:3

Hi, my name is Wyatt and I'm "new" to writing. I put new in heavy-ass questions because I've been writing stories since elementary school but I've been told I'm pretty good at it so do with that what you will! But I am new to writing fanfiction. I've been reading it for years and decided to dip my toes into this genre! This is also a MLM blog so if you are a woman or fem aligned please don't interact with this page thank you! I'm also a POC so some of my stories might have a slight nod to textured hair and brown skin but I'll almost always try to shy away from doing this! But you can always request a certain race. Anyways happy reading!!!

Fandoms I'll write for

Fear Street

Scream 1996-Present

The Quarry

Slasher Characters such as Brahms, Michael, Jason, Etc

Spider-Man (Any universe)

The White Lotus

Halloween 1978-2022

Stranger Things

American Psycho

Pretty little liars

Pretty little liars: Original Sin

Dexter

What I'll Probably Write About

Fluff (Please request this y'all!!)

Smut (Maybe)

Angst (Definitely)

Characters I'll write for

Chad Meeks-Martin

Danny Bracket

Simon Kalivoda

Nick Goode

Quinn Mossbacher

Stu Macher

Billy Loomis

Brahms Heelshire

Jacob Custos

Dylan Levinny

Miles Morales

Pavitr Prabhakar

Peter Parker (Tom, Andrew, and Tobey)

Prince Eric (Live action because he to mf fine)

Corey Cunningham

Jonathan Byers

Steve Harrington

Jason Carver

Lucas Sinclair

Michael Myers

Jason Voorhees

Patrick Bateman

Miguel O'Hara

Greg Mantzoukas

Dexter Morgan

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Michael Robinavitch × PERV! Dennis Whitaker

☆ Word Count: 1,160k

☆Summary: Dennis Whitaker house sits for Robby and gets off to the smell of his boxers and the thought of the older man.

☆Genre: Smut!

☆Warnings: Age gap, scent kink, cum eating

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The fabric was rough and worn-in to the touch as Dennis fingered the cotton. He licked his lips out of anxiety as he rolled the plaid boxer shorts between his fingers. God, this was a bad idea. It was nasty. Filthy. But he couldn’t help it. He adjusted his weight on Robby’s mattress, the old bed creaking as he sank deeper into the edge. Fuck even his room smelled of him. But his boxers would smell of him.

“I can’t.” He dropped the cotton fabric to the floor. The undergarment crumpled next to his left foot, burning him metaphorically. His internal conflict was telling him, yelling, screaming at him to stop then and there. But his flesh, his wants, were telling him to grab the boxers.

Robby had been nice enough to allow him to house sit for him, bring in his mail, water his plants, maybe sweep when needed, but he was 1000% sure Robby didn’t know the boy would be in his room on the verge of touching himself. He grabbed the fabric, rotated it so the fly of the underwear was facing upright, and brought it to his nose. The smell felt like a blessing. It was manly, musky, and it smelled like cheap body wash. Irish Spring.

“Fuck!” Dennis moaned out his hand balling into a fist going to his groin to apply some friction as he took another inhale of the man's smell. “Jesus!”

He balled the fabric up in his fist and pushed it into the mattress, squirming out of embarrassment. Lust? His brain had turned into a ball of mush after the smell had plagued his nostrils, and he had really lost control of his own autonomy. What would Robby think of his Huckleberry if he saw him like this? All worked up over a pair of dirty boxers. Dennis adjusted himself on the bed, his head resting on a set of worn-in, deflated pillows, as he kicked off his shoes. He inhaled the fly of the boxer shorts again, his thighs tensing this time as he worked on unbuckling his belt. He held the cotton to his nose longer this time as he undid his jeans slowly, working them down to the crook in his knees. He palmed himself through his briefs, letting out a few whines as the smell clouded his brain. His hands were clammy, sweaty,y and sticky.

He could picture it now: Robby coming home from his sabbatical, tired, sweaty, with a shy tan glazing his skin, entering his room to see Dennis working his cock on his bed. What would the man do? What would Whitaker not want him to do? Whitaker’s bare back pressed against the wooden headboard trying to desperately explain himself as he pulls his briefs up over his hard dick. Robby chuckles to himself as he grips Whitaker’s ankles, pulling him closer, causing the younger boy's pale flesh to turn a soft hue of pink. Whitaker is confused about why Robby’s rough hand is pulling down his underwear and stroking his cock. The contrast between Whitaker's soft-to-the-touch dick and Robby’s years of experienced hand would send him over the edge within minutes, shooting an embarrassingly quick load into the man's fist. Robby did not stop as the glossy-white cum slid between his fist, slipping through his fingers.

Dennis took another deep inhale of the man's scent, his eyes rolling back as he rubbed his thumb over his tip, high whines pushing past his lips.

Robby pulls his hand back after Whitaker spills a smaller load into the man's fist, as he knows the boy will be drained soon if he doesn’t stop. Dennis looked up at Robby with blown pupils, parted lips, and a sweaty face.

“I… I’m sorry.”

“Sh! Uh-uh.” Robby would respond to the blonde's delicate apology. “Jesus, Whitaker, look at that fuckin’ mess.” Robby pulled his hand back, showcasing his middle and index fingers. “Open.”

Whitaker’s bottom lip trembling as Robby’s rough fingers enter his mouth, the tips of his two fingers spreading his own load on his pink tongue. Whitaker whines, his legs squirming as the taste consumes his tongue. Robby pulls his fingers back, the white fluid gone, now lathered with warm saliva. “Robby, please!” Whitaker’s voice was quiet, mouse-like, as he gave Robby a look of pure desperation.

Whitaker rubbed his thumb over his tip, his body shaking, his heels digging into the man's mattress as he neared his climax. The tip of his tongue protruded from between his lips, hesitantly tasting the cotton. The taste sent him over the edge. His whines cancelled out, replaced by desperate gasps and groans as the rest of his tongue tore past his pink lips, lapping at the fly. His back arched off the comforter as his fist began working harder; his wrist began to hurt, and he knew he would feel it tomorrow, but he couldn’t stop, not now.

Robby’s palm smashed against Whitaker’s face, shoving it into his worn-in pillow. His face turned to the side, staring at the man's dresser as his briefs were ripped away from his body, his paleness exposed to the man. Whitaker cringes as the cold bedroom air takes hold of his body. With his free hand, Robby takes hold of Dennis's waist, pulling it upwards, forcing him to arch his back. Robby annoyingly runs his hand from the younger man's waist to his hip, leaning down to press a kiss against his ear. He says, “This is what you’ve been doing since I’ve been gone?” Whitaker mumbles something inaudible, shaking his head out of embarrassment. “You goddamn pervert.”

“No!” Whitaker whined, his eyes pooling with tears, his hands gripping the sheets, pulling them tight. Dennis shudders as Robby circles the head of his dick along his entrance, the sheer warmth of it causing his dick to stiffen.

Whitaker thrusts his cock into his fist with eager pace, his balls slapping against his thumb. It was all getting to him. The thrill of smelling Robby’s boxers, the taste of it in his mouth, the sweat, musk, and pre-cum. His brain was wrapped in a thick fog of lust as he could feel his sac tightening. He was close. So very close.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” It was agonizing. The way Robby teased the boy with kisses along his neck, all while rubbing his tip along his hole. Robby let go of Whitaker’s head and placed that hand over Whitaker's for support as he pushed his way into him, splitting the young man in half.

That final thought sent ropes of glossy cum shooting over his grey shirt, staining it upon impact. His back arched further off the mattress, his moans reaching their peaks, though muffled by the fabric. His chest heaved up and down, his pale body now a warm pink as the boxers fell to the floor, slipping out of his hand as he went limp. “Sh-shit, my shirt!”

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Rust Vance x Male! Reader

Read Part one!! ⬇️

SFW!

☆ Summary: After his run through the cornfield [Names] at the end of his ropes. Laying in a ditch, bleeding out, he recalls a few memories with his loyal boyfriend Rust Vance

☆ Genre: Fluff / Horror

☆ Request: Yes Or No

☆ Word Count: 2,630

☆ Warnings: Blood and death

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“Shit! Shit! Shit,” [Name] whispered under his breath, his shoes making a sucking sound as they ripped away from the wet mud beneath him. He tore away at any of the corn husks that were on his face.

Thwump! Thwack! The sounds echoed behind him, the sound of a crossbow reloading and firing off, then followed by a shrill scream, chilled his bones. He knew he wasn’t far from ending up like that fallen teen. He kept running despite the knife protruding from his shoulder, the blood spilling around it coating his left side in warm, wet blood. His whole body ached, his legs felt like dead weeds crumbling under pressure, sweat dripped down his forehead and down his neck, mixing with the blood.

The road wasn’t that far now; he could reach it, he knew he could. He pushed the remaining amount of adrenaline out of his system as he crumbled to the floor just outside the thick cornfield. Exhaustion. His legs finally gave out, falling forward, and he landed at an angle awkward enough to drive the blade in deeper, cutting through more tissue and dragging along bone. A pained cry escaped his lips as he felt the tip of the blade rub against the back of his shoulder, threatening to poke out. He rolled over onto his back, looking around at his surroundings. [Name] knew death was inevitable, that the sick bastard would catch up to all of us, taking us in its cold grasp, but he never once thought it’d catch him so fast. Never thought he’d slowly bleed out in a ditch between a cornfield and a janky old busted up road.

[Name] gazed up at the black, blue sky, watching as the stars slowly morphed into one ball of light. The light was slowly consuming him, eating him alive. The world around him was spinning into a silent blur. He was slipping, drowning, and fell into another lifetime—a memory.

The walk to and from school had always been less than humiliating, always alone, always in his head.

“Hey?” A deep, muffled, awkward voice called behind him.

Shit! [Name] slowly looked behind him, his nerves shot, then eased when he came face to face with a taller, pale, curly-haired, flannel-wearing boy.

“Oh, Rust! How’re you doing?”

“I’m uh- fine.” Awkward. Very awkward. Rust looked behind him and adjusted his hands inside the pockets of his thick jacket, which was worn over the flannel. Rust looked back toward [Name]. “I passed your house on the way to school this morning and- uh, your parents asked me to… help you on the farm today, moving around the haybells and stuff.” Rust cleared his throat. “Do you need help?”

[Name] didn’t. Like at all. He knew this, and he’d feel bad turning down the boy and, well, turning down the opportunity.

“Not really-”

“Oh. Okay, that’s fine.”

“But I could always use the company!” [Name] blurted out, cutting off Rust and his sorrowful tone.

Rust let out an awkward chuckle, a warm smile forming on his face as he took up the spot next to [Name] as they began their walk toward [Name's] old farmhouse.

That started everything for them. It also cemented [Name’s] feelings for the boy. He admired his tenderness, his soft spoken voice, and the… masculinity of him all. But the feelings relied more on the tenderness of the boy. He’d sliced his finger open while throwing open the gate to the goats' pens; he flinched, lost his footing, and tumbled backward. The mud below him cooled his skin, sending a shiver down his back, which was layered with that grimey, uncomfortable feeling.

“Shit!” [Name] groaned as Rust dropped the haybell he was lifting, running over to [Name], his hand already stretched out.

“Hey! Jesus, are you okay?” Rust grabbed [Name’s] hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Yeah. Fine.” [Name] grumbled, embarrassed, swiping the thick glob of mud off his ass pockets.

Rust sighed, slid off his flannel, and handed it over to [Name]. “It’ll help you dry off.”

[Name] smiled to himself as the night's cold wind washed over him in the ditch, gliding over his blood-soaked skin. The memory kept him… what, warm? Helped him hang on as he felt his heart rate slow. The last portion of the memory he replayed over a few more times. That end to the memory made him fall so deeply in love with the boy with “Redneck Rust”. That caring old-fashioned gentleman love he craved for so long was his. Maybe dying wasn’t that bad, he thought to himself as more memories of their time spent together washed over his mind like a flood.

“This shit does not fit, dude.” [Name] called back, stepping out of Rust’s bathroom dressed in “stupid” camo overalls and a matching “stupid” hat that were both too big for [Name]. He stepped into the living room.

Rust held back a small chuckle. Standing up, he reached out, adjusting the buckles on the overalls, making them fit a wee bit tighter. “Huh, I thought they’d fit just fine… maybe a little loose but not this bad.”

[Name] stared up at Rust in a thin-lipped expression, both out of utter embarrassment and trying to suppress the growing smile on his face at the closeness between them. Rust reached up, took the hat off the boy's head, adjusted it, and placed it back on his head, giving it a gentle pat to secure it.

“Better?”

“Yeah… somewhat.”

Rust stepped back, letting out a hum, his eyes scanning [Name] up and down. “Hmm, we can add safety pins to make it tighter if you want. I’m pretty sure my mom has some in her room.”

“It’s fine, Rust truly.”

Rust smiled, accepting defeat. The two boys headed out, loaded into Rust’s old pickup truck, and headed off toward Rust’s favorite hunting spot. A crisp wind passed by the two boys as they walked deeper into the tree line, crushing twigs beneath their feet in the process.

“The- uh… tree stand is a bit further up. How you holding up?” Rust whispered, yelled.

“Good.” [Name] muttered back.

The tree stand began the creek beneath [Name] an hour into their hunting… date? Sure, it wasn’t ideal, nor was it a date, but [Name] hopped that’s what Rust thought this was. [Name] solemnly swung his feet, looking everywhere but down, heights. He hated heights; they weren't that high in the air, maybe about twelve feet, or a little less. They hadn’t spoken in thirty minutes. It was Rust who, as nicely as possible, instructed [Name] to shut up, not to scare off any potential animals. [Name] shifted uncomfortably in the chair, a soft creak emanating from the tree stand.

“Shit!” [Name] whispered, gripping the sides of the seat. “Rust?”

“Shhh! I think I see somethin’,”

“Rust!”

The chair tore from the tree in a nasty ripping sound like a hungry beast. [Name] fell to the ground, the earth slapping him hard as a shower of splinters rained down on him, the grass below cooling him. Rust was there within seconds, kneeling before [Name,] his hands grabbing the boy's sides, inspecting his body for any fractures.

“Are you okay?”

A choked-out sob pushed past [Names] lips. Rust's hands made their way up to his shoulders, gently feeling them up. His pained sobs slowly faded into an… unusual laugh as he slowly opened his eyes. Rust looked down at [Name], confused, tilting his head slightly, his hands going up to cup [Name's] face.

“Did you hit your head?”

Heat rushed to [Names] face as he felt the calloused hands of Rust Vance brush his cheeks in an attempt to soothe his (what Rust believed was a traumatic head injury), pain. [Names] giggling subsided as he stared up at Rust, analyzing his features as his hands sofly gripped the boy's shoulders. His lips pressed against Rust's in a quick peck that knocked Rust off his feet, landing straight on his ass.

Their first kinda kiss. The memory warmed him even more as the corn behind his shivering body swayed in the wind before fading to black as he closed his eyes. He waited, hopped another memory would fade into his mind and replay in his mind like a sorta drive-in movie in his head, but no. No memory came through. Instead, the harsh reality hit him hard like a sledgehammer to the head, over and over. He would die here. Die in a ditch covered in his own blood, a wild animal would take his body back to their den and eat him, his own life fueling others. Where was Rust now? Was it over? The screams have silenced, the sounds of guns and chainsaws no more. His shirt was sticky and tacky with drying blood. The world around him began to grow quiet, and still, or… was that him? Was his life being snuffed out beneath him, his life over before he truly got to live it, his life ended by the adults of Kettle Springs? No. It was muffled like cotton balls shoved deeply in his ears, stuck by earwax and water, but he recognized the anxious-sounding voice of Ruston Vance, his body being lifted off the ground and held in his boyfriend's arms. He couldn’t quite decipher the words he was saying, but it sounded… painful. His voice shaking and cracking, was he hurt? Then, two other voices pushed past his clogged ears. Quinn Maybrook and… Cole Hill? He wasn't going to let some stupid old fuck wearing their town's mascot as a mask be the cause of his death. He wouldn't. He couldn't. His eyes blinked slowly, a groan escaping his lips, followed by one word.

Ruston Vance X Male! Reader

After having read ALL THREE books + watched the movie, I can a 100% say he's my favorite character. He's strong, witty, a fighter, and most importantly, a lover! A true modern-day final boy! Anyways, here's a real quick fic to get the ball rolling!

Read Part 2⬇️

Sfw?

☆ Summary: After the clowns crash the teens' yearly Foudners Day party, [Name] gets caught in the middle and is stabbed in the shoulder. Now [Name] and Rust must escape the cornfield without winding up on the killer count.

☆ Genre: Fluff/ Angst

☆ Request: Yes or No

☆ Word count: 1,123

☆ Warnings: Blood and stabbings

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Four hours ago, Ruston Vance and his boyfriend [Name] [Last Name] were snuggled up on his small dingy mattress, contemplating whether or not they should head over to some kegger at the old Baypen barn. Thirty minutes later, they decided on hunting for the fuck of it. Twenty minutes had passed, and they were out there in the cold, circled by trees. The leaves of the trees whispered as they rubbed against each other, and the water was hushing them as it spilled out of the pumps. Forty minutes had passed, and both of them had fallen asleep in the tree stand Rust had set up for both of them a few weeks ago. He’d spent a good couple of hours finding a good spot to install the seats and finding a pair of trees that were even to each other. Another thirty minutes had passed, and they decided to pull up to the kegger after almost being hit by Cole Hill and new girl Quinn Maybrook as they crossed the road.

An hour later, the first death of the party occurred. Ginger, a local skater girl with a septum, had been shot in the back by a crossbow. Followed by this, Matt Trentt’s decapitated head had been tossed over the horizon line of the corn field. Then, as if on cue, the clowns began to spill from the fields, each brandishing a different weapon. A cult. [Name] panicked as he saw the pale face of Frendo step toward him, the masked attacker twitching with each bloody step. He turned on his heel, heading for the corn field. He ran alongside the faded red barn, the sounds of high-pitched screams ringing out from behind him.

“Rust!” he screamed as he inched closer to the edge of the barn, safety only a few feet away.

The squeak of the clowns’ oversized shoes closed in on him, inching their way behind him as the clown drew closer. He blinked for a second—if not less than—and another Frendo jumped from around the corner, digging a serrated blade into his left shoulder, tearing through flesh and scratching bone. [Name] screamed as the clown twisted the knife slightly reveling in the moment. His vision went hazy, his knees buckled, and he fell backward the knife still in his shoulder as a loud pop rang out. It had to be some ligament in his shoulder tearing. But it wasn't. It was a shotgun shell. It was another chance at life. It was Rust.

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The mud was cold and squishy beneath them with a very potent stench. The run from the barn to what [Name] presumed was the middle of the cornfield was agonizing. Each step sent a lighting bolt of pain to his shoulder, causing more blood to pool around the steel blades sides.

“It’s a cult, Rust! It’s a fucking cult—argh!” [Name] cried as he lightly pulled at the knife protruding from his shoulder, pushing his back against the corn stalks behind him for support.

“Hey! Don’t do that!” Rust leaned forward, slapping [Name’s] hand away, the mud under his boots making a squelching sound. “You could bleed out!”

[Name], using the corn stalks for support, pulled himself up with a small whine.

Rust looked behind him, checking for any more Frendos. “You have to keep it in until we find help!” he whispered-yelled at [Name], slapping the boy's hands away from the butt of the knife.

“Where—fuck! Where were you, Rust!?” [Name] whimpered as he fell back onto the muddy crops.

Rust froze up and peered over his shoulder, scanning the gaps in the crops. He wasn’t looking for anything. He was stalling.

“Rusty?”

Rust gulped, turning back to [Name]. He spoke. “I saw you talking to Cole again… at the party.”

[Name] sighed, squinting his eyes, and he slowly opened them. “Rust, Cole, and I aren’t anything. We barely count as friends! Not even acquaintances.”

“I know, but being one of three gay dudes, I-”

“Got jealous?”

Rust licked his lips, then nibbled on his bottom lip.

“Rust, I know you and Cole used to go out and didn’t end on good terms, and I know you think he’s going to try and get at me as some… revenge plot. But even if he tried, I do not like him.”

Rust nodded.

“I like—I love you, Rusty, and all your redneck shit.”

Rust's redneck macho personality crumbled at the three words, the moonlight providing enough light to show his cheeks turning a soft pink.

“I love you, too.”

[Name] nodded his head. “I know.” He felt his body temperature begin to drop once more. [Name] had used a knife on multiple occasions, like skinning an animal or gutting a fish, the thought crossing his mind a few times what it would feel like to be stabbed. He never wanted to be stabbed—as if anyone wanted that—but he would feel a twinge of emptiness as his hunting knife (gifted by Rust on their anniversary) tore through the flesh of whatever animal he and Rust had caught together.

“Are you okay?”

“When the knife went into my shoulder, I felt hot. Like—like when I had that fever after we went swimming at that reservoir. But when we started running, I felt cold. I still feel cold.”

Rust shed his flannel and wrapped it around [Name], gently patting his uninjured shoulder. “I need you to run.”

“What?”

“I sent Quinn and the rest of them to the Tillerson ranch.”

[Name] sat up straighter, adjusting the flannel over his shoulder. “I’m not leaving you.”

“[Name], I’m heading over there; you need to run to the road. It’s about a mile or two down. All you need to do is keep running straight!”

“No! No! No! No! Rust, do you hear yourself? There are masked killers after us, and you want us to split up? No! No fucking way!”

Rust cupped the sides of [Name’s] face, rubbing either side with his thumbs. The roar of an engine stuttered in the distance. Then a roar came. Followed by a shrill scream. A chainsaw. Another victim. Another funeral to attend if they made it out of here.

“[Name], I need to keep you safe, and taking you there in your condition is not the brightest idea!” he replied, his voice stern as he let go of the boy's face.

“Rust, I can’t. I won’t!”

“You have to! You’re the most important person in my life. I don’t…” His voice cracked, and his lip quivered. “I don’t want to attend your funeral without showing you off first.” Rust tightened his grip on the shotgun, his knuckles turning pale. “When this is all over, I’m going to take you on a date. We’ll find a nice spot by the creek that you like to go to. We’re going to eat cheeseburgers, swim, drink, make out, and have the best fucking night of our stupid teen lives. But right now, you have to get out of here.” Rust cupped [Name’s] cheek and placed his lips upon his own. A kiss of life. Of bravery.

Rust pulled [Name] to his feet and walked him between the rows of green-yellow crops. A scream. A wet thud. Another scream. Another wet thud. Another body.

“This is as far as I’m going to take you,” Rust said, looking down at [Name].

“I’ll see you on the other side,” [Name] said, his voice low and quiet as he pulled his arms through the flannel.

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Travis Martinez x Male! Reader

Sfw!

☆ Summary: During a rough soccer practice, [Name] gets hit in the face with a ball, causing his nose to bleed and to receive unexpected help from his longtime crush, Travis.

☆ Genre: Fluff

☆: Request: Yes or No

☆Word count: 1,106

☆ Warnings: None!

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“Fuck!” [Name] screamed, clutching his nose in his hands, rolling over on the cold, damp grass.

Soccer practice was something the boys' team took all too seriously, almost always resulting in pain, bruising, or blood loss. Today was no different from the other weekly practices; this week's victim was [Name] [Last Name]. [Name] wasn’t the team's best player, nor was he the worst; he was what you could call an intermediate player — somewhere in the middle of being good and complete shit. Today his set of skills seemed like utter and complete shit!

“Holy shit!” Coach Martinez screamed as he brought the whistle to his lips, setting it off as his admittedly attractive son stood to his feet.

[Name] would occasionally glance over to the team's water boy sitting in a folding chair, Walkman in his lap. [Name] was once again checking him out, his eyes scanning over his frame as he bolted across the field, quickly forgetting what his job was. This, of course, led to his face making direct contact with the ball as he turned to the sound of his name being yelled across the field. The pain of his possibly broken nose, paired with the instantaneous embarrassment that hit him as he watched Travis jog his way, made him want to die on the spot. Shit. Both Martinezes kneeled next to [Name’s] body in a position similar to a question mark. Travis was the first to make a move, Coach Martinez stepping back as blood seeped through [Name’s] fingers. The tips of Travis’s fingers grazed [Name’s] blood-soaked wrists.

“Let me…” He gently pulled the boy's wrist away from his face; his nose was off-centered, creating a swerve in the middle of his face, his mouth, jaw, and the start of his neck caked in blood. “Holy fuck!” That had done it for [Name]; tears puddled in his eyes and began slipping down his cheeks.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” [Name] groaned, throwing his head back.

“Don’t do that, the blood will go down your throat!” Travis gasped, reaching over to prop [Name’s] head up.

“Travis, take — Jesus Christ — take him up to the nurse's now!”

Travis nodded, wrapping a strong arm around the boy's shoulder, slowly bringing him to his feet. HOLY SHIT! AM I DREAMING!? [Name] thought as he was hoisted to his feet. He knew he was for sure out of it, the ball probably knocking around his brain a bit, but he wasn’t knocked out. Truly, the boy he admired for more than two years was holding him. Sure, the circumstances were less than ideal or even romantic, but still, a win is a win!

“You’re going to be okay.”

[Name] looked toward Travis, already beginning to feel out of it, dazed as fuck, asking, “What?”

“Never mind.”

Travis and [Name] stumbled into the infirmary, the nurse rushing to the two boys, her face twisted into a look of panic. “Holy shit, is he—what happened?”

“Soccer ball to the face,” Travis answered, slowly lowering [Name] onto a cot in the far corner of the infirmary. “Is he going to be okay?”

The nurse pulled out a few gauze pads from a clear jar. Turning to Travis, she replied, “Yes, your friend will be fine, it’s just a bloody nose, Mr. Martinez.” She finished the sentence, placing the gauze on his nose, the white fabric soaking up the blood. “You can leave now.” The tone was… harsh.

Practice dragged on, and [Name] hadn’t returned. Travis’s gut turned as practice came to a close and [Name] still hadn’t come back. Travis knew it was just a bloody nose, but the ball could’ve broken his nose or even given him a concussion. He could be seriously hurt right now with a fucked-up-ass nose. Those were the only thoughts he had as he got home and headed toward a storage closet. Travis rummaged through the closet, searching through boxes of old magazines, letters, and newspapers. Then he saw it — a big yellow book, the Yellow Pages. He grabbed the book, ran to his room, grabbed his landline, and searched for [Name’s] number.

[Name] stared up at his ceiling, his nose throbbing, wrapped in gauze, his under-eye already beginning to bruise.

“I hate my life. I really do.” He turned his head, looking out at the red sky that would soon turn purple, then inevitably black. RING! RING! RING! “Huh?” The landline his parents spent months saving up for screamed at him. “Hello?” he mumbled into the transmitter.

“Hi, it’s me, Travis, Coach Martinez’s son… I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

[Name] sat up straight. “I’m okay — uhh, I got my nose bandaged, but I’m fine. It’s just bruised.”

“Oh, well, that’s good.”

[Name] cleared his throat. “How’d you find my number?”

Shit. Travis wasn’t expecting that question. He could lie and say his dad gave it to him, but if [Name] hadn’t done that, he’d be screwed. “I checked the Yellow Pages — I just wanted to make sure you were okay. That ball hit you kinda hard,” he answered truthfully, gently tugging on the cord, his palms beginning to sweat.

[Name] smiled to himself. The idea of Travis being so concerned about his well-being made his stomach twist and turn, practically doing jumping jacks at the idea. It was sweet. “Yeah, shit hurt like hell. I thought I was going to pass out.”

Travis giggled over the line, the sound sweet to [Name’s] ears. Travis seemed… upset most of the time. Cold, almost. But this version he was hearing — this soft, caring version — felt like the true Travis.

“I’m surprised you didn’t. There was a shit ton of blood. Plus, you got a little woozy when we were walking to the nurse’s.” Travis put extra emphasis on the word little, making his voice higher.

“Oh my God, my shirt is completely soaked in blood. My mom’s trying everything in her power to wash it out,” [Name] whined.

“Isn’t there a soccer game next week?”

[Name] groaned. “Yes, and our team is horrible.”

Travis chuckled, cleared his throat, and then said, “Hopefully you don’t choke.”

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"We are so fucked!"

Greg Mantzoukas x Male! Reader

Sfw mostly!

☆ Summary: Greg & [Name] have kept their relationship under wraps for some time now, but amidst the summer chaos, their secret is threatened by Bloody Rose.

☆ Genre: Angst/ horror?

☆ Request: Yes or No

☆ Word count: 2,551

☆ Warnings: A soft make-out session, knives, a tad bit of blood, and ofc a masked serial killer!

☆ Author's note: Recently rewatched season 2 and LORD. This man is so fine. I just HAD to write something about him!!! (Using this as an excuse to write horror scenes mostly) Anyways, enjoy to the two people that'll read this!!

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Water swayed and split over the sides of the pool as [Name] jumped out of the pool, landing hard on his ass onto the concrete floor.

A soft steam poured out from the pool, the lights from the locker room casting the two boys in a bluish hue.

11:35 PM SUNDAY

Greg slowly walked toward [Name] the warm water around him rippling.

“Why’d you get out?”

“The water’s a little warm, it feels… gross!” [Name] whined.

Greg scoffs. “It’s not that bad.”

[Name] cocks his head examining his paramour. “You turned on the pool heater didn’t you?”

Greg’s face flushes slightly at the callout he looks away from [Name] embarrassed.

“Maybe.”

“Why!?” [Name] giggles.

Greg looks back toward [Name] a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I didn’t want you to be cold!” Greg replied, closing the gap between him and [Name] placing his hands on either side of the boy.

“You know Greggy there are other ways to keep me warm” [Name] says slyly, a small smirk growing on his face.

“Oh yeah?”

[Name] nods, looking up at Greg as he leans forward, his hand grabbing [Names] thigh.

“Mhm.” [Name] hums in response.

Greg chuckles as he presses his lips to [Name]. [Name] kisses back placing his hands on Greg’s bare shoulders, his stomach twisting into a tight nervous knot. He loved Greg. He really did every moment they spent together, every kiss, every time they touched. But it was wrong. He knew it was wrong. Greg wasn’t his. Greg was Kelly’s.

They’d spent the last half of winter break growing closer to each other after his attack by “A”. [Name] would go over and help him around the house while his arm healed and his parents were out. They’d been friends for some time despite their social levels this having been due to them both being neighbors. Well, Greg hung around the jocks and bitchy teens [Name] surrounded himself with the likes of Tabbitha “Tabby” Haworthe and Imogen Addams the so-called “losers of Millwood high”. It was a shocker that they had common ground but they did.

Greg moved down toward [Names] neck placing gentle but sloppy kisses on the tender flesh. A soft whimper pushed past [Names] lips as he instinctively gripped Greg’s bicep giving it a soft squeeze as his “lover” sunk his teeth into his collarbone.

“Greg!” [Name] cried out gently shoving Greg off of him.

“Shit! Sorry!” Greg took a small step back, a smug look washing over his face. “You didn’t complain last time I threw in biting.”

[Name] sneered at Greg and splashed water onto him with faux anger letting out a gentle laugh that dissolved into the silent summer air.

“Greg, can I come over? You know, spend the night and stuff?” [Name] pleaded with a bittersweet smile on his face. He knew what Greg was going to say. What he always said whenever he asked to spend the night, hold hands, and or go on dates.

“Aw babe I wish I could but… my parents would flip their shit if they caught me snuggled up with another dude!”

[Name] sighed and nodded softly, saying “Okay, I get you.”

12:25 AM

CREAK!

“Shit!” Greg mumbled under his breath as his door screamed at him alerting anyone awake of his presence.

He goes, still waiting, listening for any sound or sign of movement. Nothing. He pushes past his door and closes it behind him, flicking on his light switch process. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he slowly spins around.

“What the fuck!?”

He locked eyes with his bed as his body went stiff, his jaw dropping open as he let out a gasp. On top of his mattress rose petals were scattered and on either side of them laid two candles and in the center a note. He was too far to make out what it said. He reluctantly took a step toward the scene reaching his hand out to grab the note. Six words were scribbled onto the piece of paper.

Who are you when no one’s watching?

Greg dropped the note, a cold chill running up his spine. He looked toward his window, and the curtains flew in the night wind as if reaching out from him. Across town, [Name] was suffering a similar fate.

With one swift motion [Name] slipped into his room landing with a soft thud as he fell from his window. He delicately shut his window, locking it, he smoothly walked over toward a corner of his room and slid his drawstring bag filled with wet clothes off his shoulder. [Name] fingered the hem of Greg’s hoodie that covered his body, another soft smile tugging at his lips. Moments like this made [Name] almost forget his situation. He felt almost safe in Greg’s hoodie despite knowing how much of an awful person it made him for sneaking around with a boy that wasn’t his. With a boy that kept him a secret. [Name] spun around and began walking toward his bed before halting.

“What the fuck?” He whispered under his breath.

A singular rose sat idly on his bed accompanied by a folded letter, his name etched onto the front. He grabbed it and slowly unfolded it.

Dearest Betrayer

“Oh, God!” [Name] said aloud, dropping the paper back onto his bed.

He slowly backed away from the scene, his heart dropping to his ankles. RING! RING! RING! [Name] gasped pulling out his phone. It was Greg. He answered.

“Hello?”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“What”

“God, damn it [Name] did you tell anyone about us!?”

“No! No, why would I?”

“Because I walk into my room and the first thing I see is this- this creepy ass cryptic note!”

[Name] goes silent. A sudden wave of dizziness hits him, his legs going weak.

“You got one too didn’t you?” Greg questioned his voice quivering.

[Name] couldn’t speak, the only thing he could do was hum in response.

1:30 PM MONDAY

[Name] stared at the floor unmoving as Greg paced around the bench he was sitting at. Greg was unusually tense. For good reasons of course! The two boys usually showed up at the Millwood community pool together [Name] almost every day hitching a ride with his… boyfriend? God, could he call Greg that? Whatever it didn’t matter! They were together, that was a fact even if there wasn’t a label. Anyway, both boys would show up together. It wasn't weird, no one thought it odd. I mean yes people knew [Name] was gay and would occasionally make a comment about him but Greg would quickly shut that shit down. Greg stopped pacing around [Name] and stood in front of him.

“Do you think Kelly did it?”

[Name] looked up at Greg, his hands trembling on either side of him unsure of how to phrase his response.

“Bloody Rose!” He shot out.

“Huh?”

[Name] gulped down his nerves and sat up straight, grabbing Greg’s hands he opened his mouth “Greg you know what happened to Mouse, right?” He hummed in response. “It wasn’t some accident like the girls told you… someone named Bloody Rose came after Mouse, but before he attacked her, he left her a note and a rose. Ring any bells?” [Name] finished gently squeezing Greg’s hands.

“I’m confused.”

[Name] taking a deep sigh explained everything and anything about who Bloody Rose was, why she was possibly coming after the girls, and where she came from. Greg let go of [Names] hands taking a cautious step back while checking who was around.

“So you’re saying someone knows about… about us? And might try to kill us?”

[Name] bit down on his lip unsure of what to say. He for one didn’t want to freak the boy out and two didn’t want to lie to him. So he didn’t. He nodded his head.

“Shit!” Greg groaned, taking a seat next to [Name] who placed his head on Greg’s shoulder unsure if it was appropriate at this moment or not.

Greg carefully wrapped his hand around [Names] trembling one returning the soft squeeze [Name] had given him earlier. Greg leans his head on [Names] his heart beating faster from his proximity to his secret lover and from their newfound situation. Greg pulls away and plants a reassuring kiss on the top of the boy's head.

“We’re going to be okay. I promise.” Greg tried to sound confident but his voice betrayed him and [Name] heard it.

7:39 PM LATER

[Name] climbed out of the pool holding onto forgotten toys, a pool noodle, and a deflated pool float that had filled with water and sunken to the floor. Greg walked up to [Name], holding a green plastic bin with the phrase “lost & found!” sharpied onto the material the ink had begun to bleed the phrase was barely legible. Both boys worked in silence, the only sound coming from a small shitty speaker that had been installed just above the locker rooms. The quality was low, but it provided a sense of security. To what? Who knows? Maybe they felt safe because there was at least some sound provided that wasn’t the rippling over the water or the occasional car driving by. It was hard to tell, but to [Names] knowledge “Voices Carry” by ‘Till Tuesday" played quietly over the speaker.

[Name] gazed at Greg, his face shadowed in blue and purple hues as he held out the bin. He examined Greg’s arms, the lighting defining his biceps. He felt his stomach flip the familiar nervousness of the first time seeing him coming back to him.

He dumped the lost belongings into the bin and broke the silence “Why’d we have to lock up?”

“Because we were late.” He replied flatly.

[Name] sighed and took the bin from Greg’s hands making his way to a storage closet. SNAP! He stopped looking toward the chain link fence to his right. Nothing. He hurries up his task, opening the closet, throwing the bin into the small room, and shutting the door, locking it with a rusted key.

“Alright we’re done let’s get the fuck out of here!” Greg called out jogging up to [Name].

[Name] nodded in agreement as he took Greg’s hand, heading toward the locker room without a second thought.

7: 45

The door closed behind them with a loud thud echoing together with the song within less than a second of the door closing Greg stripped himself of his tank top. [Name] looked over at Greg, his cheeks beginning to heat up as his eyes roamed over the guy’s body, his cheeks only getting hotter as Greg winked at [Name]. [Name] responded with an eye-roll as he took off his tank top and threw it at him. Greg chuckled, throwing off the wet fabric and tossing it to the floor. Greg opened his locker and pulled on a loose fighting hoodie.

“Hey, can I have my other one back?”

“In your wet dreams Greggy!” [Name] spat back.

Greg forced a frown crossing his arms over his chest with fake sadness. [Name] turned away letting out a small giggle as he opened his locker.

“Greg!” He shouted as he gazed into the metal locker.

Hanging upside down in the cramped space was a red rose attached to the stem was a note. Greg headed toward [Name] with haste as he snatched the note off of one of the thorns it had been stabbed onto.

Consider this: A wake-up call.

The fluorescent lights above them flicked before shutting off with a soft hum the song somehow still playing echoed louder bouncing off the walls of their enclosure. Their senses now heightened picked up on every little sound. The static feedback that came from the outside speakers, their quickened breathing, the repetitive drip drip drip of a leaking shower faucet, and the soft heel clicking creeping toward them. Wait what?!

“Greg, do you hear that?” [Name] whispered his voice quivering.

The static of the speaker picked up as the song grew louder, the sound waves bouncing off of the walls covering the footsteps.

“Greg?”

The sound of steel against metal interrupted the song itching itself deep into [Names] ears.

“Argh! Fuck! What is that?” He screamed, covering his ears with his hands. “Greg!” He shouted once more, turning to face where he remembered him standing.

Click! Greg’s phone's flashlight filled [Names] vision blinding him for a second he reacted quickly covering his eyes.

“What the fuck!?”

“Behind you!”

[Name] spun around and screamed as the sight of bloody bandages, a singular eye, the smell of blood, dirt, and musk met his nose accompanied by a crown of thorns. Bloody Rose. It was her. She swung her blade above her head and downward toward [Names] face in one smooth motion.

“Shit! He screamed. On reflex, he covered his face with the palm of his hand completely blocking his face from impact—only his face.

The blade sliced through his flesh drawing blood almost immediately he stumbled back stunned, in shock. He grasped his bleeding hand as Bloody Rose took a step toward him, her figure illuminated by Greg's light.

“Come on!”

Greg grabbed onto [Names] forearm pulling him away from the psycho rushing toward their only exit. [Name] in shock moved stiffly, his eyes still locked onto the woman who was now feet away from them but steadily walking toward them.

“What the fuck!” [Name] screamed the reality of the situation hitting him like a damn bus as they burst through the metal door to the pool yard. The cold air now feels like needles on his skin.

“We gotta go! We gotta go!” Greg repeated letting go of [Names] arm and bolted toward the gate that separated them from the outside world.

[Name] followed behind Greg his bare feet thumping against the concrete that had developed small blotches of red blood. Greg flung open the gate grabbing [Names] arm as he turned around staring at the locker room's door flying open as Bloody Rose advanced toward them. [Name] wasted no time running out of the gate escaping his and Greg’s fate. They ran hand in hand through the woods not stopping to look behind them in fear she was gaining on them. [Name] balled his injured hand into a fist trying to stop the bleeding the best he could. [Name] broke their unspoken promise and looked behind him. Bloody Rose had stopped stalking them and stood several feet away from them brandishing her blood-soaked knife reflecting the summer's moon.

8:45 PM

[Name] sat crisscrossed on Greg’s worn-in mattress holding out his wounded hand Greg sat across from him and placed a cotton pad onto the slice and gently wrapped [Names] hand in gauze covering the pad. [Names] breathing had slowed down, but his shaking had not. He had come face to face with his death. His life almost being cut short like a loose thread. Almost. Greg cut the gauze with scissors he had stolen from his mom's room nearly waking her in the process. Greg sighed and wrapped an arm around [Names] back, pulled him to his chest, and placed his chin atop [Names] head. He massaged uneven circles into the boy's back trying his best to calm him down.

“Greg?”

“Hm?”

“We are so fucked!”

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Author's note: BACK once again for my yearly post! XD :3

This man is so fine it's NOT even funny!!! ALSO, if there's any mistakes, please let me know so I can fix them! Thank you!!