Savior complex Pt. 1 (Billy Loomis X Reader X Stu Macher)
You weren’t close friends. Not really, anyway.
You’d sat next to them in class once, back when you’d been forced into a group project. Billy and Stu were the only ones without a group, and you quickly learned why—you ended up doing basically the entire thing on your own while they goofed off. To Billy’s credit, he did just enough that you didn’t report him to the teacher. Stu made you laugh once, but you weren’t even sure if he meant to. The moment the project ended, it was back to strangers. You were vaguely aware of them, as you were of every other person you’d been forced to work with.
They, on the other hand, were very aware of you. Whether you noticed or not, they lingered. Just in the periphery. It became a habit of Billy’s to trail you through the hallways like a shadow. Stu, being much louder than his counterpart, would shout to you from time to time across the quad. It earned little more than a passive, mostly subconscious nod from you. He was like that with everyone, after all.
Like last night, and the night before that, you were home alone once again. You weren’t entirely sure your parents even lived at your house anymore, given how infrequently you saw them. Decked out in a massively oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, you found yourself standing in front of the microwave, heating up whatever was quick and cheap from the gas station.
Halfway through, the microwave died with a sad chime. Everything else in the house—the appliances, the TV, the digital clocks, and then the lights—followed in rapid procession. You froze in an instant, long enough to feel your stomach twist into uncertain knots. The power wasn’t prone to cutting out randomly. In fact, in all your time living here, it had only failed under the pressure of two particularly nasty storms. But tonight? It was clear, dark, and silent outside.
The air was still, like the house itself was holding its breath alongside you. The dead silence made your ears ring—so loud you nearly missed the creak of a floorboard not even twenty feet behind you. You spun around just fast enough to see him sprinting at you.
Just like on the news. Draped in black, bone-white mask, and a gleaming hunting knife that caught the moonlight like it wanted to be seen.
You ran on instinct, trying and failing to pry the front door open. You didn’t have even a second to question why. You were already halfway to the stairs, hammering one foot after the other upward. Your fuzzy socks betrayed you—your foot slipped, flew out from under you.
In a blink, your head was on the ground. A distinctly copper taste coated your tongue. Ghostface was on top of you just as fast, knife raised.
And then, just as suddenly, he flew off of you.
A loud thud cracked through the suffocating silence as Ghostface slammed to the ground, another body wrestling on top of him. The fight was loud. Violent. There was yelling, and a scuffle—the knife skittered across the floor, far out of reach.
You shut your eyes tight, trying to quiet the screaming in your ears, the spinning in your vision, the stabbing pain in your skull. In the moment your eyes were closed, the struggle ended.
And crouched in front of you was none other than Billy Loomis.
“Are you okay?? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Billy placed a hand under your jaw, tilting your head to inspect where it had smacked against the stair. His fingers brushed the side of your scalp, and you flinched. Not bleeding—but definitely bruised.
“Billy? What—where—?” You had to take a breath, gather your thoughts before anything coherent came out. “Why are you here? Where did he go? How did you know that—?”
“Easy, easy,” Billy said softly, backing up just a little. “I was walking down the street when I saw your house go dark. I was just about to knock when I heard you at the front door, then saw you take off up the stairs. I saw him behind you, knew I had to get in. There was an open window—the same one I’m guessing he came and went through.”
Everything after that was a blur. Cops. Questions. Your parents swearing they’d never leave you alone again. The officers grilled you on why Billy was there. You knew what he said, but you didn’t think they’d believe it. Everyone at Woodsboro High knew the cops already had eyes on him. So you lied.
“We were studying,” you said. “We have the same chemistry class, and—” The cops cut you off with more questions. Less interested in class and more in the killer.
The important part is—they bought it.
Billy drove you home after the cops cleared you and the paramedics ruled out a concussion. Shock was their final diagnosis. You were inclined to agree. Billy walked you inside, helped you onto the couch. He offered to stay. You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no either.
The house was quiet again. You stared at the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes unfocused. Billy watched you like you were something fragile. He offered you water. You didn’t take it.
“It’s gonna be okay,” he murmured. “He’s gone. I won’t let him come near you.”
“Yeah,” was all you could manage. And even then, it was barely a whisper. You didn’t see it—but you could feel him roll his eyes.
The silence returned, heavy and oppressive. You shifted slightly, uncomfortable on the couch. It was too stiff. Your skin too cold. Your hoodie did nothing to help. The humming alertness in your nerves hadn’t dulled, not even slightly. Your hands still trembled in your lap.
Three of them. Quick succession. Not loud. Not frantic. Measured. Too soft to be a cop following up. Too calm to be a reporter sniffing for a quote. Billy was already on his feet before your brain had caught up.
“I’ll get it,” he said easily, hopping over the back of the couch.
“You’re not even supposed to be here, Billy, you can’t just—” But he had the door open before you could even finish. Stu stood on the porch like he belonged there. Slouched against the frame, grinning ear to ear.
“Hey, cutie,” he said, voice syrupy. “Heard you had a hell of a night.”
“What are you doing here?” Even in your rattled state, you managed to sound as exasperated as you felt. Stu just shrugged, waltzing in like he’d been here a hundred times before.
“What, I can’t check up on a friend? Billy said—”
Click. The front door’s lock.
“—you got roughed up, and I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Your mouth opened to argue, but no words came out. Billy said? When would Billy have had time to talk to Stu? You’d been with him nonstop since the incident. Your eyes snapped to Billy, who had returned from the front door. He leaned on the couch behind you, draping one arm casually across your shoulder. Stu flopped down beside you, tossing his crossed legs into your lap like this was any other Tuesday.
“We’re just worried about you, is all,” Billy murmured into your ear, tone silk-soft. Almost a purr. “After everything… you really shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“You… should both go. I… I can’t. Not after everything.” Your voice was barely above a murmur. Neither of them moved. Stu didn’t even bother to fake concern. He just laughed—low and soft.
“Oh, come on now. You don’t want us to leave. What if he comes back, huh? I doubt he’d let you live a second time.” He said it with just a little too much certainty. Your eyes flicked to him, but before you could speak, Billy gently took your chin and guided your face back toward him.
“Don’t pretend like you want us gone, sweetheart. You don’t want to be alone again. Vulnerable. Afraid.” Stu doesn’t take his eyes off you while Billy speaks. His legs are still sprawled lazily across your lap, like this is his couch, like you’re his armrest. His smile is too wide, but his eyes are sharp now—cutting through you. Watching. Billy hasn’t moved his hand from your jaw.
You can feel his thumb brush over the edge of your cheekbone in a slow, almost absentminded arc. It should be comforting. It isn’t. Not really. But your skin prickles under the contact anyway. The air between the three of you starts to shift—less like static, more like something coiled and ready to snap. You swallow hard.
“Why are you really here?” you ask, your voice quieter now. Not accusing. Not exactly. Billy leans in just enough for his breath to skim your ear.
“Maybe we were worried about you,” he says. “Maybe we didn’t like the idea of you being scared and alone.”
Stu hums low in his throat. “Or maybe we just didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting to you first.” That draws your eyes back to him.
His grin deepens. “Yeah. You.” Billy shifts behind you. His arm brushes yours as he sits down beside you this time, close enough for your knees to touch. His hand rests on your thigh—not quite possessive, but grounding. You don’t move it.
“You’ve always been kind of interesting,” Billy says, tone casual, like he’s talking about the weather. “Even when you pretended not to notice us.”
Stu snorts. “Sure you weren’t.” There’s a pause—just long enough for you to notice how warm the room feels, how close they’ve drawn in. You feel like prey, but you don’t run.
“Why now?” you ask. Billy’s eyes meet yours. Cold, unreadable.
“Because now you’re listening.” Your pulse jumps.
Stu leans in next, grinning like he knows something you don’t. “And we figured you might be ready for the truth.” You don’t ask what that truth is. You don’t think you want the answer—not yet. Billy brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering just a little too long.
“You’re not afraid of us,” he says. “Not really.”
You hesitate. “Should I be?”
“But we’d never hurt you,” Billy murmurs, and it sounds almost honest. Almost. His hand curls against your jaw again, tilting your face toward him. “We like you too much.” Stu shifts, swinging his legs off of you, by your side in a swift motion. He leans into you with a grin. “Besides,” he drawls, “how could we ever hurt our alibi? We need you.”
“Alibi?” You shoot Billy a look, your voice sharp with confusion. “What are you talking about?” Billy’s smile turns patient. Almost patronizing.
“You know the cops have been hounding me for weeks now. And you, my darling…” He turns your face more firmly to meet his gaze—dead-on, unblinking. “You just cleared me of all suspicion. I wasn’t expecting you to lie for me.” His smile deepens. “Truly, that was the cherry on top. You’re a natural.”
You feel your breath catch. “What are you saying?”
“How could I be Ghostface if you and I were in the same room when it happened, hmm?” Your mouth opens—for a moment, no sound comes out.
“Why would you…” You swallow hard. “Billy. You’re not—”
“Oh, but I am,” he says, voice dipping into something low and wicked. “Meet Ghostface One and Two, sweetheart.”
Your head snaps toward Stu—he’s already holding up the mask, mockingly poised in front of his face. One gloved finger taps the chin of the skull-white visage. You jolt back, panic flaring, but Billy’s hand doesn’t let you move. It stays firm, grounding, like an anchor—or a shackle. Stu laughs. Full-bodied, wild. He tosses the mask aside, like it’s a party trick.
“We owe you a little appreciation, darling. You did us a big favor.” Stu comments, still cackling. Your breath catches.
“No,” you whisper. “No, you’re lying.” Billy’s expression doesn’t change.
“If I were lying,” he says calmly, “would you still be sitting here?”
You shake your head. “You saved me. You—he had the knife—”
“You think it’s that hard to stage a fight?” Stu cuts in, grinning. “God, you’re cute.” You pull away from Billy’s hand. This time, he lets you.
“You used me,” you say, voice breaking on the words. “You planned this. The break-in. The timing. All of it.”
“Not all of it,” Billy says. “The lying part? That was a surprise. But a welcome one.”
Your hands start to tremble again. You push up from the couch on instinct, needing distance, needing air, but your knees buckle from the lingering adrenaline. You catch yourself on the edge of the coffee table.
Stu’s beside you before you can move. “Careful, princess. That head’s still ringing, huh? You hit it pretty hard.” Another laugh.
“Don’t touch me,” you snap, shoving him back—he stumbles, but it’s theatrical. He’s laughing before he even regains balance.
“I knew she had claws,” Stu grins. Billy rises slower. Methodical. Controlled.
“You can scream if you want to,” he says, voice almost soft. “Your neighbors won’t hear you. But I don’t think you will.”
Your heart pounds like a drum against your ribs. “What do you want from me?”
Billy doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, eyes locked on yours—not a threat, not a taunt. Just steady. Focused.
“We want you to stop pretending you don’t already know.”
“Yes, you do,” he cuts in. “You noticed the glances. The way we lingered. You liked it. You just didn’t know what to do with it.” You don’t deny it. Not fast enough.
Stu moves again, behind you this time. Not touching—but close enough that you feel the pull. “You ever wonder why we picked your house?” he says, breath ghosting over your shoulder. “Why we wanted you to be the one we saved?”
“You could’ve killed me.”
“But we didn’t,” Billy says.
Your throat tightens. “You can’t expect me to be okay with this.”
Billy reaches out slowly, brushes a thumb under your eye. “We don’t want you to be okay. We want you to understand.”
“Understand what?” you breathe.
“That you’re ours now.” There’s a long silence.
Something inside you coils, ready to snap. Your mind screams to run, to fight, to do something—but your body stays frozen. And worse? Part of you wants to believe him. Wants to believe them. Because the truth is, ever since the encounter—ever since the lights went out and the door refused to open—nothing has felt as real as this moment. Not the police, not your parents’ concerned stares, not the fluorescent interrogation lights.
Just this. Them. The space between you and the question you’re terrified to answer.
You should resist. You should scream.
Instead, you whisper, “Then show me. Show me that you won’t hurt me.”
Billy’s smile curves slow and sharp, like a match catching fire.
Stu exhales a low, delighted laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
That’s all the confirmation they need.
They’re on you in an instant.
Stu grabs you by the neck, your breath hitching sharply as his lips crash against yours—soft, but greedy in their movements, like he’s been starving for this. His grip is firm, bordering on possessive.
Billy is just as fast. His hands start at your hips, grounding you, then slip beneath your hoodie—fingers tracing up your sides with practiced ease, dragging goosebumps in their wake.
END OF PART ONE~ Comment/repost if you want more! :)
@aghostlywhisper @stanseventeen
