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Wes Hicks vexed Amber Freeman more than she cared to admit. Not because of his borderline concerning level of paranoia. Not because of his deep-seated motherly issues. Not because of his horridly box-dyed blonde hair. Not even because of his deep attachment to her friend, Tara Carpenter. No, her vexation toward Wes could be traced back to one thing and one thing only: you, Y/N L/N. As of late, Wes had grown close to you, too close. He trailed after you like a dog with a bone, happily taking any scrap of attention you threw his way. For a time, his antics had been annoying, nothing more. Eventually, though, you began to inadvertently entertain those antics, to entertain him under the belief that he treated you the same way he did the rest of your friend group. You seemingly did not notice that the only friend he walked to and from class was you. You did not notice how whenever he stole a hug, he lingered just a moment too long, soaking in your warmth and taking in your all too sweet smell through his nostrils. Amber noticed, though. She noticed it all, and it sparked an anger within her that she had not known herself capable of. 

Because you were hers. You had always been hers. Her friend, her steadying force, her person. You were the first person she had met when her family moved to Woodsboro all those years ago. She had been out playing in her yard, messing around with her collection of Chucky dolls, when you had ridden up on your rickety old bike and offered her the brightest smile she had ever seen, a smile that had rivaled the sun in intensity. You had asked to play with her Tiffany doll, the bride of Chucky, and that alone had been enough for her to know in her bones that you two were well-suited. Most children your age had frowned upon the dolls, deeming them creepy, but not you. You adored them, treating them with as much care as Barbie dolls or action figures were treated. 

From that day, you and Amber had been thick as thieves, being one half of the other, which was why she could not tolerate Wes trying to weasel his way between the two of you. How would she handle him? Well, a more sane person would have likely come off with a lie, would have spread gossip meant to sully his name and ruin your perception of him.  You were so good, though, so forgiving, so mere gossip would not be enough. Perhaps that was why when Richie Kirsch proposed a dark, blood-bathed plan to recreate the 1990s Woodsboro killings, she agreed without hesitation or regret. If pushed for her motive, she would without a doubt chalk it up to her love of the Stab franchise. She knew it is not that simple, though, for when Richie proposed his list of victims, she wasted no time in adding Wes to the list. C'mon, Richie. It'll add shock value. He's the son of a legacy character, after all, she had pointed out, even though Judy Hicks could hardly be considered as such. She had, in Amber's opinion, contributed little, the same way that her son had. Richie had thought her important, though, for he had agreed and added him to the list of victims.

That was why now, Amber waited outside of the Hicks residence, donning the typical Ghostface costume. The black material of the robe felt hot against her skin, itchy, but the knife felt right in her hand, its hold so comfortable that it felt as though it was made for her. From the shadows of the porch, she waited, anticipation strumming wildly through her veins. Richie was on the phone now, no doubt, luring Judy back to the house. She could put up a fight, could try her best to preserve her son’s life force, but her efforts would be for naught; her son had sealed his own fate when he had tried to take you, to steal you from Amber. Did he really think that she would sit idly by and let it happen? No, it was not in her nature to do so. To take such a profound loss sitting down was weak, and she was not weak, not when it came to you.

When Judy pulled into the driveway and ran up to the front door, her face a storm of fear, Amber jumped out, emerging from the shadows like a harbinger of death. And oh, what a perfect harbinger she was, for she mercilessly stabbed Judy, delivering upon her one devastating slash after the other. It was a wonder that she had ever become the sheriff of Woodsboro, because she went down easy, so easy. 

Her son went down even easier.

After slaying Judy, Amber left her lying there in a river of her own blood to be found. That was exactly what Wes did, for as if sensing something was amiss, he pulled open the front door of the house and was met by a most horrid sight: the lifeless, cut-up body of the woman who had given him life, who had cared for him when no one else had. Unbidden, a grief-stricken cry tore its way out of his throat as he threw the door closed, trying to prevent the killer from getting in. Little did he know that Amber was already in the house, watching him, waiting. He leant against the doorframe, wheezing from a mixture of pain and fear. “Oh, God. Oh, God,” became a litany, the only words he seemed capable of . . . until Amber came out, her knife poised, aiming for his neck. In an act of pure desperation, his hands flew out, catching hold of the knife before it could make contact with his neck. “Fuck you,” he gasped as they struggled, fighting for control of the knife. He was distressed, willing to do whatever it took to survive, but she – she was incensed, rage incarnate. Months of pent-up vexation and jealousy came out, giving her the strength to win, to gain back control. This saw the knife plunging into his neck, immediately stealing away his breath and drawing out his scarlet blood. “No, fuck you,” she snapped, her tones cold as ice. The voice, it was her own, not that of Ghostface. “Now, die like the pussy you are.”

And he did . . . It was oh so satisfying to Amber.

Wes’ death seemed to hit you hard, to cause great pain to overcome you, which was why Amber stayed loyally by your side, doing everything she could to ensure that you were okay, that her actions did not break you. Little did she know that you took notice whenever she snuck away, believing herself to be discreet. You knew what she had done, but could not bring yourself to care all that much. Wes held no true place in your heart, after all, not the way that she did. And, perhaps, deep down, you knew that his murder, unlike the others, had been personal . . .

i HC amber as a child's play stan. idk why, it just makes sense, so here's a bonus fact: one year, for halloween, y/n and amber wear matching chucky and tiffany costumes. you can decide who wears which.

ALSO i know richie killed wes, but i changed it for the sake of this one-shot.

Your relationship with your girlfriend, Tara Carpenter, had not come as a surprise. Not at all, for the two of you had been close since childhood. Almost inseparable, but you could never quite be inseparable while Amber Freeman had been in the picture. She had been the only other person who had been as, if not more, close to Tara than you, but you had never hated her. How could you when she had acted so loyally as her friend, always moving to defend her, to ensure that she was not mistreated? She had loved Tara, had opened her heart to her, exactly as you had. Perhaps, with time, that love had withered and fallen away to nothing, though, for when Richie Kirsch found his way into her Reddit inbox, she had happily agreed to go along with his plan, to kill all of her friends, even Tara, in the name of cinema.

Their plan had not gone off without a hitch, for both Amber and Richie had found themselves dead, butchered at the hands of the Carpenter sisters. It saddened you to lose a friend, but you had not cracked, had not fractured into a million unmendable pieces as Tara had. Seeing her heartbreak, you had to push down your sadness and be strong in order to comfort her, to make her whole once more. This saw the two of you growing closer than ever before, and eventually, months after the legacy killings, you had shared a kiss. A chaste kiss, a mere brush of lips, but it had been enough to light a fire within the both of you, making you ache for more. So you began seeing Tara in secret, sharing kisses behind closed doors and sometimes, when you were feeling bold, you two hid away in dark corners and let both your hands and mouths wander.

This was one such day, but you were not kissing in a dark corner. Your roommates, Sam and Quinn, were out for the day, off doing whatever it was that tickled their fancy, leaving just you and Tara alone in the apartment. The television was on, playing a marathon of the Scary Movie franchise, but you were hardly focused on the television. Instead, your focus was on Tara, on how her mouth slotted so perfectly against yours. She lay beside you, her body offering an inferno of heat as your lips moved languidly together. Eventually, the kiss turned hot, consuming, which was why you two did not notice when the six locks to the apartment came undone. You did not even notice when the door was flung open, giving your friends a full, unimpeded view of you and your girlfriend. It was only after a whistle left Quinn’s ruby-stained lips and filled the air that you and Tara broke apart, your eyes growing comically wide. Heat bloomed on your face, sending flickers of embarrassment through her body, because you had not the faintest idea how long they had been standing there nor much they had seen.

“Woah, I did not see that coming,” Chad remarked, his mouth turning down ever so slightly, because he too had felt himself drawn toward Tara. Jealousy churned in his belly, eating up his insides, but he was happy for you both, truly.

“How?” Mindy asked, disbelief overtaking her features. “Literally everybody saw that coming, Chad, even Ethan.”

Chad’s mouth fell theatrically open at that, prompting him to turn and face his roomate with an expression akin to betrayal. “You knew and didn’t tell me?”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” he retorted, holding up his hands. “I thought you’d figured it out yourself.”

Behind the bantering trio, Quinn held out a hand to Anika, looking wholly self-satisfied. “I told you that they were already together, Anika. I mean, c’mon. Y/N can barely take their eyes off of Tara.”

A small, barely perceptible pout crossed Anika’s features as she retrieved a twenty dollar bill from her wallet, placing it in Quinn’s expectant hand. They had been intimately aware of the romantic tension that lay between you and Tara, being so real and consuming that it could be cut with a butter knife. Anika had not known that you were already together, though, which was why she had lost the bet that was dependent on when you had begun seeing one another.

Their antics were paid little by Sam, for her dark eyes were stuck on you. Brimming with uncertainty, she asked, “Are you two . . . you know, together?”

“I—“

“Yes, we are,” Tara cut you off, donning a small smile. “We’ve been together for a while now.”

“Oh . . . good. That’s good. I’m happy for you two, but Y/N, you should know that if you hurt my sister, I’ll kill you.”