Yours and Billy’s baby boys is a big Mamas Boy

The house was unusually quiet.

Not the unsettling kind of quiet—just the peaceful stillness that only seemed to exist in the early hours of the morning, before the rest of the world had woken up.

You blinked sleep from your eyes as you reached across the bed.

Empty.

Billy's side of the mattress had already gone cool.

You frowned, pulling one of his old T-shirts tighter around yourself before padding down the hallway, following the faint glow spilling from the nursery.

The door was cracked open.

You stopped just outside, your hand resting lightly against the frame.

Billy stood beside the rocking chair, your son tucked carefully against his chest.

Your beautiful baby boy was impossibly tiny in his father's arms, his little fingers curled around one of Billy's larger ones while he slept peacefully, completely unaware of the world around him.

Billy looked terrified to move.

Not because he was uncomfortable.

Because he was afraid of disturbing him.

Your heart melted.

Billy's head was bowed as he watched the baby breathe, a softness in his expression you'd never seen before. The cocky grin, the guarded walls, the sharp remarks he always had ready—they were all gone.

There was only love.

"So..." Billy whispered, barely louder than the creak of the rocking chair. "You're gonna grow up hearing all kinds of stories about me."

The baby made a tiny sleepy sound.

Billy smiled.

"Some of 'em are probably true."

He let out a quiet laugh.

"I wasn't exactly the easiest guy to like."

You leaned against the doorway, smiling to yourself.

"I made a lot of mistakes."

His thumb gently brushed over your son's tiny back.

"But then your mom walked into my life."

He glanced down at the sleeping infant, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile.

"I still don't know how I got that lucky."

Your eyes stung.

Billy continued, his voice so gentle it barely carried through the room.

"And then..." He looked at the baby again. "Then you showed up."

He swallowed.

"You have no idea what you did to me, little man."

His eyes shimmered in the dim light.

"I spent most of my life wondering if I'd ever be good enough."

A pause.

"I didn't really have much to go on."

He sighed quietly.

"But the first time I held you..."

His smile trembled.

"I knew."

"I knew I'd spend the rest of my life trying to be the dad you deserve."

Your son shifted in his sleep, letting out the tiniest sigh.

Billy instinctively rocked him a little closer.

"I'll teach you how to drive someday."

He chuckled.

"Your mom's gonna hate that."

You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing.

"I'll teach you to throw a baseball."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Or... if you end up hating sports, that's okay too."

Another tiny smile.

"I'll embarrass you with terrible jokes."

"I'll probably worry too much."

"I'll definitely scare off anyone who tries to date you."

Billy laughed under his breath.

"Sorry, kid. Comes with the job."

His smile slowly faded into something more emotional.

"But I promise you this..."

His voice cracked.

"You'll never spend a single day wondering if you're loved."

"You'll never have to earn it."

"You'll never have to be afraid to come home."

The room fell silent.

Billy pressed the softest kiss against your son's forehead.

"I've got you."

"Always."

"And your mom..."

He smiled again.

"She's the best thing that's ever happened to either of us."

Unable to stay hidden any longer, you quietly pushed the nursery door open.

Billy looked up.

The moment his eyes met yours, his expression shifted from surprise to sheepish embarrassment.

"How long have you been standing there?"

You crossed the room, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now.

"Long enough."

Billy rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

"I wasn't... I mean..."

"You don't have to explain."

You reached them, resting your hand against your son's tiny back before cupping Billy's cheek.

"I've never loved you more than I do right now."

Billy's eyes softened.

"You sure?" he asked with a crooked grin. "Even with the terrible jokes?"

You laughed through your tears.

"Especially with the terrible jokes."

He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead while your son slept peacefully between the two of you.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

You simply stood together, wrapped around the little life you'd created.

And for the first time in a long time, Billy looked completely at peace.

Yandere Scream x reader

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.5.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

“Oh god, Billy.” You couldn’t breathe. You could barely even think clearly with him lying dead, a steady pool of blood leaking out onto and staining the pristine, floral-patterned mattress of the bed. The scent was nauseating—a sickly sweet, metallic tang that hit your senses like a physical wall, thick and suffocating, mingling with the expensive, artificial gardenia perfume of the Macher master bedroom in a way that made bile rise in the back of your throat.

Vision swam, the edges of your perception darkening into pinpricks of black as your brain desperately tried to reject the reality unfolding in front of you. This wasn’t a scene from a movie. This wasn’t at all like the slasher flicks you and Randy used to obsess over. You felt so stupid. So ridiculously, dangerously naive. The way Billy’s body had crumpled—so heavy, so final, so devoid of everything that had been there only seconds ago—was a silent, crushing testament to the absolute, irreversible nature of violence. He was dead. Just like that.

The killer didn’t rush. They moved with a predatory, agonizing patience, the heavy soles of their boots echoing against the hardwood with the deliberate cadence of a funeral march. Each footfall felt like a countdown toward your own expiration. You backed away, your heels hit the edge of the mahogany bedside table; the sharp corner bit into your spine, grounding you in the nightmare.

“Please,” you whispered, the sound barely clearing your constricted throat. It felt pathetic, a hollow, fragile plea against the void of the mask. The killer’s head tilted, just a fraction, mimicking the curious, playful demeanor of a dog. But the eyes behind the eyeholes were unreadable—black, featureless voids reflecting nothing but the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp. It felt deeply, obscenely mocking—this feigned confusion and curiosity at the sight of the terror it created..

Black fabric swept the floor and carpet below as the killer neared—tauntingly slow. The tip of the serrated knife scraped against the wood of the bedframe, a jagged, screeching sound that set your teeth on edge, vibrating through your skull. They were rounding the corner of the bed now, only a handful of steps away. Think. You have to think. The exit was blocked; the killer occupied the only path that led to the door. Your hands flailed behind you, desperate, searching for a weapon, a shield, anything. Your fingers brushed the cold, faceted edge of a heavy crystal perfume bottle. Your knuckles went white as you gripped it. It was a flimsy, ridiculous defense against a knife, but it was all you had.

You hurled the bottle with every ounce of your remaining strength. It shattered against the wall near the killer’s head—a missed strike, but the explosion of glass and violet-scented liquid provided a split-second of chaos. Frantically, you scrambled onto the cushioned surface of the bed, crawling over the duvet. Being agonizingly careful not to touch Billy’s still warm body, though the blood still created a stain of crimson on your clothes and hands. The killer flinched away from the gardenia scented spray, distracted by the shards, and by the time they turned, you had vaulted over the other side, feet landing clumsily on the floor with a dull thud. The floorboards were slick, coated in the spreading crimson that had leaked from the mattress.

A strained, jagged wheeze escaped your lips as you scrambled toward the entrance, your eyes glued to your dead friend. Billy didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to die like this at all.

The heavy thud of boots hitting the floor behind you snapped you back to the present. You didn't look back; you lunged for the bedroom door, slammed it shut, and flipped the lock just as a weight crashed against the other side. You turned and sprinted down the hallway toward the stairs. Make it to the stairs. Get to the crowd. Call the police. You were a foot from the landing when the door right next to the stairs burst open, revealing the same ghost-faced figure. Your heart felt like it was seconds away from pounding outside of your chest. This house was a trap, a sprawling, impossible maze like the Overlook that seemed to grow larger and more confusing the more you tried to escape.

With the killer fast approaching, you ran towards a door at the opposite end of the hall, opening it just in time to hit them in the face and causing them to fall to the ground for a brief enough moment to allow you to slam it shut. Grabbing the nearest item, a sun-bleached surfboard propped up against the wall, you leaned it against the handle of the door to prevent it from turning. 

Taking a glance around the room revealed it to be an attic based on the slanted ceiling, numerous boxes stacked on top of each other and leaning against walls. At the far end were windows. Without thinking, you crossed the length of the attic and made it just in time to the window. Outside, across the lawn was the News Van. Hitting the hard glass, you tried to draw the attention of whoever was in there, “HELP! PLEASE HELP ME!” 

But nobody noticed—in fact, you weren’t even sure if they could hear you—you started to double back when a heavy pounding started at the door. The surfboard provided a flimsy barrier as very quickly, the killer created a large enough gap to peer inside with their white mask and stretch a hand inside—palming against the wall and pushing the gap further.

Inhaling a jagged, sharp breath, you abandoned the door and window and scrambled toward a secondary, smaller window hidden behind a pile of old furniture. You shoved the boxes aside and scrambled out onto the slanted roof, the night air freezing against your sweat-soaked skin. You turned to pull the window shut, but your foot caught on a loose shingle causing you to slip, sliding down the incline toward the edge, the world tilting.

A hand shot out from the window, catching your wrist with a grip like a vice. You looked up, gasping, into that hollow, expressionless mask. You kicked and squirmed, the motion loosening their hold as they braced their other hand against the sill to try and yank you back up. You broke free, gravity claiming you, and plummeted, bouncing hard off the edge of the roof and onto the thick, heavy tarp covering the boat below.

Rolling off of the boat, a sharp, hot pain shot up your left leg upon trying to stand up, and for a moment the world around faded into a silent darkness. You weren’t entirely sure how long, but when you came to, gasping, everything came back into focus. When you tried to stand up again, that same darkness almost entirely flooded your vision again, only fading briefly after you leaned more weight on the other leg by bracing yourself against the boat to try to see if the killer was still there. 

The killer was leaning out of the attic window, their upper body silhouetted against the light inside, their hands tightly gripping the windowsill. At the sight of you struggling to your feet, the grip noticeably loosened, they slipped back inside and disappeared.

Closing your eyes, your breath coming in ragged, broken sobs, you fought to push the image away, but the horror was burned into your retinas. When you finally dared to open them again, the sight remained—unyielding and cruel. You froze. The air left your lungs, replaced by a scream that died in your throat, choking you from the inside out.

Tatum hung from the open garage door, her body twisted at an unnatural, broken angle, a grotesque marionette abandoned by its puppeteer. The mess of her blonde hair caught the light from the garage, turning the strands into a sickly, gold. Her eyes, wide and glassy, stared back at you with a terrifying, silent emptiness that seemed to demand an answer to a question you couldn't possibly provide. Your voice came out frail, a jagged whisper barely audible even to yourself, “No, no, no. Tatum, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

The sound of engines revving and tires crunching against the gravel driveway diverted your attention, acting as a frantic wake-up call to the adrenaline still surging through your veins. You realized you were standing in the middle of a slaughterhouse, exposed and vulnerable. You started running, your legs burning with every stride, pushing through the agonizing throb in your injured left limb. You stumbled, your knee hitting the pavement, but you didn't stop; you crawled, scrambled, and hauled yourself up, desperate to reach the road. If there were cars, there were people. If there were people, there was a chance to end this nightmare.

You made it to the side of the road, your chest heaving, just as the last of the partygoers began to peel down the street in a cloud of exhaust and recklessness. You waved your arms, your blood-streaked hands frantic against the dark backdrop of the night. “HELP!! PLEASE! HELP ME!”

Your screams were met with nothing but the high-pitched, intoxicated laughter and rowdy shouting of teenagers who assumed you were just another girl playing a dramatic prank. They didn't see the blood on your shirt; they didn't see the terror etched into your face. They sped by in a blur of headlights and indifference. As the final car roared past, a passenger leaned out the window, tossing an empty beer bottle toward you. It shattered on the asphalt near your feet, the sound mimicking the gunfire you had prayed wouldn't happen.

Flinching, you ducked away from the lethal spray of shards, the jagged glass stinging your skin. The realization hit you with more force than the physical impact: you were entirely alone. The isolation settled into the pit of your stomach, heavy and suffocating like lead. The world you lived in—the safe, boring, small-town world of Woodsboro—had fundamentally shattered, leaving you stranded in a reality where your pain was nothing more than a punchline for strangers.

“Assholes,” you hissed, the word trembling with a mix of fury and despair. You wiped your damp eyes, smearing dust and grime across your forehead. Turning away from the receding taillights, you pivoted toward the newsvan. It was still parked a bit in front of the house, with the wooden fence surrounding the yard acting as a barrier. You pulled it aside, breaking some of the old wood just to create a large enough gap that you could get through. There was a man leaning against the window, lights inside making him all the more visible. You made it to the back door and pounded on it. “LET ME IN.”

He jumped a bit, letting out a scream at the sight of you, before calming down once he realized you weren’t there to hurt him. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Rushing inside, you slid the door shut behind you as fast as you could manage. “They’re dead.” You crouched down on the floor, peering out the non-sliding door’s window. “My friends… they’re—”

“I have a camera set up in the house.” He said, face frozen in a dawning realization, managing to raise his finger to point at the small television screen in front of him. Displaying a live camera feed of the living room, Randy, and the killer walking slowly to stand behind him and starting to raise the knife. “RANDY! Oh god, I need to go help him—”

The camera man put a hand on your shoulder to stop you and placed his hand overtop the door handle. “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”

The door slid open with a shudder, and he stepped outside to start running towards the house. He stopped suddenly, grasping at his neck. You tentatively drew closer, “Are—are you okay?”

He turned, eyes bloodshot and neck even bloodier. A thin, but deep gash leaked out the substance onto the front of his shirt. He coughed up blood, trying to speak, but failing. “30… 30 second delay.” 

Clawing at the door, he hunched over, before looking back up and pointing towards the back of the van. The killer appeared behind him, having hidden behind one of the doors, shoved him onto the ground and started to enter. Grabbing the handle of the sliding door, you shut it on their hand and they let out a muffled noise of pain. Looking around in a panic, you found a hole under the desk area that was concealed by some fabric. The killer could be heard trying to open the door by grasping at the handle with their trapped hand. Crouching down you crawled through the hole and were greeted by the damp night air hitting your face.

The sliding door opened loudly, and the heavy footsteps closed in just as you were about to crawl the rest of the way through, grabbing at your legs and trying to pull you back inside the van. Kicking, you kneed them in the face before falling out the rest of the way onto the paved road below.

Getting to your feet, you looked around anxiously, trying to find something, anyplace that you could hide. Dewey’s cruiser was still parked in front of the entrance, the noise of the van rocking from the movement of the killer having jumped out of it startled you into running towards the cruiser expecting to find Dewey but he was nowhere in sight.

Looking back the killer was nowhere in sight, which did nothing to put you at ease. “Dewey? Dewey, where are you?”

From the entrance of the house, movement caught your immediate attention and at the sight of Dewey clearly injured and struggling to walk outside of the house, bracing himself against the doorway, you started to run towards him. “Dewey! Are you okay?” The familiar shadow of the costume appeared behind him, your voice steadily raised in volume. “Dewey! Look behind you! LOOK—”

 You let out a gasping scream when he turned to have the knife stabbed into his chest and he collapsed to the floor in front of the door. Without thinking, you turned and started to run towards the car.

Making it to the driver's side door and opening it, shutting yourself inside just in time to dodge the killer. They were about to open it, but you pressed down on the lock—preventing the door from opening. Frustrated they went to the passenger side, hurriedly, you leaned over and clicked the lock down on that door as well. Once they gave up trying to open that door, and feeling safer, you frantically started sifting through and searching for the key to drive.

A knock on the window immediately drew your attention away from searching for the killer standing hunched over to look inside the driver’s side window. In their hand was the key, they jostled it tauntingly, tilting their head in that same mocking curiosity. Biting your lip, you looked around the car for something, anything that could help—a gun, or—

They disappeared under the car, and you were about to pull your legs close to you when the sound of the lock on the passenger side clicking back open alerted you. Stretching over and half sitting in the passenger seat now, you pressed it back down and right when you did that, the lock on the driver’s side opened as well. Pressing that one back down, you checked to make sure there weren’t any more locks when a staticky voice of a woman from the police radio Dewey had left in the car started to speak, “7825, suspect at 105 north avenue 52.”

The trunk of the car opened silently, and in your panicked attempt to grab the police radio, you didn’t even notice or realize. “Hello? Help me, please. I’m at Stu Macher’s house on Turner Lane. It’s 261 Turner Lane. Please, he’s going to try and kill me.”

The seat you were sitting in suddenly collapsed back and above was the ghostfaced killer looming over you—having pressed down on the seat lever. They pushed your arms down onto the seat. You screamed at the sight of the masked killer, but managed to wrench one of your arms free to open up the back door and fall out of the seat and onto the ground. 

Getting to your feet, you started to head back towards the entrance of the house. Crouching down near Dewey, you checked to make sure he was fine, and though you knew nothing about first aid, you could tell he was still breathing, just unconscious. With only a little bit of hesitation leftover, you took the gun that he had on his belt from him and looked over it. It looked like any other gun you’d seen in movies, but somehow the weight of it still threw you off.

“You’re okay! Jesus, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here!” Randy’s voice startled you, and you stepped over Dewey to start backing up inside. You didn’t want to think that he could be the killer, but the truth was, you didn’t know. It created a sinking feeling of guilt, but you were so scared. What if he was? 

You raised the gun, “Don’t come any closer.”

“Don’t shoot. Please, you have to believe me. I found Tatum. She’s dead. I think Stu did it.” Randy pointed back towards Stu, who had run from the back area of the house. The both of them walked closer, the gun shook in your grip.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s lying. Billy was right, you really did lose touch with reality.” Stu broke down into sobs, before continuing to draw closer.

Taking a step back, you tightened your hold on the weapon, leveling it at them. “Stay back!”

“Stu did it.” Randy kept his eyes trained on Stu, paranoid and completely ignoring the gun in your hands in his attempt to maintain distance.

Randy started up the stairs, getting to the landing, with Stu still at the bottom step, but closing in. Stu’s face was scrunched with grief, and anger, “He killed Billy. He killed Tatum.”

“You did it.” Randy yelled, looking between you, the gun, and Stu.

“You liar! How could you do this? I thought you were my friend.” Stu’s voice was barely audible through the sobs that once again broke. 

Randy stopped to exclaim, “No, I didn’t! Get away from me!”

Stu grabbed hold of Randy and pulled him down the stairs, he landed on the rock pavement below harshly, but got to his feet as fast as he could despite the pain. Stu, having gotten to the landing, approached with hands outstretched. “Baby, please, give me the gun!”

Randy started to climb back up the stairs with some difficulty, and Stu’s insistence increased when he glanced back and saw the other was getting up the stairs, “Give me that gun!”

“Christ, man! No, I didn’t. Why would I lie about this? He’s the one that did it!” Randy got to the landing and the both of them started to just point at each other and yell accusations. “Please, I didn’t do it.” Randy pleaded, voice breaking and eyes growing teary. “He did it. Please, you have to believe me.”

You couldn’t do this anymore. One of them could be the killer, but you didn’t want to be the one to realize who that was. Backing further into the house, you slammed the door shut and locked it. For a moment it was quiet, but it was quickly broken by the sounds of both of them yelling again and banging on the door. Stu’s voice faded, but Randy stayed, becoming panicked and banging his hands against the door, “Help, please! He’s going crazy!”

Taking off your glasses, you sunk to the floor. The gun fell loosely in your grip as you buried your face in your knees, trying desperately to muffle or block out the noise. Though it did little to help. You felt terrible. How could you do this? Assume one of your friends was the killer. Even just locking both of them outside out of indecision made your chest tighten.

Tears stained your pants, your breath coming out in choked gasps. You couldn’t do this. One of them had to be the killer, otherwise how could Billy, Tatum and that man have been killed. It couldn’t be anyone else outside of one of your friends.

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@kodaswrld for the super sweet divider!!

The ending chapters are probably gonna take a while to get done, and I’m really sorry about that. In the meantime, I should be releasing the first chapter for my Heathers story really soon though! I’ve only ever watched the movie, so I don’t know if the musical is that different or not.

To address those who are voicing their distress in my inbox because I have chosen to use an AI generated banner for my main series...

Get over it. Don't like it? Then don't read it.

Move on.

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Yandere Scream x reader

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.5.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.11

Randy sighed, rubbing his eyes with his hands to try and get himself to focus on the movie. That was what he needed to do right now. Just watch the movie and distract himself from what was happening upstairs. He took a quick sip of beer, it didn’t taste great if he was being honest. Some part of him had hoped that this would help him not think about you, but truthfully, it kind of just made him feel worse.

Tatum was getting you medicine right now. Once you took the medicine and rested a bit, you’d probably be fine to come back down and watch a different movie—maybe Prom Night, god knows he needed some levity. It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t watched Halloween more than a dozen times.

“Look. Look! Here it comes!”

The living room filled with the sound of teens yelling out in shock from the sight of Michael Myers appearing from the shadows of the movie screen to pull the nurse from the car and take it. Music underscored his movements as one of the boys immediately next to Randy commented, “The blood’s not the right color. Why do they do that? It’s too red.”

“Wait! Wait! Here comes another!” Randy said and immediately following that jumpscare, another one came, provoking a whole new round of shocked exclamations.

“Predictable. I knew she was gonna bite it. How can you watch this shit over and over?” Another asked, trying to provoke an argument. Randy instead shushed him, eyes locked on the screen, watching as the Doctor yelled into the night that Michael had escaped. Stu sighed, body collapsing over the couch, slouching over Randy. “I wanna see Jamie Lee’s breasts. When do we see Jamie Lee’s breasts?”

Randy tried to push him off, but with one hand already holding the bottle, it was made more difficult. “Get off me man. That doesn’t happen until “Trading Places” in ‘83. Jamie Lee was always the virgin in horror movies. She never show her tits ‘til she went legits.”

“Or she couldn’t afford a decent pair.” A girl commented to her friend snidely.

“That’s why she always outsmarted the killer in the big chase scene at the end. Only virgins can do that. Don’t you know the rules?” Randy asked her, confused and even slightly offended as she looked at her friend, whispering something to them.

“What rules?”

“You don’t—” Randy set down his beer loudly, the glass clanking against the wood of the coffee table. Picking up the remote, he paused it and moved to stand up. “Jesus Christ. You don’t know the rules?”

He moved to stand next to the tv, now frozen on a still frame of Michael brandishing a knife. Stu leaned over the couch, grabbing popcorn from the bowl on the table, “Have an aneurysm, why don’t ya?”

“There are certain rules one must abide by in order to successfully survive a horror movie.” Randy picked up his beer from the table and put up one of his fingers, “For instance, Number One: You can never have sex.”

This prompted immediate booing, Stu and some of the others threw popcorn at Randy who made efforts to swat it away with little success. “BIG NO-NO! BIG NO-NO!”

Stu laughed, eating the bit of popcorn he had left. “I’d be a dead man.”

“Sex equals death.” Randy exclaimed, grabbing the teens attention again, he put up two fingers. “Number Two: You can never drink or do drugs.”

More yelling ensued, this time accompanied by them clinking their beer bottles together. Randy clinked his against the boy sitting closest before continuing, “No, the sin factor. It’s a sin. It’s an extension of number one.” He raised his bottle a little higher and put up three fingers. “And Number Three: Never, ever, ever under any circumstances, say “I’ll be right back,” ‘cause you won’t be back.”

Stu peeled himself off the couch and started to head towards the kitchen, but stopped to ask Randy, “I’m getting another beer. You want one?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure.” Randy said without thinking, about to continue where he left off.

“I’ll be right back!” Stu raised his arms like a zombie and moved backwards into the kitchen, mouth opened in an exaggerated groaning noise. This created the biggest chorus of yells and bottle-clinking so far. Randy scoffed in amusement, though he did look a bit concerned before he pushed the feeling down. “You push the laws and you end up dead. I’ll see you in the kitchen with a knife.”

Randy sat back down on the couch, unpausing the movie. The flash of the knife disappeared and was replaced by Jamie about to head to school. He liked horror movies—no, loved them—but was beginning to grow uncertain on whether he liked it when real life started to look like them. Some things were really best kept on the screen.

Tatum made easy work of finding the garage and the door leading to it. Opening the door to reveal the dimmed interior, she instinctively swept her hand over the left side wall of the door, searching for the lights. She succeeded in finding it, the buzzing of the old lightbulb hanging emitting a yellowish glow that lit up the entirety of the garage, but also emitting a slight humming sound similar to a particularly annoying mosquito.

The Macher garage was cluttered, every wall was stacked high with old unused bikes, cardboard boxes, boxes full of holiday decorations, and spiderweb city. On the right side were some cabinets that stored a half-empty first-aid kit and a variety of other medical supplies. Sitting beside the cabinets was a fridge, Tatum almost walked to, but she snapped her fingers real quick to get her own attention. The beer could wait.

Turning swiftly towards the cabinet, she started to sift through the contents—antacid, hydrogen peroxide, some bandages, ibuprofen, peptobismol—pepto might work, but this wasn’t really a stomach issue, this seemed more headache related.

Maybe ibuprofen? That usually covered most areas…

The sound of the door creaking shut caused her to glance towards it, but from what she could tell, it was just sliding back into its natural resting position. Shrugging she grabbed the ibuprofen and went to open the fridge door and started piling as many beers into her arms as she could manage.

Some of the gardening supplies propped up against the wall fell to the floor with a loud bang that caused her to hit her head a bit against the fridge from the shock. She could feel her heart racing a bit, but when she chanced a look over, she just saw the Macher‘s cat yowling as it made a mad dash out the cat door connected to the garage door.

Tatum sighed, trying to even her breath out. “Tatum, it’s okay.” She was overreacting, overthinking, and a bit buzzed if she was being honest. None of those were a good combination. Moving away from the fridge, she shut it with her hip and started towards the door and tried to open it.

It wouldn’t budge. The beers and medicine certainly didn’t help, but she wasn’t gonna chance putting those down just to open it and find a bunch of assholes cackling behind the door.

Tatum kicked the door in frustration before pounding on it with her arm that she freed from holding all the stuff. “Hey, Shitheads!”

No one answered, not even the sound of feet scruffing against the floorboards. “Shit. Piss.”

Tatum grumbled under her breath, leaning over and pressing the garage door button with her elbow and moving towards the now rising door. It loudly shuddered to a stop and she sighed, done with this. Tatum leaned over, about ready to play limbo with the damn thing when the door started to close back down, preventing her from even attempting to exit.

Turning around to go turn back on the switch, what she saw was the shadowy costume of a ghost standing at the top of the stairs, blocking the door, fingers pressed against the garage door switch. Was this some kind of prank?

“Is that you Randy?”

The stretched ghost mask slowly shook its head back and forth “no.” Typical. Tatum smiled mockingly, she wouldn’t let some weirdos prank get to her. “Cute. What movie is this from? I spit on your garage?”

Tatum walked towards them so she could pass them and go through the door. “Lose the outfit. Wearing it isn’t gonna help you get a date.”

They shook their hooded mask again, refusing to budge from their spot. Tatum sighed, it was probably easier to play into this, it would get her out of here faster. “Oh, you wanna play psycho killer?”

They nodded.

“Can I be the helpless victim?”

They nodded more enthusiastically. Tatum feigned a deep moment of thought before starting in an airy high pitched voice, “Okay, let’s see—No, please don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface. I want to be in the sequel!”

Tatum laughed under her breath and started to push to move past him with her forearm, but he moved to block her, gripping her arm tightly. Okay, this was getting seriously annoying. “Cut, Casper. That’s a wrap.”

Tatum struggled to get out of his grip, dropping the beer bottles with a smash on the ground. The plastic bottle of medicine fell with a dull plastic sound in the puddle of beer and glass. “Randy, what the hell are you doing?”

The blade of a knife reflected the overhanging yellow lightbulb. Her forearm was wrenched tightly into place as they drew the knife slowly across it. Blood leaked out of the open wound and Tatum’s eyes felt stuck in place on the aching cut, she backed away from the approaching killer.

Once the door clicked shut behind the both of you, the rest of the house felt silenced. The Macher parents' bedroom was neat, orderly, and felt almost like a hotel room. It struck you as really odd, but in the moment it felt like a welcome relief being able to fall on top of the freshly made bed.

Billy sat on the edge of the bed next to where you were lying. He turned on the lamp which was perched on the bedside table, the faint light of it illuminating the corner you were both in. Closing your eyes, you hummed. That bittersweet chalky taste was finally starting to go away, as was that overwhelming lightheadedness.

Sleep crawled through the corners of your vision, but was halted by Billy whispering, “Doing better?”

Cracking your eyes open a bit, you said back in a hushed tone, “Lots, I think I should be good to go back down in a few minutes.” Moving to sit up, you continued. “You can go back down if you want to. I don’t want to stay here since you probably came to pretend like everyone else.”

“Pretend?”

“Yeah… like all of this isn’t happening. You know, Tatum said they’ll probably find the killer tomorrow. I really hope she’s right...”

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder. The warm weight of it wasn’t crushing, but rather, something that drew away from the heaviness that was beginning to settle inside. “She is. When I was in holding, I think I heard that they had some other suspects they were looking into.”

“Really? But—who?”

“They haven’t been able to find Neil Prescott since the killings started.”

“I thought he was out of town, Sidney said—”

“She hasn’t heard from him since the night before he left. And the cops haven’t been able to get into contact with him or his hotel.”

You leaned down, placing the weight of your elbows on top of your knees and burying your face in your hands for a minute. “Oh my god. I—I can’t imagine that. No wonder she stayed home.”

Exhaling, you tried to calm the resurfacing anxiety that felt like a beehive buzzing inside your ribcage. “I was kind of wondering—in holding—who did you call?”

Billy moved to take his arm from where it had wrapped around your shoulders, clearly confused and hurt. “You don’t really think I’m the killer, do you?”

“No. No, of course not.” You quickly moved to place your hand on his arm in reassurance. “I was just thinking about it earlier and curious. Randy and I watched a Nightmare on Elm a few days ago and—”

“—Jsu Garcia got arrested for Tina’s murder.”

A small laugh escaped at the quick catch-on, the once tense air turning more relaxed once again, thank god. Not knowing how to continue the conversation forward, the thing that Tatum said earlier distracted you from any other topics. “I—um…” You nervously moved to hug your arms to your body, “Tatum said earlier, on the ride over, that—um… apparently Randy has a crush on me…”

Saying it out loud did no good at clearing away that weight, instead it just felt worse. And all you could do was question why you even thought this was a good topic of conversation. Billy didn’t say anything, in fact, he had turned to stare at the door for so long. But, it felt like the floodgates had just opened. It was confusing. Everything was confusing and you weren’t entirely sure how you even felt. “I don’t know what I’m even gonna do about it—I don’t even know for how long he’s felt like that.” Sighing, your gaze turned from the bedsheets below back to Billy. “Tatum made it sound like it was—”

He kissed you.

It was shock that froze you in place before you pushed him off, getting to your feet and moving to stand at the foot of the bed to create more distance. It was silent. This couldn’t happen. Especially not now. God, what would Sidney think? Should you tell her about this? Why were you debating this? Of course you would. But why did he? “Billy—What? I don’t—”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just thought—”

The door to the bedroom slammed open, that same costume you’d seen in the hallways was now at the entrance of the bedroom and stalking towards Billy with a knife in hand. For a naive moment you thought it was the same kind of sick, fucked prank you’d seen before. But the knife—there was blood on it. Actual blood. Not the kinds you’d seen in movies because this stuff wasn’t nearly as red. “BILLY WATCHOUT!”

The scream felt almost unrecognizable as your own voice, but Billy was too slow in reacting as the killer plunged the knife into his abdomen in a flurry of motion. Billy collapsed in a heap, still and unmoving. The killer stood up, turning to stare at you now. They took the sharp edge of the knife and cleaned the blood off with their gloved hands. The blade was now clean.

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Fantastical dividers by @strangergraphics and @kodaswrld <3 <3

Yandere Scream x reader

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.5.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.10 Ch.11

The cold, heavy glass of the bottle felt like an anchor in your hand, but the taste lingering on your tongue—dry, bitter, and unmistakably off beneath the artificial sweetness of the cherry syrup—made you lower it. You swallowed hard, trying to clear the chalky film from the roof of your mouth, your brow furrowing as you stared down at the dark liquid.

“Taste okay?” Stu asked. He was leaning against the counter now, his head tilted at that familiar, slightly lopsided angle. His eyes, usually dancing with chaotic energy, felt incredibly heavy as they tracked the movement of your hand.

“Yeah. Just... tasted a little flat, I guess,” you downplayed, not wanting to sound ungrateful. He nodded, eyes moving to focus on your face, a flicker of uncertainty appearing on his face before disappearing just as quickly.

The chatter from the living room increased especially as Tatum tugged you into the crowded space. Sitting on the couch next to Randy, you sat the bottle on the coffee table alongside a menagerie of different alcoholic drinks that littered the surface. “I thought we could make this a blockbuster night.”

He let you sift through them—The Fog, Terror Train, Prom Night, Halloween I & II, and several other titles. Snorting, you couldn’t help but comment. “All of these movies have Jamie Lee Curtis.”

Randy clasped his hands almost like in a prayer, “She’s the Scream Queen.”

Stu leaned against Tatum, . “With that set of lungs—she should be.”

Tatum rolled her eyes, exasperated, though made no attempts to stifle her smile, “Tits—see. He means tits. Don't let his pseudo-intellectual vocabulary fool either of you.”

“Hey! I can appreciate a good diaphragm performance!” Stu protested dramatically, placing a hand over his chest.

“Oh yeah, completely believable.” You tried to laugh, but a strange, sudden wave of lethargy washed over you, making your eyelids feel like they were sinking shut. The ambient noise of the party—the bass from the stereo, the clinking cups, the obnoxious laughter of high schoolers trying to out-drink a citywide curfew—suddenly felt muffled, as if someone had stuffed cotton balls into your ears.

“You okay?” Randy asked, his voice cutting through the growing fog. He had shifted closer, his hazel eyes scanning your face with that intense, perceptive focus Tatum had warned you about. Now that you knew about his feelings, the proximity made your chest tighten with a complex mix of guilt and panic.

“Yeah,” you murmured, blinking rapidly to clear a sudden, shifting blurriness in your vision. Forcing yourself to open your eyes and sit up instead of leaning into the cushions that had felt far easier than you’d prefer. “Just... really tired. Didn't sleep well.”

He looked unconvinced and was about to question further when a voice called out, “Meeks, where’s your blockbuster night?”

Randy looked peeved, but Tatum shooed at him to get him to stand up before leaning back into Stu’s side. “They’re not gonna combust while you put a movie in the player. I can take care of them.”

Randy sighed, a dramatic, huffing sound, but he grabbed the stack of tapes, setting them down with a plasticky clatter on the coffee table. “Fine, fine. But if anyone talks over the opening kill, I’m going to personally throw them out the window.”

As he stood, the room seemed to tilt on its axis. You leaned back, your head hitting the top of the sofa with a soft thud. The back of your throat felt dry and scratchy, and the air in the room, thick with the scent of cheap beer and artificial popcorn butter, suddenly seemed too thin to breathe. Why was it so hard to keep your eyes open? Was it sleep catching up on you?

 Randy had apparently made quick work of commandeering the Macher’s tv and after getting it to the familiar player-select screen, rose to his feet in front of the tv and started picking up the tapes from the coffee table.

Raising the familiar Evil Dead tape above his head so everyone in the crowded lines room could see it while calling out, “How many Evil Dead’s?”

A number of hands shot up and he took stock of them before picking up a different one from the pile. “How many Hellraisers?”

Stu, still leaning close to Tatum raised his hand a bit to point it at her, “Right here.”

She pushed against him, but didn’t deny it nor look upset. The door bell rang. Stu pulled away from her side and went to open the door, though not before his head popped back over the back of the couch, “Tate get me another beer, will you?”

He disappeared from view and she sighed leaning further into the couch, “What am I? The beer wench?”

Tatum looked over at you and concern immediately shadowed any annoyance, “Shit, honey. You don’t look so hot.”

The faint sound of the door opening could be heard and not long after Stu yelled out, “Hey, guess who’s here? It’s that chick from Inside Story!”

Voices grew louder as Dewey and Gale Weathers stepped into the entry of the living room. Tatum quickly got up from the couch and made a beeline for her brother as Gale started to walk around the room, chatting politely with the very drunk teenagers. Though it was hard to make it out, you could faintly make out Tatum whispering not so quietly to him, “—take them home. Do you really think this is a great setting for feeling under the weather?”

“Yeah, but I’m supposed to keep an eye and make sure nothing happens.”

“Obviously something is happening—god.” Tatum pressed her hand against her forehead as Gale rounded back around from having made a circle around the living room—pausing momentarily near the tv to ask Stu to grab her a beer, which he had.

“Is everything alright?” Gale asked, sounding concerned, though something else was detected under that. Tatum scoffed, and hissed under her breath, “With you here. Always.”

Dewey placed a hand on her shoulder in both comfort and warning, “Tatum.” He turned back to Gale to continue speaking, “My sister’s friend isn’t feeling well and probably needs a ride home. Do you think you could, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“I—I don’t know. The news van isn’t really the comfiest and it can get pretty rough out there. I don’t know if that’s really the best for—”

Stu ran out of the kitchen with a beer in hand and swiftly gave it to Gale, she used it as a distraction to stop from continuing any further. Dewey sighed, taking his hat off, he combed his hair back before setting his hat back on. “I can—I can take them home. But, I’ll have to come right back here. Is that alright?”

“Home? But the party just started.” Stu started, sounding genuinely upset at the implication. Tatum looped her arm through Stu’s to stop him. “Don’t stress, they’re just not feeling well.”

“They could just rest upstairs.”

Billy’s voice could be heard as he stepped through the already open door stepping inside from the porch. He stared at Dewey and Gale, though didn’t say anything, leaning his shoulder right next to the door. It was silent. Long enough for the click of the VCR accepting a tape and the familiar score of Halloween to start.

Dewey met his sister's eyes, asking uncertainly, “Are we sure? I mean—”

“That works out great, thank you.” Gale interrupted cheerily, moving to pull Dewey outside. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment before departing. Tatum circled round the couch and pulled you up from it, your knees buckled slightly from the sudden movement, but she steadied you. She walked you slowly towards the stairway where Billy had moved to stand next to Stu. You could make out the backend of their whispered conversation as you neared. 

“I’m sorry man, I don’t know why it didn’t work—” Stu was stopped by Billy, and though his tone came across as sarcastic, something in the way Billy maintained a narrowed coldness in his eyes made it feel more serious.

“Subtlety, Stu. You should really look it up.”

As Tatum brought you forward, the iciness vanished just as soon as you glimpsed it, a worried smile replacing it so swiftly it made you somewhat doubtful you’d even seen it.

Tatum gripped your shoulder before letting you go, “I’m gonna go get some medicine from the cabinet in the garage, just hold on for a few minutes, okay?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry—I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight—”

“Don’t apologize. If it was a crime to feel like shit from time to time, we all would’ve been arrested by now. Speaking of which, here’s your knight in shining handcuffs.” Tatum winked playfully before disappearing around the corner of the living room. 

“Hey.” Was all you could manage upon turning back towards Billy. It was kind of strange how isolating being near him could be, the almost deafening loudness felt like a distant buzz. Any worry present on his features didn’t entirely vanish, rather it turned more relaxed and at ease as he looped your arm through his.

“Hey, keeping the vultures away again?”

“They’re not vultures, they’re just worried.” You argued back as the both of you started up the stairs. The thick wooden banister was a helpful brace that luckily didn’t lead to you putting too much weight or pressure on him. The screaming of Judith Meyers getting stabbed could be heard. About five stairs were climbed up before Stu called out, “I’m sorry. I—are you okay?”

“It’s not your fault. I think I just need to lie down for a bit.”

Guilt seemed to hang over Stu like a cloud as he stayed downstairs watching Billy take you upstairs. Sighing, he rubbed the nape of his neck, brushing through the hair that scratched it slightly. It was fine. Billy had this sorted. Though he’d probably be mad as hell since things weren’t exactly going as planned.

“Aw man, there goes my chance. Dammit” Randy’s voice startled Stu out of his thoughts, though the sound of the complaint brought only amusement. Scoffing, Stu mumbled under his breath loud enough for the other to hear, “As if. That’s all I’m saying. As if.”

Randy looked aghast, following shortly after Stu into the living room. “Oh, really Alicia?”

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@kodaswrld for the wonderful divider!! <3

Sorry the dialogue got shuffled around a bit. I know what’s implied isn’t looking good for the mad lads, but I don’t want to give away their plans before that third act reveal.

pairing: domestic!billy hargrove x fem!reader

word count: 1,976

trigger warnings: car head, male receiving, mention of oral female receiving

18+ minors dni!!!