#billy x reader

⸺ Billy Kid

​✦ BILLY HARGOVE — “ I’m the king of this place. Don’t ever forget it. ”

꩜ ST Masterlist

​𓍢ִ໋📜 In His Blood — Angst/comfort, pregnancy • 1.8k words

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 Cherry Coke Ending Ch.9 Ch.10 Blood Ending

“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.