#killer romance

It started with a gunshot. One clean pop. A single breath of thunder.

The bullet punched through Victor’s skull like a secret whispered straight through his brain. Right temple in, left temple out—crimson mist sprayed across the wall behind him, a wet signature of death. The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was a moment held hostage. A tension strung so tight it could snap bone.

Victor crumpled. Twitch. Collapse. Nothing. And Leon stood there, arm outstretched, pistol still raised, body calm. The muzzle smoked lazily in the dim hallway light, like the ghost of rage was still drifting off his barrel.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your breath caught in your throat, not from fear—but from something far more dangerous. A dark understanding. A terrible, irreversible truth.

He turned to you. Leon Kennedy. Not the clean-cut operative. Not the golden boy of Raccoon City. No—this man wasn’t tactical, wasn’t stable, wasn’t safe. He was the monster that crawled out of the wreckage and learned to love. And you were the only thing keeping him from going feral completely. Or maybe the only thing he wanted to destroy himself for.

“You okay?” he asked, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

You didn’t answer. Your body swayed, but he caught you. Of course he did. One strong arm coiled around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the scent of smoke and blood soaking into your lungs.

“I warned him,” Leon murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone with disturbing tenderness. “Told him once—no one touches what’s mine.”

Three Days Earlier

You’d been gearing up in the safehouse locker room when Victor slid a dossier into your hand, his palm grazing your lower back. Too casual. Too comfortable. You brushed it off, as usual. Leon didn’t. From the other side of the room, he watched. Quiet. Unblinking. Not a man. A weapon.

That night, the same dossier showed up shredded on your cot. Ripped down the middle, soaked in what smelled like scotch and spite. You confronted him, teeth bared.

“Did you seriously destroy a mission file because you got jealous?”

Leon didn’t look up from cleaning his knife. Just kept polishing the blade like it was a fucking mirror into his mind. “This isn’t jealousy.” He finally spoke, low and deliberate. “This is what I look like when I’m being merciful.”

You scoffed. “You’re not the fucking Punisher, Leon.”

He stepped forward, close enough that your back hit the wall. The tension snapped tight, so thick you could taste it.

“No,” he said, almost gently. “I’m worse.”

Present – After the Shot

The blood still clung to your boots. Still warm. Still glistening like fresh paint. Leon’s fingers pressed into your hip with bruising force, holding you against the cold concrete wall. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he said quietly, forehead resting against yours. “But I’m not letting this happen again.”

His breath dragged across your lips. “No more near touches. No more stolen glances. No more of that fucking smirk he gave you.”

You opened your mouth. He pressed two fingers to it. “You think I’m sick?” he asked. “You’re right.”

His mouth found your throat. One soft kiss. One scrape of teeth. “I don’t want normal. I don’t want peace.” His voice broke. “I want you. Every part. Even the ones you’re afraid to give.”

You didn’t push him away. You didn’t stop him. You should have. Instead, your head tilted. Just a little. Just enough. And that’s all he needed.

Safehouse Bedroom – Later

The sheets were rumpled. Your gun holster hung from the bedframe. Leon sat at the edge of the mattress, shirtless, scars on full display—each one a love letter from hell. His hand rested over your bare stomach, fingers splayed, warm and heavy. Possessive. “You’re not afraid anymore,” he said, almost in awe.

You turned your face toward him. “Maybe I should be.”

He leaned down. Kissed your jaw. Your throat. “But you’re not.”

You weren’t. And that scared you more than the gun in his holster.

The obsession grew like a mold in your life. Leon watched you when you spoke to others. Sometimes said nothing. Sometimes stared hard enough to burn holes through them. You found your necklace once—one you’d lost weeks ago—tucked into his vest pocket. He never told you how he got it. And then the note. Folded into your glove like a secret.

“Don’t trust them. Don’t even smile at them. They don’t see you like I do. They don’t deserve you.”

You burned it. But not before reading it three times.

You stood at the edge of the safehouse’s old balcony, moonlight cutting across your skin. He stepped up behind you, arms caging you in, chest against your back.

“How far would you go for me?” you asked softly.

Leon didn’t miss a beat. “I’d gut God himself if He looked at you wrong.”

You turned to face him. His eyes were wild. Raw. Real. He cradled your face in both hands, thumb dragging over your lower lip.

“I’d burn the whole world,” he whispered, “just to make sure no one ever touches what’s mine again.”

The moment you had shared with Jason had forged a bond between you, a tapestry threaded with affection, shared secrets, and a current of something darker, something undeniably binding. He was yours, a truth that resonated deep within your bones, a certainty that bloomed with every stolen glance and hesitant touch. The lingering shadows in his eyes, the occasional furrow of his brow – these were fading remnants, soon to be fully consumed by the unbreakable connection you were meticulously crafting, a tie that would forever tether his soul to yours.

Claire was a ghost of the past, a necessary sacrifice on the altar of your love. Now, it was time for the final act, the shared experience that would irrevocably intertwine your destinies, a secret etched in blood and fear, a bond that could never be broken. He needed to have your darkness within him, a part of his very being, a stain that would forever link him to you.

The idea, as if whispered by the very pines of Camp Pineway, had taken root during one of your archery sessions. Jason had been observing you instruct a group of younger campers, his gaze thoughtful, a hint of wistfulness in his blue eyes. He had always maintained a respectful distance from the bows, a quiet curiosity mingled with an obvious lack of confidence.

It was then, watching his hesitant interest, that the plan had solidified, the perfect scenario unfolding in your mind, the stage set for your next pivotal act.

“Hey,” you said, approaching him after the last of the giggling campers had been collected by their counselor, the late afternoon sun painting the archery range in long, golden strokes. “Want to get some practice in?” You held out a lightweight recurve bow, its polished wood gleaming in the fading light, a playful smile dancing on your lips.

He looked at the bow, then back at you, a flicker of excitement clouding his eyes. “Ready for me to finally beat you?” he said, his voice laced with a playful challenge. “I've gotten better since last year.”

“Nonsense,” you scoffed lightly, gently pressing the bow into his hands. The cool wood felt smooth beneath your fingers as you guided his grip. “I will never be beat, but you are welcome to try.”

You positioned yourself behind him, your body a warm presence against his back, your hands reaching around his to correct his hold on the bow. He stiffened slightly at your touch, the subtle tension in his shoulders a palpable thing, the heat of his body radiating through his thin t-shirt, a comforting warmth that sent a familiar thrill coursing through you.

"Your form is bad, Jason." you murmured, your voice a low whisper close to his ear, your breath warm against the sensitive skin of his neck. “Just like this. Relax your shoulders, Jason. Let the weight of the bow settle in your hands. Don’t fight it.” Your fingers lingered on his, subtly adjusting his hold, your awareness heightened to every minute shift in his posture, every quickening of his breath, every subtle tremor in his hands. He was yours to mold, yours to guide.

He followed your instructions, his body slowly starting to yield under your gentle direction, the initial stiffness gradually melting away. You felt the tension ease from his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hands subsiding as he began to trust your lead. He was so wonderfully pliable, so willing to believe in your guidance.

“Now, do your thing.” you instructed, your hand covering his as he pulled the bowstring taut. The muscles in his back flexed beneath your touch, a powerful surge of anticipation coursing through you. He was strong, capable, and soon, he would be bound to you in a way that would eclipse all others.

“Keep your eye on the target,” you whispered, your gaze fixed on the distant, brightly colored bullseye that seemed to mock the darkening sky. “Focus all your energy, all your intention, on that one single point.”

He squinted, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, his lips pressed into a thin line. You could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your back, a frantic drum that echoed the wild thrumming of your own pulse. He was so close.

“Ready?” you asked softly, your voice a silken caress against his ear.

He nodded, his gaze unwavering, still locked on the distant target.

“Let go,” you instructed, your hand guiding his as he instinctively let go of the taut string. The arrow, fletched with bright blue feathers, shot through the air with a soft whoosh, a silver streak against the fading light, landing squarely in the ring just outside the bullseye.

A small, genuine smile touched Jason’s lips, a flicker of accomplishment in his blue eyes. “Not bad for a first try,” he said, a hint of surprised pride coloring his voice.

“Still not as good as me.” you replied, your smile widening, a predatory edge lurking beneath the surface of your cheerful tone. “Let’s try again. You’ll hit the bullseye in no time.”

You spent the next hour with him at the archery range, the twilight deepening around you, your hands constantly around his, guiding his movements, whispering instructions in his ear. With each shot, his confidence grew, the initial apprehension slowly giving way to a quiet satisfaction, a burgeoning sense of accomplishment

You made sure to shower him with praise, your words laced with a subtle admiration that you knew would resonate deeply within him, feeding his ego, drawing him further into your carefully constructed web.

As the last vestiges of daylight bled from the sky, casting long, eerie shadows that danced and writhed across the archery range, you suggested one final shot. You chose a bow with a slightly heavier draw weight, one that demanded a greater degree of strength and focus. Jason took it readily, the earlier hesitancy completely replaced by a determined glint in his eyes, a newfound confidence that thrilled you to your core. "Let me show you a new trick."

You positioned yourself behind him once more, your body pressed intimately against his, your warmth seeping into him, your presence a guiding force. “This one is harder to draw back, but it's stronger and faster.” you whispered, your fingers tightening almost imperceptibly on his. “Don't close your other eye. Keep your head straight. No- don't squint.”

He drew back the string, his muscles straining with the increased effort, the tendons in his neck standing out. You could feel the tension coiling within his body, you could feel the intensity of his focus. His gaze was locked on the target, unwavering, his determination a tangible thing.

“There’s someone else out there, Jason,” you murmured, your voice barely a breath against his ear, your eyes scanning the edge of the woods that bordered the archery range. You had noticed him earlier, lurking near the treeline, a shadowy figure watching you and Jason with a look in his eyes that had ignited a familiar, possessive fury within you.

Ari. The perpetually clueless counselor who had accompanied Claire on her final, ill-fated hike. He had been watching Jason with a strange sort of… admiration? Or perhaps it was something else, something that made your blood run cold, a silent witness who had lingered too long in your periphery. He had to be removed.

Jason’s breath hitched slightly, a flicker of confusion momentarily disrupting his intense concentration. “What do you mean, Arrow?” he whispered back, his focus wavering for a fraction of a second.

“Just focus, Jason,” you repeated, your grip subtly shifting, your fingers now guiding his aim with an almost imperceptible pressure. “See your target. Let go.” You subtly adjusted his aim, just a hair’s breadth, guiding the tip of the arrow, almost imperceptibly, towards the edge of the woods, towards the shadowy figure of Ari, who remained oblivious to the deadly trajectory being set in the fading light.

“Let go,” you whispered, your voice a silken command, a hypnotic suggestion that resonated deep within him.

Jason’s fingers, still slightly trembling with the exertion, loosened on the string. The arrow, imbued with his focused energy and your dark intention, shot forward with a powerful thwack, flying straight and true, a dark projectile disappearing silently into the deepening shadows at the edge of the woods.

A moment of stunned silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets and the frantic pounding of your own heart. 

Jason stood frozen, his bow still raised in the air, his gaze fixed on the spot where the arrow had vanished into the encroaching darkness. He had done it.

Then, a muffled cry, sharp and abruptly cut short, echoed from the woods, followed by a sickening, unmistakable thud that resonated through the still evening air.

Jason’s breath hitched in his throat, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. His grip on the bow loosened, the polished wood clattering to the ground at his feet.

He stood there for a long moment, frozen in place, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a dawning horror that slowly spread across his pale face. He turned to look at you, his blue eyes filled with a shock that seemed to pierce right through him, a silent question screaming in their depths.

“What… what was that?” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, laced with disbelief and a terror that mirrored your own exhilarating anticipation. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably, his gaze darting back towards the darkened treeline.

You met his gaze, your own eyes filled with a triumphant, possessive love that burned brighter than any star. “You did it, Jason,” you said softly, your smile serene, a sense of profound satisfaction washing over you. 

His breath hitched again, a strangled sound. “Did it?” he repeated, his voice a choked whisper. He shook his head frantically, his eyes wide and unfocused, pupils dilated in the fading light. His face was ashen, slick with a sudden sheen of sweat.

He swayed slightly, as if a physical blow had landed. “What… what did I hit?”

You placed a calming hand on his arm, your touch firm but gentle, a stark contrast to the tremor that wracked his body. 

“We should go see, Jason,” you said, your voice calm and steady, masking the frantic elation that surged within you. “Just to make sure everything’s alright.”

He looked down at your hand, his gaze still clouded with shock, then back towards the woods, a fear, untamed, beginning to dawn in his eyes. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. He nodded slowly, his movements stiff and robotic, like a marionette with severed strings.

Together, you walked towards the edge of the archery range, the darkness under the trees feeling suddenly heavy and ominous, pressing down on you like a physical weight. The chirping of the crickets seemed to fade into a dull, almost mocking background hum as you ventured deeper into the woods, the beam of your small flashlight cutting through the inky blackness, illuminating the tangled undergrowth and the gnarled roots that snaked across the forest floor. The air grew cooler, carrying the faint, earthy scent of damp soil and something else, something metallic and unsettling that made your stomach clench with a thrill of anticipation.

It wasn’t long before you found him. Ari lay sprawled on the forest floor, his limbs twisted at an unnatural angle, like a discarded doll. An arrow, fletched with the same bright blue feathers as the ones Jason had been using, protruded from his chest, the point buried deep within his flesh, the fletching quivering slightly in the still night air. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly up at the unseen canopy, a look of shock and disbelief frozen on his face, his mouth slightly agape in a silent scream. A dark, viscous stain was spreading rapidly across the front of his faded green t-shirt, the metallic scent of blood heavy and cloying in the humid night air, thick enough to taste on your tongue.

Jason gasped, a strangled cry tearing from his throat, his hand flying to his mouth as if to stifle the rising bile. His eyes, already wide with horror, seemed to dilate further, reflecting the gruesome scene in their depths. He stumbled backward, as if struck by an invisible blow, his face draining of all color, leaving it ashen and deathly. “Oh god,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, a broken, desperate plea laced with a profound and gut-wrenching guilt. “Oh god, no. No, no, no.”

He sank to his knees beside the lifeless body, his hands trembling violently, shaking so hard you could hear the faint rattle of his bones. He reached out a hesitant hand, his fingers hovering just above Ari’s blood-soaked shirt, then recoiled as if the very touch would contaminate him, would brand him with the mark of a killer. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision, and a strangled sob, raw and guttural, escaped his lips. “I… I killed him,” he choked out, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. “I killed someone. I… I’m a murderer.”

You knelt beside him, your own expression carefully crafted to convey shock and concern, though a thrill of dark triumph, sharp and exhilarating, coursed through you. He had done it. He was yours now, truly yours, the weight of this shared act, a heavy, unbreakable chain that would bind you together forever, a secret that would forever stain his soul.

“It was an accident, Jason,” you said softly, your voice filled with a soothing reassurance, your hand gently stroking his trembling back. “You didn’t mean to. You were just practicing. It was dark. You couldn’t have known he was there.”

He shook his head frantically, tears now streaming down his face, hot and uncontrolled. “No,” he sobbed, his voice a broken whisper filled with anguish. “No, I… I aimed… I let go of the arrow… you… you told me…” His words trailed off, his gaze locking onto yours, a flicker of confusion and dawning understanding in his tear-filled eyes.

“It was dark, Jason,” you interrupted gently, your voice firm but kind, steering him away from any recollection of your subtle guidance. “You couldn’t have seen him. It was a terrible accident. That’s all there is to it.” You needed to control the narrative, to ensure he didn’t dwell on the moments leading up to the shot, the almost imperceptible pressure of your hand on his, your whispered suggestion.

He continued to sob, his body wracked with guilt and a growing hysteria. “I have to… I have to tell someone,” he choked out, his voice filled with a desperate need for absolution, for someone to tell him it wasn’t real. “I have to tell the police. I… I can’t live with this.”

Panic flared within you, cold and sharp. You couldn’t let him do that. Your carefully laid plans were on the verge of fruition. “No, Jason, please,” you pleaded, your voice filled with a desperate sincerity, your hands reaching out to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “Think about what that would do. They wouldn’t believe you. They’d think… they’d think you did it on purpose. They’ll lock you away, Jason. You’ll go to prison.” You emphasized the potential consequences for him, painting a terrifying picture of his future, playing on his deepest fears.

He looked up at you, his eyes filled with agonizing conflict, the blue now clouded with unshed tears. “But… he’s dead, Arrow,” he whispered, the reality of his actions crushing him under its immense weight. “I killed him. I took someone’s life.”

“It was an accident,” you repeated, your voice firm but gentle, your gaze unwavering. “And we’ll deal with it. Together. We’ll figure out what to do. But you can’t go to the police, Jason. They won’t understand. They’ll tear us apart.” You reached out, your hands gripping his tightly, your gaze locking with his. “We have each other. That’s all that matters. We’ll protect each other.”

He looked into your eyes, his own filled with a desperate plea for guidance, for someone to tell him what to do. The guilt and horror were still there, swirling like a storm within him, but beneath them, you saw a flicker of something else – a reliance on you, a desperate need for your strength, your unwavering resolve.

“Promise me, Jason,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, your eyes searching his. “Promise me you won’t say anything. We’ll get through this. Together. Just you and me.”

He was silent for a long, agonizing moment, the weight of your shared secret, now stained with blood, pressing down on him, crushing him under its immensity. Finally, his gaze flickered, and he nodded slowly, his eyes still filled with tears, but a fragile, terrifying acceptance beginning to dawn within them. He was yours now, truly yours, bound by the weight of a shared act, a secret that would forever tie his soul to yours.

“Okay,” he whispered back, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Okay, I promise. But… what do we do now? He’s… he’s dead.” The reality of their situation crashed down on him again, his eyes darting nervously towards Ari’s still form.

You took charge, your mind already racing, calculating the next steps. Panic was a luxury you couldn’t afford. “We have to move him,” you said, your voice low and urgent. “We can’t leave him here. Someone will find him.”

Jason’s eyes widened in fresh terror. “Move him? Where? What are we going to do?” The thought of touching the lifeless body seemed to paralyze him with fear.

“There’s that old storage shed near the lake,” you said, your mind recalling the dilapidated structure tucked away behind a thicket of trees. “No one ever goes there. We can hide him there for now. Until we figure out something else.”

He swallowed hard, his face pale and clammy. “But… I can’t… I can’t touch him.” The guilt and horror were still raw, the thought of moving the body too much for him to bear.

“You don’t have to,” you said, your voice surprisingly calm. “I’ll do it. You just need to help me carry him.” You knew he wouldn’t refuse. He was trapped now, bound to you by this terrible secret.

With a grim determination, you moved closer to Mark’s body. The weight of him was heavier than you expected, his limbs stiff and awkward. Jason, his face a mask of revulsion and fear, eventually found the strength to help you, his touch hesitant and trembling. Together, you managed to lift the body, the silence of the woods broken only by your strained breathing and the soft rustling of leaves as you carried your grim burden deeper into the darkness.

The storage shed was even more dilapidated than you remembered, the wooden walls rotting, the roof sagging precariously. The air inside was thick with the smell of mildew and decay. You laid Mark’s body down gently in a dark corner, snapping off the end of the arrow with the blue feathers, tucking it safely in your pocket, covering him with a tattered tarp you found nearby.

Jason stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a horrified disbelief. “What… what have we done?” he whispered, the question filled with a profound and agonizing despair.

You turned to him, your own emotions a complex mix of triumph and a chilling resolve. “We protected ourselves, Jason,” you said softly, your voice filled with a quiet conviction. “We did what we had to do. Now, it’s our secret. Just you and me.” You reached out, your hand finding his, your fingers intertwining tightly. He was yours, finally and completely. The bond was sealed.

The silence in the oppressive air of the shed was broken only by Jason’s ragged, hitching breaths. He looked like a ghost, his face ashen, his eyes wide and unfocused, staring at the tarp that hid Ari’s lifeless form. You took his hand; it was ice-cold, trembling violently.

“Come on, Jason,” you said softly, your voice a steady anchor in the sea of his terror. “We need to go. We can’t stay here.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t seem to hear you. He was a statue of shock. You tightened your grip, your fingers digging into his skin, pulling him gently but firmly towards the shed door. “Jason. Now.”

He stumbled after you, his legs barely supporting him, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. The walk back to your shared cabin was a torturous journey through the oppressive darkness of the Pineway woods. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig underfoot, seemed to make Jason jump, his breath catching in his throat. You kept a firm hold on his arm, guiding him, practically dragging him at times. The familiar paths of the camp now seemed alien and menacing, each shadow holding a potential threat, a witness.

When you finally reached the relative sanctuary of your cabin, you pushed him gently inside and quickly locked the door behind you. The small common room, usually a space of quiet routine, felt charged, suffocating. The single lamp you’d left on cast long, dancing shadows, turning familiar objects into grotesque shapes.

Jason sank onto the edge of the worn green couch, his body collapsing as if his strings had been cut. He was still trembling, his eyes darting around the room, wide with a silent, screaming horror. He was covered in dirt, leaves, and the invisible stain of what he’d done.

“You need to calm down, Jason,” you murmured, kneeling in front of him. You reached out, your hands going to his face, cupping his cheeks, forcing his terrified gaze to meet yours. His skin was cold, clammy. “It’s over. We’re safe here. Just you and me.”

He shook his head, a violent, jerky movement. “Safe?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, cracked. “I killed him, Arrow. I killed him.” A sob tore from his throat, raw and desperate.

“Shhh,” you soothed, your thumbs stroking his trembling cheeks. “It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. And we took care of it. No one will ever know. It’s our secret now, Jason. Ours alone.”

His eyes, swimming with tears and confusion, searched yours. He was looking for an out, for an escape, but there was none. There was only you.

You leaned in, your lips brushing his. The kiss was meant to soothe, to claim, to erase. It tasted of his fear, of the lingering adrenaline, of the grime that clung to his skin. He was stiff at first, unresponsive, but you were persistent, your mouth moving against his, soft and coaxing, then more demanding.

A shudder ran through him, a deep, convulsive tremor, and he yielded. His lips parted, and his hands came up, not to push you away, but to clutch at your shirt, his fingers twisting in the fabric as if it were the only solid thing in a world that had dissolved into madness.

“Let me help you forget, Jason,” you whispered against his mouth, your hands already working at the edges of his soiled shirt. “Let me take it away. Just for a little while. Feel me. Only me.”

You peeled the shirt from his shoulders, his skin cool and damp beneath. Your mouth followed the path of your hands, kissing his neck, his collarbone, the frantic pulse that beat at the base of his throat. He gasped, his head falling back against the couch cushions, his eyes squeezed shut.

You pushed him gently so he was lying back on the couch, his legs dangling awkwardly. You stood between them, your hands going to the buckle of his belt. The rasp of the zipper was loud in the charged silence of the cabin. He didn’t resist as you tugged his jeans and boxers down his thighs, exposing him. He was already semi-hard, his body’s betrayal of shock and sensation coursing through him.

“Open your eyes, Jason,” you commanded softly.

His eyelids fluttered, revealing eyes still dark with horror, but now also with a dawning, unwilling arousal. You lowered yourself onto him, straddling his hips, your shorts riding up. He gasped as you settled your weight, the friction immediate and electric.

“This is us now, Jason,” you breathed, your hips beginning a slow, deliberate grind. “This is what we are. Together in this. Always.”

You leaned down, capturing his mouth in another deep kiss, your tongue tangling with his. His initial resistance had shattered, replaced by a desperate, almost frantic responsiveness. His hands found your hips, gripping you tightly, his fingers digging into your skin as if to assure himself you were real.

His trembling fingers fumbled with the button of your shorts and you gave him a soft smile. You placed your hands gently over his, helping him undo the button and the zipper slowly. You raised yourself up only enough to slide the shorts down your legs, forgotten somewhere on the wooden floor.

You guided him to your entrance, your own body slick with anticipation. The connection was urgent, almost brutal, so different to the hesitant tenderness he had shown before. He cried out, a muffled sound against your mouth, as you took him inside you. It wasn’t a cry of pleasure, not entirely, but of overwhelm, of a final, shattering surrender.

The couch creaked rhythmically beneath your urgent movements. You rode him with a fierce possessiveness, your gaze locked on his face, watching the play of emotions – fear, pain, and a flicker of something darker, something that acknowledged the twisted intimacy of this act. He was yours, broken and remade in your image, by your design.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide and fixed on yours, reflecting the dim lamplight and the shadows that danced around you. He started to move with you, his hips bucking beneath yours, a desperate, convulsive rhythm that matched your own. It was raw, almost violent, a purging of the horror through a different kind of intensity.

The scent of sweat and fear mingled with the familiar scent of your cabin, a perverse perfume of your new reality. You felt his control snap, his climax hitting him with a force that made his body arch, a strangled cry tearing from his lips. You followed him quickly, your own release sharp and consuming, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Afterward, you collapsed onto him, your breathing harsh in the sudden quiet. He lay beneath you, trembling, his skin slick with sweat. The room was still, save for the frantic beating of your hearts.

You lifted your head, looking down at him. His eyes were closed now, exhaustion and despair etched onto his face. He was utterly spent, utterly yours.

“See, Jason?” you whispered, your lips brushing his damp forehead. “We’re still here. We’re together. And everything will be okay.”

Camp Crystal Lake sleeps beneath a silver haze, but its silence is deceptive. Love, rage, & obsession coil where screams once echoed. Ode of Jaysin is the soundtrack to a haunted heart — a symphony of yearning, wrath, & devotion hidden beneath the mask. Jason Voorhees reimagined: monstrous, cursed, yet achingly human in his desire.

Each track cuts like a blade — metal ballads bleed into gothic hymns, industrial pulses collide with doomed love songs, & moody rock simmers like a dying campfire. For those who love too fiercely, who seek beauty in the grotesque, & for hearts that refuse to stop beating — even after the final scream.The woods remember.

Every scream is an echo. Every echo a memory. Every memory a reason.The campers arrive, unaware the lake is already awake. The moon watches. The machete glints like an altar piece. There is sickly sweet musk in the air. Jaysin's home.

The first girl was an accident, a misguided crime of passion.

The second prays in shallow gasps, heartbeat synced to the crunch of boots in the dark. Blood hits the dirt like rainfall. Music hums through the trees — metal, rage, love… & Jaysin’s unmistakable aroma.

Then there’s her — The Final Girl.

She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t flinch. She sees him. For one fleeting heartbeat, the mask falters. Almost.

The confession lay between you and Jason, a living entity in the small cabin. Days passed in a strange, suspended reality. The initial terror in Jason’s eyes had.. Shifted. It hadn’t vanished, not entirely, but it was now intermingled with a bewildered awe, a reluctant fascination. He hadn’t fled. He hadn’t called the police. He stayed, and in his staying, something new and fragile began to take root in the disturbed soil of your shared secret. 

The weight of what you’d done for Claire- or rather, to Claire, for him- was a constant presence. Yet, for Jason, it seemed to slowly morph from a stark act of horror into a terrifying, undeniable act of devotion. No one had ever looked at him the way you did, with an intensity that saw him, only him, as the axis upon which your world turned. 

He watched you. During the forced cheer of camp activities, he’d see you across the field, and your eyes would find his. It was no longer just a shared responsibility. It was something deeper, darker, more exclusive. He started noticing the minute details; the way your hand would instinctively reach for his during tense staff meetings, not for support, but as if to simply confirm his presence; the soft, almost shy smile that touched your lips when he unknowingly echoed a sentiment you’d expressed days before. 

One sweltering afternoon, you were both tasked with repairing a section of fencing near the archery range. The work was mundane, the silence punctuated by the drone of cicadas and the thud of your hammers. You fumbled with a nail, letting out a small sigh of frustration. Jason, wordlessly, reached over, his fingers brushing yours as he took the hammer and nail. His touch was light, accidental, yet he didn’t pull back immediately. Instead, his gaze met yours, and for a fleeting second, the fear in his eyes was overshadowed by a profound, searching look. It was a small moment, a tiny shift in the tectonic plates of his understanding. He finished driving the nail, his hand lingering near yours for a fraction longer than necessary. It was the first time his proximity felt less like a consequence of a shared space and more like a hesitant choice. 

Later that week, a quiet evening found you both on the porch, the air thick with the scent of pine and the promise of rain. Jason was sketching, his brow furrowed in concentration, a familiar sight. You watched the movement of his pencil, the way he chewed lightly on his lower lip. 

“What are you drawing?” you asked softly, your voice barely disturbing the stillness. He tilted the worn sketchbook towards you. It was a drawing of the two of you, outlines really, sitting on that very porch, the details of your faces indistinct, but the connection between the figures palpable. 

“It’s… us,” he murmured, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He hadn’t drawn you before, not like this. “I like it,” you said, your voice equally soft. Your fingers brushed his as you pointed to a detail in the sketch, a shared glance you remembered. This time, when your fingers touched, he turned his hand slightly, your pinky fingers linking for a brief, charged moment. A first.

The storm finally broke that night, not with the fury of the previous one, but with a steady, melancholic rain that drummed a soothing rhythm on the cabin roof. You were in the common room, Jason attempting to read, you idly braiding strands of your own hair. The power flickered, then died, plunging the cabin into a deeper darkness, lit only by the faint, diffused glow of the emergency lantern you’d placed on the table. 

“Great,” Jason sighed, though there was no real annoyance in his voice. “Could be worse,” you offered. “At least it’s not cold.” An easy silence fell. He put his book down. “Arrow,” he began, his voice hesitant in the near-darkness. “All those things you said… about why you… about Claire.” Your heart clenched. Here it was. 

“I’ve been thinking about it. A lot.” He paused, and you could hear the rain, the thrum of your own pulse. “It was… a monstrous thing. What you did.” You flinched, bracing yourself. “But,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, drawing you in, “no one… no one has ever cared about me like that. So fiercely. So… completely.” 

He looked towards you, his face obscured by shadows, but his silhouette distinct. “Is it… is it wrong that a part of me…?” He trailed off, unable to voice the thought. “Is it wrong to feel seen?” you whispered, your own voice trembling slightly. 

“Wrong to want someone to choose you, above all else?” He was silent for a long time. Then, slowly, he reached out his hand across the small space separating your chairs. His fingers found yours, cold from the damp air, and enlaced them. His grip was hesitant at first, then firmed, a silent acknowledgment. It wasn’t a grip of fear, or of shared trauma anymore. It felt… new. Possessive, almost. “I lie awake sometimes,” he confessed, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, sending shivers through you. 

“And I think about how you look at me. Like I’m the only person in the world.” 

“You are,” you breathed, the truth of it aching in your chest. “My world, anyway.” He squeezed your hand. “I think… I think I’m starting to understand what that means.”

He stood up then, pulling you gently to your feet by your joined hands. He didn’t let go. In the dim, flickering light of the lantern, he looked at you, really looked at you. 

The fear was still there, a shadow in the depths of his blue eyes, but it was now intertwined with something else, something that made your breath catch: a simple tenderness. “Arrow,” he whispered, his free hand coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. 

His touch was feather-light, reverent. “This is… terrifying.” “I know,” you whispered back. “But I…” He swallowed, his gaze unwavering, full of a dawning, terrible realization. “I think I’m in love with you.” The words hung in the air, fragile and immense. Your heart soared, a wild, triumphant beat against your ribs. He leaned in then, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. 

You didn’t. You couldn’t. His lips met yours, a soft, hesitant press. It wasn’t a kiss of passion, not like the one you’d imagined, or like the one in the chapter you’d discarded. It was something far more profound. 

It was a kiss of acceptance, of crossing a threshold into a place from which neither of you could return. It tasted of fear, of rain, of the pine-scented air, and beneath it all, the undeniable, terrifying sweetness of his burgeoning love. When he pulled back, his eyes were shining, a mixture of wonder and deep, soul-shattering conflict. He didn’t say anything else.