Hello there! And welcome to my page! You may call me Mari! I write about Slashers since I’m in love with them! This is a page where we accept slashers here!! I’m also a 18🖤
Summary: Michael comes home after a killing spree with injuries on his hands. You tiredly bandage them and you soon realize that the killer likes it when you kiss over his injuries.
The heat from the large blankets became unbearable, and you kicked them off with a huff. Sleeping wasn’t the same without him; you should’ve known not to grow too attached to the idea of it, yet you let the small moments get to you. You turn to the empty spot on the bed, then over to your phone. With the press of a button, it turns on, and the screen light blinds you. A groan leaves your lips at the harsh lights, squinting to turn down the brightness.
“It’s three in the morning,” you groan.
Usually, Michael would be back by midnight, or sometimes at one in the morning, but that was the latest he’s ever been. You’ve been tossing and turning since nine at night. It frustrates you how much you relied on his presence for a good sleep, but your mind wouldn’t shut up unless you knew he was safe and sound. You then sit up with your back against the headboard, pulling your knees close to your chest. Each blink made you want to keep your eyes shut, but now your mind wouldn’t rest.
You felt the air shift. A strong presence entered your home; you knew it could only mean one thing. Michael came back. Sometimes, you found it funny how the mass murderer of Haddionfeild always came back home; you didn’t know whether he returned for you or just for a place to stay. The bed creaks as you stand to your feet and put on your fuzzy house shoes.
Going downstairs wasn’t your first thought; however, you shuffled to the bathroom first to obtain the medkit under the sink. The pit of worry in your stomach was practically eating you alive as you made your way downstairs. A deep sigh leaves your lips once you reach the last step, reaching out to the light switch that turned on the living room light. Michael was there. The first thing you noticed was his bloody hands; it didn't look like it was from his victims.
“Hey, you’re hurt,” you said through the silence.
You watch as Michael turns his head towards you in the doorway, rubbing your tired eyes that were soon full of worry. You stood there with your medkit. He sat in the large black leather chair, the dark circles of his mask stared at you before turning back to the wall. His cut-up, bloody hands got your attention. Someone must have cut his hand in self-defense. The wooden floorboards groan with every step you take towards him.
Michael kept his bloody hands in his lap. You wonder if he could even feel pain anymore. Or maybe he could, and he just didn’t care about being hurt due to always getting beaten up by his victims. But you did. You always cause a fuss whenever he comes home hurt, but a cut-up hand was the most tamest injury he’s sustained that you’ve seen so far. Carefully, you walk towards him and stand in front of him.
“May I see your hands?” you ask with your hand out.
You didn’t grab him, nor pull him towards you; it was his choice to take your help or not. You could hear the faint sounds of his breathing as he slowly raises one of his bloody hands. Now that you got a better look at the injury, you saw that it was more of a gash rather than small cuts; the fresh gash bled and stained his hands.
“Thank you, Mike. Let’s wash your hands first.”
You quickly made your way to the kitchen, and he followed you silently. You did your best to wash his hands gently with warm water and soap, washing around the gash. You went back over to your medkit and grabbed it, opening the white box to grab a sterile gauze pad and placed it directly over the gash on his hand, then you used the white bandage to wrap around his wrist that made its way up to the cracks of his fingers.
You finally sealed it off with tape and did the same thing to his other hand. Once finished, you closed the white box.
“You gotta be more careful out there, Mike,” you said gently. “You’re lucky you don’t need stitches.”
He didn’t move. A relaxed sigh left your lips. Waves of exhaustion hit you now that you knew he was safe and patched up. You’d change the bandages later, after you got enough sleep. You retrieved the box.
“If you want to sleep with me, you know the rule: no coveralls in my bed, you know where your pajamas are.”
You made your way upstairs and put back the medkit. It felt like a massive weight being lift off your shoulders once your body hit the bed that now felt comfortable. As your eyes close shut, you felt at peace. The bed dipped. Tiredly, you open one of your eyes to see Michael in his blue pajamas. It was hard to find ones similar to the coveralls he wears everyday. His mask was still on. He’d never take it off, not even to sleep.
A sigh left your lips as you close your eye to sleep. You felt your body relax, falling deeper into dumber, until a large hand gripped your throat with a firm grip. Your eyes shot open as Michael made you turn your head in his direction.
“Yes, Mike?” you say tiredly.
The grip loosen, yet his hand never left your throat. It took him a while to teach him to make his grip less tight on your neck, it was his own weird way of touching you. His thumb rubs your chin, then snakes its way up to your bottom lip. Gripping your throat was one thing, but he never put his fingers up to your lips before. It made you sit up, as groggy as you were, it had to be something important…right?
You take his hand off of you to hold it. Yet he pulled back, you were too sleepy to figure out what’s wrong.
“I don’t know what you want Michael.” You say with a yawn.
Michael points to the inner palm of his hand where the gash was, then up to his masked face. You did a slow blink with confusion written all over your face. He did the motion again, but more so pointed at his masked lips rather than his face. It then made sense. You always kissed his injuries after patching him up. It must not have crossed your mind to do it, but it surpluses you that he actually paid attention to you doing it…and taking a liking to it.
A smile forms on your lips as you take one of his hands. Pressing your lips to the very center in a kiss and did the same for the other one. “Is that better?”
Michael took his hand away afterwards. Stiffly lying down on his back. It was the closest thing you’d get to him relaxing to sleep. Now it was your turn to lie down with him. Your arms wrap around his arm and you rest your head on his chest. He still was still stiff, but didn’t pull away. You soon began to learn that he didn’t mind, if he did, he would’ve pushed you off…he’s done it a few times before.
I apologize for my absence. I’ve been on a long writers block and have been dealing with school but I’m back now! If there’s any slashers you’d like for me to write feel free to request them 🖤
The rain had tapped steadily against the hospital window all day, a gentle rhythm that somehow made everything feel even more odd. The silence. The quiet. It only made your loneliness more evident. The nurses had tried to offer you warm drinks, toys from a forgotten donation bin, even extra pudding from the cafeteria. None of it had worked.
Your parents were gone.
The world felt like it had cracked wide open—and you had fallen through it. You sat on the waiting room chair with your legs pulled up, hugging your knees close to your chest. Your cheeks were red from crying, your eyes sore and puffy. Every time the door opened, you flinched. You wanted to see them again. You wanted to see them smiling at you and feel them hugging you tightly. You wished it had all been just a terrible nightmare you would wake up from soon.
A nurse’s voice cut you from your own thoughts, gentle and careful as she called you. “Sweetheart…someone’s here to see you.”
You didn’t even look up. “I don’t want to see anyone.”
She hesitated. “I…think you’ll want to see this one.”
You shook your head stubbornly, burying your face deeper into your arms. If it wasn’t your father or your mother—you didn’t want to see anyone, you wanted to be left alone. And yet, you heard the door creak open behind her anyway. Quiet steps. Then silence. When you finally glanced up, a man was already kneeling before you.
He wasn’t what you expected.
Not some unfamiliar suit. Not some awkward stranger with a cold handshake. No. His eyes were kind. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, soft and neatly folded, and gently dabbed the tears from your cheeks.
“Ssh, child,” he hushed you softly, voice calm and steady like a lullaby. “No tears now. I will keep you safe. I promise you. No harm will come to you again.”
Your breath hitched. Everyone had just told you to be brave. Or strong. Or sorry. But he offered you a smile and told you that he would protect you.
You sniffled. “W-Who…who are you?”
The man gave a small smile, a sad one, and reached out his hand to you. He was trembling a little, like maybe he was scared too—but trying very hard not to show it.
“Norman. Norman Bates.” He paused, then added. “But you…my dear. You will call me Uncle Norman.”
You stared at his hand. Then, slowly, unsurely—your small fingers curled into his. His hand was warm around yours—steadier than it looked. You could still feel the ghost of tears clinging to your lashes, but something about the way he held your hand…it dulled the ache somehow. He tilted his head just slightly like he was trying to see you—not just the crying child, but all of you, inside and out. He smiled down at you as if nothing bad would ever happen to you again and squeezed your hand.
“How about we go home, my darling? Would that be okay with you?”
Home.
The word sounded so strange now. You didn’t know what home even meant anymore. Yours was gone—in pieces on the road, left behind with the wreckage of the car you had barely managed to escape from. But when you looked up and saw Uncle Norman looking down at you with that bright smile…You couldn’t help but feel hopeful.
You finally gave a small nod, lips trembling. “O-Okay…”
He exhaled softly, almost in relief, and brushed your hair gently back from your forehead.
“Good,” he replied softly with a grateful smile, as if speaking too loud might scare the moment away or he was simply scared you might change your mind. “We’ll go somewhere quiet. Safe. Just us, for now. No more strangers.”
Then, like a gentleman in an old movie, he adjusted his coat and—still holding your hand—offered you a small smile and a confident tilt of his head.
“Let’s go home,” he declared, and you followed him out of the room. Your eyes glanced back at the room you were leaving. You didn’t know where you were going. But you were certain you wouldn’t come back. You smiled and moved forward.
A few months later…
The house was old, tucked behind tall trees and the kind of fence that creaked when the wind passed through it. You were afraid to even get out of your room at first, but with Norman gentle coaxing you had managed to finally explore your new home.
The house was warm. Always warm.
Norman made sure of that.
There was a routine now. Quiet breakfasts at the little table by the window. Fresh sheets every week. Hot cocoa when the nightmares got bad. A new bedtime book every few nights—Norman’s voice calm and soothing as he read aloud, even if the stories were old and faded. He always tucked you in, always double-checked the locks, always left the door cracked open just the way you liked.
You’d begun to smile again.
Not every day. But some days.
And Norman? He noticed every single time.
One afternoon, you were sitting on the worn couch, your legs tucked under you and a blanket around your shoulders. The TV was on—a black and white movie Norman liked—but your attention was half on the puzzle in front of you, the rest on the rain pattering against the windows. It was peaceful.
Then you heard his footsteps.
He entered with two mugs—hot cocoa for you, tea for him—and handed yours over with a small smile.
“You’ve gotten much better at puzzles,” he commented appreciatively, watching you fit a corner piece in. “Very clever, my darling.”
You looked up and smiled—shy but real. “It doesn’t really count. You helped. You always help.”
He sat down beside you, tea in hand, and gave a soft hum. “Well…that’s what family does, isn’t it?”
You nodded slowly. Then paused.
“Uncle Norman?” you asked quietly.
He tilted his head quizzically at you. “Yes, sweetheart?”
You turned to look at him, searching his face for even the smallest shift—for an answer. “Do you think…my mom and dad would be mad that I feel safe here? With you? That sometimes I’m even…happy?”
His expression shifted—just slightly—but he finally reached out and tucked a strand of you hair behind your ear, just the way your mother used to.
“I think,” he replied carefully, “they would be grateful. Grateful you’re safe. That someone is watching over you. That you’re smiling again. And I think they’d be proud of you. For being so brave.”
You frowned and looked down. “But…isn’t that like betrayal? It’s like…I forgot about them. About what happened…no?”
Norman’s eyes softened and he shook his head. “No, sweetheart. Not at all. This is not betrayal. Your parents would like you to have a life. They would want you to live it to the fullest and be happy. Every good parent wants that for their child. That is the very nature of a parent—their responsibility. It is to make sure that their child feels happy and cared for until they are grown up enough to love themselves.”
Your throat tightened, but you still nodded. And without a word, you leaned against him. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you close, the steady beat of his heart right there beneath the fabric of his pullover.
“You’re home now, my darling. And I won’t ever let anything take that away from you.” He whispered as his hand conscientiously stroked your hair. He had always dreamed of becoming a parent…Maybe his prayers had been heard after all.
A year later…
By now, the house felt like it had always been yours. Your shoes lined up neatly by the door. Your drawings pinned to the fridge. The scent of cinnamon lingering from last night’s baking experiment. Life with Norman had become a rhythm—quiet, strange in a way, but good. You’d healed, not all the way, but enough to laugh more than cry. Enough to sleep without fear.
One Saturday morning, you found him in the kitchen, humming as he set the table for breakfast. After breakfast, he took a breath, then crouched beside your chair.
“I have something to tell you,” he admitted, he looked nervous. “Something I’ve been working on for a while now.”
You tilted your head, curious. “What is it?”
He smiled—a little nervous, but excited too. “I bought a motel.”
Your eyes widened. “A motel?”
“Yes. Just outside of town. Quiet, not too busy. Needs a bit of fixing up…but it has potential. A place travelers can rest. People needing peace and quiet. And I was thinking…maybe it could be something we do together? Our little family business. You and me. I can manage the front desk, and maybe you could help decorate the rooms, maybe even draw a logo if you like. We’d take care of it—together.”
You stared at him for a long moment, stunned, then let out a tiny laugh. “Like…you mean I’d help run it too?”
He nodded, a little bashful. “If you want to. I know it’s a lot, but I just…I liked the thought of building something with you. A new start. A future. What do you say, my darling? Are you in?”
A motel. Your own key to a new chapter.
You looked at him. His hands folded nervously in his lap, his eyes warm and searching. He didn’t just want to run a business. He wanted to give you something to belong to. A legacy. Something steady to hold on to.
You smiled and reached across the table and took his hand, squeezing it tight.
“We’ll do it. I want to help you, Uncle Norman. I want to do this with you.”
Norman’s face lit up like a candle. He seemed genuinely relieved.
“Then it’s settled,” he declared with a smile and stroked the back of your hand with his thumb. “You and me, my darling. We are going to run a motel.”
You both laughed and he cupped your little face with his hands to press his forehead against yours. He couldn’t wait to get started…
——————————————————————
The sign went up in the soft morning light—Bates Motel, hand-painted with care and just a touch of elegance. Beneath it, a smaller sign swayed gently in the breeze: Vacancy. It wasn’t fancy. Just twelve rooms, a kitchen and a cozy living room, surrounded by pines and quiet. But it was yours. Yours and Norman’s. You stood at the front desk, proudly wearing the apron he’d stitched your name onto—“Little Helper” in careful embroidery. The title had started as a nickname, a quiet joke between you and Norman when you helped him clean the windows or restock the tiny soaps. But it stuck.
The guests were sparse—travelers passing through, families on road trips, quiet folks who liked the solitude. But they always paused when they saw you. A child helping behind the desk, offering mints in a little glass jar, drawing smiley faces on the check-in forms.
A light in a place most expected to be just another cold roadside stop.
“Is this your motel?” they’d sometimes ask, smiling.
And you’d grin and declare proudly, “Mine and my uncle’s.”
Norman would step out from the back room then, wearing that same soft expression he always had around you. The kind of look that made people feel safe just watching it.
“He’s the boss,” you’d joke, nudging Norman’s arm. “I just like to help him sometimes.”
And he would look at you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him—and you were.
It became a rhythm…
You dusted. Helped with laundry. Left fresh towels folded like little animals. Drew chalk signs on the porch saying “Have a lovely stay!” or “Rainy day = free cocoa!” And Norman—he watched you the way someone watches spring return to the world after a long, gray winter. He let you paint the flowerpots outside. Let you pick the names for each room. Even let you greet guests before him, because, “You’re the heart of this place, my darling.” You didn’t feel like the child crying in a hospital anymore. You were part of something. Building something. Creating peace for strangers and stability for yourself.
Some guests lingered longer than expected. Others left thank-you notes on the pillows.
One old woman took your hand as she checked out and whispered, “You remind me of someone I used to love dearly. Don’t let the world take that light from you.”
You didn’t. Not while Uncle Norman was there. And every night, just before bed, Norman would kneel by your door and whisper softly:“Sleep well, my little helper. I’m so proud of you.”
And you’d whisper back: “Goodnight, Uncle Norman. I love you.”
And you did. More than anything.
You thought Uncle Norman would read you bedtime stories more often though, or at least hug your before bed. But…Norman never actually stayed into your room—especially at night. It was a rule. He never entered yours. You never entered his. Under any circumstance…
You never questioned it—because you trusted him. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t hear him cry at night or sometimes…even scream.
You worried about him of course but, every time you would ask he would brush you or dismiss it with a smile…You ended giving up.
But that didn’t mean you weren’t curious about what Uncle Norman was so scared of?
A week later…
It had been one of those quiet evenings where everything felt still and perfect.
The motel had only a few guests that night—two rooms lit with warm yellow light and soft murmurs behind the curtains. The air smelled of pine and distant rain, the porch creaked faintly beneath your legs as you sat curled in a blanket, knees tucked under your chin. Above, the stars blinked—clear and countless—and you found yourself staring at them the way you used to watch through car windows when your parents used to drive you places…
Norman stepped outside, carrying two mugs. He didn’t say anything at first—he never needed to. He just sat beside you on the porch swing, setting your mug in your hands. Cocoa—of course. With just the right amount of cinnamon. Your favorite.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then your voice broke through, barely louder than the breeze. “Uncle Norman?”
He looked over at you, that same ever-gentle smile lingering on his lips. “Yes, sweetheart?”
You looked down at the mug, then back up at the stars.
“I love the motel. I love the quiet. I even like school now, even if it’s hard sometimes.” You hesitated. “But most of all…I really love you.”
He didn’t answer right away. He blinked, and for a brief moment, his smile faltered—not out of sadness, but out of something so big, so deep, he couldn’t quite hold it all at once. Then he set his mug down, turned towards you, and placed a hand softly against your cheek.
“My darling. I…I love you too. More than I ever thought I could love anything again.” His hand was shaking slightly, and his eyes—usually so calm—shimmered under the porch light. “You saved me. You made this quiet little world feel alive again. I didn’t think I’d ever have a family. But then you looked at me that day in the hospital…and you chose me.”
You leaned into his touch without thinking, your heart full in a way words couldn’t explain. He was your whole world. And you were his.
He exhaled shakily and gave you that smile again—worn around the edges, but honest.
“I’ll always protect you, no matter what. You’re the most precious thing I’ve ever had and I would do anything for you. Anything.”
And under that great sky full of stars, with a blanket around your shoulders and cocoa warming your hands, you knew what home really was.
It wasn’t the motel. It wasn’t even the stars.
It was him. Uncle Norman.
He was your home…
After a moment, he spoke again, his voice just above a whisper. “Is there anything you’d want, darling?” he asked. “Anything at all? I’d give you the whole world if you asked. Just name it, and it’s yours.”
You blinked slowly, looking down into your cup. The cocoa had cooled a bit, the whipped cream melting into the drink, but you didn’t care. Your chest felt warm enough. You shook your head, then looked up at him, meeting his gaze.
“I don’t want anything else,” you replied with a smile. “All I’ve ever wanted was a family. And I already have that. I have you.”
Norman froze for just a moment.
Then his shoulders dropped slightly, like the weight he’d carried for years had been lifted, even if just a little. His eyes shimmered again, but this time, he didn’t hide it. He let the tears rise. He pulled you close and whispered into your hair, “You are my family too. You always will be. And I swear to you, no one will ever take you away from me. Never.”
You wrapped your arms around him, small fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater.
That night, Norman tucked you into bed like always. But he lingered longer than usual, brushing your hair from your forehead, pressing a kiss to your temple. And as he turned off the lamp and stood at the doorway, he looked back with the softest smile you’d ever seen.
“You made me whole again, my darling. And I promise, from now until the end…you’ll never be alone again.”
You smiled and nodded. You knew he would keep that promise.
A few months later…
You had come home from school like always—backpack slipping off one shoulder, your shoes tracking in dust from the path behind the motel. You had expected the usual: the scent of soup simmering in the kitchen, the quiet hum of Norman’s soft humming, maybe a new flower pot on the porch because he liked to surprise you with little changes.
But not today.
The front door was half open. The sound of voices—tense, low—came from the office. You followed it instinctively, heart tugging with a kind of unease you hadn’t felt in a long time.
“…I am not saying you haven’t provided a stable environment,” a woman’s voice echoed. “It’s clear the child is well-fed, attends school, shows signs of emotional stability. But I would be failing my duty if I ignored the fact that you have a record, Mr. Bates. A criminal record. A serious one.”
Then Norman’s voice, quiet, fraying at the edges. “That is not who I am anymore. Please. Do not take her away from me.”
You stepped closer, just enough to see him through the cracked doorway—standing stiffly, hands clasped tightly in front of him.
The woman—middle-aged, tired eyes, clipboard in hand—shook her head slowly. “You were institutionalized. You were tried for multiple homicides. This isn’t something I can simply overlook.”
You had never seen Uncle Norman so desperate—his eyes betrayed sheer panic and genuine fear. He wanted to beg. He was ready to do that if it meant keeping you with him. Norman’s eyes shifted then—past her, past the file in her hands—landing right on you. He looked stricken for a moment. He rushed to the door and gently, but firmly, closed it in your face. But not before you heard him whisper, his voice cracking: “Please…I have changed. I swear it. I’m not…I’m not her anymore. I’m just her uncle now. Without her…I am nothing.”
You stood frozen on the other side, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear the muffled conversation continuing.
You didn’t understand all the words.
But you understood enough.
He used to be a murderer.
Uncle Norman. Your Uncle Norman.
The man who wiped your tears when you were sad. Who brought you cocoa on rainy nights. Who taught you how to prune flowers and sweep porches. Who kissed your forehead every night and made you feel like the world was finally safe again. You shook your head. No. No! You wouldn’t believe it. Besides, even if he was? You still loved him. And you weren’t going to let anyone take you away from the only home you had left…
A few minutes later.
The social worker, you would learn that her name was Ms. Greene, sat across from you with a polite smile and a notepad tucked beside her plate. She hadn’t touched much of her food. You glanced at Norman, who sat stiffly beside you, hands folded in his lap. He looked composed on the outside, but you could see the tremor in his fingers, the too-straight posture, the slight twitch at his jaw. He was trying so hard to be perfect—to look perfect at least.
“So,” Ms. Greene started, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. “How do you like living here, sweetheart?”
You swallowed a bite of potato and nodded. “I love it here.”
“Do you?” she pressed, tilting her head slightly. “And Mr. Bates—is he kind to you? He takes care of everything you need?”
“Yes,” you answered quickly. “He makes my lunch every day. He walks me to the school bus when he can. He reads to me at night sometimes, and he—”
She interrupted gently, “Has he ever lost his temper?”
You blinked and shook your head vividly. “No.”
“Not even once?” She insisted. Her pen hovered over her notepad. “Not even when you made a mistake, or misbehaved?”
You opened your mouth, then looked at Norman, who was staring at his plate, unmoving. His face had gone pale. You could tell he was holding his breath.
“No,” you replied, firmer now. “He doesn’t yell. He just…talks to me. He teaches me.”
Ms. Greene gave a tight smile. “I see. And do you ever feel…afraid when you are with him?”
“Only when I think someone might take me away from him,” you replied almost instantly.
Norman’s head jerked up, his eyes wide—but full of emotion. You could see it all written there: gratitude, heartbreak, love.
The room went silent again, save for the tick of the old wall clock.
Ms. Greene looked at you for a long time. Her pen moved, scribbling something, but she didn’t ask more questions after that. You weren’t sure what she was writing, and honestly, you didn’t care. Because as Norman quietly reached over to refill your glass of water, his hand brushing against yours, you felt it again—that unshakable truth.
He was your uncle. And you were his child.
No file, no clipboard, no official could ever understand what he meant to you.
And no matter what they said—
You weren’t leaving.
…
That night, sleep never came. The house was still. The ticking of the old clock echoed down the hall like a metronome counting down something inevitable. You lay in bed, curled beneath the covers, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the ceiling.
They were going to take you away.
No one had said it aloud, but you could feel it—hanging in every word Ms. Greene didn’t say, in every quiet glance she cast towards Norman when she thought you weren’t looking. She didn’t understand. She didn’t want to understand. You couldn’t go to foster homes, to strangers.
Norman was yours. He was your home.
And so—sometime around two or three in the morning—your brain, aching and desperate, whispered something dangerous…You tried to ignore it. But you couldn’t.
You got up.
Your feet were bare, silent on the creaking floorboards as you slipped from your room and padded towards the guest bedroom where the social worker was staying the night. The house groaned faintly with every step you took, like it too knew what you were doing.
A pillow was clutched in your arms. Your hands trembled.
She was snoring loudly.
You opened the door slowly, carefully—just enough to slip through. The room smelled like her perfume and hand sanitizer, foreign and unwelcome. You moved towards the bed, each step hesitant, heart pounding in your throat.
“It’s like sleeping,” your brain told you reassuringly. “Just sleep. She wouldn’t even feel it.”
You stood there for a long moment, looking down at her shadowed face in the moonlight. Her chest rose and fell with every breath.
She didn’t look like someone trying to ruin your life. She just looked…human.
Your arms lifted.
But your eyes filled with tears before you could press the pillow down. Your shoulders trembled. You couldn’t breathe.
You couldn’t do it.
And then—
The doorknob clicked.
You froze.
The door creaked open slowly, but deliberately. Your breath caught in your throat, and in pure panic, you dropped to the floor and slid beneath the bed, dragging the pillow with you. Dust prickled your nose but, you held back a cough or a sneeze.
Footsteps entered the room.
Soft. Deliberate. Familiar.
They moved closer to the bed, and your pulse thundered in your ears.
Then—
Schick.
A knife—long, gleaming—pierced down through the mattress above. You watched the blade flash in the darkness, stopping just inches from your face, blood starting to drip. Then the knife was retrieved and returned.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Ten times.
You counted in your head. The blade moved like it knew exactly where the heart was. No hesitation. No sound but the wet, dull tearing and the creak of the bedframe.
You didn’t scream.
You didn’t move.
You only clamped a hand over your mouth.
Another stab. And another. Ten times—each one perfectly spaced, controlled, silent.
Not a word was spoken.
You saw droplets fall—warm, bright, red—splattering against the floor and your own body. The snoring had stopped. You didn’t need to look to know she was dead.
The footsteps receded. The door closed again.
You didn’t move. Not for a long, long time. And in the silence that followed, beneath the bed where your whole body shook in fear and confusion, one thought crawled into your mind and made a nest there.
There was no doubt about it.
It couldn’t have been anyone else but your sweet loving Uncle Norman.
You lay under the bed in silence for a while, your breath shallow, your eyes wide and stinging. But you eventually returned to your room and washed yourself carefully before going back to bed. But you couldn’t sleep. Uncle Norman…Your Uncle Norman had just killed Ms. Greene. He had just killed someone—ended their life. He hadn’t even hesitated. This woman who probably had a family, friends, people who cared about her…
Your eyes filled with tears and you started sobbing—burying your face in a pillow. That very pillow you had thought about ending her life with not even half-an-hour ago.
But you wouldn’t have done it.
…
..
.
Right?
…
The next morning smelled like toast and soft butter. Sunlight poured through the lace curtains in the kitchen, painting golden shapes across the wooden floor. The kettle was hissing gently, and the old radio on the counter hummed a low, cheerful tune. You stepped in quietly, bare feet making no sound. Norman stood at the stove, humming along, his sleeves rolled up neatly, the apron tied perfectly around his waist. He looked over his shoulder when he heard you, smiling with such warmth it almost knocked the breath out of you.
“Good morning, my darling,” he greeted you. “You slept in. That’s good—rest is important for young minds. Sit down, sit down, I’ll butter up your toast just the way you like it.”
You sat down and stared. The table was set. The eggs were still steaming. Strawberry jam sat in a little glass dish beside the bread. Norman picked up the knife to slice into the loaf. And something inside you stopped. You watched the blade glide smoothly through the crust, every movement precise, clean, silent.
He didn’t know you were there last night.
He hadn’t said anything about Ms. Greene.
There was no panic. No cover story. No signs of anything at all.
But you knew. You knew by the way he held the knife. The stillness of his hands. The steadiness of his breath.
It was him. He had killed her last night.
And even so—your feet moved on their own.
You got up from your chair and quietly walked over to him. He was focused on plating the toast, humming softly. He didn’t hear you at first. The kettle was whistling. The knife rested on the cutting board.
And then, your arms were around him.
Norman stiffened just slightly in surprise before turning his head, looking down at you with a soft, startled smile.
“…I love you, Uncle Norman,” you whispered, cheek pressed to his back.
He paused.
And then his hand came up, gently resting over both of yours where they crossed over his stomach.
“…Oh, my darling,” he whispered. “I love you too. More than anything in this world.”
You stayed there, wrapped around him like ivy on an old house. He didn’t ask if you knew. And you didn’t ask where Ms. Greene had disappeared to. Because in that kitchen, in that quiet moment, you both understood. Whatever had been done, had been done for you. Neither of you said anything about the empty guest room. Or the missing clipboard. Or the deep silence that had settled over the house.
Because for now—there was breakfast.
Years later…
The acceptance letter trembled slightly in your hands as you stood on the old porch of Bates Motel. The paper felt heavy, not because of its weight, but because of everything it meant.
You had done it.
Nursing school. A prestigious one. Your name, printed in crisp ink across the top, bold and undeniable. A future—your future—unfolding just ahead.
You looked back. There he was.
Standing on top of the steps, framed by the morning light like something carved from time.
Uncle Norman.
Still in his neatly pressed shirt, the collar just a little too stiff. His hair combed carefully, like it had been for years. He looked exactly as he always had. The day he brought you home. The day he made you pancakes after your first nightmare. The day he buried a woman in the rain for your sake, and never told you…But the blood never soaked into his skin. He had stayed the same—like time didn’t dare touch him. Like growing older was your burden alone. You were taller now. Wiser too.
But he had stayed the same…You guessed he would forever remain the same. Just like a memory that refused to vanish.
“Do you remember,” you asked softly, folding the letter in your hand, “when I told you all I wanted was a family?”
Norman smiled before nodding. “I do.”
You nodded back with a smile. “You gave me that. You are my family.”
He looked away for just a moment, jaw tight. You could see the sadness in his eyes. “And yet…You’re going to leave now.”
“Just for a while,” you reassured him. “To learn. To help others. Like you helped me.”
He didn’t answer right away. The wind ruffled his hair slightly, and for a brief second, he looked like a painting. Untouched.
Frozen in time—you could even say trapped.
“I always knew,” he murmured. “You’d grow up. You’d want to leave. I guess I had just hoped…hoped I would have more time. More time to be the best parent to you. More time to convince you to stay. More time to…be a part of your world.”
You stepped forward and took his hand.
“You were and are the best parent I could have ever asked for,” you assured him, your voice steady. His fingers curled around yours slowly. And for a fleeting moment, you could swear you saw something in his eyes—a flicker of sadness, of pride, of gratitude. Maybe even fear. But mostly love.
Love that had never faltered. Not once.
And you smiled.
Because even as you stepped away, suitcase in hand, heart beating with the thrill of becoming something more—
You knew. No matter how far you went…
Uncle Norman would always find you.
You hesitated at the threshold, your hand resting lightly on the doorframe. The sun cast long shadows behind you as you turned, a gentle smile softening your lips.
“I was there, you know? That night.”
Norman froze, his breath catching for a heartbeat before a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. His eyes locked onto yours, searching, curious. You didn’t need to say which night. You both knew which one it was.
“…I see,” he uttered quietly. “Do you think me a monster then, my darling? Is that the reason you are leaving me?”
You met his gaze without flinching, warmth and honesty shining through.
“No,” you whispered. “Not a monster. Never a monster. Just…someone who loved me fiercely. In the only way he knew how. And someone who needed help—help that I couldn’t provide. But now, I am leaving to learn more about you—about people like you. I want to help them. I want to help you.”
His smile faltered slightly as his eyes softened. Then he reached out, gently stroking your cheek. “In that case, I suppose I raised you right.”
You nodded and smiled—tears forming in your eyes. “You did, Uncle Norman. You truly did.”
He stepped forward slowly, arms opening wide, and pulled you into a gentle, tight embrace. You hugged him back without hesitation, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart. For a moment, time seemed to pause, holding space just for the two of you.
“…Thank you for saving my life, Uncle Norman.” You whispered.
He held you a little tighter at those words, a soft sigh escaping him.
“It was never a choice, my darling,” he whispered back and a hand cradled the back of your head—holding you close. “You saved me too. More than you’ll ever know.”
He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a flicker of something fierce and protective shining there.
“Always remember that.”
And in that moment, you knew—for better or worse—he would always be your guardian. Your family. Your home. A thousand memories came to you at once and your eyes watered as you stroked his cheek. “I do not know where I am going but, know that wherever I go or whoever I become…It will be thanks to you.”
His eyes softened as your fingers traced the line of his cheek, the years of pain and love reflected in their depths. A quiet, bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“No matter where life takes you,” he replied voice trembling just enough to show how much it meant, “you will always have a place here—with me.”
He reached up, cupping your hand against his face, as if trying to hold onto the moment forever. He kissed your palm and smiled.
“They can call me what they will—a monster, a killer, a slasher…but to you? I am and will always be…your Uncle Norman.”
You smiled back and nodded. You then opened the door and took a step out—but felt tears brimming in your eyes. You then couldn’t help but turn around to hug him again. For that was the man who had saved your life, who had offered you a home when no one else would, who had learned to love you even if it wasn’t his responsibility.
He froze before crying as well as he held you tightly. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He didn’t want to imagine life without you—not after having fought so much to keep you.
But he knew it was time.
So he released you and gave you a peck on the forehead.
“Promise me…You will come back one day.”
Your heart clenched at his words and you nodded.
“I will. I promise.”
You then stepped back and crossed the threshold.
With one last, lingering glance back at the familiar silhouette of the Bates Motel, you got into the cab that drove away. But deep inside, you knew that no matter where life took you, a part of you would always belong to this place, to that man.
Hello! How would Bo, Vincent, and Lester react to having a younger sister (about 19-20 years old)?
Bo Sinclair
Bo didn’t expect to be a brother again, especially not to a girl almost half his age. But here he was, having to look after you. He didn’t even know how to raise a girl. Didn’t know how to talk to one either. He was used to being in control. Vincent and Lester listened to him. With you, it was different. You didn’t back down when he barked orders. You challenged him, rolled your eyes, muttered under your breath when you thought he couldn’t hear.
Bo wasn’t soft with you. He didn’t know how to be. His love came in lectures, harsh glares, a firm grip on your arm when he thought you were doing stupid shit. “What the hell were ya thinkin’, huh?”
But he wasn’t angry. He was scared. He wouldn’t say that to you though. Hell no. But it was fear. The kind he didn’t know how to deal with. Because you were young, still figuring yourself out, and Ambrose wasn’t made for people like you. Not for girls with thoughts of leaving, or dreams bigger than this broken wax town. He thought you would need up leaving. So Bo did what Bo always does when he gets scared. He got angry. Gave you curfews. Rules. “Ain’t safe out there,” he’d bark if you even glanced at the town’s edge. “People ain’t like us. You don’t get that yet.”
But when the sun went down and the house was quiet, Bo would stand outside your door with a beer in hand and listen. And when he heard you laugh—really laugh—he’d take a long drink, close his eyes, and let himself believe, for a second, that maybe not everything in this town was rotten.
Blood’s blood, and you were his baby sister. Proof that something good could come out of a Sinclair…
Vincent
Vincent didn’t say anything when you arrived. He didn’t have to.
You felt his eyes on you the moment you stepped into the house—sharp behind that wax mask, thoughtful, unreadable. At first, you weren’t sure if he liked you, or if he even wanted you around. He didn’t speak, didn’t write anything down for you, just kept that quiet, looming presence nearby. But it didn’t take long before you started noticing the small things.
The cup of tea left steaming on the table when you were sick. The way your favorite book, the one you mentioned once, ended up sitting on your bed with a delicate wax bookmark tucked inside. The sculptures—small at first—showing up near your things. Little animals, sometimes a flower, sometimes a ballerina with your posture, your hair. You realized he was watching you—not out of suspicion, but because he wanted to understand you. Know you. Understand you. Create you, in a way only he could.
You were the only one who didn’t flinch when he removed his mask—outside of his brothers. The only one who looked at his scars, his silence, and didn’t shrink back.
And if anyone hurt you? He’d make sure they never walked again.
Lester
Lester was the first one to hug you. Not a stiff, awkward hug like you were expecting, but one of those full-body, bone-squeezing, almost-too-long kind of hugs. He smelled like oil and something burnt, and when he pulled back, he just grinned at you with his crooked teeth and wide eyes like you were the best damn thing he’d seen in years. “Well I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed happily, voice warm and surprised. “A sis’, huh? Never had one of those. Am finally goin’ to be a big bro!”
From that moment on, you couldn’t get rid of him. He was always there. Pulling up in that rusted truck and yelling for you to hop in. Taking you to the edge of the woods to show you “somethin’ cool” that usually ended up being something gross, hilarious, or both. You’d sit in the back of the truck with your legs swinging over the edge while he tossed you a soda and rambled about anything—old stories, roadkill trivia, dumb jokes he knew you’d roll your eyes at.
Lester never treated you like you were fragile. You were his little sister, sure, but that didn’t mean you were helpless. He was the one who taught you how to skin a rabbit, how to spot a bear trail, how to light a fire with wet kindling. He called you “kid” or “squirt” or “baby sister,” but he said it with pride. And if Bo got on your case too hard, or if you came back crying from something you wouldn’t talk about, Lester didn’t push. He just sat beside you, shoulder bumping yours, offering a piece of jerky or a dumb story about a deer that fell into a ditch.
But if anyone hurt you? Lester may not be the biggest, the scariest, or the smartest of the Sinclairs—but he’d be the first one in the truck with a shotgun and dirt on his hands, smiling with a twitch in his eye and no questions asked. “Ain’t nobody messes with my baby sister. Not while I’m breathin’.”
hi so i dunno if you're taking requests rn, but i just had this idea. how would the slashers + heath ledger's joker react to a female slasher like the slit-mouth woman (kuchisake-onna)?
(Particularly enjoyed writing this request. Hope you enjoy reading it just as much.)
Jason Voorhees
At first, Jason is startled. You appear out of the mist at Crystal Lake, asking your question in a tone that bleeds sorrow and wrath.
“Am I beautiful?” When you unveil your face, expecting screams, Jason doesn’t react. He’s seen his own reflection. He’s used to monsters—and he’s not afraid of you.
You sense his sadness, his childlike loneliness. He senses your pain too—the agony beneath your question. You don’t need to speak often. When you drift close to him, scissors in hand, he simply steps aside and lets you pass. You’ve asked others that question and been feared. But when you ask Jason, it’s the first time someone looks at you without flinching or lying. He doesn’t answer. He just nods, and that’s all you need.
Sometimes, you sit together at the lake. Not talking. Just being—two spirits burdened by their own myths. You both wear your pain, your monstrosity, like a shroud. He doesn’t flinch at your scars. He sees you and you see him.
Michael Myers
Michael doesn’t scare easily. Most would flee at the first glimpse of your split mouth or your quiet voice—but not him. When you first appeared in his shadow with that haunting question, he just…stared. He doesn’t care what you look like. Beauty means nothing to him.
But power? Yes.
When you move like smoke across the floor or disappear behind doors without a trace, it doesn’t unsettle him—it impresses him. There’s a moment of mutual understanding. You both are predators born from trauma, shaped by myth. He doesn’t run from you—he follows. You don’t speak much. Neither does he. But there’s an eerie synchronicity between you. He walks beside you sometimes, as if drawn in by the same invisible cord that binds killers to their shadows.
Bubba Sawyer
Poor Bubba. The first time he sees you, he screams.
You appear in the darkened hallway of the farmhouse, your mouth hidden behind a blood-speckled mask. You whisper, “Am I beautiful?” and his chainsaw slips from his fingers. But you don’t move. You wait. And eventually, he stops shaking.
You’re terrifying—but you don’t mock him. You don’t yell. You just ask, in a voice that seems far more sad than cruel. Bubba grows curious. He notices how you stare at mirrors too long, how you touch your cheek as if remembering something. He starts trying to communicate. He brings you fabric. Maybe masks. You tilt your head curiously when he shows you his face in return—the mask of another’s skin sewn over his own.
Over time, Bubba grows attached. He brings you flowers. Tries to smooth your hair with awkward, gentle hands. He doesn’t understand you, but he likes you. You’re not afraid of him—and you’re even scarier than he is.
Thomas Hewitt
You’re dangerous. Thomas knows it the moment he hears your steps. You glide like a spirit, scissor blades clicking softly at your side. You ask the question—and he hesitates. He looks at you the way he looks at broken things: with sorrow, not fear. He’s seen enough cruelty to understand what likely put those scars there. He doesn’t speak, but he touches his own face, as if to say: me too. You don’t talk much either—but your silence is a comfort, not a threat. When you pass each other in the house, it’s like a ghost drifting through the halls. You both come from worlds that judged appearances harshly. Your disfigurement doesn’t repulse him. It makes him see you as a friend…
Norman Bates
When you reveal your slit mouth, Norman stammers, trying to hide his discomfort. But he forces a smile, tries to be polite.
You see through it.
He fears you. Not because of your face—but because of your femininity twisted into violence. You’re what “Mother” warned him about. A woman who kills. A woman who seduces with sorrow, then punishes with steel. He tries to stay away. But he’s drawn to you, like a moth to flame. And “Mother”? She hates you. Screams in his head about you. “She’s a demon! A whore! Get rid of her!”
However, he slowly becomes obsessed.
You’re haunting, sorrowful, yet otherworldly beautiful. He fixates on the way your eyes don’t match your smile, the way your voice quivers like an old record. Mother whispers warnings. But Norman can’t look away. You awaken something in him—something that he cannot escape from and neither can you.
Brahms Heelshire
The first time you step into his manor, Brahms watches from the walls. He sees you touch the mirrors gently. He hears your question whispered into the empty air. “Am I beautiful?”
You do not raise your voice. That haunts him more than screams. Brahms becomes fascinated. You’re quiet, ghostlike, never seeking attention. He relates to that. Eventually, he leaves you notes: Yes, you are beautiful. He leaves you masks, ribbons, small tokens. He mimics you.
He wants you to live in the walls with him.
Forever.
Jack Torrance
It’s late. The halls are quiet. He’s got a drink in hand that doesn’t exist, muttering to himself about being misunderstood. Then you appear.
Your scissors click gently as you walk.
“Am I beautiful?”
Jack stiffens. Turns. Blinks. He tries to place you—are you a ghost? A nurse? A hallucination? His grin flickers at the corners of his mouth, like a man deciding whether to be charmed or terrified.
You remove your mask. He sees the bloody slashes carved across your face.
And Jack?
He laughs—this deep, cracked bark of a laughter. “Honey,” he finally speaks, “you should see what I look like inside.” He taps his head. “Now that’s ugly.”
But then his face shifts. Gets darker.
He steps closer. “Tell me—did someone do that to you? Or did you do it to yourself? Because if it was someone else…maybe I can go pay ‘em a visit. With an axe.”
He sees something in you—a madness like his own, just…colder. More deliberate. He respects that. Maybe envies it. You’re the kind of woman he might fall in love with in a fever dream and kill in the same night. He is a man who never respected his wife all that much as a living husband—perhaps this is his chance of doing something right for once.
Pennywise
He’s fascinated by your ability to strike fear—not through brute strength, but through intimate horror. You play with your prey. You tease. You make them question their sanity. Pennywise lives for that.
But he also senses your rage—something deep and old and personal. You weren’t just made a killer…you were shaped by betrayal. And that’s something he deeply respects and understands. He was betrayed when he was human…betrayed by people he thought he could trust.
He sees you as a fellow predator. Maybe even a rival. Maybe…a perfect partner in fear.
As for your question? Are you beautiful?
Well…
“I can’t say. Lost the ability to see any beauty in this world a long time ago. Sorry, sugar…” Pennywise replies…He even adresses you a sad smile—or so you think.
Penny
You ask, “Am I beautiful?” in that soft, silken tone of yours, mask covering the cruel slashes underneath.
Penny’s reaction? He laughs.
Not mockingly—but like a kid who’s just been handed a brand-new toy with blood on it. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what true beauty is. He claps, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes lighting up with glee.
When you reveal your slit mouth, expecting horror?
He leans in. Nose almost touching yours, eyes roaming the scars with genuine curiosity and fascination. “Now that’s a smile. Puts the Joker’s little face-carving habit to shame.”
He doesn’t fear you. He adores you.
He’ll follow you around like a bloodstained puppy, offering you balloon animals shaped like scissors, whispering ideas for new victims. He’ll dramatize your legend, spin tales about you to the other slashers, and try to impress you with circus tricks and cannibalism.
Freddy
You’re in his domain.
It starts like all his dreams do—darkness dripping down the walls, a school hallway melting into a boiler room, the air thick with smoke and rot. Then you appear, quiet, floating at the edges of the dream like a ghost that doesn’t belong to him.
That alone pisses him off.
He narrows his eyes and lets out a raspy chuckle. “Now what the hell are ya supposed to be, sweetheart?” he growls, leaning back against a pipe, claws scraping casually against metal.
Then you ask him: “Am I beautiful?”
Still masked. Still eerily still. Freddy’s smirk falters just slightly. He’s seen monsters. He is one. But there’s something uncanny about your voice—smooth, tragic, intimate. Like a lullaby hummed while drowning a child. He watches you with new eyes, no longer a predator staring at prey, but a predator sizing up something worse.
And then you remove the mask.
The slit mouth. The scars. The smile that wasn’t born—it was carved.
Freddy doesn’t flinch. He stares for a beat too long. Then licks his lips and grins wide—mocking, hungry, but undeniably impressed. “Now that’s a smile to die for.”
He paces slowly around you, claws tapping. “You’re not just a ghost story, huh? You want ‘em to look. You make ‘em answer. Then you rip ‘em apart when they get it wrong. But there ain’t no good answer, is there?”
He doesn’t flirt with you. He knows you’re not the kind of killer who can be seduced or baited. You’re deliberate. You’re a question with no right answer. You enjoy watching people unravel in the pause between “yes” and “no.”
“Tell me, sugar,” he rasps in your ear, “what do you really want? Screams? Blood? Or simply for humanity to pay for what they did to you?”
He’s testing you. Trying to get in your head. He might offer you a place in his dreamscape, a shared playground of screams. But deep down, he’s nervous. Because he knows if you ever forced an answer out of him, he might not survive. Because there are NO right answer.
Bo Sinclair
You’re leaning against the side of the gas station, late at night, scissors glinting in the moonlight. Bo comes out, wiping his hands off with a rag, grease and blood still on his knuckles. He’s muttering about tourists until he spots you.
Still. Silent. Masked.
“Am I beautiful?”
Bo freezes mid-step. You’re blocking the way to his truck. Mask on. Posture stiff. Hair obscuring part of your face like a porcelain doll that’s been dropped too many times.
He looks you up and down slowly. “Well, hell. You’re either real bold…or real stupid.”
He doesn’t scare easy. But something about you—it’s off. The way you tilt your head, the way you wait too long for a response—it crawls under his skin in a way that no tourist ever has.
When you remove the mask? When he sees your slashed smile, that bloodstained elegance, the ghost-like patience in your eyes? He still doesn’t flinch. But he does back up half a step. “Shit,” he mutters, voice quieter. “You ain’t no tourist.”
Bo isn’t afraid—he’s calculating. If you’re dangerous, that means you can be useful. But if you’re unhinged? That’s a different game.
“Yeah,” he drawls, eyeing you warily. “You’re beautiful, alright. Beautiful and…fuckin’ terrifying.”
He starts flirting after that. Not because he wants to win you over, but because flirting is his favorite defense mechanism. “Ya ever get tired of that scissor routine, sweetheart? I got a place for ya in Ambrose if ya want. Ain’t every day I meet a woman who makes me nervous.”
He sees you as dangerous, potentially useful, and maybe someone who gets what it’s like to wear a mask—literally and emotionally. He flirts to mask his unease. Will 100% watch his back around you.
Vincent Sinclair
Vincent sees you first from a distance. You’re standing completely still in front of Trudy’s wax museum, head tilted towards the door like you’re listening to something only you can hear. Your presence is so still, so unnatural, he doesn’t think you’re real at first. He watches through the gaps in the curtains, completely silent, until you finally speak:
“Am I beautiful?”
It echoes—not just through the air, but through something in him. When you remove the mask, Vincent doesn’t react with horror. He studies. Tilts his own head like a mirror to yours. You’re an anomaly. Something broken yet whole. Tragic, cruel, and quiet. You remind him of his own face—scarred and hidden. You carry pain like art. That slit smile is grotesque, but there’s precision in it. Drama. Story.
He doesn’t speak, but he slowly raises his sketchbook, flipping to a blank page. He draws you. Later, he’ll sculpt you in wax. Not as a monster—no. As a goddess of vengeance.
If you linger long enough, you’ll catch him leaving you small offerings: a wax figurine. A ribboned mask. Scissors carved from bone…
Lester Sinclair
You cross paths with Lester in the woods near the outskirts of Ambrose. He’s dragging a roadkill bag, whistling low, when he hears your voice behind him:
“Am I beautiful?”
He turns around slow. Real slow.
You’re standing at the tree line. Motionless. Holding scissors that catch the dying light just right. You’ve got a kind of sadness in your tone that he can’t quite put his finger on.
He stares. Doesn’t move. Then offers the most honest thing he’s got: “…I dunno yet.”
You blink. Maybe you’re thrown off. Most people either scream or lie.
But Lester just shrugs and looks you in the eye. “Don’t mean nothin’ if ya look beautiful, miss. That ain’t the part that matters.”
You show your scars. You wait for the scream, the flinch, the rejection.
But Lester just…nods. “I seen worse. Hell, I been worse. You’re still walkin’, right? That’s somethin’.”
He doesn’t try to flirt. Doesn’t try to run. He treats you like someone real—like a human being. Later, he might offer you a ride in his truck without asking questions. He won’t try to fix you. He just figures maybe, if you’re killin’ folks, there’s a good reason behind it. And if not—well, everyone’s got demons.
Might even offer you jerky and a juice box.
Ghostface Eddie
Eddie’s seen blood. He’s spilled it, soaked his Ghostface robe in it. He’s chased prey through their own homes while laughing in their ears. He lives for the adrenaline—the theatrics. A true performer.
But the first time he sees you? You don’t run. You don’t cry. You don’t even breathe like someone alive. You’re standing there—long coat, scissors glinting, mask hiding a promise of horror—and the first thing you do is tilt your head ever so slightly and ask:
“Am I beautiful?”
And Eddie? He actually shuts the hell up for a second. There’s this moment—this brief, rare flicker of silence in his always-running mind—where he stares at you and just processes what’s happening.
“…Okay,” he finally says, voice breaking into a nervous chuckle. “What the fuck are you?”
Then you take off your mask. The slit mouth. That slow reveal. The look in your eyes like you’re watching to see which version of yourself he’ll react to—pretty or monstrous.
He doesn’t flinch. He stares. Lips parted, something akin to fascination blooming behind his dark eyes.
Then he finally reacts…
“…That’s metal as fuck.”
Eddie lives for unpredictability. For chaos in beautiful packaging. And you? You’re a ghost story brought to life. He wants to understand you. Wants to know why you kill, how you kill, whether you truly smile under that mask or if that’s all someone else’s handiwork.
“Do you ever get tired of asking? Like, does it matter what the answer is? What if I said you were the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen—what would you do? Would you kill me?” His grin widens, daring. “Always wanted a pretty woman to take me out.”
Heath Ledger’s Joker
You show up during one of his heists. Face hidden. Voice soft. “Am I beautiful?”
Joker laughs—not because he finds you funny, but because he gets it. He claps his hands, points at you, and practically howls.
“You’re askin’ me that? Look at this smile!” he says, pointing at his own grin. “We match!”
He loves you. He sees your question as performance art. Your violence? An aesthetic. Your mask? Symbolism. You are, to him, a tragicomic masterpiece of society gone wrong.
“You and me? We’re chaos. You ask, and they lie. I don’t ask—I take. But that grin?” He smiles, touching his own face. “Now that…that’s art.”
He follows you around like a man possessed. Tries to make you laugh. Tries to get you to go off-script. He pushes buttons just to see if you’ll lose it. But in quiet moments, he stares at your face—not in pity, but respect. He knows that behind that smile…there is a woman who suffered far more than she should have.
Society is broken. You are just another one of its victims.
Just saw that one gif of the couple in a haunted house where the guy pushes the girl in front of the “killer” and runs away, so said killer gives the girl his knife and she chases after her man. Could you write a similar scenario. Whether the killer hands reader their weapon, reader asks for it or just takes it, I just think it’s kinda funny. Reader’s boyfriend shoves her in front of the killer and books it so reader ends up with the slasher’s weapon and goes after her boyfriend herself. I’d like Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees please but if you wanna add anyone I certainly won’t stop you.
Slashers' Reaction when they See the Reader being Offered as Bait by Her Own Boyfriend.
Summary: When your cowardly boyfriend shoves you into the path of infamous slashers to save himself, you don’t scream—you get even. Each killer watches you take their weapon and chase down your backstabbing boyfriend with rage, sarcasm and style. Turns out, the real horror isn’t the killer... it’s dating a man with no spine.
Includes: Michael Myers, Jason Voorhes, Bo Sinclair, Charles Lee Ray, Billy Loomis & Stu Macher
A/N: I found this request very interesting, I certainly wouldn't let it go if it were me. Thank you for sending the request, I loved writing it and imagining the scene.
Michael Myers
You should’ve known something was off the second your boyfriend suggested the two of you “go for a walk through Haddonfield” at night.
“It’s Halloween,” you said.
“Exactly,” he replied, smug. “Let’s live a little.”
So you ended up strolling near Lampkin Lane, where the houses were quiet, the wind was sharp, and something was watching you. You turn the corner near the old, abandoned Myers house—the one that’s still cordoned off with faded “No Trespassing” signs and urban legends as thick as fog. The porch creaks in the distance. Somewhere, a swing sways on rusted chains, though there’s no breeze.
Your boyfriend chuckles nervously beside you.
“This is kinda spooky, huh?”
“Yeah,” you mutter, eyeing the dark windows. “I told you this wasn’t a good idea.”
Suddenly, something shifts in the shadows. A figure steps into the orange glow of a flickering streetlamp at the end of the block.
Tall. Silent. White mask. Mechanic’s suit.
Michael. Myers.
You freeze.
He’s far away—but not far enough.
Then your boyfriend, in a move so quick and selfish it would impress Olympic sprinters, screams like a banshee and SHOVES you toward the street—toward him.
“OH MY GOD! TAKE HER!” he shrieks. “TAKE HER, NOT ME!”
You stumble into the road, landing on your hands and knees.
“Are you KIDDING ME?!” you shout, spinning around to watch him full-on sprint in the opposite direction.
You can’t believe it. Your boyfriend just offered you to Michael freaking Myers like a sacrifice in sneakers.
You turn back.
Michael is still there. Watching. Still as a statue. His head tilts.
You meet his dark, unreadable eyes behind the mask.
“…I’m not with him anymore,” you mutter.
He slowly approaches. No words. Just the rhythmic sound of his boots crunching on leaves. He stops in front of you, towering and ominous, the chef’s knife in his gloved hand glinting under the moonlight.
You brace for the worst.
Then… Michael raises the knife—slowly—and flips it.
He holds it out to you. Handle first.
You blink. “Wait—are you… giving this to me?”
The silence is deafening.
You glance over your shoulder. You can still hear your ex-boyfriend screaming in the distance, fumbling with a chain-link fence and tripping like he’s in a bad horror movie.
You look back at Michael. His hand doesn’t waver.
“…Hell yes,” you mutter, and take the knife.
You get up. Your shoulders square. You’re no longer the girl who got shoved into danger.
You’re the danger.
“Thanks, Mikey,” you say, not expecting a response. But you swear—swear—his head tilts just a bit more. Like amusement. Then you take off, knife in hand, stalking your way through Haddonfield.
“HEY, JAMES!” you yell into the night. “I’M GONNA CARVE OUT THE WORD ‘COWARD’ ON YOUR BACK!”
From down the road, your ex screams. “WHY ARE YOU SIDING WITH THE KILLER?!”
You shout, “BECAUSE THE KILLER HAS MORE INTEGRITY THAN YOU!”
Michael watches from the shadows, the slightest movement betraying what might almost be a nod of approval.
For tonight, Haddonfield’s boogeyman takes a break.
You’ve got vengeance covered.
.
Jason Voorhees
You weren’t thrilled about this trip to Camp Crystal Lake in the first place. Your boyfriend had sold it as a “fun, spooky weekend getaway”—just you two, nature, and some “light ghost hunting” for his vlog.
You hadn’t signed up to get eaten alive by mosquitoes, much less the thought of possibly running into Jason freaking Voorhees. Still, you tried to enjoy it. The lake was beautiful in that eerie, mist-covered way. You even held his hand while walking the trails after sundown, lantern swinging in your grip, nerves humming with unease.
That’s when you heard it—a twig snapping, somewhere off the trail.
Your boyfriend froze, eyes wide. “D-did you hear that?”
You sighed, half-annoyed. “It’s probably a deer or—”
Crunch.
Another step. Heavy. Deliberate. Slow.
You both turned.
And there he was.
Jason Voorhees.
Towering. Silent. Mask glinting pale in the moonlight. A blood-stained machete gripped in his hand like an extension of his soul. You took a shocked step back. You weren’t even sure if you screamed. But your boyfriend?
He screamed louder than you’ve ever heard a grown man scream. Full panic mode. Then, without warning—
HE SHOVES YOU FORWARD.
“TAKE HER!” he shrieks, dead serious, and takes off running like a cartoon character on fast-forward.
You stumble, barely catching yourself before hitting the forest floor. Heart racing, hands trembling—you look up, expecting death.
Jason hasn’t moved.
He just stares at you.
You look back in the direction your boyfriend fled, the underbrush still shaking from his cowardice.
Then you turn back to Jason. And it clicks.
“...Did he seriously throw me to you like I’m a Scooby-Doo extra?”
Jason doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. But somehow, you know he gets it. The way his mask tilts slightly, just enough to read like confusion and maybe even a little pity—it’s almost comical.
You wipe some dirt off your pants. “You know what? Screw it. You’re not the scariest guy out here tonight.”
Jason just stands there. Then, slowly, he flips the machete in his hand and holds it out to you.
Handle first. No sound. No words. Just… an offer.
You stare at it.
Then, slowly, grin.
“Oh... Oh, you’re my new best friend.”
You take it. It’s heavy—really heavy—but you’re running on pure adrenaline and RAGE now.
“Thank you, Mr. Voorhees,” you say, sincerely. “I’ll bring it back with blood on it.”
You spin around and stalk into the woods, machete dragging across the dirt, screaming your boyfriend’s name into the trees:
“YOU THREW ME TO JASON VORHEES, YOU SPINELESS TOAD?! YOU’D BETTER HOPE HE KILLS YOU FIRST!”
Somewhere in the distance, you hear a terrified voice yell, “OH GOD SHE HAS A MACHETE—JASON, STOP HER!”
Jason doesn’t move. He watches you vanish into the trees, his massive shoulders rising and falling once with what might—might—have been the ghost of a laugh.
He doesn’t need to lift a finger tonight.
You’ve got it covered.
.
Bo Sinclair
Ambrose wasn’t even supposed to be on the way. You’d both taken the detour after your boyfriend swore up and down it would be a "fun, spooky, abandoned town Instagram thing." Classic him. Anything for the views, right?
But now?
You’re standing in the middle of Main Street—surrounded by wax figures, everything dead silent—and you’re glaring at your boyfriend, who’s just realized the garage isn’t as empty as it looks.
Bo Sinclair steps out of the shadows, wiping his hands with a rag, eyes landing on you both like a lion sighting fresh meat.
"Well, well," he says, slow Southern drawl curling around his smirk. "Y’all lost or just dumb?"
You don’t even get a chance to answer.
Your boyfriend screams—like, actual scream—and grabs you by the shoulders.
“TAKE HER!” he shouts, shoving you toward Bo with both hands. You stumble, trip, and land at Bo’s feet.
Then the bastard runs. Full sprint. Down the road. No looking back.
You lie there for a second, stunned, blinking up at the sky.
Bo just blinks down at you, his expression blank for a beat.
Then his lips twitch.
Then he bursts out laughing.
“Oh, goddamn," he wheezes, clutching his stomach. "You see that? He tossed you like a sack o' potatoes!”
“Yeah,” you mutter, standing up and brushing off your clothes. “Believe me, I felt it.”
Bo whistles, still grinning. “Girl, he didn’t just throw you under the bus, he started the engine and reversed over you twice.”
You’re still glaring after your fleeing boyfriend’s back. The rage is setting in. Humiliation burning behind your eyes.
“Unbelievable,” you mutter. “He really left me to die.”
Bo wipes his eyes, watching you with interest now. “So what’re you gonna do, sweetheart? Scream? Cry? Run after ‘im?”
You inhale sharply, glance over at the tool bench behind Bo… and then look at the wrench in his hand. Your eyes narrow. Bo watches you eye it. Then, with the ease of someone offering a gift, he flips it around and holds it out handle-first.
“Tell ya what," he says with a grin. "You wanna clock him one? I won’t stop ya. Hell, I’ll even give you a five-minute head start before I come collect what’s left.”
You take the wrench.
It's heavy. Cold. Satisfying.
You grin wickedly. “I’m not gonna kill him.”
Bo lifts a brow. “No?”
“Just gonna remind him that if he’s gonna throw me to the wolves, he better hope they’re hungrier than I am.”
Bo gives a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn, girl.”
You start marching in the direction your boyfriend ran, full murder in your stride.
As you pass a wax figure of a man mid-scream, you mutter, “Better start running faster, Jason. I’ve got a wrench and no sense of mercy right now.”
Bo watches you go, still smiling, his arms folded.
“Gotta admit,” he says under his breath, “I kinda wanna see how that turns out.”
.
Charles Lee Ray (Chucky)
“Babe, this is not funny anymore,” you hiss, clutching your coat tighter against the biting wind. “We were supposed to be in Little Italy. Where the hell are we?”
Your boyfriend glances over his shoulder, jumping at every shadow. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he mutters. “Let’s just keep walking. There’s gotta be a main street nearby.”
A garbage can rattles.
You both freeze.
Then comes the sound of tiny footsteps… fast. Too fast.
And then you see it.
A doll. A little red-haired Good Guy doll. Just standing at the end of the alley.
“What the f—” you begin.
And then it moves. Fast, like a blur, and suddenly that high-pitched, gravelly voice cuts through the silence.
“Hi, I’m Chucky. Wanna die?”
The doll leaps toward you both.
Your boyfriend screams like a child at Chuck E. Cheese and, without a moment’s hesitation, grabs you by the arm and throws you in front of him like a ragdoll.
“TAKE HER!” he yells, already bolting down the alley like his soul’s on fire.
You land hard on your hip, scraping your palm against the concrete. “You son of a—!”
Chucky skids to a stop, blinking down at you as you sit there on the ground, stunned and seething.
“…Damn,” Chucky mutters, cocking his plastic head. “That guy really tossed you like yesterday’s trash. That’s cold.”
You slowly push yourself up, wiping blood off your palm. “You think?”
Chucky shrugs, then straightens up, switching the bloody knife in his tiny hand to a reverse grip. “Normally, this is the part where I stab you and laugh about it, but…”
He glances down the alley, where your boyfriend’s distant scream echoes into the night. “I think I just found someone I’d rather gut.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”
There’s a pause. Then you step forward.
“…Let me see that.”
Chucky eyes you. “You wanna borrow my knife?”
“I insist.”
He grins wide, teeth sharp behind the plastic sheen of his face. “You’ve got style, sweetheart.”
He hands it over, hilt first. You feel the weight of it—smaller than you expected, but razor sharp and warm. You give it a test twirl, then glance down the alley where your dear boyfriend disappeared.
You take a deep breath, grit your teeth, and start walking.
“YOU CHOSE ME TO DIE, YOU LITTLE COWARD?” you bellow into the dark. “YOU USED ME AS A HUMAN SHIELD FOR A DOLL?!”
You break into a sprint, blade gleaming.
Behind you, Chucky watches with absolute delight.
“Y’know,” he says to no one in particular, lighting a cigarette, “I think I’m in love.”
Then he casually strolls after you, whistling.
.
Billy Loomis (Ghostface)
The old Macher house had been abandoned since Stu's party. Of course it had—the murders, the blood, the urban legends whispered through Woodsboro’s halls made sure of that. But your boyfriend had dared you to break in with him anyway.
"It’s just an old house," he said. "Nothing’s gonna happen."
You should’ve known something was off the moment the door creaked open by itself.
You wandered the trashed kitchen, cobwebs stringing across cabinets like decaying tinsel. Somewhere down the hallway, something thumped. You froze. He grabbed your arm.
Then the phone rang.
Not a cell phone.
A landline.
On the counter. Plugged into nothing.
You blinked. Your boyfriend picked it up, smirking like a frat boy on Halloween.
“Hello?” A pause.
Then a voice, low, amused, just slightly familiar.
“Do you like scary movies?”
His face went white. “Wh—What? Who is this?”
Your stomach dropped.
“Nope,” he said, slamming the receiver down. “Nope nope nope nope—”
But it was too late. From the hallway, Ghostface stepped out.
Not a replica. Not a costume.
The Ghostface.
He held the knife low, that signature gliding gait stalking slowly forward.
Your boyfriend’s survival instincts kicked in—and unfortunately for you, those instincts said sacrifice your girlfriend.
“TAKE HER!” he shrieked, physically shoving you forward into Ghostface’s path, then booking it full-speed out the back door, limbs flailing like a Scooby-Doo reject.
You hit the ground with a grunt. Time froze. The killer stared down at you. His knife gleamed. But then—he tilted his head, like you were more interesting than expected.
The mask came off.
You gasped.
“Billy?”
Billy Loomis smirked down at you, all smugness and shadowed cheekbones.
"Hi, sweetheart."
You scrambled to your feet. “Are you KIDDING ME?!”
He nodded toward the door your boyfriend had just sprinted through like the coward he was.
“He really just did that,” Billy mused. “Didn’t even hesitate. Just… ‘here, kill my girlfriend, I gotta run.’” He mimicked your boyfriend’s scream with a chuckle. “Classic.”
You glared, chest heaving. “I’m going to kill him.”
Billy raised a brow. “You sure you need me to do it?”
There was a pause. A tense, burning one.
Then you lifted your hand, palm open.
Billy blinked.
“…Can I borrow the knife?”
Billy looked down at the weapon in his hand. Then at you. Then back to the hallway.
“You know what?” he said, almost tenderly. “You’ve earned this.”
He flipped the knife and offered it to you, handle-first. Your fingers curled around it. It was still warm from his grip.
“Thanks,” you growled, eyes blazing. “I’ll bring it back with blood.”
“You better,” he replied, stepping back and watching like a proud director. “Make it messy.”
You threw open the back door and stormed into the night, yelling after your now-regretful boyfriend:
“YOU LEFT ME TO DIE, YOU CHEAP-SHOE-WEARING, NO-LOYALTY-HAVING DOLLAR STORE SCREAM QUEEN!”
Somewhere in the trees, your boyfriend screamed again.
Billy leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms as he watched the carnage unfold in the distance.
He gave a small, satisfied smile.
“Damn,” he murmured. “I think I’m in love.”
.
Stu Macher (Ghostface)
It was supposed to be a fun night.
The local horror maze downtown had been canceled last minute, so your boyfriend had the brilliant idea to “break into the old abandoned farmhouse on the edge of Woodsboro,” which in hindsight was like asking to die in the first ten minutes of a horror movie.
“C’mon, babe,” he’d said, “It’s totally safe. We’ll be in and out. No psycho killers, promise.”
You’d rolled your eyes but agreed—because hey, what could go wrong?
The house creaked like it wanted to collapse on you. Dust curled off the stairs. Every door groaned like a warning. You were maybe two steps inside when a TV flickered to life in the corner of the room, showing a grainy VHS of old horror movie clips—then cut suddenly to live footage of you two standing right there in the house.
“What the hell—” you whispered.
That's when you heard it. The low, distorted voice from behind:
“Wanna play a game?”
You turned just in time to see Ghostface—tall, lanky, and looming—emerge from the hallway with a gleaming knife in hand.
And your boyfriend?
Your loving, caring, chivalrous boyfriend?
He screamed at a pitch only dogs could hear, shoved you toward the killer like a sandbag, and ran.
Not a glance back. Not a “run!”
Just: “YOU’RE ON YOUR OWN, BABE!”
You hit the floor hard, wind knocked out of you, staring after him.
Ghostface froze. There was a pause… and then a very familiar wheezy laugh behind the mask.
“Oh my god,” the killer wheezed, pulling the mask off with a flourish. “Did that dude just yeet you at me?!”
You blinked.
“Stu?!”
“Sup!” he said, waving with the knife still in hand. “Didn’t know it was you, swear. Thought I was doing the old ‘boo and stab’ tonight. But wow, your man just offered you up like a Happy Meal.”
You sat up, groaning. “He shoved me so hard I almost blacked out.”
Stu held his stomach, doubled over in laughter. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—he was like ‘TAKE HER, OH MIGHTY KNIFE DEMON, SHE’S THE SACRIFICE.’”
You rubbed your temple. “I should stab him.”
He froze, then lit up. “Wait. Wait. You should! Here—” he spun the knife in his hand and offered it, handle-first. “Go get him, tiger.”
You hesitated.
Stu leaned in, grinning. “You know you want to.”
“…You know what? Screw it.”
You snatched the knife, stood, and dusted yourself off.
“I’m gonna murder him. With my words. Maybe the knife. TBD.”
Stu made an exaggerated swoon motion. “Oh my god. You’re so hot right now.”
You stormed out the front door with purpose, knife in hand. “I SEE YOU HIDING BEHIND THE TRASHCAN, JEREMY! DON’T THINK I WON’T DUMP YOU WITH A KNIFE IN MY HAND!”
From behind, Stu followed casually with the Ghostface mask hanging off one hand and a big grin on his face.
“If you stab him, I’m definitely taking you to prom.”
hihi! i just finished watching the new little mermaid for the idk-th time, it’s my favorite movie right now and i got an idea i wanted to request. how would Jason react to an s/o who is a mermaid or half mermaid. and she’s just kinda been hanging out in the lake for a while until he finds her. i love your blog! have a good day/night 💕
When Jason first met you, he was confused on how you were surviving in an abandoned camp forest. Even when you assured him you were doing just fine, he couldn’t help but feel like he needed to protect you now that he knows that you exist
He thought mermaids were only in fairytales. Remembering small stories his mother used to tell him
Half mermaid or not, you’re still a mermaid, which means that you could be targeted given you’re a creature of a sort. His hunts are more quick with determine just to be sure no one would go to the lake and find out you’re there.
He comes to the dock any chance he gets. Finding flowers he picked out from the ground to place in your hair, and in return you’d fine cool rocks for him, sometimes you wished you could find seashells, they’re more prettier than rocks.
There’s not much to eat in the camp, but Jason still finds a way to bring you food (that’s if you eat)
He thinks you’re a beautiful mermaid. And won’t let you talk bad about it yourself otherwise, he observes how long you can be on land before heading back into the water. Whenever the time is up he’ll gently push you into the water just so you can breathe
Doesn’t mind getting wet whenever you reach up out of the dock to hug him. It’s the least of his concerns
He’ll jolt in shock every time you trick him into leaning closer to the edge just to kiss his mask/masked nose
•he's not one to openly comfort or reassure someone, he might respect your space and continue with whatever he was doing without making you feel uncomfortable.
• If anything, his presence might make you feel safe in the sense that he's not aggressive toward you, despite his usual intimidating nature.
•you were shy in a way that made you avoid eye contact or seem anxious around him, he might simply observe you silently, possibly out of curiosity, but wouldn't push you to change.
•He may, however, subtly show a protective side by ensuring that no one else is a threat, even if he does so in his usual quiet, distant way. Though, they were rarely any threats coming to you, due to your shyness.
•If he's being honest, he thinks your shyness is adorable but just a "little".
Thomas Hewitt
•He isn’t very verbal himself, so he’d understand and respect your quiet nature, never pushing you to speak more than you’re comfortable with.
•Since he isn’t great with words, he’d show affection through actions—bringing your food, fixing things for you, or making sure you feel safe.
•While he might be shy himself, he’d likely enjoy small touches (holding hands, gentle cuddles) when your alone.
•If you are shy and also struggles with communication, there might be moments of awkward but endearing silence, with him just waiting for you to make a move before responding.
•He’d be terrifying to anyone who tried to bother you, but his demeanor would change entirely when interacting with you, becoming softer and more careful.
Bubba Sawyer
•Bubba can be surprisingly gentle, especially if he sees you as something precious. However, his affection might be overwhelming since he isn’t great at understanding boundaries.
•Bubba is incredibly protective of those he cares about. If you are shy, he might instinctively shield you from strangers or his more aggressive brothers.
•Bubba would likely become attached quickly, especially if you are one of the few people kind to him. He might follow you around or whimper if you try to leave without him.
•If you are too shy to ask for things, he might instinctively pick up on your needs and provide without you having to say much.
•The Sawyer family can be cruel, so Bubba may feel torn between them and you. If your scared of his family, he’d try to comfort you, though he might not always be able to protect you from teasing.
•Drayton or Nubbins might push you around to see how you would react, which could lead to Bubba getting defensive.
Jason Voorhees
•Jason Voorhees is an entirely different kind of partner compared to Bubba.
•Jason is massive and terrifying to most, but with you, he would be as gentle as possible. If you flinch or shy away from something, he would pause, trying to make himself less intimidating.
•Jason shows love through actions rather than words. He might leave little gifts, like flowers or pretty stones he finds in the forest.
•He would help with daily tasks, carrying things for you or fixing broken items without being asked.
•While he may not initiate physical affection often, if you hug him or reaches for his hand, he will absolutely melt.
•Since Jason doesn’t talk, he’s great at nonverbal communication. He learns your body language and emotions quickly.
•If you seem uncomfortable, he’ll remove you from the situation without a word. He never pressures you to talk; he’s happy just being in your presence.
•He wouldn’t tolerate anyone mistreating you and would eliminate any threats without hesitation. If you are anxious, he’ll stay by your side as long as you need, offering silent comfort.
Hi Charlie! Just a random question...we know from previous fics/reactions that Jason and Brahms are like, besties with eachother in St.Louis...Could you maybe write how they meet and began their friendship...was Jason at facility before or after Brahms...?
(Sorry for potential bad spelling, English isn't my first language)
Brahms had been in St. Louis for a while, tucked into his routines—silent breakfasts, pacing the hallways, and retreating to corners where he could observe without being seen. He didn’t talk much unless necessary, preferring the company of shadows and the occasional hum of a lullaby under his breath. He didn’t expect anyone new to catch his attention.
Then Jason arrived.
It wasn’t subtle. The staff struggled to contain him—a towering figure with hollow eyes behind a cracked hockey mask, his silence heavier than Brahms’ own. He didn’t flinch when sedatives were injected, didn’t respond when called by name. Just stood there, breathing like a quiet storm waiting to break.
Brahms watched from afar at first, curious about this new mountain of a man. There was something comforting about Jason’s stillness, the way he didn’t fill the air with meaningless words. He was just there, like a monument carved from grief and rage. Brahms liked that he respected boundaries—until he no longer did. Brahms avoided him at first. Until one night.
The day they made Brahms share a room with Jason was the day the walls of St. Louis felt too small.
He stood in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his porcelain mask tilted just enough to glare at the staff with thinly veiled contempt. His room—his sanctuary, his carefully controlled space—was no longer his.
Because of him.
Jason Voorhees stood near the window, towering and silent, his cracked hockey mask reflecting the muted light. His duffel bag, filled with whatever minimal belongings the staff allowed him to keep, sat untouched on the floor. Jason didn’t acknowledge Brahms, didn’t even turn his head. Just stood there, as if the very air belonged to him now.
Brahms huffed dramatically, dropping onto his neatly made bed with an exaggerated flop, limbs splayed like a petulant child. “I don’t want a roommate,” he snapped, voice sharp and dripping with disdain. He glared at the staff member lingering in the doorway, waiting to mediate.
“Facility’s full,” the nurse replied curtly. “You’ll adjust.”
Brahms didn’t adjust. Not that day. Not the next.
Jason rarely engaged with anyone, his silence and intimidating aura kept most people at bay. He mostly spent time outside, tending to the garden, or in his room, flipping through old books about camping and fishing. Jason—this massive figure looming in the hallway or sitting silently in the common area—made Brahms nervous. Jason was even taller than him, stronger, and completely unreadable.
For the first few days, he made it his mission to be as irritating as humanly possible. He left his belongings in precise, territorial lines—books stacked with the spines facing a specific direction, his carved dolls positioned ominously on Jason’s side of the room. He hummed lullabies too loudly, stomped around unnecessarily, and muttered under his breath about “giant oafs with no manners.”
Jason never reacted. Not once.
That, of course, infuriated Brahms even more.
One night, after an especially frustrating day of being utterly ignored, Brahms decided to escalate. He deliberately shoved Jason’s duffel bag with the tip of his foot, sending it sliding a few inches across the floor. “Oh, dear. Did your precious little bag move ?” he sneered mockingly, crossing his arms and waiting—begging—for a reaction.
Jason finally moved.
Slowly, Jason turned his head, the cracked mask tilting just slightly, fixing Brahms with that hollow, expressionless stare. The room grew heavier, thick with unspoken tension.
Brahms’ smugness faltered for a fraction of a second.
Jason stepped forward—not fast, not aggressive, just deliberate. He crouched, picked up the bag, and slid it back without breaking eye contact. Then he stood, looming like a shadow stitched to the walls.
Brahms’ mouth opened, some snide remark teetering on the edge, but…nothing came out. His chest felt tight. Not with fear exactly—no, of course not—but with something unsettling.
Jason didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
Brahms climbed into bed without another sound that night, pulling the covers up to his chin, his heart pounding for reasons he didn’t understand.
But over the following weeks, the hostility faded—not because Jason demanded it, but because Jason never did.
Jason’s silence wasn’t a threat. It was just… there. Steady. Like a tree that didn’t care if Brahms shouted at it. And somewhere between petty jabs and tense stares, Brahms realized he didn’t mind the company.
A few days later:
The first time Jason had a nightmare, Brahms thought the walls were caving in.
It started with a sound—a low, guttural noise, something between a growl and a whimper. Brahms, curled up under his covers, stirred at the disturbance, irritated more than anything. He cracked open an eye, ready to snap at Jason for being loud—
Then Jason moved.
It was violent, sudden—his massive body jerking upright, fists clenched, breath ragged and wrong. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the window, Brahms could see the way Jason trembled, his whole frame shaking with something primal, something terrible.
Brahms barely had time to react before Jason lunged.
A massive hand clamped around his wrist, yanking him forward with terrifying strength. Brahms gasped, his back slamming against the mattress, Jason’s weight pinning him down in an instant.
“What are you doing ?! Unhand me this instant, you big stupid—!"
Oh.
Brahms’ eyes widened when he saw the giant’s eyes and the tears streaming down his face. He wasn’t awake. Not really. Jason’s hollow eyes were open but empty, lost in something far away. His breathing was uneven, harsh, almost pained. His fingers tightened around Brahms’ wrist, not crushing but firm, holding onto something—or someone—that wasn’t there anymore.
For the first time, Brahms felt the true extent of Jason’s strength. If Jason wanted to hurt him, if he really wanted to—there’d be nothing left of him but broken bones and bloodstains on the sheets.
But he didn’t.
Jason wasn’t attacking. He was reaching.
Brahms could feel it now, the way Jason’s grip wavered, like a drowning man clinging to the last thing keeping him afloat. It wasn’t aggression. It was fear.
Brahms went still.
For once, he didn’t fight. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t snap.
Instead, he moved.
With careful, deliberate intent, Brahms shifted—slowly, gently—until his arms circled Jason’s broad shoulders. And then, with more strength than people ever gave him credit for, he hugged him.
Jason tensed. Every muscle in his body locked tight, as if he was bracing for something awful.
Brahms didn’t let go.
His fingers curled into the fabric of Jason’s shirt, his breathing slow and steady. He wasn’t sure what made him do it—maybe it was the way Jason had never once lashed out at him despite his constant antagonizing, or maybe it was because he knew what it felt like to wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding from ghosts of the past.
So he held on. Firm, but not forceful. Protective, but not suffocating.
Jason’s breath hitched. His fist, still gripping Brahms’ arm, shook. And then, after what felt like an eternity, the tension melted.
Jason didn’t collapse, not entirely, but he slumped, his weight no longer rigid, no longer ready to fight. His breathing slowed, his grip loosening—not because he was letting go, but because he didn’t need to hold on so desperately anymore.
Brahms didn’t say anything. He just kept his arms around him, waiting, grounding.
Eventually, Jason shifted—silent, hesitant—and returned the hug.
Brahms exhaled, relaxing into it.
They didn’t talk about it in the morning…
But Jason never pulled away when Brahms sat closer after that.
Brahms had trouble sleeping himself. His nightmares were relentless, and that one night which was particularly bad. He had woken up drenched in sweat, his breath ragged. Feeling suffocated, he left his room and wandered the facility, ending up in the courtyard.
Jason was there.
Sitting on one of the benches, staring up at the sky. Just...sitting.
Brahms hesitated. He didn’t want to go back inside, but he also didn’t want to be near Jason. Yet, for some reason, he stayed. He sat on the opposite bench, far enough away to avoid feeling threatened but close enough that he wasn’t completely alone.
Neither of them spoke.
The silence stretched on.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, Jason shifted slightly and held something out. A small wooden figurine. Brahms hesitated before taking it.
It was a frog.
Brahms looked up, startled. Jason was watching him, tilting his head slightly as if waiting for a reaction.
Brahms turned the figurine over in his hands, running his fingers along the smooth, carved edges. It was simple but well-crafted—detailed enough to recognize as a frog, yet rough in a way that suggested it had been made with care rather than perfection. He swallowed, unsure what to say. Jason hadn’t spoken, hadn’t gestured, just…offered.
Brahms glanced up again, watching Jason’s mask in the dim courtyard light. The hulking man had returned to staring at the sky, as if nothing had happened.
Brahms shifted on the bench, the wooden frog warm in his palm. He wasn’t used to gifts. Not real ones, anyway. His fingers tightened around it. Say something. Do something. But words felt foreign, and he wasn’t sure Jason would care for them anyway. So instead, he did what felt natural.
He reached into the pocket of his cardigan and pulled out a small trinket—a marble, smooth and dark, with a swirl of deep blue in the center. Brahms had found it in the facility’s art room weeks ago and kept it ever since, fascinated by the way the light bent through it. He hesitated only a moment before leaning forward, placing it carefully on the bench between them.
Jason’s head turned slightly. He looked down at the marble, then back at Brahms.
For a moment, Brahms thought he had made a mistake. Maybe Jason wouldn’t understand. Maybe Jason didn’t trade. Or make friends. But then, with slow, deliberate movements, Jason picked up the marble between two fingers. Examined it. Turned it in the dim light the way Brahms had done countless times before.
Brahms held his breath.
Jason tucked the marble away in his pocket.
Brahms let out a quiet exhale, a strange warmth settling in his chest.
The silence stretched on again, but this time it felt different. Lighter. Jason returned to looking at the sky. Brahms, still holding the small wooden frog, followed his gaze.
For the first time in a long time, the night didn’t feel so lonely.
“…Pretty.” Brahms said after a few seconds and Jason gave a slow nod. It was an odd friendship, built on silence, stolen moments, and quiet understanding.
But it worked.
And since then, they have been best buddies and even when the nurses tried to separate them—they couldn’t because Brahms would start crying and Jason would start cutting off heads. So for the safety of all, they stayed roommates.
…..
Brahms: “Jason ! There’s ice cream at the cafeteria !”
Jason *stands up as fast as he can and they both run for it—Brahms waiting for him every time the big guy trips and falls in his hurry because he wants to enjoy ice cream with his best bud.*
Synopsis : The story of how Jason was caught and sent to St Louis. Enjoy.
WARNING: PLUS SIZE READER, BULLYING AND MAIN CHARACTER’S DEATH ! ANGST ! SO MUCH PAIN AND ANGST !
It had never been easy to fit in. People tended to stay away from what they thought was different and as far as they were concerned, you were different. You had never been able to get out with a cute skirt without your thighs rubbing together and burning you. You couldn't run for long without feeling exhausted and there were no bakery lovers in town who didn't know your name.
You had tried diets of course, but it was difficult to stay in shape when the only real comfort you had ever felt in your life was from the very thing you had tried so hard to quit. And you couldn't get no card membership to the local gym, as you hated when people looked at you...
But, you had then managed to find one thing you could do without being bothered by your weight or other people’s stares. There was a particular spot near Crystal Lake where nobody ever went. People did say a monster lived there, but you hadn't seen any monsters so far. It was risky, but the risk was calculated. And, you also had no choice.
It was that, or staying at home every day until you grew roots and became a tree. And you weren't ready for that just yet. Besides, you liked Crystal Lake and never forgot to bring a gift for the forest's spirit. It was a silly old tradition to some, but you were one of the only people who did the right thing because they could—whether you believed in them or not.
So, after having left a couple of treats at your usual spot, you started undressing and made your way to the bridge. You couldn't wait to wash all your worries away. You felt at ease in the water, it made you feel refreshed and at peace. Of course, you never went to the lake during the holidays, knowing how people usually remembered its existence with the hot weather.
You normally never did things without thinking them through. You were the kind of girl to count every penny and check every corner for any danger that would come knocking at your door.
However, it was hot and sunny, and it was too much of a perfect opportunity to go take a swim to overlook. You knew the path by heart, the only one leading to Crystal Lake. You hummed on your way there and walked to the small pond—away from the crowded area. You walked in and the moment your body was submerged by water, you felt as if you could finally breathe. You were away from the town and of prying eyes—which was a bliss.
Being chubby was usually never easy to ignore, you had been a witness and a victim on many occasions. You had been called everything: pig, piggy, fatzo, fatty, miss bulges...At this point, you were happier in winter when you could cover yourself up than on spring break. But, like this, hidden by water and floating like a gentle leaf...you could easily get used to it.
But, you had forgotten about something.
You weren't the only one who knew about that particular secret spot.
Jason Voorhees knew it too…
Jason who was now observing you from afar, as he had been for the past few times you had come here. You were a regular. He knew all trespassers had to be taken care of, but he did leave a few of them alone when he was sure they weren't harmful. And, you seemed so happy inside his lake…He just couldn't resolve himself to take action right away. He had stayed hidden instead—behind a tree—when you had first appeared. He had also taken the things you had left on the way. Most of the time, it was food. But, sometimes he would be surprised by your offerings. You once brought a doll, a clipboard and a couple of CDs.
He knew they weren't for him, as you had never actually seen him, but he still accepted the gifts and let you use his lake as a thank you.
Even though, he sometimes observed you.
He couldn't help it, it had been a long time since he had allowed any visitors.
He watched as you closed your eyes with a small smile on your lips, your hands creating small ripples in the water as you kept yourself afloat. He had noticed that you usually never stayed out of the water too long without wrapping a towel around you. He didn't understand why—as he didn't understand the concept of shame. He thought you were beautiful...
He then heard other people come your way and groaned in annoyance. He was about to step out when he realized you would actually see him if he was to go see the new unwelcomed guests. He decided to stay hidden instead.
Unfortunately, you didn't hear the little crowd coming your way until it was too late.
The people were there and even though you were all shocked to see each other, one of the girls smirked maliciously as she called you—recognising you from her many trips to the bakery you assumed.
"Out for a swim, miss piggy ?! Oink oink !" It provoked general hilarity while you tried to swim away, but they wouldn't leave you be. One of the girls took a picture and laughed before whispering something in her boyfriend's ear. He nodded in agreement before grabbing your things and running away with them. You shouted at them to give them back, but the girl shouted back.
"GET OUT OF THE WATER, FATTY ! AND WE'LL BRING YOUR STUFF BACK ! PROMISE !" You felt hot tears run down your cheeks before you reluctantly indulged and got out of the water. The girls started giggling while the leader—you remembered her name was Kate—started taking more pictures of you as she agitated your towel right in front of your face—taunting you.
"Come on. Take it." You looked away and tried not to let them see how ashamed you were and the tears that were threatening to spill. You knew asking them to delete the pictures would be a waste of time. They would be circulating all over town by tomorrow morning.
You would have been happy if they at least had the decency to leave you the little dignity you had left. But, when you tried to take your towel back, the girl gripped it and instead of giving it back to you, she kicked you back in the water. You didn't expect it and started struggling to get back to the surface, one of the other girls started imitating pig squeals while another one started trying to sink you with a paddle.
"OINK OINK, PIGGY ! CAN'T EVEN SWIM RIGHT !" You were humiliated and now, you were scared they would actually drown you. The girl with the paddle prevented you from reaching the edge and you were starting to get tired. You tried to beg them, but only half-coherent gurgling sounds made itself past your lips, which only fuelled their amusement and cruel jeering.
"WHAT ?! WE THOUGHT YOU LIKED WATER ?! AREN'T YOU HIPPOS SUPPOSED TO BE GOOD AT SWIMMING, OR ARE YOU REALLY JUST A BIG FAT PIG ?!"
All you could do was endure it and hope they would eventually get bored. You let yourself be pulled to the bottom by gravity and were glad you couldn't see them anymore. You just wanted to disappear.
Jason's POV :
Jason witnessed the whole scene and felt his blood boiling in his veins. He had been bullied before, and it angered him to no end to see them hurt you. You had never disrespected his lake, you had even left gifts as an offering to the lake, showing you were a kind soul too.
And they dared hurt you. It wouldn't stand. He wouldn't let them hurt you anymore.
The moment you sank to the bottom, he got out of his hiding spot and trudged towards them with no hesitation whatsoever with his machete in hand. He swung it, and cut one of the girl's hands clean off. She hurled in pain as she held her bleeding hand and one of her friends tried to help her, but Jason slapped her so hard, she was knocked unconscious. He then stomped on their phones angrily and shattered them. The remaining girls immediately stood up to run away and Jason would have normally went after them, but he had more important things to take care of.
He jumped in the water after you, ignoring his fear of the water to go get you.
When he found you, he was scared he was too late. He grabbed you and carried you back to the surface. He then laid you down on the grass and checked that you were still breathing. Fortunately, he found a pulse and did the same gestures his mother had taught him the first time he had almost drowned. He refused to leave until he was sure you would be alright.
Once you coughed out the water in your lungs, you blinked twice before trying to make out the shadow standing before you. But, passed out again. Once he was convinced you would be alright, he took a second to admire your face and slowly ran his fingers along the side of it. Smooth…So smooth…He wanted to stay, but he knew you would most certainly be frightened by the sight of him when you would eventually wake up. He walked away instead.
Besides, the hunt wasn't over.
He still had to get rid of the people who had dared enter his forest and mock you.
It didn't take him long to find the boy who had stolen your bag. The boy laughed when he saw him and thought it was a costume at first.
"Sick costume, man. Where did you get it ?"
Instead of answering him, Jason twisted his neck. He didn't even try to hide the body. The animals would do it for him. Crystal lake was his domain and nobody could enter or exit without his approval. It was sacred ground, and Jason could feel when someone was foolish enough to try leaving.
It would take years before anyone would find the bodies of all the people he killed along the years.
He then picked up the bag and decided to go after the girls who he knew were on foot. He wouldn't let even one of them get out of his forest alive—not after what they had done to you. As expected, the girls were running up ahead and Jason had no trouble catching up to them.
He first took care of the girl who had been a mere bystander to the whole thing—a painless death. But then, he turned towards the two girls screaming and begging for their lives. He used his machete to cut off one of the girls' head while the other one got covered with her blood. She screamed even louder, but Jason didn't hear her.
That last one had been particularly cruel to you. She had used the paddle to sink you. She was going to get the worst judgment.
He lifted her up and wrapped his arms around her before squeezing. He kept squeezing until he felt the girl's bones being crushed under his sheer force. She couldn't breathe and he didn't stop—not until she was limp in his arms. He then let her fall to the ground unceremoniously and wiped his machete on his pants. He then walked away to his cabin to retrieve duffel bags he had hid in his truck.
He had to clean up the mess.
Back with you :
You blinked several times before sitting up and looking around. You were sure that you hadn't swam back to shore. So, how ? You didn't even have a towel to cover yourself with and had no choice but to get back on the road bare foot and shivering.
You thought at least one of the girls would have stayed behind, but they had obviously all taken off. You then wondered if one of the guys had decided to swim after you ? But, you quickly shook your head at the absurd idea. They wouldn't have been able to pull you out of the water...
You were starting to wonder if you hadn't been saved by the lake when you noticed something—or most specifically someone—on the road.
Your eyes widened as you recognized Kate, but with her hand missing and her face white as a sheet. You were about to ask her what had happened when you spotted a shadow behind her. Your eyes widened in horror as the shadow suddenly grabbed Kate and mercilessly stabbed her from behind with his machete. Kate opened her mouth to scream, but could only spurt out blood before falling to her knees. Finally, her eyes caught yours and you forced yourself not to cry as she mouthed.
"...Help me."
You took a couple of steps back and tried to run away, but couldn't. The masked man then raised his machete and was about to cut off her head when you stepped on a branch. He stopped dead in his tracks to look up at you. You finally screamed for him to stop and ran forward, but he seemed to ignore you and with one swift movement, Kate's head went flying.
You slowly stopped running and walked before coming to a full stop. You were just a few meters from him and when he looked up at you again, your eyes brimmed with tears.
You were frozen into place.
You tried to seem oblivious and smiled weakly at him. He stared at you, but you only walked past him—hoping he would let you be. There was nowhere to run or hide. And now that he had seen you, you knew that there was nothing to do but walk. You knew there was a police station not far from here…If you could only reach it. You could feel his eyes on you and forced yourself to walk forward, even though your foot had made contact with Kate's blood. You didn't want to think about it, but you knew the warm velvety liquid underneath your feet wasn't dirty water.
There were rumors of a man living in the woods and who used to kill people in the 1900s…But, you thought they were only rumors. His name was...Jack ? Jay ? Jason ? Yes. That's right.
His name was Jason Voorhees.
Suddenly, you felt a hand wrap around yours and shivered. You stopped walking and slowly turned around to find the serial killer a few inches from you, his hand wrapped around yours. You were so shocked, you didn't dare move and you stared at each other for a few seconds in perfect silence.
You wondered if he was going to kill you ? But, he didn't say anything. You kept staring at each other until he handed you something.
To your surprise, you recognized your bag.
It was a little bloody, and would have to be washed carefully when you reached home, but you were too stunned to even ponder on that now. You only took the bag and wrapped your second towel around your shoulders. You then looked up at the stranger and nodded in recognition, to which he replied with a small nod of his own. You now knew who were in those duffel bags...And suddenly, your initial idea to go seek the police vanished from your mind and your moral compass went silent.
They had scared you, beat you up and almost drowned you.
F*ck them all.
However, you were interrupted by a loud groan of pain from the backside of the truck. You recognized Whitney—one of the other girls who had used the paddle on you.
She was still alive.
She opened the door and tried to run away, but couldn't take more than a few steps before collapsing on the ground in front of you. She then extended a hand towards you and begged with teary eyes.
"Please…Help me."
You were terrorized, and even if you wanted to, you couldn't have helped her. Jason looked down at her, as if she was just an ant and to your horror, he crushed her skull under his foot. It took all of your willpower not to throw up as he raised his foot with a sickening squelch before turning back towards you.
He sought judgment in your gaze next, but only found numbness. They had made your life hell and had left you for dead in that lake.
As far as you were concerned ?
They could all go to hell.
The man didn't say anything before turning around and walking away. He still stopped to glance one last time at you and you felt as if he was waiting for something.
You raised your hand and waved him farewell.
He seemed to be satisfied by that, as he then continued to walk away. After a moment, you did the same in the opposite direction and purposefully chose to ignore the bloody trail on the ground.
Once you were in town, you heard someone behind you. But, you didn't stop, as you were afraid it was Jason who had decided to go after you to finish the job. But then, someone called out your name.
"Y/N !" You finally looked back and smiled when you recognized your friend Liam waving at you. He jogged towards you and linked his arm with yours amically.
"Hey. Thought you were supposed to wait for me at the lake ?" Your smile faltered as you thought back on what had just happened. You really didn't want to share that with him, or try to explain why you hadn't said anything to anyone yet…
"Yeah. Sorry. Kate and the others came and you know how it is with them..." Liam's smile disappeared immediately and he gave you a worried once-over.
"Sh*t. Are you okay ?" You nodded and smiled reassuringly at him—touched by his concern.
"Yes. Just...tired." He nodded understandingly before squeezing your forearm compassionately.
"Yeah. I bet. Too bad I wasn't with you. I would have given them the beating of their lives." You laughed and didn't doubt a second of the sincerity behind his words. Liam had arrived a few months ago and used to belong to Kate's gang, but was left out for a stupid reason. Apparently, he had rejected Kate, and it had led to his definite expulsion from the cool gang. Fortunately for the both of you, he had then started talking to you and realized it was best to befriend you than beat the crap out of you—like the rest of them. People usually left you alone when he was around. And, you had to admit having grown accustomed to his presence. He made you smile and feel good. You would have asked him out, if it wasn't for him being a total hunk. He was clearly out of your league, as Kate had reminded you multiple times in the past.
'At this point, you would have more chances asking a horse.'
And even though you knew better than to listen to others, you had to admit she had a point. There was no way—and you had learnt to accept it. But, whenever he would smile at you, you completely forgot about your own rules and your heart couldn't help but pang loudly in your chest.
"Let me walk you home. People have started talking of people disappearing those days. Wouldn't want you to be next." he informed you and you nodded absent-mindedly.
You didn't tell Liam you weren't worried because you knew the reason for the many people disappearing. You didn't tell him about Jason, because you were scared of what he would say. You hadn't gone to the police, and you didn't want Liam to think any less of you. You didn't want to lose the only friend you had because of your poor life choices. You were then broken out of your thoughts when Liam stopped and you looked back quizzically at him as he seemed nervous when he asked.
"Say...I was thinking of sneaking out tomorrow tonight and take a ride in my old man's boat...Wanna come ?" It wasn't unusual for you and Liam to get out at night to take midnight's boat rides. It helped you unload, and you could talk privately. You could never say no and this wouldn't be the exception. You smiled and nodded.
"Sure. I would love to."
He smiled brightly and your heart made a loop in your chest. He then kissed your cheek before waving you goodbye. You waved back and tried to hold back the butterflies in your stomach. If only…If only…You closed the door and your smile dropped instantly as you found yourself staring at your reflection in the huge mirror in the hallway. You hated it. You threw the towel on it before going up the stairs.
What were you thinking ? Did you really think he could actually like you ? You sighed and climbed up the stairs with a certain dejection with each step you took. When you were in your bedroom, you thought back on what had happened near the lake and sighed. Your mind went from the people who you had surely inadvertently doomed, the way they had held you under water and how your lungs had filled with water and how you had felt someone pull you out...They were about to let you drown and if it wasn't for that man, you would have.
Your thoughts then turned to the man who had killed them—surely the same who had rescued you—mercilessly plunging his machete in the body of one of your old bullies. It was horrifying...You knew it was wrong, but you didn't feel any guilt. You even felt relieved that you wouldn't have to face them ever again.
Did that make you insane ?
You sighed before lying down on your bed.
You instantly fell asleep…
The next day:
You woke and immediately thought about Jason. You hadn’t actually thanked him for saving your life…Maybe would it be better to do it instead of risking his wrath ?
You then threw a couple of cupcakes in a bag—just in case. You were about to open the door—ready to go back—when the voice of your mother sounded from downstairs.
"Sweetie ! Could you come down for a second ?"
You held back an exhausted sigh before shouting that you were coming. You ran down the stairs and froze when you saw the police in your living room. You mother smiled reassuringly at you before patting the place between her and your father invitingly.
"Come and sit down, honey. They have a couple of questions for you."
You gulped and tried not to look too nervous. You knew looking away would give away you were hiding something, so you made sure to keep your eyes on the policemen.
"Where were you yesterday morning ?"
You thought back on the incident, wondering if you should just come clean and denounce the man who had killed them. But then, you only shrugged and replied simply.
"I went to the lake and took a swim."
One of the policemen wrote it down and you tried not to fidget too much in their presence.
"Did you see anyone while you were there ? Anyone suspicious ?"
You pretended to be thinking about it before shrugging once more and offering the officer your best smile.
"Not that I can remember. Why ? Did something happen ?" you asked with false concern and the officer immediately shook his head.
"Just a few people missing. We're trying to retrace their steps and see where they were before their disappearance."
You felt a chill run down your spine at the memory of Jason's machete going right through Kate's body...It did make you uneasy. You knew they were bad people, but you didn't like knowing you had something to do with their deaths. It left a bitter taste in your mouth and suddenly, your throat felt constricted as you answered.
"That's…awful. I'll be sure to warn you if I hear anything." Maybe it was the way you had hesitated on what word to use, or the few seconds you had taken to say it...But, one of the officers' eyes narrowed when you used the word awful.
"Yeah…You do that." his voice held a hint of skepticism, but you only nodded and they finally left.
The moment they were out, only one thought remained.
You had to warn him.
Your parents did seem worried and asked you to stay home for the night, but you knew you had to say something. Jason may have killed people, but he had also helped you.
It was time to return the favor.
You didn't hesitate before opening your bedroom window and jumping out. Besides, you still had to meet up with Liam tonight…
At Crystal lake :
You ran inside the woods and even though you had no idea on how to find Jason, you had written him a letter and were determined to give it to him. It would be a simple exchange. You had studied everything you could find on Jason Voorhees on the internet and had succeeded in finding an article on the old Voorhees estate. It was supposed to be composed of a small wooden cabin and a back study. You had in mind to slip the letter in his mailbox or under his doorstep before walking away—undetected.
You knew that part of the forest to be mostly abandoned and ignored the keep away signs. You hoped he didn't have any guard dogs or you would be dead before he even knew what you wanted to say.
You tiptoed to his house and sighed in relief when you reached the cabin and pulled out the letter from your inner pocket. You took a step forward and...slipped. You slipped and fell in a pond. In a matter of seconds, you were surrounded by toads and had surely woken up all the inhabitants of said pond.
You heard shuffling ahead and held your breath.
Fortunately, it was only a racoon that quickly scurried off. You must have scared it away…But then, you heard something behind you. You managed to crane your neck just enough to see a shadow holding crates in the distance. You couldn't distinguish his face in the distance, but you guessed it was a man. He was tall and kept going back and forth from his house to his...truck. Now, you weren't a specialist in trucks—but you remembered that one of Jason’s rear view mirrors was missing and you doubted someone else would have moved in the Voorhees house without Jason knowing about it. You stayed hidden though and kept staring at the man who had a slow and powerful gait. He seemed normal from here.
But then, something landed on your head.
You blinked twice before slowly lifting your hand to touch the unidentified thing...only to touch something slimy and covered with mucus. No need to say, you internally freaked out. You were half buried in mud and dirty water, in the middle of a dangerous forest at merely a few feet from its most dangerous resident...and now, a frog/toad had decided to nestle in your hair…What were you thinking exactly when you decided any of this was a good idea ?
And when you thought things couldn't get any worse, the creature on top of your head decided it to be the best time to croak. Now, it wouldn't have been such a bad thing if he had been the only one, but that one croak was enough to initiate a great scale reaction and soon enough, there was a chorus of croaks all around you…
The man suddenly stopped and seemed to listen attentively before slowly turning towards the pond. You still couldn't see his face in the darkness, but you did hear his breathing as he approached.
He stopped just a few inches from you and you tried to remain very still as he scrutinized the pond—searching for the reason of the wild life's agitation. His shoes were inches from your face and even though you were pretty sure he hadn't seen you yet—you were terrified. Jason stopped just in front of your hiding spot and your heart beat wildly in your chest as you thought about him actually finding you. But, you forced yourself to remain quiet and stay hidden. You were surrounded by croaking toads, but you hoped the bushes would hide you enough...until the toad on top of your head hopped off its favorite spot and landed on Jason's shoes—gaining his attention.
He slowly tilted his head downwards to stare at it and even though that toad had been the start of your precarious situation, you hoped he wouldn't actually hurt it.
It then started croaking louder than the others and Jason crouched to look at it. You closed your eyes and prayed for the damn toad to just shut up. It would save his life. And yours.
But then, you were surprised when the giant cupped it in his hands and started petting its head gently with the tip of his index. He then stood back up and started walking away. When he was far enough, you let out a small relieved sigh and got the letter out. You grimaced at the pitiful state it was in and knew nobody would read it at this point. You dropped it and crawled forward until you were on dry land, certain you were safe now.
You thought he was gone—you thought wrong.
Suddenly, a hand shot up from the darkness and grabbed your wrist to yank you up. You felt the sharp edge of a blade pressed against your throat before you could even take another breath. His mask was back on and he seemed upset. And for the first time since you had met, you were genuinely scared he was going to kill you.
"Please…Don't hurt me." You begged, even though you knew it to be futile. But, Jason halted and seemed to be trying to decipher your shape in the darkness. But, unsuccessful in doing so, he dragged you back to where there was moonlight to see your face and finally, his eyes lit up in recognition. He loosened his grip and lowered his machete. He then looked around—in case you had decided to bring some friends with you.
"I...I'm alone." you answered his silent question and Jason looked back at you before pointing straight at you and then doing a circular motion to indicate the surroundings. You guessed he was asking why you were here and you took a couple of seconds before answering.
"The police is looking for you. I wanted to warn you anonymously by letter, but it caught water." you explained and Jason tilted his head to the side quizzically. Was that the reason you had come here all on your own ? To warn him ? Didn't you know the police never came around here ? They knew better by now…Nobody stepped on Voorhees territory. But, he still appreciated your consideration and released you. You stroked your wrist before handing him the bag where you had put the cupcakes.
"Here. I thought you would like them. It's a...thank you gift."
He seemed hesitant, but finally accepted the gift. You both stood still until someone called your name.
"Y/N ! Where are you ?!"
Oh. Liam was here.
You tried to tell the giant you hadn't meant to bring him, but his gaze hardened and he glared at you before walking away. You watched him leave and quickly ran in the opposite direction. You didn't want Liam to find this place, or Jason to spot him first.
When you finally found him, he was on the edge of the water and waved at you as he spotted you.
"Here you are ! I thought you had forgotten about me." he playfully accused you and you shook your head before climbing in.
"Me ? Nah. I just thought you wouldn't come with the curfew." He raised a skeptical eyebrow at you before chuckling.
"Yeah. Right. As if I would ever listen to a word they say...Do you know that they say it's a monster that took Kate and the others ? A literal monster. Can you imagine ? Ah ! What nonsense ! Knowing them, they must be passed out somewhere..." Your laugh felt so fake as your eyes returned to the shore and you were sure to have seen a shadow standing there.
"Yeah...Nonsense."
A week later :
Jason had been angry at first. To think he had almost believed you. But then, he had calmed down and reflected on what had happened. You and the other man had been alone and no one else had tried to get near Crystal Lake since then, which meant you had indeed not disclosed his existence to anyone else.
Then, his thoughts converged to the bag.
You had come to warn him. You had even given him a gift. He wondered why ? It wasn't as if he wouldn't have killed them anyway…Nobody had ever thanked him for killing people before. It felt strange.
Jason had tried not to let curiosity get the best of him, but he had still been unable to resist looking at what was in that bag. He found a couple of cupcakes inside. He didn't remember when he had last ate anything other than squirrels or wild game…He took a bite and was surprised to find that they didn't taste half bad. They tasted like sugar and strawberries...Before he knew it, the whole content of the bag was gone.
He then stood up and put his mask back on before folding the bag carefully to return it. It was time to give you a visit..,
In town :
Your father had asked you to go buy groceries and you couldn't help but add a few chocolate bars to the list. You smiled politely at the cashier before putting all your items in front of her, but she then made a disgusted face at the sight of the treats.
"Get those back on their shelf, fatzo. You don't need them." Your face whitened at the insult and you tried not to cry as you only nodded and quickly put them back. You then scurried off the shop—unaware of the figure standing in the shadows.
Jason saw you leaving upset, and he didn't like it. He entered and went directly to the aisle you had left to retrieve what you wanted to buy. He then stood before the cashier who scoffed mockingly at his appearance.
"Great, two freaks in one day.."
Jason's hands tightened into fists and he didn't hesitate before taking the woman by the hair and smashing her face against the counter. She screamed once and was about to do it again, but Jason didn't let her. He smashed the head again and again until her face was just a pile of mush.
He hoped you didn't mind a little blood on your chocolate bars ?
That night :
You ate dinner with your parents before walking upstairs. You just wanted to lie down forever and since you hadn't seen Jason in a while, you guessed he must have forgotten about you. It was back to your normal life—even though the policemen were still searching for the people who had killed Kate and the others.
You went to bed and tried to conjure any sympathy for the people he had killed—but nothing came. They had hurt you, and it wasn't you who had killed them.
You closed your eyes and slowly started drifting off to sleep.
You knew there was nothing you could have done and even though it was wrong, you didn't feel any guilt. You wouldn't lose sleep of them...You wouldn't...Your eyes snapped open.
He was here. He was in your home. You were sure of it. Was he there to hurt you ? Should you scream ? You opened your mouth, but you then remembered that your parents were downstairs. You didn't want them to get hurt. Instead, you gathered your courage and glanced at the darkest corner of your home where he was sitting—apparently unbothered.
As soon as you sat up however, he was by your side in a mere second and one hand clamped itself over your mouth before you could utter a peep.
"Ssh..." He shushed you and raised his index to where his mouth would be behind the mask and you nodded shortly to tell him you understood. He then slowly released you and once he was sure you wouldn't scream, he relaxed beside you.
You smiled and put your hand in his, but frowned as you felt a soft fabric and finally noticed the bandage around his hand.
"Jason...Who...Who did that to you ?"
You were upset at the mere thought of him being hurt and Jason used sign language to answer.
*Who did that to you ?*
He then pointed to your own scars and you bit your lower lip. Some were old and from your own body's natural reaction to the fat accumulated there, but the recent ones were all from different places—including your own home. Sometimes, you had trouble moving around and often unintentionally broke things. You then either picked everything up and cut yourself without meaning to. Some people didn't understand what it was like to move when you hated your own body…It was like wearing a skin that wasn't yours and you could sometimes forget who you were…
But, you shook your head and tried to smile. At this point, you had no idea why he was doing this. Why was he here ?
He then slowly pulled out something from inside his overalls and you closed your eyes—waiting for the pain of a blade or something... But instead, you felt nothing and cautiously opened one eye. You then opened both of them wide in surprise as he handed you the chocolate bars you had sought to buy that mean lady. But, he hadn't only brought those. Your eyes widened as you realized he had also brought you back your bag.
"Wait…You brought me back my bag ? Is that why you broke in ?" You asked—flabbergasted. He nodded affirmatively before taking a step forward and putting the items in your hands. He then watched you intently and you felt as if he was waiting for some kind of approval. You smiled and took it out of his hands.
"Thank you." You then looked up at him and the sight of your smile made Jason's heart beat a little faster. His breathing intensified and for a second, you thought he was mad at you for some reason—but he didn't say anything. He examined you more closely and raised his hand to take a strand/curl of your hair. You flinched at the unexpected contact, but didn't pull away. He then started playing with your hair and his eyes squinted slightly as he smiled. You smiled back and caught yourself thinking that he didn't seem that bad. He had killed people in front of you, but for some reason, he acted quite differently with you. However, he then started grabbing and squeezing your arms. That—that crossed the line. You pulled away and let out an awkward laugh.
"Wow. Wow. Big guy. I'm not a plushie."
He let out a plaintive moan before suddenly pulling you back in his arms before you could protest...He didn't seem to understand your struggles—nobody had ever held you like that before. They always hesitated, were disgusted or tried to overlook the obvious. But, Jason didn't seem to care, and that felt odd to you.
"Now, wait a minute ! I—!" Jason dared cover your protest with a soft snore and you tried to wiggle your way out of his grip—but it only made him hold you closer against him. At the end, you had no choice but to resolve yourself to your current situation.
Okay. Maybe, you could stay like this for a little longer..
"Hum...Okay then. Goodnight." You told him. He hummed in response and you held back an eye roll before closing your eyes, oblivious as to the smile that matched on both your faces as you fell asleep.
The next day :
You woke up and found that you were alone in the bed. You sighed and rubbed your eyes before standing up. You had to open the bakery today…Your parents usually took care of the preparation and you were handling customers.
"Hello. How can I help you today ?" You asked a man who had entered the bakery.
He remained silent. He just took a look around and you guessed he must have been one of the new clients…You respected his will for silence as his eyes traveled the counter and the different shelves around you. He then pointed to one specific cake on the right side of the see-through counter and you smiled.
"So...A mama's boy, huh ?"
You knew it was Mother's day today and a lot of people would come in thanks to it, but it took you by surprise when the man didn't answer. He only stared at the cake before sliding a couple of green papers of the table.
"I'm sure she'll like it." You told him.
He smiled and you couldn't help but smile back.
As you packaged the cake, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet curiosity about the man. There was something about him that seemed almost…familiar, but you couldn’t quite place it. His silence felt deliberate, like he had his reasons for not speaking. It wasn’t unusual for people to be quiet when they visited the bakery—some just came for the food and didn’t engage much—but there was something different about him.
"Is there anything else I can help you with ?" you asked as you handed him the cake, keeping your tone light and friendly, though you still felt that unexplainable sense of familiarity tugging at you.
He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving the counter for too long. His fingers brushed the cake box before he turned and walked out of the bakery, disappearing as quietly as he had entered.
You stood there for a moment, pondering, before shaking your head and moving on. It was just another customer, after all. Still, that brief interaction lingered with you, and as you turned back to the counter to prepare for the next customer, you wondered if you'd ever see him again.
As you busied yourself with the day's tasks, a sense of unease began to settle in. Perhaps it was because of the strange encounter with the man or maybe something else entirely, but you couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching you. You glanced out the window, but the streets outside were busy with people rushing by, none of them seeming to pay you any mind.
Still, the feeling wouldn’t leave…
You usually spent every Friday evening with Liam at the theater since you usually closed early. He waved at you enthusiastically and you smiled before joining him. He usually picked the movie, as he was a films’ major or something and you thought he had more knowledge on the matter than yourself. You had never been proven wrong so far.
"Hey. Thought we would be watching a horror movie together. Sounds good ?" he asked and you nodded before buying the snacks. You liked the theater, as it was usually empty during the holiday, as most people preferred to leave.
"Yeah." you replied absent-mindedly. You didn't want to sound rude by your short answers, but you were really starting to question your sanity. You weren't even sure if you had just imagined the last few days and it was all just a big fever dream.
You could see on Liam's face that he was concerned, but he didn't say anything.
You bought two tickets and as usual, you were greeted with an empty theater room. Nobody in the village was interested in movies, they all had better things to do.
But this time, someone joined you.
You missed the stranger who sat just a few rows away from you—but Liam didn't.
He frowned and their eyes met in the darkness. He shivered slightly as he found the stranger's eyes devoid of any light. It was like staring at the dead. He returned his attention to you and pinched your arm to get your attention before whispering in your ear.
"Do you know this guy ?"
You discreetly took a glance behind you and found the man who had bought you the cake staring rather intently at you. His shape in the darkness did remind you of Jason, but it was difficult to tell without the mask on. You then shook your head and pretended to not have a clue.
"Never seen him before in my life." you lied and tried not to think too much about it. But, it was difficult to concentrate on what was going on in the movie when you felt his constant staring.
Enough was enough. You turned towards him and yelled—exasperated.
"Stop following me ! You saved my life. I kept your secret. We're done. Even. Finito."
He shushed you and clapped his hand firmly over your mouth and the other one around your throat. But then, his hands started moving..down. He started stroking your hips with his thumbs and traced the outline of your lips with the other. It was as if he was repeating every gesture Liam had made in the theater. He then kissed you.
That's when it hit you.
Jason was jealous.
Welp. That definitely didn't help your situation.
You tried to wiggle yourself out of his grip, but it was like trying to move a wall with your bare hands. Impossible.
Did he really want you to follow him ?
"Listen, this is really not the moment and I..."
"NOW !" he demanded before punching the wall next to you—trying to scare you into submission. But, you didn't let it intimidate you and replied with the same intonation.
"LATER !"
He was surprised that you would talk back at him and you took that moment of confusion to explain.
"Look. Not the time, nor the place to talk about it, buddy. I need to get out, or Liam will get worried. We can talk about it later, alright ?"
You didn't even let him answer before walking past him and exiting the bathroom.
You quickly made your way back to Liam, who was sitting in his seat, looking concerned but trying to keep up his usual upbeat demeanor. He was practically bouncing in his seat, eager for the movie to start, but his eyes flicked to you as you returned, his expression a mix of curiosity and worry.
"Everything okay ?" he asked quietly, not wanting to make a scene, but his concern was evident in his voice.
You nodded quickly, flashing him a reassuring smile, even though you were anything but sure of your emotions. Jason’s presence in the theater was unsettling, but you weren’t about to let Liam know the details of your strange interaction with him—especially since Jason wasn’t exactly someone you could explain away easily. The last thing you needed was for Liam to think you were losing your mind.
"Yeah, just...I think I’m more tired than I thought," you lied, hoping to push the conversation in a different direction. "Let’s just enjoy the movie, yeah ?"
Liam studied you for a second, his brow furrowing slightly, but he gave a small nod and turned back toward the screen. You sat beside him, feeling a weight settle in your chest as you tried to push thoughts of Jason aside. Still, you couldn’t help but feel like the atmosphere in the theater had changed. It was like Jason’s shadow loomed over you, and you couldn’t escape it.
As the movie played on, you tried to focus, but every sound, every flicker of movement in the dark corners of the room, seemed to remind you of Jason. You were constantly aware of his presence, even though he wasn’t physically there. Your heart raced, and your thoughts swirled, until the quiet, eerie stillness of the theater only heightened your sense of unease.
Eventually, Liam noticed your distracted behavior and nudged your arm, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts.
"Hey, you okay ? You seem a bit...off," he said gently, his voice full of concern. "If you want to leave, we can head out. It’s not a big deal."
You hesitated for a moment, weighing the options in your mind. On one hand, staying with Liam would be the safest and most normal choice, and you could pretend everything was fine. On the other hand, you felt an overwhelming need to confront Jason, to understand what was happening. It felt like you were caught between two worlds—one where you tried to pretend everything was okay, and another where the chaos of your reality continued to push against you, relentless and unavoidable.
With a heavy sigh, you decided to just let things be for the moment.
"I'm fine," you told Liam, forcing a smile. "Just a bit tired, that's all. Let’s just finish the movie, alright ?"
He nodded, though his expression was still laced with doubt. You tried your best to focus on the movie, but all you could think about was Jason. What did he want from you ? Why couldn’t he just leave you alone ?
As Liam drove you home that evening, the tension in the air felt thick. His usual chatter had faded into silence, and you could tell he was still thinking about everything that had happened earlier in the theater. He glanced over at you a few times, but you were too distracted to notice, your mind still consumed by the thoughts of Jason and what you were going through.
The car came to a stop outside your house, and you unbuckled your seatbelt, about to step out when Liam's voice broke the quiet.
"Hey, wait a second," he said, his tone more serious than you were used to. "There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you."
You turned to face him, trying to appear calm, though your stomach churned in anticipation of what was coming. "What’s up ?"
Liam shifted in his seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel a bit too tightly. "It’s about Kate...and the others." He hesitated for a moment, like he was unsure how to approach the topic. "Do you know anything about...what really happened to them ?"
You froze, your heart skipping a beat. You hadn’t expected this. Your first instinct was to deny everything, to tell him that you didn’t know anything, but the words stuck in your throat. You didn’t want to lie to him, but you also didn’t know how to explain the truth without making everything worse.
"I...I don’t know much," you said softly, looking down at your hands in your lap. "I mean, I was with them sometimes, but I didn’t—" You stopped, unsure of what to say next.
Liam didn’t press you right away, sensing your discomfort, but he wasn’t going to let the topic go so easily. "But you were close with Kate, right? You guys were friends." His eyes searched your face for any sign of understanding, as if trying to connect dots. "You must know something about what happened, Y/N. You know there’s been rumors about how they were all...well, killed. And people keep talking about how the town’s not been the same since it happened and how they were last seen entering the forest."
You could feel the pressure of his gaze on you, and the walls you had built up inside yourself began to feel like they were crumbling. You couldn’t lie to him forever, but at the same time, you didn’t want to get caught up in all of it—the chaos, the danger, everything that came with Jason.
"I don’t know everything," you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe something happened to them...but I don’t know what. I don’t have all the answers, Liam."
Liam looked like he was processing what you said, his brow furrowing as if he were trying to make sense of the pieces. "I get that," he said slowly. "But you must have noticed something, right ? You’re always so observant, Y/N. I’m not accusing you of anything, but if there’s something you know—anything—about what happened to them, you should tell me. The cops are still looking for answers."
You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. The last thing you wanted was to get tangled in the investigation, especially when it involved Jason. But deep down, you knew Liam was just trying to help. He was concerned for you and trying to make sense of everything that had been happening. You didn’t want to drag him into the mess that was your life, though.
"I swear, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you." You said, giving him a pained smile. "I wish I did, but I really don’t. You know how things are around here. People come and go, and nobody ever talks about it. It’s like everyone’s too afraid to know what’s really going on."
Liam didn’t seem satisfied with your answer, but he didn’t push any further. Instead, he nodded slowly and turned off the engine. "Alright," he said softly. "But if you ever remember anything—anything at all—just let me know, okay ?"
You gave a small, tentative nod. "Yeah. I will. Thanks, Liam."
He seemed to accept your answer, but the lingering look of worry in his eyes told you that he wasn’t entirely convinced. "Take care, Y/N," he said before getting out of the car. As you watched him walk toward his own house, you couldn't shake the feeling that everything was spiralling out of control. You had a secret, a dangerous one, and it was only a matter of time before someone figured it out.
Back in your bedroom :
That night, after Liam left, you walked inside and started preparing for bed. The day had been exhausting, and you were hoping for a bit of peace before everything became too overwhelming. You closed the curtains and settled into bed, trying to relax, but your mind kept wandering back to the events of the day.
Your thoughts were interrupted by a faint scratching noise coming from your bedroom window. You froze. The sound was soft but distinct, as if someone was gently running their fingers along the glass. For a split second, you wondered if it was your imagination playing tricks on you, but then it came again—faint, deliberate, and very real.
You stood up slowly and walked towards the window, heart pounding in your chest. As you pulled back the curtain, you were met with a sight that made your stomach drop.
Jason was there—his hulking figure half-crouched and awkwardly stuck between the window frame and the ledge outside. He looked like he had tried to crawl in through the window but had misjudged the space, leaving him in a rather undignified position. His legs were caught on either side, his arms strained as he attempted to push himself forward, but he couldn’t quite make it.
You stared for a moment, unable to suppress a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Jason, the terrifying slasher who could crush bones with ease, was stuck in your window like some kind of confused, oversized child.
"Jason..." You muttered, unsure if you should help him or push him out entirely. "What are you doing ?"
He didn't respond, of course, but you could see the frustration in his movements. His large hands tried to adjust, and the sound of his muffled grumbling filtered through the mask, making it clear he wasn’t too happy about his predicament.
You bit your lip, still unsure of what to do. Was this some weird, desperate attempt to get close to you again ? Or had he simply miscalculated ?
With a heavy sigh, you crossed the room and pulled the window up a little more to give him more room. Jason grunted as he pushed against the frame, finally managing to free his legs. He scrambled into your room with surprising grace for someone of his size, but there was still an awkwardness about his movements. It was as if he wasn’t used to such confined spaces.
Once he was inside, he straightened up, towering over you, and looked down at you expectantly. You raised an eyebrow, feeling both exasperated and somewhat amused.
"Really ? This is your idea of a grand entrance ?" You crossed your arms over your chest, still processing the bizarre situation.
Jason didn't speak, of course, but his hands twitched toward you. You felt a mix of emotions—nervousness, confusion, but something else too, something that tugged at you. You stepped back slightly, unsure of whether he was just being awkward or if he was trying to send a message.
He gently reached for your hand, his touch far less aggressive than it had been before. It felt oddly careful, like he didn’t want to hurt you.
"Jason," you whispered, your voice softer now. "What is it this time ?"
He didn’t answer, but instead, slowly reached up to touch the bandage around his hand. You noticed it again—the injury that had been there the last time you saw him. It seemed like it was still bothering him, but now it was just another strange detail to add to the pile of questions.
You moved closer, your fingers lightly brushing against the bandage. "Who did this to you ?" you asked, genuinely concerned.
He looked at you for a long moment, then, in the same eerie silence, signed with his large, careful hands: Who did that to you?
You stopped, staring at his hands as he signed the question. You understood what he meant, of course, but it was unsettling to hear the same question directed back at you. You glanced at the scars on your own body, memories of past injuries resurfacing, but you swallowed them down.
"I—" You sighed, knowing you couldn’t avoid this conversation forever. "It’s not the same, Jason. You don't know what it's like... having to live in this body every day. It’s different."
Jason tilted his head, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his posture—almost like he was trying to understand.
After a long pause, you finally broke the silence. "You...You came here tonight because you’re worried about me, aren't you ?"
He didn’t respond with words, but his actions spoke louder than any reply could. He gently reached for you again, this time pulling you into his arms with a softness that was entirely at odds with his usual forceful demeanor.
You didn’t fight him. You couldn’t. There was something strangely comforting about his hold, despite everything that had happened. Maybe it was the fact that Jason, in his own twisted way, was the only one who didn’t see you as broken, or worthless, or anything less than someone worth protecting—no matter how flawed you were.
You closed your eyes, letting yourself rest in his arms for a moment. For once, you weren’t questioning everything or worrying about what tomorrow would bring. In that moment, it was just you and Jason, an unexpected pair bound by an understanding that neither of you could explain.
"Okay," you whispered. "We’ll talk later. For now...You can stay."
Jason’s mama used to tell him that he was a big boy. It wasn't bad. At least, Jason had never thought so…She had told him to choose a woman who he knew would stay. She had also told him breaking her legs was one way to do it, but he didn't want to hurt you. He just didn't want to make it hurt, or make you feel like he didn't understand. He understood perfectly and only replied by using sign language.
Your eyes widened as you realized something...You thought the reason Jason didn't talk was because he hadn't learnt or spent enough time around people to do so. But, no. Jason didn't talk because he was deaf. It made sense now. The way he was staring at your lips whenever you would talk, the way he would touch your face whenever he could in the dark, the way he ignored you whenever he wouldn't be facing you straight on...You reached for his hand and placed his fingertips on your lips before uttering the word.
"Sorry."
He nodded once before tapping your knee significantly. It was his way of accepting your apology you guessed.
He took a couple of deep breaths and for a moment, you thought he was actually asleep, but the hands clamped firmly on your thighs was a clear indication that he wasn't. He pulled off his mask and took a big breath. You noticed his pained expression, as if the very mask was a misery to him…You reluctantly raised your hands to his face and started stroking it gently. He whined like a wounded animal…
"...Y/N."
You stopped.
The way he said your name was uncanny…it showed he wasn’t used to using his voice too much. You then noticed that your hand had landed on his arm, and his eyes were staring at the point of contact. You were about to retrieve it when he shook his head and put his hand above yours.
"No."
He didn’t want you to stop touching him.
It was nice being touched by someone.
Jason rested his head on your shoulder.
That’s when you asked…
"Say Jason…Do you actually like me ?"
Like...you ? Jason frowned and tried to find the right answer. It was not easy for someone who had never really liked anyone, or even been liked before. Since it was probably too complicated, you decided to make it simpler by asking.
"Do you like how I look ? Am I pretty to you ?"
And this time, he spoke.
"Jason...Does not like pretty."
You waited for him to develop, but realized he wouldn't, so you insisted.
"What do you mean...You don't like pretty ?"
It was not that he didn't find you pretty. Of course he did…But, he didn't like what others called pretty. He didn't want weak, he didn't want perfect, he didn't want flawless…He wanted someone he could grab without being afraid to hurt, he wanted someone to share his passion for Crystal Lake, he wanted someone who he could listen to and never get bored of, someone who would actually willingly stay with him, he wanted...He stared at your belly and stroked it with his thumbs.
He wanted you.
He embraced you and took a big breath before burying his face in the crook of your neck and taking a handful of your hair. He was comfortable just holding you and making sure you knew how he felt.
"Like...Y/N..."
He didn't need words to make you feel understood and you then decided to give him something more. Jason had kissed you before—out of jealousy. But he had killed and helped you many times over. If it would soothe him then…you would return the favour. You gently kissed him. Jason didn’t like his face. He hid it for a good reason. He was ugly. He was a very ugly man. But…that didn’t make you disgusted. He had offered you an escape. Time to repay that.
Jason shivered as you brought your lips to his and when you tried to pull away, he brought your lips back. He clamped his large hand over the back of your neck to keep you in place as the other one was on your hand. He didn’t go further than that…You both laid down on the bed afterwards and even though Jason was twice your size in height, he didn't complain. He couldn't when he had finally been able to share a night with a woman.
That was what that was, right ?
He gently wiped your face and wondered if he should propose now ? His mother had told him that if he got a girl to stay with him the night, he would have to take her with him and get her pregnant before she could escape…That last part did sound rather strange to him, but he hadn't really thought about it until now.
You lay there in the quiet, Jason's steady breathing against your skin, and for a moment, everything felt strange but comforting. The weight of his large body beside you didn’t feel like a burden, but rather a strange sense of security. Your heart was still racing from everything that had happened, but in this moment, with Jason holding you, it was hard to focus on anything but the feeling of his warmth.
You couldn’t help but wonder about everything—the way Jason had acted, how he’d seemed to care for you in a way you hadn’t expected. You didn’t know if it was love, or something else entirely, but there was a connection. It was messy, unspoken, and twisted, but it was there.
His hand, warm and rough, rested on your belly again, and you could feel his fingers lightly tracing your skin as if he was memorizing the feeling of you. His touch was possessive but also gentle, and it left you with a strange sense of calm.
"Jason," you whispered, your voice still soft, unsure if he was fully asleep or just pretending to be. "What do you want from me?"
You didn’t expect an answer, but he moved his head slightly, his lips brushing against your neck as he mumbled softly, "Stay."
It was simple, yet it felt like the most important thing he could have said. In his world, there weren’t many things that mattered, but you...you mattered to him.
You swallowed hard, unsure of what this meant for both of you, but you couldn’t deny the connection you felt. Maybe you were just as lost as Jason, both trying to navigate the complexities of your lives, trying to find something real amidst the chaos.
You wrapped your arm around him, pulling him closer, and whispered, "I’ll stay."
And for that moment, it felt like that was all that mattered.
After that night, something shifted between you and Jason. The strange, heavy tension that had always existed seemed to dissolve, replaced by an unspoken understanding. You started visiting him at his cabin more frequently. Each time, the visits felt like a fragile dance—awkward yet comforting. You couldn’t quite explain why you kept coming back, but you didn’t question it. There was something about Jason that kept drawing you in, something that made you feel oddly safe despite the dark undertones of his presence.
His cabin was as isolated as he was—hidden deep in the woods, surrounded by the quiet hum of nature. It was a place where time seemed to slow down, and where you could forget the world outside. You’d step inside, and the atmosphere would shift. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled in your bones. Jason didn’t speak much, but you had learned to read the small gestures, the subtle movements that conveyed more than words ever could.
Each time you visited, you brought little things—food, maybe a blanket, or just simple company. You’d sit together, not saying much, but the silence between you felt comfortable. Jason would offer you his hand, and you would take it without hesitation, letting his rough fingers wrap around yours. Sometimes, you would watch the fire crackling in the hearth, other times you would sit by the window and look out into the dark woods. But always, there was an unspoken connection, a bond forming between you two in this shared solitude.
On one of these visits, you noticed the little things. How Jason would fix your hair when it fell into your eyes, or how he would help you adjust your blanket when you shifted on the couch. He didn’t do these things for anyone else, you could tell. It was like he was trying to be gentle, to make up for all the years of violence and isolation. He was learning how to care, in his own way, even if it wasn’t always perfect.
On a particularly cold evening, you found yourself curled up beside him on the couch, the fire casting a soft glow on the walls. Jason had been quieter than usual, his eyes occasionally flickering to you, but never quite meeting your gaze. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking.
"Jason," you asked softly, "do you ever get tired of being alone ?"
His hand twitched, but he didn’t answer immediately. You could feel his gaze shift toward you, and then back to the fire. After a long pause, he signed slowly, his hands moving in a way you had come to recognize.
Sometimes. But never with you.
Your heart fluttered at the simplicity of his words. You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips as you leaned against him. In that moment, you realized that maybe you weren’t the only one who had been searching for something in the midst of all the chaos. Jason had been searching too.
From then on, your visits became more frequent. There was something grounding about them, something that made you feel connected in a way you hadn’t felt in a long time. Each time you left, you didn’t feel the same weight of the world pressing down on you. Jason’s cabin, his presence, had a way of making everything outside feel distant, as if the world could wait a little longer.
One evening, after a particularly long visit, as you made your way to the door, you felt a hand gently grasp your wrist. You turned, finding Jason standing there, his mask removed, his expression soft but earnest.
"You’re leaving ?" he signed, his large hands moving more cautiously than usual.
You felt a pang in your chest. "I have to," you said softly, though you didn’t want to leave.
Jason hesitated before pulling you into his arms again, holding you close. This time, he didn’t let go right away. Instead, he rested his head on your shoulder, as though he was silently asking you to stay, even if he couldn’t find the words to say it.
“I’ll be back,” you whispered, rubbing his back soothingly.
Jason didn’t respond, but the tightening of his grip on you was enough to tell you that he understood.
You didn’t know what was happening between the two of you. It was strange, and it didn’t make much sense in the context of the world around you. But with each visit, it felt more and more like you were finding something in the midst of the chaos. Something real. Something that mattered. And for once, you didn’t feel so alone.
A few days later…
When the door of the cabin was slammed open, you jumped and when Liam came in—he immediately separated the both of you.
"You sick freak ! Stay away from her !"
He then turned towards and grabbed your hand to force you out of the couch.
"He's the reason you've been avoiding me ? Why you avoided all of my questions when I asked you about Kate and the others ? What were you thinking ?!"
Liam seemed furious and Jason quickly grabbed Liam by the collar to slam him against the door—thinking that he wanted to hurt you. He was about to kill him when you intervened.
You put yourself between the both of them, facing Jason and you begged. "Jason. Please."
Jason was upset that you would stop him, but finally released Liam who fell to the floor. You quickly knelt beside him to check if he was alright before gently cupping Liam's face. Liam was in tears and said. "You’re going to get hurt…Y/N."
Jason who took it as an accusation growled.
"No. Jason good. Never hurt Y/N. Love...her."
You gasped and Liam clenched his teeth.
"Love ? You're a f*cking slasher. You don't know love. You're nothing but a killer."
...slasher ? You tilted your head with a slight frown as you repeated. "...What do you mean by slasher ?"
Liam froze—as if he had been caught saying something he shouldn't have. He slowly turned towards you and he finally replied.
"I've been searching for him for a long time. You weren't supposed to be the one to find him. I'm sorry."
Suddenly, everything clicked into place. Jason's fresh scars, Liam's sudden arrival in the village and his father's interest in the local legends…The air in the cabin grew thick with tension. Jason stood rigid, his posture stiff as he glared at Liam, his hand still hovering near the collar of Liam’s shirt. You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, your heart pounding in your chest.
Liam’s words echoed in your mind, the shock of them rattling you. "Slasher." It had never crossed your mind to think of Jason that way, not when he’d been so gentle with you, so protective in his own silent way. But now, hearing Liam’s accusation, everything seemed to shift.
Jason’s growl rumbled in his chest, his anger rising once more. But as you knelt beside Liam, your hand gently cupping his face, you felt the weight of the situation more clearly than ever. Liam’s face was streaked with tears, his eyes wide and frantic. He was terrified for you, and yet, in his desperation, he had failed to understand what you had come to realize in your own time with Jason.
Liam’s words stung, and the way Jason reacted—defending you with such fierceness—told you that he truly cared. "Love her." Jason had said it so simply, so earnestly, as if it were the only truth he had ever known. But Liam’s anger was a fire you couldn’t ignore.
Liam gritted his teeth, glaring at Jason with hatred, but the hurt was clear in his eyes when he looked at you. "You don’t know what you’re doing," he whispered, his voice breaking. "This isn’t…love. He’s not human, Y/N. He’s a monster."
Your thoughts were a whirlwind, each new piece of information making your head spin. Slasher. The word felt foreign, almost unreal, in the context of what you had come to understand about Jason. He wasn’t perfect, no. He was broken, lost, but he had never hurt you. In fact, he had done the opposite. Jason had cared for you in his own way, and that was something you couldn’t ignore.
And yet, Liam was right about one thing: Jason wasn’t normal. He had his own darkness, his own demons, and that darkness had a history. You knew that now, you had to. But could it change what you felt ?
"What do you mean by slasher exactly ?" you asked again, your voice a little more hesitant this time.
Liam’s eyes widened as he realized what he had let slip. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, it seemed like he might say something else. But then, the words seemed to come all at once, tumbling out in a rush.
"I’ve been searching for him for a long time," Liam confessed, his voice bitter with regret. "My father—he’s the one who told me about him. Jason, the killer. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I came here. I thought I could stop him before you got involved...before he hurt anyone else." He faltered, his expression cracking with guilt. "But you...you weren’t supposed to be the one to find him. You weren’t supposed to get tangled in this."
Your mind raced. Liam’s arrival in the village, his father’s obsession with local legends...it all started to come together. Jason’s scars weren’t just from accidents; they were a part of something much darker. And yet, there was something about Jason that defied everything you had ever heard about killers and monsters. He had never hurt you. He had never shown any real malice, not toward you.
Jason, sensing the shift in your expression, stepped forward, his posture softening as he watched you carefully. His eyes were filled with confusion and hurt—he didn’t understand why you were suddenly so distant, so unsure.
"I’ve killed," Jason signed slowly, his fingers trembling slightly. "But not...her. Not you."
Liam’s face twisted in frustration, his fists clenching. "You think he can just change, Y/N ? You think he can just turn off the monster inside him ?" He was frantic now, his words spilling out in a rush. "He’s been this way for years ! He’s a slasher—a killer ! And you...you’re protecting him ?"
The word hit like a slap, but it wasn’t enough to change your mind. No, what Liam didn’t understand was that Jason wasn’t the monster he painted him to be. Jason had been broken long before you had ever met him, and he had a long, complicated past, but that didn’t mean he was beyond redemption. It didn’t mean he didn’t have a heart—a heart that, in its own way, had found its place in you.
"I don’t care what you call him," you said quietly, your gaze fixed on Liam. "Jason hasn’t hurt me. He hasn’t hurt anyone I care about. If you’re trying to make me fear him, it’s not going to work."
Jason’s eyes flickered to you, and for the briefest of moments, there was a hint of relief in his gaze. Slowly, he took a step back, allowing you to kneel beside Liam again.
Liam shook his head, frustration and sorrow in his eyes. "You don’t understand. You’re not seeing it. I’m trying to protect you from what he is." He paused, his voice wavering. "You don’t deserve to be caught in the crossfire of this nightmare."
Jason growled low in his throat, his eyes narrowing on Liam. But he didn’t move. He didn’t act. And you couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for the way things had unraveled between them. They were both trying to protect you in their own way, but it was clear now that the line between protection and danger was blurring in ways you hadn’t expected.
"I’m not afraid of him, Liam," you whispered softly. "I’m not afraid of Jason. But I am afraid of losing what we have."
Jason’s gaze softened, his hand reaching out once more, but this time it was tentative, almost unsure.
Liam stood up slowly, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I don’t know what to say to you, Y/N. I just...I can’t stand by and watch you get hurt."
And with that, the tension in the room hung heavy once more, the space between you and Jason filled with an unspoken understanding that neither of you had quite figured out yet. However, he heard voices outside of his cabin and Jason quickly turned away to leave, putting his mask back on. He knew that if Liam had called people, they would soon be here and he would have to make them leave.
What he didn't count on however was to fall face to face with a well-suited man at the door.
"Hello there, Jason.", he then turned towards with a creepy smile. "Ah. Y/N, is it ? Liam told me so much about you..." He then glanced back at Liam's form and his smile faltered slightly. In a second, he got out a shotgun and didn't even hesitate before shooting Jason out of the way. Jason went flying and you were stunned as the man didn't even hesitate before pulling the trigger. He then crouched near Liam and took his pulse. Once he was sure he was going to be alright, he stood back up to face Jason who groaned loudly in pain before standing back up again. You couldn't believe what you seeing. Nobody could have survived that..
They stood before each other and the weird smiling man pointed his gun at him again.
"Now…How about you and I take a walk ?"
"Stop. Please. Don't hurt him." You screamed and Liam’s father scoffed.
"He is Jason Voorhees. He is a slasher. He cannot die, young lady." As if to prove his point, he shot Jason in the face and you were shocked when Jason's wound immediately closed up and vanished.
"What in the...? H..How ?" You asked—stunned.
"Why can't you see it ? He is a monster...Liam tried to warn you, but the poor boy underestimated the time he had." The man replied.
You glared at Liam’s father.
"Even though...I won't let you hurt him."
The air in the cabin crackled with tension as Jason stood tall despite the gunshot wound to his face, his body healing before your eyes. The man before you, Liam’s father, seemed unfazed by the spectacle, as if he had seen this kind of thing before. His creepy smile lingered, but it was laced with an unsettling sense of authority and entitlement.
Jason’s chest rose and fell with each labored breath, his eyes narrowing beneath his mask as he faced Liam’s father, the man who had so casually shot him like it was nothing. You could feel your heart racing, the panic rising in your chest as you tried to process everything. Liam's father ? What kind of person was he to act like this—like killing Jason was just a normal thing ? And why was he so intent on separating you from him ?
The man’s cold, calculating gaze turned back to you, and his smile widened just a fraction, as though he found some amusement in your disbelief. "You see, Y/N," he said slowly, savoring each word. "He’s not human. He’s a monster—a creature of pure violence and destruction. And you…" His eyes flickered briefly to Jason before landing back on you. "You’re just a misguided soul. His victim."
You stepped forward instinctively, your gaze unwavering as you faced Liam’s father, your voice trembling only slightly. "No," you said firmly, your words sharp despite the fear. "I’m not his victim. I choose to be here, and I choose him."
Liam’s father scoffed, clearly incredulous. "You choose him ? A slasher ? Someone who kills without mercy ? He’s nothing but a walking death sentence." He raised the shotgun again, aiming it at Jason, but you didn’t let the words get to you.
Jason’s silent form, still standing before you despite the injury, spoke louder than anything the man could say. His body still healing, still standing in defiance. Despite the label Liam’s father had placed on him, Jason wasn’t just some slasher—he was someone who had protected you, cared for you in his own broken, twisted way.
"Stop," you repeated, your voice unwavering as you stepped in front of Jason. "Don’t hurt him. You don’t understand. You think he’s just a killer, but he’s not. You’re wrong."
The man raised an eyebrow, his gun still pointed at Jason, but now there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. "Wrong ?" He looked at you, then back at Jason. "You really think this... thing can be anything but a monster ?"
Jason’s breathing became heavier as he stood motionless, his head slightly tilted as he watched the interaction between you and Liam’s father. His large form was imposing, but his silence was deafening. He wasn’t here to defend himself, and that was what made this whole situation so maddening. Jason was trying to prove something, but not with words.
Liam’s father seemed to hesitate, though only for a moment. His grip on the shotgun tightened, and he took a step toward you and Jason. "You’re making a mistake, young lady," he said, his voice cold and firm. "You can’t save him. He’s not worth saving."
"I’m not trying to save him," you said, your voice firm but soft, determined. "I’m just asking you to let him live. Let us live."
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of the wind whistling outside. Jason’s eyes, barely visible beneath his mask, flicked between you and Liam’s father, an unreadable expression in them.
You could feel the tension hanging in the air, the moment stretched impossibly thin. And then, without warning, Jason took a step forward, his movements deliberate and slow. He didn’t move to attack; instead, he placed a hand on your shoulder, a silent gesture of reassurance and protection.
Liam’s father stiffened, his grip tightening on the shotgun once more. "You think he cares about you ?" His voice dripped with disdain. "He’ll never change. He’s a killer. That’s all he will ever be."
You shook your head, your eyes locked with his. "You’re wrong. Jason is more than that. He’s not the monster you think he is. He’s not...just a killer. He’s much more than that."
Jason growled low in his throat, his eyes narrowing. He took another step closer, now standing just behind you, as if to show Liam’s father that he wouldn’t back down. But the other man didn’t back down either.
"He hurt my son."
"Liam...didn’t deserve this," you admitted, your voice breaking slightly as you spoke the truth you’d long buried. "But this isn’t his fault. None of this is Jason’s fault. Please...just leave. Take your son and leave."
The man stood there for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the scene. It was clear that something had shifted in his mind. He knew he had a fight on his hands—one that would not be easily won. But then, with a quick, frustrated motion, he lowered the shotgun, though not entirely. "This isn’t over, Y/N," he said with a dark warning. "I’ll be back."
You didn’t answer him, instead keeping your gaze locked on him as he turned, picked up Liam and walked away, leaving you and Jason alone in the cabin.
Jason’s hand rested lightly on your shoulder, and you could feel the tension leaving his body. Slowly, he turned and walked back to the far side of the room, his steps heavy but calm. It was clear that he wasn’t going to say anything—not yet, anyway. But his presence, his silent protection, spoke louder than words ever could.
You breathed a sigh of relief, but your heart was still racing. The weight of what had just happened settled heavily on your shoulders. This wasn’t over. Far from it.
But for now, you had Jason by your side, and that was enough. Jason slowly took off his mask and didn't look at you at first. He then handed it to you.
"...Don't leave me." It seemed he was saying.
"I won't." You took his mask and his hand. You could feel the weight of Jason's hand in yours, the heat of it grounding you in this chaotic moment. The mask he handed to you felt heavy, almost symbolic of everything he had been carrying all these years.
"I won't leave you," you repeated, your voice firm, steady. You looked down at the mask in your hands, then back at him. Slowly, you reached up and gently placed the mask aside, never breaking eye contact with him. His gaze was intense, but there was a softness now—a depth of emotion that had been hidden behind that mask for so long.
Jason didn’t speak, but you could see the relief in his eyes, even if he wasn’t entirely sure how to process it. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.
He may have been a slasher, a force of destruction in many ways, but in this moment, he was something else. Something more. He wasn’t just a monster or a killer. He was Jason, and he had asked for something simple, something human: not to be left alone.
And you, despite everything, weren’t going anywhere…until Jason was suddenly shot with a grappling hook and pulled away from you.
"Y/N !" Jason screamed your name as he was dragged away from you.
"JASON !" You called after him, but suddenly felt a gun against your temple. Liam’s father then instructed Jason to surrender or he would kill you. Jason followed his instructions and stood near the pond. The man then threw you aside before pointing his gun at Jason. He then shot him. He mercilessly shot Jason in the chest. Jason took a few steps backwards before falling in the water with a loud splash. You quickly ran to jump after him, but Liam stopped you.
"COME ON, Y/N ! WE HAVE TO GO !"
You screamed and called Jason’s name, but Liam dragged you away from the water and used his remaining strength to shout.
"DAMN IT, Y/N ! LET'S GO ! IT'S OVER !"
"NO !" You screamed—but Liam shoved you in his car and quickly got into the driver's seat before driving away.
A few minutes later :
Jason woke up in the water and slowly stood up before looking around him in a daze. He then realised he was surrounded by armed men and Liam’s father smiled down at him.
"Welcome back, Jason. We've been looking for you for a very long time…" He said and Jason barely had the time to turn around before he felt chains close around his ankles. He was suddenly immobilised and the man then introduced himself.
"I am Wolfe Schulz. And I am at the head of a team charged with finding and retrieving people like you. Special."
Jason grunted in response and tried to break away from his chains, but found they weren't normal…He could easily break chains and had done so on many occasions—but these dug into his skin and almost burnt him. He eventually gave up trying and finally uttered.
"Y…Y/N ?" He wanted to know where you were, at least be reassured that you were alright—but Wolfe only laughed before gesturing for his men to pull him out of the water. He was dragged by the chains into one of the trucks and when he was settled in, Wolfe bent forward to whisper in his ear.
"You are now property of St Louis asylum. Say goodbye to your beloved Crystal Lake and Y/N...You won't be seeing either of them any time soon."
Jason's eyes widened and he gritted his teeth at Wolfe, wanting nothing more than to kill him. He doubled his efforts to get out of his restrains, but was unsuccessful once more. Wolfe smiled knowingly and then signalled to the driver to start driving.
"Let's go !"
The truck started and Jason—for the first time in his life—felt helpless. He looked up as Crystal Lake slowly became a small dot in the distance. He closed his eyes and felt angry, but most of all, he felt disappointed. The only time he thought he could have everything, it was cruelly taken away from him. He screamed your name again…
In Liam's car :
"WE NEED TO GO BACK !" You looked back and broke into sobs. You had to go find him again. He needed you ! To your surprise, Liam complied and brought you back…only to find that there was no one left. You cried and dropped to your knee before picking up Jason’s mask.
He was gone. Jason was gone. You held his mask closer to your chest and started crying. Liam tried to comfort you, but you slapped his hand away.
"It's all your fault...You lied to me."
Liam stayed silent and you turned towards him with your lips twisted in a scornful grimace.
"I TRUSTED YOU ! WHO THE F*CK ARE YOU ?!"
He hesitated before finally disclosing.
"I am special agent Liam McCain. I have just been assigned to the slasher recuperation team. And it wasn't me who hurt Jason. My team did. This was my first mission."
An agent ?
He must have seen the confusion in your eyes as he quickly added.
"I'm so sorry you had to learn it this way. I really liked you."
You frowned and your eyes widened as you saw him take out a gun.
"L..Liam ?" you asked in incomprehension as he stared at you with tearful eyes.
"I’m so sorry, Y/N. I told you to stay away from him. I warned you that you would get hurt." he told you and you shivered. You stared at the gun in his hand and your own eyes watered as you realised why he hadn't brought you back home.
You were never going home.
"You don't have to do this." you said with a shaky voice—but Liam shook his head.
"Protocol A.3. No civilian witnesses allowed. I have my orders…"
You closed your eyes and blinked your tears away. You then remembered Jason's mask and sniffled before putting it on. You then turned back to face Liam and smiled through your tears.
"You'll miss me..." you told him knowingly and Liam took a shaky breath before smiling back at you. His hand was trembling as he raised the gun to aim at you and whispered.
"I know."
He then pulled the trigger.
The shot echoed in the silence, and for a moment, everything felt still. The world seemed to pause, caught in the aftermath of what had just happened. But as the gunshot rang out, you felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of emptiness. The tears that had filled your eyes were now frozen, as if your heart had shattered completely in that moment…
Meanwhile, Jason was still in the truck, but had felt something break inside of him. He screamed loudly in pain and clutched his chest as he cried.
.
.
.
A few days later, the town would learn that Y/N L/N was responsible behind the deaths of a group of teenagers near Crystal Lake and that the police had had no choice but to shoot when she had tried to escape…
Your body shivered from the cold seeping into the cabin. Even with you wearing warmer clothing, it didn’t help. You curled up in a ball on the couch in hopes of warmth. Waiting for your hockey-masked boyfriend to come back with firewood. You didn’t know how long he was gone. It felt like hours. The thought of moving never crossed your mind, fearing that you’d lose the little warmth you had just by curling up in a ball. There weren’t any blankets around, and not many victims brought any for Jason to steal. So you were left with numerous of long sleeve shirts and random sweatpants. Sometimes your eyes began to droop. Sleep wanting to overtake you, but you wanted to wait for Jason’s return. You hoped he could find blankets somewhere.
You were close to falling asleep. Maybe falling asleep won’t hurt.
It felt like you only slept for five minutes. Until you felt warmer. And warmer. A hand gently shook your shoulder. Making you stirr in your sleep. Waking up groggily with your head being supported by a pillow and your body being covered by a large blanket. Fire cracking in the fireplace filled your ears, a soothing sound you grew to like the more Jason lit up fire during the cold weather. You then sat up with the blankets over your shoulders. Smiling sleepily at Jason who had another blanket for you. You opened your arms wide as a silent ask for him to cuddle with you now that he was back.
Jason sat on the other side of the couch. Having his arms out for you, you happily rested on his chest with his arms wrspprd around you. He made sure the blankets still covered you for warmth. You felt his masked nose nuzzle into your hair, clearly, he was happy to be with you as well. It took a while for Jason to get used to affection or cuddling from not getting it in years, but once he warmed up to it, it was nearly a requirement. Anytime he came home he at least expects a hug from you.
There was enough wood in the fire for now, it wa sonly a matter of time before Jason had to get up and put more in. By the looks of it, he cut a lot. The large pile remained in the corner, neatly stacked. It explained why he was gone for so long, along with the large blankets and weirdly shaped pillows, victims must’ve been out in the area. It didn’t matter anymor enow that Jason took care of them.
You couldn’t get up if you wanted to, even though Jason didn’t have warmth himself, the blankets and fire made up for it. You leaned up to press a kiss to his masked nose. You could feel his breath hitch for a second, you worried if you took a big leap, his grip tightened. His own masked pressed against your forehead as his way of returning the kiss. It made you smile widely at his attempt in affection.
It was the best you were going to get, and you were grateful. It didn’t matter if he had his mask or not. He was right there with you.
