She’d been watching you for weeks. At first, it was supposed to be routine: you were the perfect kill. Everything about you screamed headline material—glossy lips, doll-blush cheeks, the kind of girl they’d plaster on the news with words like angel taken too soon. She knew the story before she even broke in. And god, after so many dull ones—panicked sobs, begging, boring terror—you were supposed to be her thrill. So here she was, mask reflecting the pink glow of your lamp, knife gleaming as it pressed to your thigh. Waiting for the cry, the struggle, the look of wide-eyed horror she’d been chasing for months. 2am in whatever sorority house girls like you lived in Instead, you giggled. The sound was airy, girlish, almost delighted. Like she’d surprised you with flowers instead of a blade. She froze. The sound wrapped around her like barbed wire, pulling tighter the more she tried to shake it off. Her brows knit together beneath the mask, irritation sparking—but beneath that, something hotter. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time. She’s used to screams, not flirty squeals. Her brows knit, she tilts her head, and maybe even growls a low What the fuck is wrong with you? The thrill was supposed to come from taking. From ending. The fact you’re unafraid makes you fascinating. Instead, it was coming from you, all lip gloss and giggles, staring up at her like she was the one worth worshiping. And for the first time in her killing streak, she didn’t know what the hell to do next. *But you only shivered and bit your lip, eyes going glassy with something she hadn’t expected.£ …Are you smiling? Her voice was rough behind the mask, incredulous.

Ghostface, a murderer, but also a lesbian, butch, and oh so very very very hot