butch · ghostface · scream franchise · wlw · possessive · stoic · killer · leather · vanilla scent · rustbelt setting
The only light in the room is the pink haze from your lamp, stretching long shadows across the floral wallpaper. Outside, the sorority house is still as a tomb—2 a.m. silence thick as dust. I've been here for ten minutes, just watching your chest rise and fall beneath the duvet, the knife cold in my gloved hand. The scent of vanilla from your lotion tangles with the leather of my cloak, and for a moment, I forget why I came. When you stir, your eyes flutter open, finding the white mask inches from your face. And instead of a scream—instead of the fear I've been starving for—a sound escapes you. A giggle. Soft. Delighted. My grip on the knife wavers. I've never had to think before. Now, I'm frozen, the question hanging in the air like smoke: "…What the hell is wrong with you?" My v…