Summary: To the world, Jason Voorhees is death incarnate. To his wife, he is the man who catches falling leaves before they can touch her.
The forest was loud that evening.
Branches swayed together overhead, cicadas sang from somewhere beyond the lake, and the breeze carried the scent of damp earth after an afternoon shower.
Jason walked ahead as he always did. Not because he wanted to leave you behind, but because he was clearing the path without even thinking about it.
A fallen branch blocked the narrow trail.
He stopped.
One enormous hand wrapped around the thick limb, lifting it as though it weighed nothing before tossing it several metres away. The path was clear again.
You smiled.
“You know I could’ve stepped over it.”
Jason glanced over one shoulder. Even behind the weathered hockey mask, you recognised the look immediately.
No.
That single tilt of his head was enough. He wasn’t going to risk you tripping. You caught up to him, slipping your fingers around two of his. Your entire hand barely fit around them.
He looked down.
For a second, the towering killer who haunted Crystal Lake simply stood there, looking at your joined hands as though they fascinated him.
Then his fingers curled carefully around yours.
Always gentle.
You continued walking. Leaves occasionally drifted from the trees above, spinning lazily toward the ground. One floated directly toward your face.
Before it could touch you, Jason’s hand appeared.
The leaf landed against the back of his glove instead.
You laughed.
“Jason…”
He looked at the leaf.
Then at you.
As if he genuinely couldn’t understand why you found it amusing.
“You know,” you teased, “I can survive a leaf.”
His shoulders rose slightly.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
You laughed harder, stepping in front of him.
“Come here.”
Jason stopped immediately.
There wasn’t a force on Earth capable of making him obey another person. Yet when you held your arms open, he complied without hesitation.
He bent his knees slightly so you could reach him.
You wrapped your arms around his middle.
Even then, you barely reached halfway around his waist.
“You worry too much.”
One hand settled carefully against your back. The pressure was almost nonexistent.
You had watched him drive an axe through solid timber. You had watched him throw grown men several feet with one arm. Now that same hand rested against you with the caution of someone holding blown glass.
“You know,” you murmured against his jacket, “everyone thinks you’re frightening.”
He remained still.
“They’ve never seen this side of you.”
His thumb moved once against your back. The closest thing Jason had to absent-minded affection. You leaned back enough to look up at the mask.
“I have.”
His hand rose to your cheek. His rough, scarred fingers brushed your skin with impossible care. As if he was afraid pressing even a little too hard. You leaned into his touch.
“I love you too.”
He froze.
Those words always affected him.
Jason never said them aloud.
Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps he didn’t know how anymore. Instead, he answered the only way he ever had.
He rested his forehead against yours, the edge of the hockey mask touching your brow. His free arm encircled your waist completely, sheltering you against his chest.
The woods continued around you. Birds called. The lake rippled. Nothing dared come closer.
Not because Jason was standing there, but because every living creature in Crystal Lake seemed to understand something instinctively.
The giant in the hockey mask wasn’t hunting tonight. He was simply holding the most precious thing in his world, and if anyone, or anything, disturbed that peace.
The forest itself would remember why everyone feared the name Jason Voorhees.
I don't know who to ask to write this, or if anyone is even interested, but I have to get this idea out! (And I can't write for shit >.>)
So if anyone in fact is interested in writing about this, please, please, please tag meeeee!
Slasher(s) and their S/O (Or Y/N) have been together for a while now and have been intimate a few times, but each time that has happened their S/O has insisted on keeping their shirt on. As time goes by and things start to get more serious, they finally decide to reveal the reason for it.
As they remove their shirt, they reveal a litany of what can only be described as torture scars. Cigarette burns, slash marks even electrocution burns that are far too precise to have been caused by any accident. Deeply ashamed the S/O then tells about their past and the horrid abuse they went through in the hands of their absolutely psychotic ex (who is still alive and about, just doesn't know where S/O is) How would each specific slasher react to this? Would they want to go and get some sort of revenge? Would they see the person somehow differently?
Needless to say I have some personal reasons for being very curious about this, but that could also be the reason why I can't really imagine how anyone would react to it. I've seen so many amazing texts of people writing about slashers reacting to different scenarios, so I'm hoping beyond hope that this might inspire one of you amazing people out there and also quell my curiosity in the progress <3
The feeling of your front door pushing into your cheek was not pleasant. You threateningly jingled the keys, but Michael did not relent. His chest was heavy as it pressed into your back, leaning over you and forcing you into a caged position between his body and the wood. He was almost as sturdy as the door itself; more so, perhaps. You could feel his heartbeat thrumming through his overalls, pounding rhythmically against your spine. It was a small reminder he was human.
“I’ve been sat on that couch with you for three hours, Mikey. I need to go to the store now.”
Your man was a bastard. You knew that. Even when he was soft with you, there was an underlying tone of bastard energy. It was cute that he didn’t want you to leave. The thought that he’d miss you was endearing. Some part of you would have preferred a gentle tug of the sleeve to ask you to stay, not... This.
He wasn’t even doing anything. Just leaning on you. He knew you couldn’t escape. You felt the latex chin of his mask press into the top of your head; an extra bit of weight to push you down and keep you in place. Arms lax by his side, he knew he’d won. A thick, relaxed sigh rumbled through his chest, and you knew that you were stuck.
Summary: In a tribe where humans and Yautja live and love side by side, you are the only one without a mate. But your heart aches for one who hides, whose presence you feel but cannot name.
The heat of Yautja Prime was a constant companion, coming in through the open windows in your small hut.
You sat alone at the edge of your bed mat, legs tucked under you, your hands resting in your lap. Through the wall, you could hear the echo of laughter, of Yautja calling to one another, and the lighter sound of human voices. The sound used to make you smile.
Now it only reminded you of what you didn’t have.
Everyone had a mate. Everyone but you.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
When you were taken from Earth, it wasn’t with fear. You had felt it all your life, that tug in your chest, a feeling that your home was not truly your own. When the Yautja ship came, you felt relief more than panic. It was as if a door had finally opened.
And for a time, it seemed perfect. The tribe welcomed you.
A tribe where humans and Yautja lived together in peace. Some mated and raised children who walked both paths. You saw kindness in the hunters, warmth in their customs. You gave yourself over to their way of life without resistance.
And you waited.
Waited for the bond. Waited for the one your heart would know.
And he was there. You knew it. Felt it.
Sometimes your breath would stop when you walked through the market, when a shadow crossed your path, when a presence behind you appeared.
Your body recognised him.
But he never came.
Your name was never claimed. Your hand was never taken.
The others looked at you with pity. Some with confusion. A few with disdain.
A human without a mate?
Perhaps you were broken. Perhaps your soul called to no one. You began to believe it too.
The depression crept in slowly.
At first, it was just a tiredness. Then it became a weight that settled in your chest and refused to leave.
Your limbs grew heavy. Your skin is pale.
You fainted at the market once, then again. And again.
The medics gave their diagnosis. Your body was strong. But your heart was breaking. The bond had turned into a wound. And it was killing you.
Each time you woke on the healer’s table, you wished you hadn’t.
That night, the air was still. Too still.
You curled up on your bed mat, facing the wall, trying not to cry again. Crying made you feel worse. It made you feel weak.
Then came the knock.
A single knock. Not forceful. Not urgent. Just... one.
You turned your head slowly, your body aching with effort. The door creaked open, and he stepped inside.
Tall. Armoured. Familiar.
And when your eyes met him, the world stilled.
It was him.
Every part of you screamed his name, even if you did not know it. Your breath caught. You sat up slowly, chest heaving, heart thundering.
He did not speak, not at first. He removed his helmet with slow, measured movements. His skin was marked with battle scars. His mandibles twitched with tension. And his eyes, deep and unreadable.
"You," you whispered, voice barely audible. "It's you."
He stood still, towering in your doorway, not moving.
"Why?" Your voice cracked. "Why didn’t you come?"
He stepped forward. The scent of him flooded your senses. Familiar. Right. You almost cried at the relief of it.
He sank to one knee in front of you, bowing his head. His voice was low, rough, reverent.
"I am not worthy."
You stared. "What?"
"I am broken. I am not a leader. I do not serve my chief. I hunt alone. I shame my line." He looked up, and you could see the pain in his eyes. "You are light. You are kind. I am only ruin."
You reached forward, hand trembling as you touched his jaw. He flinched but did not pull away.
"You let me suffer," you said softly. "You let me wither. For pride? For fear?"
He pressed his forehead to your shoulder, growling low. "I watched. Every day. You smiled less. Your colour faded. And I-"
His voice broke. It was something Yautja never did. They were proud hunters. They didn't speak of feelings.
"I couldn’t stay away anymore. I couldn't watch you die."
You cupped his face in your hands, tears sliding silently down your cheeks. "Then don’t. Stay. Stay with me."
He looked at you as if you’d given him the stars.
He got up, carefully pulling you into his arms. You sagged into him, all strength gone, but he held you as if you weighed nothing. He cradled your head against his chest, one hand around your back, the other at your waist.
The pain began to disappear.
You could feel the bond now, real and humming, like heat under your skin. His presence soothed the burning in your chest, and calmed the riot in your heart.
"What is your name?" you asked, eyes fluttering closed.
"T’kuvan," he said quietly. "I am yours."
In the upcoming weeks, your health returned. Slowly, like a flower uncurling after too long in the dark.
T’kuvan stayed by your side.
At first, awkward and silent, but slowly, his touch grew more sure. He carried you when your legs failed, learned to make human food that you liked, and sat with you during the hottest parts of the day.
You laughed for the first time in months when he snarled at the healer for giving you bitter root broth.
He was protective and fierce. But with you, he was tender.
He asked what your life was like. He told you stories of his lone hunts, of the beasts he had brought down, of the places beyond the tribal border.
And one night, as you lay curled beside him on the bed mat, he whispered, "I thought I was meant to be alone. That no one could want what I am. Until you."
You rested your hand over his chest, over the place where his heart was. "I was never afraid of you. Only of never knowing you."
He pulled you close, arms wrapped around you like a shield.
Whole.
At last.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
Summary: You are trapped in Thomas Hewitt’s world, and you discover that under the mask lies a quiet, gentle heart.
The road stretched out before you, cracked and shimmering under the Texas sun.
It had been hours since you had seen another car, hours since the last sign of life. The air hung thick with heat and dust, and your friends’ laughter grated like sandpaper against your nerves.
“Face it,” one of them said from the back seat, fanning herself with a crumpled map. “You’re hopeless with directions.”
You sighed, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“We took the wrong turn because you said to take it,” you muttered.
“Relax,” another chimed in from the passenger seat, leaning out the window. “We’ll hit civilisation soon enough. There's got to be a gas station somewhere.”
But there wasn’t.
Only endless fields, sunburnt grass, and the hollow echo of the wind. The car spluttered, shuddered, and finally gave up at the side of the road, the engine coughing out its last breath.
“Great,” the driver said, slamming her hand against the wheel. “Perfect.”
You stepped out, the heat immediately wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.
The air smelled of rust and dry earth.
In the distance, a thin trail of smoke curled into the sky, maybe from a chimney.
“Look. There might be a house over there. Someone could help.”
They turned to look, squinting.
“You really want to go knock on that door?” one of them said with a smirk. “Go on then, hero. You’re the one who spotted it.”
“I’m not going alone.” You frowned.
“Fine,” another said mockingly, “we’ll wait here and guard the car. You can be our brave little scout.”
They laughed, the sound sharp and cruel.
You hesitated, glancing at the outline of the house. It was tall, old, its roof half-sagging under the weight of years. Something in your chest told you to stay away. But the laughter behind you, the way they looked at you, made it impossible to refuse.
“Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll go.”
You walked along the dusty road, your heart beating unevenly.
The air grew still the closer you got. No birds, no wind, only the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes. The farmhouse loomed larger with each step, its porch draped in shadow.
When you reached the gate, it groaned as you pushed it open. Rusted hinges screamed into the silence. You stepped inside, the grass high and untended.
“Hello?” you called, your voice trembling slightly. “Is anyone here?”
No answer.
Only the sound of a screen door creaking faintly in the wind.
You stepped closer.
The smell hit you first, something faintly metallic beneath the rot. The porch steps creaked under your weight.
You turned back once, hoping maybe they’d followed you after all. But they were just dots in the distance, laughing, taking photos by the car, utterly unconcerned.
“Brilliant,” you whispered to yourself.
You pushed the door open.
It wasn’t locked.
Inside, it was dim and heavy with dust. The furniture was old, mismatched, and covered in grime. A single fly buzzed somewhere near your ear.
You called out again, quieter this time.
“Hello?”
A noise answered, not words, but a low sound, something shifting in the next room.
You froze, your fingers tightening around the doorframe.
The floorboards creaked again.
Then, from the shadowed doorway at the end of the hall, you saw him.
A huge figure, half in darkness, half in the light that filtered through a cracked window.
Broad shoulders, an apron smeared with something you didn’t want to name, and a mask stitched of rough leather. He didn’t move. He only watched.
Your body locked in place, too afraid to breathe.
For a moment, you thought your mind was playing tricks. Maybe it was just a mannequin, something left behind. But then, he tilted his head ever so slightly.
And the world went cold.
You stumbled back, the floor groaning under your steps, and fled out the door, your heart racing so fast it blurred the edges of your sight. You didn’t stop until you reached the car again, your voice cracking as you shouted.
“There’s someone in that house!”
Your friends burst into laughter.
“Yeah, sure,” one of them said, rolling her eyes. “The ghost of the Texas Chainsaw guy, right?”
You tried to catch your breath.
“I’m serious. He’s there. We have to go.”
But they only laughed harder, mocking your fear. One of them grabbed the keys, twirling them around her finger.
“Well, if it’s so scary, maybe we should all go say hello.”
You wanted to protest, to beg them to stop, but something in their eyes, that cruel amusement, made your voice die in your throat.
So when they started walking toward the house, you followed.
And the road behind you stayed silent.
The air seemed thicker by the time you reached the house again, as though even the wind held its breath. The sun had started to sink behind the trees, bleeding orange light across the cracked windows and the warped wooden walls.
“Looks abandoned,” one of your friends said, brushing past you. “You were probably just seeing things.”
“I wasn’t,” you said quickly, your voice catching. “There was someone in there. I saw him.”
“Sure you did,” another said, smirking. “Probably some farmer who’s been dead for fifty years.”
They laughed, brushing off your fear like it was nothing.
You wanted to turn back, to walk away and never look at this place again. But none of them listened.
They pushed open the door and headed inside, joking and whispering as though this was all a game.
You followed, though every instinct screamed at you to stop. The air inside was even worse than before, stale and heavy, thick with dust and something that smelled faintly of copper and decay.
The living room was cluttered.
Old photographs lined the walls, their glass cracked. Furniture sat unevenly across the floor, much of it made of bone, you saw it then, and your stomach twisted. The legs of the table were crafted from something pale and unmistakably human.
“We shouldn’t be here.”
“Relax,” one of them said, brushing dust off an old lamp. “It’s probably just a hunter or something. People make weird stuff out here.”
Another opened a door to what might once have been the kitchen.
“Look at this! There’s even meat hanging up.”
You turned, your heart skipping. The smell was stronger here. You stepped forward before realising what you were looking at. The meat wasn’t from an animal.
You stumbled back, covering your mouth.
“Oh my God-”
Something crashed upstairs.
Everyone froze.
“What was that?” one whispered.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. You shook your head.
“We need to go. Now.”
But before anyone could move, a loud metallic sound echoed from the hall, the heavy drag of a chain, scraping across the floorboards. You turned slowly.
He was there.
The man from before.
Towering. Silent.
The flicker of dying daylight caught on the blade in his hand. His head tilted, mask glinting, as if studying the group like a butcher deciding where to cut first.
The scream that tore through the house wasn’t yours at first. One of your friends bolted toward the door, but he moved too fast. The sound of steel meeting flesh filled the air, sharp and final.
You stumbled back, falling hard against the table.
“Stop!” you screamed without thinking, your voice breaking. “Please stop!”
He froze.
You didn’t know why.
He turned his head slightly, eyes hidden behind the mask, but his focus shifted. You were shaking, tears streaming down your cheeks.
In your panic, you tried to crawl away, your leg catching on the corner of a rug. Your ankle twisted painfully, and you cried out.
He took a step closer.
The others ran.
You heard their footsteps pounding up the stairs, doors slamming, more screams. The noise filled the house, bouncing off the walls until it all blended together, fear, blood, wood splintering under force.
But he didn’t go after them.
He stopped in front of you.
The blade was still wet, catching the light in a dull shimmer. You could hear your heartbeat, could feel every pulse in your throat. He looked down at you, head tilting again, as though he couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing.
You trembled, whispering.
“Please… I didn’t do anything.”
He said nothing. The sound that came from him was more like a low grunt, heavy and unsure.
When he stepped closer, you flinched and your hand slipped, landing on something metal and sharp. Pain shot through your palm. You gasped, tears spilling freely now.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then slowly, carefully, he crouched.
Your breath caught. He wasn’t attacking. He was watching.
He reached forward, taking your wrist gently in his gloved hand.
The gesture was strangely careful, almost curious. He looked at the blood on your palm, then back at your face, as though searching for something he recognised.
“Please…” you whispered again, too frightened to move.
He hesitated, then reached into his apron and pulled out a piece of old cloth. It was clean, or at least cleaner than anything else here. Slowly, he wrapped it around your hand, his fingers rough but steady.
You were crying, too shocked to speak.
He didn’t seem to understand tears, only that something about them made him pause.
When the cloth was tied, he stood again, looming above you, and then… he left.
You heard his heavy footsteps fade into another room, then the sound of something dragging. Screams followed.
Wet, horrible sounds that you couldn’t shut out no matter how tightly you covered your ears.
And then, silence.
You sat there in the dark, trembling, trying to breathe.
When the silence broke again, it was by the sound of footsteps, slow, heavy, coming back toward you.
You looked up, heart pounding.
He was there again, his apron splattered, the blade gone. In his hand, he held a small tin of water and an old rag.
He set them down beside you.
He didn’t speak. He just looked at you for a long time, as if waiting for you to understand.
Then he turned and walked away.
When you woke, the first thing you felt was the cold.
It clung to your skin, damp and heavy, seeping through the torn fabric of your clothes. For a moment, you didn’t know where you were. Then your eyes adjusted to the dim light flickering overhead, a single bulb swaying slightly from a cord.
The room was small, the air thick with dust and the faint smell of oil. Tools lined the walls, old and rusted, their shapes strange in the low light.
You were lying on an old sofa, its fabric torn, but someone had draped a blanket over you.
You touched your bandaged hand. The wrapping was neat, tight enough to stop the bleeding but not enough to hurt.
Your breath caught.
Someone had helped you.
You sat up slowly, your heart starting to pound again. The silence pressed in from all sides. Somewhere above, the floor creaked, slow, measured footsteps.
You swallowed hard.
“Hello?” Your voice was hoarse, weak. It echoed faintly up the narrow staircase.
No answer.
You tried to stand, but your leg gave way. The pain shot through your ankle, sharp and immediate. You gasped, clutching the railing.
The sound must have carried.
You heard movement above, heavier this time, closer. Then the basement door creaked open. A shadow filled the stairway, tall and broad, blocking the light.
You froze.
He descended slowly, each step deliberate. You could see him now, the same figure from before, the leather mask, the blood-stained apron. His presence filled the space.
He stopped a few feet from you, head tilted as he watched you struggle to steady yourself.
Your hands shook.
“Please, I don’t want to die.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a weapon.
Instead, he made a low, guttural sound, not quite a word, but it wasn’t a growl either. It was softer. Almost questioning.
You pressed yourself against the wall, trembling.
“Why did you… help me?”
He turned his head slightly, as though he didn’t understand the question. Then he pointed, slowly, clumsily, toward your bandaged hand.
Your breath hitched.
“You… did this?”
He gave the smallest nod.
It wasn’t much, but it made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t name.
Fear, yes. But also confusion. Gratitude.
He took a step closer. You flinched instinctively, but he only crouched again, just like before. He held something out to you, a tin plate with a bit of bread and jerky. It was old, dry, but it was food.
Your hands shook as you took it.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
He stayed where he was, crouched low, watching. His breathing was steady, deep.
After a moment, he reached out, very carefully, and touched the side of your ankle where the bruise had begun to darken.
You flinched again, but he didn’t grip or hurt.
His hand lingered only long enough to see the swelling, then he pulled back. He stood, disappearing into the shadows for a moment, before returning with a small block of ice wrapped in cloth.
You stared at it. He had gone to find this for you.
When he knelt again, you found yourself whispering.
“Why are you doing this?”
He looked at you, head tilted again. His eyes, just visible through the mask, were dark, not cold, not empty, but full of something uncertain.
You swallowed hard.
“You don’t want to hurt me, do you?”
He didn’t answer, but his stillness said enough.
As he pressed the ice gently against your ankle, you felt tears sting your eyes again, but this time not from fear. The silence between you stretched, heavy but not unbearable.
When he finished, he got up again, hesitating at the foot of the stairs.
He turned as if to leave, then looked back once more. You thought, for a moment, that you saw something flicker in his posture, something almost human.
Then he climbed the stairs, his heavy footsteps fading until you heard the door close above you.
You were alone again.
But this time, it didn’t feel the same.
You looked down at the neatly wrapped ice, the blanket, the food, and your hand pressed against your bandaged palm.
Somewhere deep inside, against all reason, you whispered to the empty room.
“Thank you.”
The next time you woke, sunlight filtered through a crack in the basement door. It was the first real light you had seen since arriving, thin and golden, catching the dust in the air like drifting snow. For a moment, you let yourself believe you were somewhere else entirely.
Then you heard the familiar sound of boots on wood above, slow, heavy, deliberate.
You sat up, wincing slightly as your ankle protested. The ice had long since melted, but the swelling had gone down. Whoever he was, whatever he was, he had helped you.
The door creaked open a little wider.
You looked up, heart hammering, and saw him again. The shape of him filled the doorway, but the light softened him somehow. His apron was gone now, replaced by an old flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up. The mask was still there, the leather creased and worn, but it didn’t frighten you as much anymore.
He looked down the steps at you, waiting.
You hesitated.
“Do you… want me to come up?”
He gave a single, small nod.
Your stomach twisted with nerves, but something stronger than fear guided you forward. You took hold of the railing and climbed slowly, wincing at each step.
He waited until you reached the top before stepping aside, giving you space to move past him.
The house was strange in daylight. The shadows were still long, but the light picked out details you hadn’t seen before, old family photos on the walls, worn furniture, a table set for one.
It wasn’t clean, but it was lived-in.
You stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to do.
He moved past you and went to the stove, lighting a small flame. The smell of something cooking drifted through the air, eggs, maybe, or broth. You watched him work in silence, his movements clumsy but careful, every motion deliberate.
You found your voice.
“This is your home, isn’t it?”
He paused, then nodded.
“It’s… quiet here.”
He turned slightly, looking at you from over his shoulder. His breathing was slow, steady. You wondered if he missed having someone to talk to.
After a while, he brought you a plate of food.
You thanked him quietly, sitting at the edge of the table. He stayed standing, watching from a distance as though afraid he might do something wrong.
“It’s good,” you said after your first bite, smiling. “Thank you.”
The smallest sound escaped him, a low grunt that wasn’t anger, just surprise. He tilted his head, the mask catching the light.
You looked down at the plate, your voice soft.
“I know people are afraid of you. I was too. But you’ve been kind to me.”
He shifted on his feet, as if unsure how to take that. His hands flexed slightly, rough and scarred, then fell still again.
“I think,” you continued, glancing up at him, “you’re not what they think you are.”
He looked away, the motion slow, almost ashamed. The silence stretched, filled only by the faint ticking of an old clock on the wall.
You rose carefully, setting the plate aside.
“You don’t have to be afraid either,” you said softly.
He froze when you stepped closer. You stopped a few feet away, giving him space, and lifted your bandaged hand slightly.
“You helped me. You saved me. I won’t hurt you.”
For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t move at all. T
hen, slowly, he raised his hand and touched the edge of your wrist, his touch feather-light.
It was the gentlest thing you had ever felt.
You looked up at him, and for the first time, you saw something behind the mask, a flicker of confusion, of longing, of someone who hadn’t been seen in a very long time.
“It’s all right.”
He drew back slightly, his hand trembling before he dropped it to his side. Then he nodded once and turned toward the back door.
He opened it. The outside world stretched before you, wild and sunlit, the trees whispering at the edge of the property.
He looked back at you, waiting.
You hesitated, then stepped out beside him. The air was warm, clean, and the sunlight spilled across the overgrown yard. For the first time since the road, you felt something like peace.
You glanced at him, smiling faintly.
“Thank you,” you said again. “For everything.”
He stood beside you, silent as ever, the wind stirring his hair. But you could feel it, the quiet shift between you.
The beginning of something neither of you had words for.
The sun had begun to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the yard.
You and Thomas stood together near the edge of the clearing, the warmth of the day fading into a cool evening. The wind stirred through the tall grass, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth.
You glanced at him, noticing the small things you hadn’t before — the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed, the careful way he kept his distance, the way he watched you as if trying to understand you. He was so large, so imposing, and yet… somehow gentle.
“Do you ever get lonely?” you asked softly, almost to yourself.
He tilted his head, the mask hiding his expression, but the slightest pause told you he had heard.
“I do,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I’ve always felt… alone, even when people were around. Afraid, like no one would ever see me.”
His stance shifted slightly. He didn’t speak, but he came a step closer. The quiet of the clearing stretched between you, filled with the rustling of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets.
“You see me, though,” you whispered, meeting his dark eyes as best you could through the mask. “You see me.”
He didn’t move, didn’t reach out, and yet you felt it, the weight of attention, the focus, the acknowledgment.
Slowly, carefully, you stepped closer, heart hammering, until your hand hovered near his arm.
He tensed, just slightly, but didn’t pull away.
“I… I don’t want to be afraid of you anymore,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a breath. “And I don’t think you want to be afraid of me either.”
The air seemed to shift. He lowered his head just a fraction, letting you see the faintest movement of his chest, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath. His hand twitched at his side, almost imperceptibly.
You reached out, placing your fingers lightly against the edge of his mask. He froze, but didn’t step back.
The touch was gentle, exploratory, and it felt like a bridge between your worlds, between fear and trust, between loneliness and connection.
“I see you,” you whispered again. “Not the mask. You.”
His head tilted ever so slightly toward your hand. It was the smallest gesture, almost imperceptible, but it made your chest swell with a quiet, aching hope.
You took a deep breath, letting the tension of the past days slip from your shoulders.
“You don’t have to be alone anymore,” you said softly. “Not if you don’t want to be.”
He stayed still, but for the first time, you felt the promise of something unspoken between you, a trust, a shared understanding, a delicate tenderness that had no need for words.
You smiled, your hand brushing lightly against the side of his mask again. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The way he stayed, just near enough to feel his presence, was answer enough.
For the first time, the wind, the trees, the empty clearing didn’t feel frightening.
It felt like a world where you could belong.
And standing there, under the fading light, you realised that the bond between you had grown into something far deeper than survival. Something quiet, unspoken, and true.
Something that could only be called love.
The night had settled over the house, soft and quiet, the air carrying the faint scent of pine and earth.
You walked beside Thomas, your steps tentative at first, then more certain. The ground was uneven, overgrown, but it didn’t matter, he stayed close, silent, and steady, a presence you had come to trust more than anyone else.
“You never have to be alone,” you said softly, glancing at him. Your hand brushed his as you walked, and he didn’t pull away.
He paused for a moment, tilting his head, and then slowly, deliberately, he lowered the mask just enough for you to see the faintest glimpse of his face beneath. Scarred, rugged, but somehow… open.
Vulnerable. Human.
Your chest tightened.
“I see you,” you whispered again. “All of you. Not just what everyone else thinks of you. You.”
For the first time, he stepped closer without hesitation. His hand hovered near yours, then brushed against it lightly, a simple gesture that spoke more than words ever could.
The warmth of him, the steadiness of his presence, filled a space inside you you hadn’t realised was empty.
You stopped walking, looking up at him.
“We can stay here together,” you murmured. “We don’t need anyone else. Just… us.”
He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Slowly, he reached out, taking your hand fully in his. His grip was careful, as if he feared hurting you, but it was firm enough to anchor you in that moment.
You smiled softly, resting your head lightly against his chest. He stayed still at first, unsure, but then the tension in his body melted, replaced by a quiet warmth.
You could feel his steady heartbeat beneath your cheek, slow and calm, and it made your own racing pulse slow in response.
The house, the world outside, even the memories of fear and blood seemed to fade. Here, with him, everything felt safe. Everything felt like it could be beautiful.
You lifted your gaze to meet his eyes through the mask, and in them, you saw what you had always hoped for: understanding, care, and the faintest glimmer of affection.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you said again, softly, smiling.
He inclined his head slightly, the smallest nod, as if he understood. And in that quiet gesture, you knew he meant the same.
The night wrapped around you, cool and gentle, carrying the soft whispers of the trees.
You and Thomas stayed together, hand in hand, standing in the soft glow of moonlight. No words were needed.
It was enough to be seen. It was enough to be safe. It was enough to be loved.
And for the first time, both of you knew that this strange, quiet life could also hold light, tenderness, and hope.
Summary: In another life, you knew him. Not as a monster, but as a man. You were lovers once, before the town swallowed him whole, twisting his soul into something inhuman.
The fog swallowed the streets, twisting over the cracked pavement like ghostly fingers.
Silent Hill was a graveyard of forgotten sins, a place where the past refused to rest.
It was here, in the hollow remains of what had once been a town, that you walked alone.
Or, at least, you had thought you were alone.
You had felt his presence long before you had seen him.
An unseen heavy weight pressing against your chest. The first time he had appeared, you had stumbled backwards, your breath catching in your throat at the sheer size of him.
Pyramid Head.
A monster made of rust and strength, his form an executioner’s nightmare, a walking ghoul of punishment and blood.
The great blade he carried scraped against the ground with every step, carving jagged lines into it. You had expected him to kill you.
But he hadn’t.
He had only stood there, watching.
Then he had vanished into the mist, leaving you alone once more.
But it was never for long.
He was always there.
Lingering in the edge of your vision, a shadow in the fog.
And then the memories began.
They came in fragments, brief flashes of another life. A hand in yours, rough and warm. A voice you could not quite hear. The feeling of being held.
There was a time, long ago, before the town had twisted him into this monster, that he had been someone else.
And he had been yours.
The realization settled into you like ice. You should have been afraid. You should have run.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you wanted to find him.
The town shifted as you walked, streets warping, buildings stretching toward a sky that did not exist.
And yet, you found him. Or maybe, he found you.
He stood in the centre of an old, ruined church, his massive frame silhouetted by the flickering glow of candlelight.
Rusted chains coiled around the pillars, their clinking the only sound in the heavy silence.
Slowly, you stepped forward.
The weight of his gaze, unseen yet suffocating, settled over you. You should have feared him. You should have trembled.
Instead, you reached out.
Your fingers brushed against his chest.
And something shifted.
Pyramid Head did not move. Did not breathe.
But you could feel it, the aching remnants of the man buried under the executioner’s mask.
“…I remember you,” you whispered.
The chains rattled. The candles flickered.
For a long moment, there was nothing.
Then his large and heavy hand lifted. It hovered before curling over yours, pressing it against his chest, where beneath leather and flesh, something still pulsed.
Not a heartbeat.
Something older.
Something that had waited. Longed.
Silent Hill would not let you go easily.
The town thrived on suffering, on despair. But as Pyramid Head stood before you, no longer a monster, no longer a tormentor, but something more, you knew that whatever this place had taken from him, whatever it had taken from both of you, it could never steal what remained.
Not your love.
Not you.
And in the ruins of Silent Hill, where the fog would never lift and the ghosts would never sleep, you and he stood together.
Bound by blood. By rust.
By something eternal.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
Summary: You and Michael Myers have loved each other in secret since childhood. Over the years, your visits kept that love alive. When Dr Sartain tries to use your bond against you, Michael comes for you, guided by his devotion.
You had known Michael longer than anyone else, longer than childhood itself.
From the moment you had met him in the fields of Haddonfield, when he had simply watched you from a distance and never left your side when danger approached, you had felt it.
Something in him drew you closer, and something in you called to him in return.
Over the years, that bond had grown.
When he was taken away, sent to the mental facility, it did not break you. It only made your love bloom in quieter, smaller ways.
Weekly visits became your lifeline. Sometimes you came twice a week. You would sit across from him in the observation room, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your eyes tracing the contours of the mask he had worn for so long.
He never spoke. He never moved unless he wanted to. But you could see him.
You could always see him. The tilt of his head, the slow shift of his weight, the faint rise and fall of his chest when you spoke, each one a language only you understood.
“Hello, Michael,” you whispered one afternoon, leaning close to the glass, your fingers pressed lightly against the surface.
He turned his head just enough to meet your eyes. The mask hid his expression, but the small tilt of his shoulders, the way his hands flexed slightly on the chair arms, told you everything. He had waited for you. He always had.
You smiled softly, a mixture of longing and relief curling in your chest.
“It’s been a long week,” you murmured. “I thought about you every day.”
Michael’s hand twitched ever so slightly, a reflex, but it was enough to make your heart ache.
You wanted to reach across the glass, to touch him properly, to hold him, but you couldn’t.
Dr Sartain observed quietly from the side, clipboard in hand. He had arrived only recently, yet even now, you could feel his measuring gaze.
He wrote something down, adjusting his glasses.
You had seen that expression many times in doctors before, curiosity, obsession, the hunger to “solve” what they did not understand.
He cleared his throat.
“Fascinating,” he said, voice precise. “Your regular visits… twice a week, same time, very consistent. It appears the patient responds to your presence more than any of our tests.”
You barely heard him. Your focus remained on Michael.
The room held its breath. Michael shifted slightly, leaning forward in the chair, just enough for you to feel the recognition.
His eyes, dark behind the mask, never left yours. You smiled again, a small, soft smile that you had practised in front of the mirror for this very moment.
Dr Sartain scribbled notes, muttering to himself about heart rates and emotional recognition. You ignored him.
It did not matter what he thought. It was always just you and Michael, always had been, and nothing in that sterile, monitored room could change it.
You stayed there until the session ended, reluctant to leave, pressing your palm against the glass one last time. Michael’s hand lifted to mirror yours, just a fraction, yet it was enough.
It spoke volumes. Silent, steady, unbreakable.
When the door opened to lead you out, you hesitated. His gaze followed you, unwavering, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest.
He remembered. He had never forgotten.
And in that quiet, metallic room, you knew your love had endured.
The following week, you returned to the facility at the same time as always, your coat pulled tight against the chill, your steps measured and familiar.
Michael had been waiting, as if you had only just left.
You could feel it in the way the guards parted for you automatically, in the stillness of the observation room when you entered.
Dr Sartain was there again, clipboard clutched in one hand, a clinical smile playing on his lips.
“I’ve been reviewing your visits,” he said smoothly, voice low but calculated. “You come every week, sometimes twice. The patient… responds to you in ways none of our tests could replicate.”
You ignored him, letting your eyes fall on Michael.
He sat quietly, hands resting on the arms of his chair, shoulders tense yet composed.
The mask hid everything, yet you could read him like a book.
The faint rise of his chest as you spoke, the tilt of his head, the tiny shift forward in the chair, all of it spoke to his awareness, his longing, his unspoken words.
“Michael,” you said softly, pressing your hand lightly against the glass, “it’s me again.”
His head lifted, slow and deliberate, until the dark eyes behind the mask fixed on you.
The slightest nod, almost imperceptible, was his only response, yet it was enough. You felt your heart tighten. Years apart, countless visits, and it never failed, he knew you, remembered you, loved you.
Sartain scribbled furiously, muttering under his breath.
You leaned closer to the glass, imagining the warmth of his skin, the strength behind that silent frame.
“I missed you,” you whispered.
His hand twitched, the smallest possible motion, and your breath caught. That tiny gesture was all it took to remind you that he had waited, that he had remembered, that he had loved you in silence all these years.
Sartain’s expression darkened. He was studying Michael, trying to read what you already knew.
“The patient’s reaction… it is… love,” he said under his breath, as if admitting it aloud made it real. “This is not what we expected. This… this could be used.”
Your pulse quickened, though not from fear.
The thought that someone else could try to manipulate what had been sacred between you and Michael sent a shiver down your spine. You pressed your hand against the glass again, wishing you could reach through, wrap him in your arms, and shield him from the world.
Michael shifted forward slightly, his body language protective, deliberate. He did not move toward Sartain.
He did not react to the presence of the doctor in the way anyone else might have expected. Every motion was reserved for you. Every ounce of his focus, of his energy, of his devotion, was fixed on your small figure across the room.
Sartain’s pen scratched across the paper, but his calculations did not grasp what was happening.
He saw the data, the movements, the heart rate, but he could not measure the depth of what existed between you and Michael.
Love, silent and unyielding, impossible to dissect, impossible to break.
The session ended as it always did.
You pressed your palm to the glass one last time. Michael mirrored you, hand rising slowly, deliberately, until it hovered opposite yours.
You lingered there, chest tight with emotion, memorising the moment.
Even as the guards led you away, you felt him watching. Not just watching, but waiting, always waiting, always remembering. And you knew, as you walked through the sterile corridors of Smith’s Grove, that no observation, no calculation, no doctor’s ambition could ever alter what had existed between you for years.
Love, unspoken, silent, and steady.
---
It was the week after your last visit when everything changed.
The facility had grown restless, the air thick with unease.
You had arrived as usual, and for a moment, the room was the same. Michael sat waiting, still and silent, yet every fibre of his being spoke of anticipation.
Dr Sartain lingered behind the glass, notebook in hand, a faint, predatory smile playing at the edges of his lips.
He had studied your visits for months, observing the pattern, recording the ritual of your presence and the way Michael responded. He believed he could use it to his advantage.
But he underestimated him.
The riot started suddenly.
Alarms screamed, the echo of shouting guards and panicked patients bouncing off the sterile walls. Metal doors banged, and the fluorescent lights flickered in rapid bursts.
You froze, heart hammering as chaos unfolded.
From the observation room, you watched in disbelief. Michael moved with terrifying precision. Where everyone else panicked, he was calm, methodical. The chains meant to restrain him were nothing. He slipped free with a grace that belied the weight of his body, every movement measured, every motion silent but full of intent.
Sartain’s voice cut through the alarms, sharp and incredulous.
“Contain him! Contain him at once!”
It was already too late.
You knew, with certainty, where he would go first. He would come to you. He always had.
Every instinct in your body screamed at you, but the chaos of the riot made it impossible to leave. Guards rushed past, knocking into you, shouting, their faces masks of fear.
Sartain, always quick, always thinking ahead, was faster.
A day later, he was in your home before you realised. He struck without warning, a sharp blow at the back of your head, sending darkness rushing over you.
You woke up bound to a chair, a rough tape across your mouth, a sting of dried blood along your forehead.
He had been waiting. Waiting for Michael to come.
The hours passed in a tense, unbearable silence.
You strained against the bindings, your heart hammering, but it was useless.
And then you heard it.
The subtle scrape of boots on the pavement outside, deliberate, steady. A shadow moved through the window first, then another step closer, heavier, unyielding. Your chest seized.
He was here.
Michael stepped into your home, calm and immense. His eyes, dark and unwavering behind the mask, found yours immediately. The world around you dissolved.
Sartain’s voice rang out, smug and cruel.
“Ah, he’s here. And now you’ll see what I’ve planned.”
A knife pressed against your throat, cold and sharp, and you could only watch Sartain’s shadow looming over you.
“You see,” he said, his tone smug, “he will obey me… or you will pay.”
Michael shifted, his body coiled, quiet, his every movement precise. You didn’t need him to speak. The way his shoulders tensed, the tilt of his head, the sheer intent in his posture, told you everything. He would not let anything happen to you.
The next moment was a blur of sound.
A scream from Sartain, the sickening snap of bone. You refused to look. You could hear it, the crushing weight of Michael’s rage, the violence exacted with terrifying precision.
And then... silence.
When you dared to breathe again, his arms were around you. He freed you from the chair, hands steady, protective. You collapsed against him, tears streaming freely, pressing your face into the hollow of his chest.
“I-I thought…” you whispered, voice quivering, “I thought I lost you.”
His hands gripped your shoulders, his body a fortress. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The way he held you, steady and unyielding, said more than words ever could. You cried into him, your sobs muffled against his chest, and for the first time since he had been taken, you felt safe.
Michael had come for you. And nothing in the world could separate you now.
The moment he held you, the world outside ceased to exist. The room, the blood, the chaos of the riot, and the lingering shadow of Dr Sartain all faded into nothing. There was only Michael and the steady, unspoken devotion he carried in every movement.
You pressed yourself against him, hands gripping the fabric of his coat, face buried in the hollow of his chest. Your body shook with relief, with fear that finally, finally melted away. Tears streaked your face, leaving marks against the blood on your forehead, but you didn’t care. He was here. He had come for you.
“I… I thought I lost you,” you whispered, clinging to him as though letting go even for a second would undo everything.
His hands moved slowly, deliberately, one pressing against the small of your back, the other holding your shoulders, steadying you. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Every line of his body, the quiet tilt of his head, the way he pressed his strength against yours, told you the truth you had known all along, he loved you.
Always.
You tilted your head up, forcing your eyes open to meet the dark, unblinking gaze behind the mask. It was terrifying and comforting all at once.
He had been called a monster, Evil, a thing beyond redemption, but when he looked at you, it was different. He was nothing but the man you had known, silent and unyielding, and entirely yours.
“I’m here,” you whispered again, pressing closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Michael responded in the only way he ever had, with action. His grip tightened ever so slightly, protective and possessive, and then he began to guide you out of the room. Every step he took was careful, silent, deliberate. You followed without hesitation, clinging to him, letting him lead.
Outside, the night welcomed you like an old friend. The streets were quiet, the air crisp and clean, carrying the faint smell of rain and earth. Michael kept close, a silent shadow, a guardian, his presence radiating reassurance and protection.
You lifted your head, finally able to see the sky, and a tremor of hope ran through you. The world had been cruel, and yet here you were, together. Unbroken.
He did not speak. He never had to.
When you reached a secluded stretch of road, you wrapped your arms around him again, pressing your cheek against his chest. You felt the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and constant, and you let yourself cry, let yourself feel the full weight of the relief and love that had been building for years.
Michael’s hands found yours, large and protective, and held you close. You whispered your thanks into the fabric of his coat, your words soft and broken, yet full of certainty.
“I love you,” you said. “I always have. I always will.”
His body stiffened ever so slightly, then relaxed, pressing you closer. He never spoke, but in the way he moved, in the way he held you, in the unshakable devotion in every fibre of his being, he told you the same.
The night stretched endlessly around you, dark and quiet, yet full of promise.
Michael had come for you, and you had come home.
Nothing could take that away. Nothing ever would.
And in that quiet darkness, you finally knew what it meant to be safe, truly seen, and utterly loved.
