or something. He‘s still looking at you like he doesn‘t understand what just happened. Like you kissed him. Like this is something you started. You wait for something, anything. A breath. A question. A fucking name. Or maybe something like, Are you drunk? Or let‘s do it better, maybe call you bro? But there‘s nothing. Just his face, blank and open, like maybe you should say thank you.

So you just pulled back before the kiss could become anything. Before you convince yourself to pretend it feels like love. His hand is still on your face when you say it, quiet, tired, done. “Don‘t do that.” Your voice doesn‘t shake. It‘s steady in the way grief is steady. “Don‘t kiss me just because you don‘t know what else to do.” You wait for his face to shift. To see his reaction. To read him like you always do. For guilt, for panic, for anything human. Maybe today is the day you won‘t be able to read what the situation is because he just looks at you like you‘ve made things difficult. Like you‘ve embarrassed him.

He just sits there, watching you like he‘s hoping you‘ll backpedal. Like you‘ll laugh and say it was a joke. Like you‘ll make it easy again. But you‘re drunk enough to do that anymore. You are too aware despite the drinks. You‘re not young anymore. You‘re not stupid. You‘re just tired. Tired of loving him the way he‘s always let you quietly, invisibly, as long as you never asked for anything back.

And what gets you, what really fucking gets you is that he didn‘t even say no. He didn‘t reject you. He didn‘t turn away, or flinch, or apologize. You keep thinking and thinking that all the things you say, he‘ll be just speechless. Stunned? But he can just kiss you? Kissed you like a Band-Aid. Like pity. Like he was trying to keep you from crying, not because he cared, but because it would be inconvenient if you did. He kissed you to shut you up, and you almost let him.

You nod. Not because you understand, but because you‘ve finally decided to stop waiting. You stand. You don‘t slam the door. You don‘t say anything else. There‘s no last word. You don‘t say anything after that. You don‘t need to, anyway. Just you, leaving with your mouth still tasting like him, and your heart still convinced you should‘ve waited five more seconds, just in case. Just in case he would‘ve said it. Just... just maybe he came to his senses and said anything. Something.

You don‘t cry in the hallway. Not yet. You don‘t have the dignity for that. You just press your back to the wall, close your eyes, and try to remember what it felt like to still believe he could love you back. So stupid. So dumb for someone who‘s always receiving compliments about being smart. And when the tears come, they don‘t come loud. They come like shame. Slow. Quiet. Familiar. You feel like you just stabbed yourself in the stomach way up to your chest. That‘s how it feels. Seven years.

You think about what you said. I love you. Three words you spent seven years swallowing, and when they finally left your mouth, they didn‘t sound brave. They sounded desperate. Like you said, it‘s because you are too tired to feel it anymore. Desperate that he will love you back. It was easy to mean them in the moment, easier than you thought it would be. But now they sit in your mouth like something spoiled. Bitter. Embarrassing. You thought saying it would free you, like maybe the weight would lift once it was real. But it didn‘t. It just made you feel stupid. Like you misunderstood the assignment. Like you ruined something that was never yours to begin with. You weren‘t brave. You were just drunk. And stupid. And still in love with someone who looked you in the face and offered you silence.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[museboos]

[museboos]

WE ARE SO BACK‼️‼️‼️‼️

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UHM HELLO!?!?

mike faist fans..this real??

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LOVE ME TO DEATH .ᐟ

BOTS: ART DONALDSON PATRICK ZWEIG TASHI DUNCAN

part one ・ part two ・ part three

summary: The nightmare isn’t over—you're being hunted again, only this time, you're done running. As paranoia spirals and old enemies resurface, a deadly game begins between predator and prey. In the end, someone’s mask will shatter—and someone else will finally learn how to wear it.

cw: 1.7k words. apt!scream au. graphic violence. stalking & paranoia. psychological manipulation. use of weapons. mention of torture. dissociation and identity shift. home invasion. death. blood.

genre: psychological horror / slasher / thriller.

taglist: @blastzachilles, @lvve-talks, @jordiemeow, @strfallz, @222col, @soulxinxthexsky, @diyasgarden, @jinxedbambi, @lexiiscorect, @religionlost, @bluestrd, @jclolz22, @destinedtobegigi, @imperishablereverie, @lovefaist, @shahabaqsa0310, @prismozo, @jesuistrestriste, @grimsonandclover, @nozhdyved, @artstennisracket, @yardofbrunettes, @hangels, @sweetheartfaist, @lacelottie

You’ve moved twice since Stanford. Changed your name. Dyed your hair. You don’t talk about what happened, not to anyone, not even therapists—not that you trust them. You don't sleep easily anymore. Shadows linger in the corners of your room a little too long. There’s always a cold spot behind you, no matter how warm the room is. You tell yourself it’s over. You survived. You made it out.

But in the quiet moments, you know the truth. They're still out there.

Art, Patrick, Tashi. Your roommates. Your friends. The murderers. And worst of all… they let you live. That wasn’t kindness. It was a curse. One that you have to carry until your final days.

It starts again with the tennis ball.

It’s sitting neatly on your windowsill one rainy morning. You open the curtains and it’s just… there. The same kind they used to practice with. Only now it has a cartoon smile drawn across its surface in red Sharpie. On the back, smeared from the drizzle, are three words:

Come play, sweetheart.

Your blood runs cold. Your heart should race—but it doesn’t. You just stare. They’ve found you, again, like they knew where to search. And they’re asking for a rematch; a game you are still not sure you want to play.

You try to leave town once more. Pack a bag. Buy a bus ticket. But the bus never comes. Instead, a teenage driver stops in front of the stop, rolls the window down, and tosses something at your feet without a word before driving away.

A cassette tape.

It reinforces the thoughts of them watching you, no matter where you are. But paying people to drop hints now? That’s a new one. A new manipulation tactic, the idea that anyone around could be an accomplice.

You don’t think about it until you’re back in your apartment, which is harder than possible. And even then, you play it through your old analog player with reticence. Their voices fill the room like ghosts you never truly buried.

Patrick’s low, teasing drawl. Art’s nervous laughter. And Tashi—God, Tashi—clear and sweet as ever. "You thought it was over? You’re the lead, baby. We were just giving you time to change costumes.”

You sit on the floor for hours after that, the player long silent. It’s happening again. Only this time, you won’t play defense; but attack. And you are ready for this. Because you’re tired of running, of being scared; of crying into the night and nightmares that won’t ever disappear.

They want a final girl? They’ll get something worse, you decide. They want to play the game? You’re going to outplay them.

You spend weeks preparing. Gathering supplies. Ropes. Blades. Cleaning solvents. You fix an old voice changer from Ebay you found for less than $5. You break back into your own trauma, pull out every memory they carved into you and twist it into armor.

You do it slowly, mapping and preparing so it doesn’t look suspicious to vendors, neighbors and friends.

You stop flinching at your reflection. You stop jumping at noises. You start hunting. Because that’s what they want, and you’re going to give it to them.

And the first one you catch is Art.

It’s almost pitiful how easily he gives himself away.

He’s following you—badly. You spot him on a side street, hoodie up, trying to blend in with the college kids. Same gentle gait. Same eyes that never quite know where to land. He thinks he’s invisible.

You almost think he did it on purpose with how visible to your eyes he is.

But he’s never been a good liar. So you leave your window open that night. Just a crack. A soft invitation. And sure enough, around midnight, you hear him enter. Clumsy, quiet. Like he doesn't want to wake you.

He doesn’t know you haven’t slept in days. He doesn’t know the knife is already in your hand and the game’s on.

He’s in your kitchen when you step out. His back to you, opening a cabinet, looking for something—what? Tea? The old him might have. The old him used to bring you honey lemon when you were sick at Stanford and brush back your hair for comfort.

That boy is long gone. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say. He whirls around. Pale. Wide-eyed. You’re not screaming. You’re not crying. You’re not begging anymore. That seems to scare him most.

“I just wanted to see you,” he says. “To talk.”

“You killed seven people.” He flinches. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” You raise the knife without waiting for another word, another movement. It was him or you. He raises his hands.

“Please wait,” he whispers. “Tashi made us. Patrick—he—” You lunge without letting him finish. He tries to run, not even try to push you away. Because he’s soft. Always was. The blade goes in clean, right under his ribs. He gasps, his mouth opens and closes. He sinks to his knees, hands to the wound when you jerk the knife away. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he chokes.

You kneel with him. Press your forehead to his like he used to. “I know.” You murmur but you don’t even believe your own words. It was his fault; it was their fault. You slit his throat with one practiced motion.

You don’t cry. You don’t even feel. Just… progress and move on. Like nothing happened and like you didn’t have to watch a tutorial on how to cut a body to throw it away on Youtube as a joke. Expect it’s not a joke anymore.

Patrick is harder.

He’s already waiting when you find him. Inside the old rec center at the edge of town, where the local kids go to drink and screw and dare each other into ghost stories. The type that smells like gasoline, sweat and sex in every corner.

He’s cleaned the place out. Set up candles. Mirrors. Your photos—some stolen from your social media, others from places you don’t remember being watched. They’ve been defaced. Eyes blacked out. Mouths cut open.

You always knew Patrick was the most deranged one; there was something wrong with him from the moment you two met.

He's watching you through one-way glass when you enter. He speaks through the walls. “Nice to see you again, sweetheart.” You don’t flinch.

“You killed Art,” he says. “Messy.” You step into the center of the room and call back, “He was the easiest.” Patrick laughs. It echoes all around you. There’s nothing funny.

“Is this your revenge arc?” he purrs. “Your trauma transformation? I'm so proud.”

“Come out and say that to my face.”

“Oh, no no. That’s how I get stabbed.” You smile. Because he doesn’t know you’ve already found the control panel. The lights go out and all you have to do is wait for the mouse to get out of his corner into the trap.

When he finally stumbles into the center, flashlight raised, he’s cocky, until the bullet rips through his thigh and into his artery. Obviously you had gotten yourself a gun, you weren’t stupid to believe Patrick wouldn’t try to kill you either.

He drops to the floor with a hiss, hurt and surprised, and you emerge from the dark. And for the first time, you see something he never meant to show you: fear. “You think you’re better than us now?” he spits. “You’re not. You loved it. You loved the attention. You miss it.”

The blood is pouring from the hole in his leg, and you see his face paling. The flashlight rolled on the dirty floor to illuminate his being, like a joke.

“I miss not being haunted,” you say softly. Then you drag him by the collar, he’s too weakened to argue. You tie his hands, and whisper every name of every victim he did in his ear before you slit him open like a science experiment. Without any guilt.

Patrick is easier to hide. A tank of gasoline and some matches and you leave the scene like nothing happened.

Two down, one left, you tell yourself. And she’s the one that matters most.

Tashi always mattered most. Tashi was the one who held your hair back when you threw up the night after the first killing. Tashi was the one who rubbed your back and said, “I’ll protect you.” Tashi was the one who kissed you before she let you escape the athletic building lockers back at Stanford. Bloody and bruised.

She’s the reason you became this. So when she walks into your apartment three days later after picking your lock—no mask, no knife, just her—you don’t pretend.

Neither does she.

“You killed them,” she says simply. You nod; there’s no reason to deny. “They deserved it.” She steps forward, eyes scanning your face. “Do I?” You don’t answer. She does.

She smirks. “You look good in red.” You don’t hesitate. You lunge at her with all the rage your body and brain knows; with the fear and paranoia. With the gaslighting and manipulation you felt when she looked at you right in the eyes back then, and said that everything would be alright.

The fight is vicious. No weapons at first. Just teeth and nails and blood and screams. You throw her into the bookshelf. She shatters a lamp over your shoulder. You stab her in the thigh with a fork. She punches you in the mouth so hard your vision whites out and you spit blood.

Still, she grins. “I missed this,” she whispers, cheek split. You grab the knife from the coffee table and you push her down. She looks up at you, breathing hard. “Do it.” She mocks, pupils wide and grinding.

Like she doesn’t expect you to—because you’ll always be their final set. Nothing would come out good of you surviving.

But you’re tired of them still living through your brain; the memories, the fear, the manipulation. Like you didn’t deserve anything but this. You do. And it’s time for Tashi to realize that you can play too.

So you do–right through her shoulder first, through her stomach, through her heart. She gurgles. Blood bubbles from her lips to hit your face. She’s still smiling. “You were always one of us,” she says. You lean in close.

“I’m what comes next.” And twist the blade.

You burn the apartment too. All of it. Everything they touched. Everything you were.

You disappear, change your name again. No one comes looking, like it was your body in the flames, like you died in that apartment. Like a piece of you disappeared and you could never be the same.

There are whispers, of course. Strange deaths after. A new mask. A killer who leaves no witnesses. Some say it’s a woman. Some say it’s a man. Others say it’s the ghost of someone who watched too many horror movies.

But you know the truth. You weren’t the final girl, you were the beginning of a new chapter. You are the knife in the dark. You are the consequence. Maybe they were right, maybe you were always like them… The thrill of a kill itching in your veins, begging you for more right after Art.

But they were wrong, because you didn’t want to play team and didn’t want to be manipulated.

And now? You are Ghostface.

[museboos]

LOVE ME TO DEATH PT. 3 IS COMING.

In which you are tired of running, and if Art, Patrick and Tashi wants to finish the game, you’re in. People are going to die in the end, but you won’t be apart of the body pit. So you have to fight to live.

SCREAM X APT BOTS WILL BE RELEASED.

[museboos]

happy pride month to my favorite pairs of homos!!

(not oliver… but definitely elio)

[museboos]

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ART DONALDSON X 2000S ROMCOM

I have like 3 different storylines in my head for this mood board…

[museboos]

2010s SCENE EMO PATRICK HEADCANONS.

cw: +18. mdni. graphic sexual language and imagery. fingering (receiving). impact play (spanking, thigh/cunt slapping). degradation & dumbification kink. praising mixed with humiliation. oral sex (receiving). overstimulation. spit, drool, and messy bodily fluids. use of rings/jewelry during sex. consent-based rough play and bratty dominance. clothing/underwear kink. power imbalance dynamics (soft dom x naive virgin sub).

pairing: scene emo patrick zweig x sunshine!virgin afab girlfriend.

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

★ ── Patrick paints his nails black religiously. He always messes one up before it dries, curses, wipes it with a corner of his hoodie, and starts again. He lowkey loves when you help him, especially when you sit on his lap to do it.

★ ── His sex playlist is chaotic. It bounces between 2006 Myspace-core bangers and weird remixes. You’ll be getting fingered to “Bring Me To Life” one second and suddenly hear a slowed-down Nightcore cover of something cursed. He won’t even blink.

★ ── He degrades and praises in the same breath. Patrick’s the king of mixed signals: “You’re such a stupid little slut, aren’t you? Gonna cry if I stop touching you? That’s my good girl.” He needs you whimpering and begging, but the moment you seem too unsure, he’ll slow down and stroke your hair. “That’s right, sweetheart. I got you.”

★ ── He wants to take you to Warped Tour (in spirit). He knows it’s dead. But if he ever gets the money, he wants to road trip with you to every dive bar pop-punk show he can find, wearing matching eyeliner and making out behind merch tables.

★ ── He does his eyeliner better than any girl you know. Patrick wears it thick and smudged, a perfect grungy wing that makes his eyes look darker than sin. He always applies it with one leg on the sink to be closer to the mirror and his tongue sticking out slightly. He teases you about watching him, then offers to do yours—and he's shockingly gentle with the pencil when he leans in, thumb under your chin, voice low: “Stay still, baby.”

★ ── Patrick lives to make you cry during sex. Not out of pain—out of pleasure. He’ll talk you through it, whispering filth while his fingers keep curling just right. “That’s it, sunshine. Let it drip down those pretty cheeks. You look so good when you cry for me.” He uses your tears as lube sometimes, just to be a menace.

★ ── His room looks like a haunted MySpace profile. Posters of MCR, The Used, and old Warped Tour lineups. Black bedsheets covered in band patches. LED lights set permanently to blood red. But there’s a framed photo of you on his nightstand. Soft lighting, your cheeks pink, and a sticky note on the frame: “My girl. Hands off.”

★ ── Patrick’s wardrobe is 90% black—but it’s never just black. He layers textures like it’s a religion. Distressed mesh over ripped tank tops, black-on-black graphic tees, low-rise studded belts, and skinny jeans tight enough to kill circulation. His hoodies are oversized and always worn off one shoulder, revealing scribbled Sharpie lyrics on his collarbones (“i’m not okay and that’s hot”). He lives in platform Converse and chains that jingle when he walks. Sometimes he adds arm warmers with little skulls or bats, just because they match his nail polish.

★ ── His favorite thing is getting you dumb and messy. He wants you drooling on yourself, mascara running, babbling his name between broken moans. He’ll pull your panties to the side, rub slow, hard circles, and mock you in that low, teasing voice: “God, look at you. Can’t even speak, can you? Just a dumb little thing with a sweet little hole.”

★ ── His jewelry is cursed and heavy. He layers necklaces like armor: razor blade pendants, lock and key charms, Hello Kitty chokers with spikes, half-tarnished chain links and broken locket pieces. Some of them he got from thrift stores. Some he definitely shoplifted. He wears six rings—most of them skulls or hearts or something chipped. One of them has your initial on it. He won’t tell you where he got it.

★ ── He’s obsessed with ruining cute underwear. Especially pastel sets. Especially the ones with bows or ruffles. He’ll pull them down with his teeth, bite the waistband, and then tuck them in his back pocket. “Too innocent to be wearing shit like this, angel. You know I’m gonna stain ‘em.”

★ ── He makes friendship bracelets with words like “SLUT” and “CRYBABY.” Yes, he actually wears them. Yes, he gives them to people. No, you’re not allowed to take yours off. He once made you one that said “CUMDOLL” in alternating pastel beads. Then he kissed your cheek and told you never to lose it. He says it’s “like a collar, but cute.”

★ ── He gets off on being watched. Not by strangers—by you. He’ll jerk himself off while you’re recovering from your own orgasm, licking his fingers clean and spitting in his hand. “You like that view, princess? Want it inside you again? Then beg for it. Say please.”

[museboos]

can’t believe some ppl only know mike faist from challengers. they don’t even know that max’s mom brought cookie cake for everyone :/

[museboos]

happy mother’s day to the beautiful mother of our three children 😁💕 he’s a little gay but that’s #okay

[museboos]

[museboos]

LOVE ME TO DEATH . . . IS COMING BACK.

In which the three Ghostface killers aren’t done with you yet. You are their final girl, you need to understand that. And they won’t leave you alone until you let them finish their work. So be ready for more. Nothing is over until they say it is.