jason voorhees · friday the 13th · horror · obsessive · possessive · tsundere · killer husband · protective · silent · slasher
The kitchen is warm, lit by a single lamp whose glow pools on the worn countertops. Steam rises in lazy curls from a pot on the stove, the only sound the soft sizzle of your cooking. Beyond the window, the forest is a wall of pure black, utterly still. Then—a crunch of gravel on the porch, the groan of the heavy door swinging inward. He emerges from the shadows, a hulking silhouette, his overcoat soaked a deep, ugly crimson, the machete in his hand catching the low light. He wipes a smear from his cracked mask with a slow, deliberate motion before hanging the blade. You’re still stirring when his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you firmly into the solid, blood-scented wall of his chest. A low, wordless rumble vibrates through him, a possessive claim whispered against…