I've Heard Stories About You... (REPOST)

A/N: A little something for the lack of action in the last chapter.


Jason stared up at what remained of Mother. She thought Mother was disgusting? Didn't she realise that Mother was still here? Still talked to him? Even kept the girl alive? 'She doesn't understand this, Jason. She can't. It isn't for her to understand. This is only for you and mommy,' Mother said, softly. Yes, something for only the two of them. 'She can help you, Jason. Help you take care of Mother and keep people away. She's proven that to you, hasn't she? You don't have to do it alone, anymore. Help her, Jason. Teach her how to protect this place.'

Jason looked down. He didn't know the first thing about teaching anyone anything. He taught himself the very basics of survival, through a process of trial and error. But, there was something about his body, he knew, that kept him alive. Something that normal people didn't have. Something that made him even more 'special' than anyone else. Mother didn't have it, obviously. He hadn't killed anyone trespassing that had it, either. What if he accidentally killed the girl? He was sure she wouldn't have whatever his ability to come back was. After a few moments, he gave his mother a slow nod and rose to his feet. He would try to teach her. He couldn't tell Mother no, or disappoint her. That would mean that he'd have to be extra careful with the girl.

Before making his way back to the cellar, he cleaned the blood from his body, clothing and machete.

He returned nearly an hour later, clothes sticking to his skin with the dampness of cleaning himself. When he entered the cellar, he found her hanging up her own wet clothes, covering the window with them. She stood with her back to him, in only a pair of dry panties, working the wet, torn tank top into the cracks surrounding the window, followed by her underwear. Her skin, too, was still damp, though marginally drier than his own. His eyes roamed over the shiny skin and lingered over the glances of bruises still left on her hips. Her back had gotten pretty scratched up, but it didn't seem to bother her. Beneath the new, red abrasions, was a thin network of old scars, creeping over her back like a spider's web. He'd never really noticed it, before. But, she hadn't really taken to the habit of remaining nude during the daylight hours for long enough for anyone to really notice. Had the man she'd killed when he found her, done that to her? Come to think of it, he didn't even know the relationship of the man to her. An ex lover? Family member? Ex friend? She never talked about it.

Something about the scars on her back pulled at him. Some had permanently marked her. She was his, now. And, he only had fading marks. It wasn't fair. He wanted to cover those marks with his own. She wouldn't be going anywhere else, with anyone else. She was his, truly. But, what if the scars did belong to that man and she hated being marked? What if the marks were a bad thing? He could settle for his semi permanent ones, then.

'Did you- oh, for God's sakes, Voorhees,' he heard her say and looked at her face, again. She was studying him with an expression of exasperation. 'You didn't even bother to dry off, before putting the clothes back on.' She sighed and reached out to take his machete from him and hang it on the makeshift holder on the wall, behind the sharpening wheel. 'Alright, take 'em off,' she demanded, holding out her hand, again. He looked at the palm of her hand, then back to her face. 'C'mon, I've seen it all before. Well...kind of, anyway.' His eyes moved down to her breasts, heaving with her breathing. Something about seeing them in the daylight made them more attractive. But, seeing them outlined in the moonlight was good, too. He wanted to touch.

'Get 'em off, or I'll take them off for you,' she said a bit more firmly, and raised her eyebrows. He stepped away from her, afraid that he might grab her and cause injury at any moment. She followed, taking it as a negative sign. She gave another heavy sigh and reached out, towards the cloth hiding his head. He dodged her questing hand and took another step back. She followed, of course. 'Stop it. I'm guessing there isn't a Prince Charming under it, already.' She paused, waiting for her words to sink in. So, she knew that he was...different, under the fabric? He supposed it really didn't matter. She wouldn't be able to leave anyway. He wouldn't allow her to. Her hand moved toward him, again, but he didn't move. He allowed her to untie the string holding it in place and gingerly pull it over his head.

Indeed, no Prince Charming. He stared at her, intently, waiting for the explosive reaction that was sure to come. But, it never did. She stared at him, without any particular look. No surprise, no disgust, again with the blankness. After a moment, she looked away, only to hang the mesh of fabric next to her own clothes. She wasn't frightened. His face reminded her of her favourite book, 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame.' She'd never found the character of Quasimodo sexually attractive, but she wasn't surprised by the description of him, either.

'Now that we've crossed that bridge, off with the rest of it,' she said, moving to take off his shirt. He allowed it, raising his arms, cooperatively. Next came the belt and pants. As her fingers worked on his belt, that weird feeling returned. Blood rushed to his groin and he took a deep breath. His pants did nothing to hide his erection, but she paid no mind to it as she removed his belt. She worked off his boots and the beyond repair socks he wore. She laid the socks out over the sharpening wheel. Finally, her fingers worked the button and zip of his pants open and she pushed them over his thighs and down to his ankles. With her face so close to him, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, again. His heartbeat sped up in anticipation. Her apparent calmness irritated him. He was bothered and she seemed indifferent to it...after she was the one to start this fire in the first place!

He cooperatively lifted his feet, to help her with the removal of his pants, and she laid them out over the rickety table. When she looked up, his one good eye was staring between the both of their beds. She glanced further down. Ah, so, he associated the bed with sex. For some reason, it was interesting to her. Sort of like training a dog to not jump on the furniture, they begin to associate the furniture, itself, with negativity. He stared at her. Ah, she knew what he wanted, and he knew it. He could see it in the almost mischievous smirk on her lips. Would she press her lips to his, again, able to see the deformed features of his face in the, now, dim light? He hadn't much thought of it, when she'd done it in the dark. But, now, he wanted her to do it again. Just to prove to him that she wasn't disgusted or afraid of him.

'Alright, come on, then,' she said, softly. This time would be different. It seemed as if the entire environment around them had changed. Everything had changed. He, suddenly, wasn't alone anymore; she wasn't his captive. She was here of her own free will; with his face, the blood, his Mother, all of it. Acceptance from a stranger that he never had as a child. She touched him without any fear, talked to him in what he assumed was a normal way, that she spoke to anyone else. It was, undoubtedly, the oddest acceptance ever. What was between them could hardly be called anything near 'love.' But, simple, basic, animal acceptance would do. Accepting members of a pack.

She knelt down on the blankets that made up his bed and reached out toward him. As he moved toward her, she studied the movement of his muscles under the bared skin. There wasn't a lot of light in the cellar, especially with the clothes covering the window. But, the few dim bulbs that were kept on all day, gave just enough light to create a nice shadowing effect on him as he walked. His face didn't frighten her, even as he brought it closer to her own, kneeling on the bed in front of her. Without the constant grime covering his skin, he was actually quite pale and scarred in places. He moved awkwardly toward her, not particularly sure of what to do or how to initiate anything. He didn't have to worry, she knew what she was doing.

She leaned back, to lie on the bed and pulled him by the arm, over her. Now, this was familiar. He'd killed a few people in this very position. But, now, it didn't even matter. His mind was focused on one single thing. That one single feeling that was still new to him, but all the more desirable of late. She moved him into position and lifted her hips to place a pillow beneath them, giving him a better angle to work with. She stroked his cock a few times, and the herself, making sure both of them were well and ready. She used her feet to push him forward, from the back of his thighs and he obeyed. He pressed the head of his cock in, and her muscles automatically squeezed together to block his entrance. He thrust forward, causing her to grunt. 'Okay, no, Jason, you can't do that. Don't push against me like that, it hurts.' He didn't back away, but at least he held himself still. 'Just let me get used to your being there for a sec, ya?' she said, wiggling herself around, under him. He let out a disappointed huff but kept himself still, watching her carefully. She carefully guided him further in, until he was fully inside.

She let out a long breath and nodded up to him. 'Alright, you can move, again.' He wasted no time, thrusting as far as he could, into her. He pulled back almost til only the head of his cock remained, and thrust back in, quickly. The movement was so sharp, as he continued, she began being forced along the blankets of the bed. She felt like he might eventually tear her in half, if he kept on as he was. But, it didn't hurt. Not in the usual way. It was a good kind of hurt. The kind that she would feel for a few days afterward, remember why, and like it. At some point, her eyes had closed, but when she looked up at him, she figured out why they might have done so without her permission. Jason's already distorted face was now even more so, in concentration and determination. Droplets of sweat were making their way down the side of his face and his one good eye seemed to be tearing up, too. The image before her was alluring but equally disgusting, as well. It didn't take away any desire, if anything, it inflamed it even more. But, she didn't want to see his face anymore. Not while they were like this.

She gripped his arms tight and used her legs to hold his hips, preventing his movement. 'Trying something new, now,' she said, before he could express any disappointment, or anger. She wriggled herself free of him and flipped over on her hands and knees. She faced the wall and presented her backside to him. He had seen the bad people do this one, too. But, again, it didn't matter. She wasn't bad. He wasn't bad. This couldn't be bad. He moved closer, not entirely sure how to go about this position. She gave him a nod and helped him into position. Once in position, he pressed himself back into her, quickly, almost afraid that she'd take herself away again.

He pressed her against the cold, stone and wood wall and thrust himself in and out, barely giving her time to catch her breath. Oh, he liked it this way a lot more. It, again, felt different. All of her smooth skin to look at, the muscles of her back squeezing together with ever thrust. The wall was scratching her breasts and belly as he moved, but neither of them cared. Her fingers dug into the wood beams, abrading the tips of her fingers and she cried out, but not in pain. She reached a hand between her legs and frantically rubbed at her clit. God, all of the sensations together, were simply fantastic. Something she could get used to with the man behind her pounding away as if his life depended on it. He gripped her sides tight enough to replace the bruises that were fading just below, on her hips. He was holding her hips still, as he thrust erratically into her, and she responded with more intense rubbing. He leaned close, his hot, equally erratic breathing in her ear, sending shivers and electric pulses down her spine and out to all of the right places. She almost had the urge to turn her head just a bit further and kiss him, but he'd bent his head, biting her shoulder. The pain was exquisite. He didn't bite hard enough to draw blood, but definitely leave a bruise to mark his place. He gave a ragged grunt and thrust himself a few last times, hard, into her. The warmth of his come sent her into her own orgasm, and this time, she did scream. The scream startled him and he withdrew his mouth from her shoulder, thinking it had caused her too much pain. He started to pull away and she quickly reached back to hold him in place. 'No. Don't move, yet,' she whispered. Her inner muscles were still contracting around his softening cock. 'Feels too good,' she said, trying to catch her breath and leaning harder against the wall.

He held perfectly still until he'd slipped fully out of her and she collapsed sideways, onto the bed. He sat back, slowly, on his heels, his thighs still trembling. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the smell of clean sweat and sex still lingering in the blankets. He tilted his head. Did she plan to stay on his bed? Should he sleep in her's? After a moment, she patted the blankets beside her, wordlessly telling him to lie down next to her. He did so, keeping his eye on the mark he'd made on her shoulder. A perfect bruise replica of his teeth. She reached for the pushed away blankets and haphazardly threw them over each of them. He laid down on his side, facing her and she faced the wall. She didn't want to see his face anymore, yet, but she was sleeping next to him. That was something, wasn't it?