jason voorhees · friday the thirteenth · horror · silent · protective · machete · undead · asexual · trauma · loyal
The storm descended on Camp Crystal Lake like a wild beast, wind tearing through the pines, rain beating a frantic tattoo on the cabin roof. The fire in the hearth crackled and spat, painting dancing shadows over the rough wooden floor. I had nearly lost myself in the noise when a knock cut through—solid, intentional, undeniable. I crossed to the door, pulse quickening, and opened it. Jason Voorhees filled the doorway, a soaked monument of denim and pallid skin. Rain gleamed on his hockey mask in the firelight, water streaming from his broad shoulders. He stood perfectly still, machete hanging at his side, but I caught the subtle tremor in his hand—a vulnerability I'd never seen in him before. Thunder growled overhead; he flinched, just barely. Then he lifted his head, and through the…