— 𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: Jason Voorhees x GN!Reader
— 𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: Some alone 'Cabin Time' can do wonders for you and your pursuer.
— 𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: Horror, Fluff (?), Suspense
— 𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: Blood, Bone Breaking
— 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: Wow, it's been a long time since I made this blog and so many bad things happened in my life around and after that time. I just had no time to update this. Even now I'm writing this while hospitalized. Either way, this is my first work published on here. Not really proofread as usual. English isn’t my first language. I hope you like it!
'Almost there, Y/N, you're almost there..' Is the only thing occupying your mind as you push your legs to carry you.
'Faster. Run faster!' Your brain screams at you.
And you do, you run as fast as you can… but not fast enough. Right before your calloused hand reaches the doorknob, you feel a hand grabbing your ankle. A snapping sound; and pain.
You scream out in agony, tripping and falling down onto the floor in record time. Your tears have stained your cheeks by now, leaving wet trails through the dirt and blood that had accumulated on your face.
A muffled laugh reverberates through the wooden walls of the small shack and you shiver in pure horror.
He had found you. The very man… very thing you were trying to escape from has found you.
Your ankle is broken and there's no way out. You look back in terror, your eyes barely focusing. But even in the darkness you can see the hockey mask, and the machete still covered with the blood of your friends, glistening in the moonlight. You can feel his cold hand, still holding your ankle in a vice-like grip.
"P-please don't… just stay away from me please!" You stammer out and brace for what's about to come next.
The man, however, doesn't do anything else to you. He tilts his head like a confused puppy, looking you over from head to toe. His calloused hand lets go of your ankle and your limp leg thuds to the floor, eliciting a yelp from you.
His broad figure stills, his large hands hovering above your ankle, afraid to touch it, to further injure it. And for a split second you think he may be feeling… remorse?
You curl into yourself, cornered against a wall, with no way to escape and completely at his mercy.
And his mercy comes in the form of sitting in front of you, cross-legged like a child would, and pulling out a crumpled flower from his pant pocket. He offers the flower to you, fully gripping the stem in his fist, akin to a boy giving a flower to his mother. The man looks at you and shakes the hand holding the flower, signaling you to hurry up and take it.
'He is… giving me a flower?' You think to yourself as you carefully reach out, making sure your hand doesn't touch his when taking the flower from him. Your eyes rake over the flower and you examine it. It's a blue flag iris, which you have seen growing around here before. Though it's somewhat freshly picked, it's obvious it got flattened in the back pocket of his pants. Still, it's the thought that counts, right?
"Is- is this some kind of joke?" You wonder out loud and the giant before you exaggeratedly shakes his head left and right.
You sat like that for hours, in complete silence, the man next to you only breathing loudly. You almost fell asleep a few times, the sounds of his breathing sounding oddly comforting. He fiddles with his fingers and then props himself up to stand. Now towering over your sitting form on the ground, he stares down at you and reaches for you.
"No... No, don't hurt me, please let me go..." You back up against the wall once more, shielding your body with your arms. The man's eyes bore into yours as he stops his movements. He shakes his head once more and presses a finger to his mask where his mouth would be, huffing.
"You want me to... stay quiet?" You ask and he nods his head. He reaches for you again, slower this time, careful. His large hand settles on top of your head, gently ruffling your hair (or rubbing your head if you don't have hair). Once finished, one of his hands settles under your knee and the other one snakes around your back to grip under your arm.
The man scoops you up easily and you cling onto him, still holding the flower in one of your hands.
With one arm still holding you to him like a child, he uses his now free hand to pick up the machete and stroll out of the cabin.
"Where are you taking me?" You ask him.
He says nothing, instead moving his head so his forehead could bump your head lightly as he inhaled your scent. He was going to make sure your ankle was fine first, then he was going to show you to his mother and make you his; FOREVER.
Terror. Disgust. I don't really know. It's kind of a toss up when you wake up covered in blood. Who's blood was it? Is it mine? Is it the woman's sleeping next to me... Damn it, Janet, you started your period again and you forgot to put on a tampon. AGAIN! This is the third time Janet I'm sick of having to wash our sheets in cold water and peroxide just to keep it from staining and then when that doesn't work; buying new sheets for the bed. No more please, for the love of God no more.
Writing Prompt from: tomiadeyemi.com Found on Pinterest
I wrote the thing based on this ask. Hope you enjoy and sorry about my shitty writing, this is pretty rushed
It wasn’t like Christine wanted to wake up at this ungodly hour to take some dumb final for a class she didn’t even want to take. Oh no, she’d much rather be sleeping in, cleaning her apartment, even practicing her vocals! Her phone blared the second alarm, reminding her if she didn’t get up now she’d be five minutes late. She groans and swings her legs over the side of her bed, idly tapping the snooze setting flashing on the screen. Her hair gets tied in a messy bun and she sighs again. “Stupid calc, stupid test, stupid, stupid, stupid,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. The old coffee machine broke last week and with her pay she knew she wouldn’t be getting a new one anytime soon, so it was another morning based on sheer willpower. She angrily chomps on her protein bar, silently cursing the day ahead of her. Christine’s wardrobe of the day consisted of an oversized sweatshirt and leggings. She finishes her bar, quickly brushes her teeth, but the girl doesn’t bother with makeup. She wraps the red scarf- a gift from her father-around her thin neck, grabs her purse and keys, and steps out the door. The air is brisk when she reaches the sidewalk in front of her building. She pulls her scarf closer to her, noting how her breath came out in swirls around her. It always amazed her how in the cold times of winter one could see their breath. The clock on her phone tells her its nearing seven, and Christine hastily gets on her bike. Her savings aren’t nearly enough for a car, and as far as she was concerned, that wasn’t going to change. Though, when it was warm and the sun peaked out from behind the clouds, she couldn’t say she minded. She pedaled quickly, hurrying through the crowded streets. Sometimes she’d go through places she knew she wasn’t supposed to, laughing at the honks from the cars with tinted windows. She loved to mess with the daily commuters. That’s what they deserved because hey, who even drives cars in New York? There was one car in particular that seemed to be in a great hurry. She smirked beneath her scarf, thinking to herself that it would be worth it, to hear the aggressive shouting. She dipped in between two cars and swooped over to the lane to cut off the agitated driver, who, to her great satisfaction, honked repeatedly. She let out a mischievous laugh, but it was cut off when she made a collision with some asshole on a motorbike.
Erik was nearly positive that something felt wrong when he left his loft that morning. Even though his gut did get that awfully suspicious feeling whenever he left his home, something about today felt… different, stronger even. It wasn’t something petty like a coffee machine malfunction or a faulty razor cartridge. His morning of getting ready to face the day ran perfectly smooth. He took his shower, drank his expensive Colombia-imported coffee, even going as far as to shave. Well, his good side. His composition sat soundly in the proper folder where it was to be escorted by the one and only. He was ready to face the day as Signore Erik de Angelo, the absolute genius behind Don Juan Triumphant. Today he was to present his masterpiece to men who called themselves musical geniuses.
No, his morning at his loft was normal. It was the ride to the studio that events became…bizarre.He boarded his motorcycle with his usual comment on the brisk air, placing his precious composition into the interior pocket of his large leather jacket. His helmet securely on his head, he speeds away towards the studio. Erik was a master at everything he did, and he thought driving to be no different. Truthfully, he used the time on his motorcycle to think, and he found himself in a trance-like state. So today, when he suddenly slammed into a girl vigorously pedaling on a manual bike, he snapped the fuck out of it.
The girl couldn’t be more than 20, maybe 22. Her hair was a mess as she lay on the pavement. Erik’s eyes scanned her over quickly on impulse, finding her to be conscious- and quite angry. “Ugh,” she groans, sitting up. He’s frozen, staring at her wrist that was starting to turn an unnatural shade of purple. “What… What happened?” her voice is hoarse. “Are you hurt?” Is all he can think to ask, coming to her side but avoiding any contact. Her wrist is purple and the answer is an obvious yes.“Well,” she holds up her limp wrist that was beginning to tint yellow. “This is definitely broken.” She seems to suddenly remember something, and Erik almost jumps when the girl quickly exclaims, “Shit! Do you have the time?”
“Quarter to seven,” he states, and the look of horror that stretches across her features shocks him. He’d think that she’d be more concerned over the fractured wrist she currently nursed, but she seemed more consumed in the fact that it was nearing 7. “Crap,” she mumbles, and using her good hand, she pulls her scarf off from around her neck, and she struggles to make a proper splint. “Can you help me out here?” He doesn’t hesitate to properly situate her hand in a proper splint. She mumbles a quick thanks and she turns to him once more. “Can I ask you another favor?” he nods, and she points to her crushed bicycle. “You think you could give me a ride? You kinda crushed my bike and I can’t miss this test, I gotta pass if I want to get a good position in the chorus and if I miss it I can’t make it up. You kind of owe me anyway since you sorta hit me with your fuckin’ motorcycle, but hey, it happens to the best of us, right?” She’s laughing now and he’s staring at her like she’s a madwoman and she is, really. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to a hospital?” he asks, and she looks at him. “Positive. Now are you gonna give me a ride or not because I’ve got places to be and the clock is tickin’,” she says, and he’s astounded at her straightforwardness. Nevertheless, she still hops onto the back of his bike, and he finds himself riding for the first time with another person. It’s refreshing and terrifying the way she pushes into his back and clings onto him as if she’s never done this before, and his mind is racing as she gives him her number, telling him she’ll let him know how the exam goes. He can’t believe he’s done so much today, more than he has in his entire lifetime. He laughs to himself as he speeds away. Ah, and it’s only 7 o’ clock!
