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[nightmare-niko]

Routines In The Night [Nicholas Alexander Chavez x reader]

Warnings: alcohol consumption, vague-ish descriptions of clubbing, raw sex (don't do that), completely self-indulgent

A/n: i am just a girl and i cannot help the things my mind comes up with. also this is my first actual smut in years so lmk how I did hehehe

Word count: 2273

Copying or translating my writing is not allowed. If you see my work on another site it is stolen. Reblogs are appreciated and encouraged.

It's been quite a long time since you went out with your friends. Life gets in the way sometimes! But tonight, the stars have aligned, and all of your schedules lined up perfectly. You don’t remember being this excited to see your friends, but now you all were in your apartment getting ready for your night out.

"So I don’t know when the boys are gonna get here-“ your best friend; Violet sits on your bedroom floor, curling her hair. “But I think Evan said something about bringing a new friend?”

“Violet you can't just let strangers hang with us! What if he's a weirdo?!" You’re mostly joking. You knew your friends. Realistically you had nothing to worry about.

“What if he’s ugly?” your other Friend interjects.

“Oh my god! Hayley!” Violet chokes out a surprised laugh.

“What it’s a valid question!” She defends.

"I'm sure he will be completely normal." You try to expel the chaos beginning to build throughout your small apartment while the three of you continue to get ready.

•

An excessive amount of knocks on your door makes you jump.

You grumble obscenities on the way to open your door. "You know Evan- You don't have to—“ you stop in your tracks. Sure, there was Evan and your other friend Mike, but there was also a new guy—a beautiful guy. Was it suddenly getting hot in here??

"Oh okay drool much?" Evan jokes and you snap out of your man-induced trance.

“Hi, I'm Nick" he offers his hand for you to shake.

Your hand is quite small compared to his, but unlike most guys you’ve met, his hand is gentle. He certainly isn't trying to crush your hand (why do guys do that?). As the other guys walk into your apartment, Nicholas stays in your doorway with you as you introduce yourself,

“Come in! You have to meet the others!" You take his hand and lead him into your living room.

•

The music was loud, the air was hot, and the lights pulsed and changed erratically. You danced along to whatever generic set the DJ played, you honestly were too drunk to care. This is what you needed. While you and your girls danced carelessly with each other, the guys stayed back at your table.

All of them seemed pretty caught up in their drunken conversations. Not Nicholas though, no. His eyes had been on you the second you clambered onto the dance floor. You loved it.

You felt Violet's arm wrap around your waist, "are you gonna deal with that? " She borderline shouts in your ear to combat the loud music. "Who? Pretty boy over there?" You lock eyes with Nick across the room, he quickly looks away—taking a sip of his drink. "Maybe... you think you can get Hayley distracted so I can lure him ?"

She giggles and pulls away; you don't care how Violet was planning on making distance-- but you trusted her. With a sensual sway of your hips, you walk over to Nicholas. None of your other friends seem to notice your presence, not that you mind though.

"So, you gonna keep on staring or are you gonna dance with me?"

The man before you smirks, he takes you in quickly, "How about both?" He offers his hand to you. You take it gratuitously, even in your heels he had height over you. It was hot. Maybe it was the lights or the alcohol in your system-- or maybe both, but you had to have him.

To say the two of you were dancing was a stretch, to say the least… You wrap your arms around his neck, you were so not remembering this tomorrow at the rate you were going.

“How long were you going to sit there staring at me for?” Your question was light-hearted at best.

"Until I was blackout probably," He laughs shyly.

You laugh along with him, grinding along to the beat of the music, you could live this moment forever. "Usually everyone comes back to mine and sleeps over after clubbing. You down?”

He smiles, "Sure, why not.”

•

Somehow you managed to get all of your drunk friends back to your home safely. Now all you had to do was (try to) relax, you sneak away from all of your friends and into your bedroom.

It took you longer than usual to remove your makeup and change into your pajamas due to the drinks you had tonight, but you managed.

What time was it? You didn't know, your phone was dead!

Back in your living room, your friends lay sleeping (?) scattered around Violet and Hayley both still in their makeup and heels. You didn't dare wake them, they knew where your makeup wipes and extra clothes were. All you needed was your bed.

•

4 am. It was 4 am and you were wide awake. Wide awake with a raging headache, that is. You groan before tugging off your oh-so-comfortable blanket. The hardwood floors were cold against your bare feet-but you didn't care.

Stumbling to the kitchen through the darkness of your home was a situation you found yourself often, but now you had the added addition of staying quiet. The last thing you needed was more hungover zombies.

The moonlight from your open windows lit up your kitchen counter just enough for you to grab the nearest pain relief medicine and a drink in peace. Now here came the hard part-- walking back in the dark. Why didn't you bring your phone?!

The door of the bathroom swings open-- you gasp dramatically. "Jesus Nick! You fucking scared me,” you whisper yell at the taller man.

"Sorry! I had to— uh I didn't think anyone was awake." He flicks off the light and steps closer to you.

The moonlight paints across Nicholas’ face in a way that has you speechless. "Well, uhm-are you -" You stumble over your words. "Do you need anything? A blanket? Water? I can see if there are sweatpants you can wear."

For a moment you think he's going to decline your offer-- “Actually, a blanket and sweats would be awesome… If you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all-- Here follow me.” You continue your path to your bedroom, only this time with the hottest man you've ever seen trailing behind you.

Inviting him into your room! What if he gets the wrong idea? (Is it the wrong idea if you really do wanna fuck?) "Sorry for the mess... You can sit on my bed while I look." You awkwardly point at your bed as if its location wasn't obvious. "It's cute in here, very cozy." Nicholas takes in his surroundings— trying and failing to distract himself from your extremely short pajama shorts. "Thanks, here." You hand him some clothes leftover from friends, "Hope they fit." You hear him mutter a thanks before you go back to searching for a blanket. Why is he being so quiet? When you look over at him, he's staring: again. You bite back a laugh.

”You have quite the staring problem, you know?” You tease. He smiles something wicked, his dark brown eyes dark with want. Why stare when you can just shoot your shot?”

He throws his hands up in defense, "I mean hey, I made it this far!”

“Oh yeah- "You remark sarcastically, "Remind me what base ‘sitting on a hot girl's bed and staring at her ass’ is again?"

"Oh, so that's how we're playing it?" He stands up and takes one big step towards you

“That's how we're playing it.” You tease, standing up on your tippy toes to drape your arms over his shoulders.

His large hands wrap around your waist, pulling you into him. He hums in acknowledgment of your teasing. He was hard, you could feel him through his jeans.

How did you get into this situation? Were you complaining though?

No, not at alt. Nicholas' large hand cups your face sensually.

The Kiss was electric, not rough, but dominant. You didn't have the energy to fight for control, you just wanted him. Dazed, you pull back from the kiss. "I can't focus with you pressed against me like that." Your hands shoot from his neck to his belt buckle. “Bed, now." You demand, he quickly clambered onto your bed.

You pull his pants down to his ankles, and Nicholas kicks them the rest of the way down. Your heart racing as you follow him onto the bed, straddling his lap. His hands found their way to your hips, gripping them firmly as you leaned in for another heated kiss.

"Are you sure about this?" Nicholas whispered against your lips.

"Absolutely," you run your hands down his chest.

As things heated up between you two, a sudden noise from the living room made you both freeze. You remembered your friends sleeping just outside your bedroom door.

"We should keep it down," you giggled softly, pressing a finger to Nicholas' lips.

He nodded— a mischievous glint in his eyes. He presses a quick kiss into your lip and flips you onto your back. You find your eyes drifting down his torso, his cock tented in his boxers. You snap your eyes back up to his, the air thick with tension.

“Kiss me,” you beg, and he listens immediately. you tug on his bottom lip and he groans lowly. the position you were in made it impossible for you to not cross your ankles behind his back, pushing him against your throbbing core. You whimper, almost pathetic, but you couldn't care less about that right now.

You whine again, this time a desperate plea for more. “Mmm… Nick—please~” You beg against his lips.

“Tell me,” he commands. You whine again as his lip trail kisses along your neck, leaving marks at the base.

“More~” you manage to joke out.

“What do you want, beautiful? All you need to do is say it and I'll give it to you.” His voice is sultry against your ear, his breath leaving goosebumps in his wake.

“Clothes. off,” you demand.

You hear him chuckle sensually, as he leans back on his haunches. You swear all time freezes as you watch Nicholas take off his shirt. He was already the most attractive person on the planet with his pants off, and now here he was. Towering over you in his underwear, while you still had all of your clothes on. That had to change, sit up briefly as Nicholas helps you take off your sleep shirt.

Nicholas kisses you again, pushing you back down onto your plush pillows. In the heat of your kiss, Nicholas takes off your sleep shorts and leans back— he groans at the sight before him.

“look at you~” he tuts, “all fucked out and I haven't even touched you yet.”

“Nick, please-” you whine, bucking your hips in the air, desperate for any kind of friction. “Don't tease!”

finally, Nicholas stands up from your bed. Pulling his boxers down his boxers, revealing his throbbing cock. The tip is red and angry— leaking with precum. your mouth watered just at the sight.

he climbs back over you and back in between your thighs. his hungry eyes, fixed on your core as he runs his tip over your clothed clit. you whimper again— just as you're about to open your mouth to complain, he pulls your panties to the side and pushes into you in one motion.

You bite down on your lip to try to conceal your moan but the noise that you make is still extremely loud. the stretch burned, but god it felt heavenly. Nicholas clashes his mouth back onto yours at an attempt to hush your sounds— not that he wanted to. He wanted the whole city to hear you, but all of your friends were in the next room and that was not a conversation he wanted to have.

The steady rock of his hips has you barreling quickly towards your orgasm. The kiss is sloppy and rough— you couldn't think of a better thing to be doing at 5 am. He trails wet kisses to the sweet spot below your ear, then to your neck and collarbone.

With one hand tightly gripped on your hip, he was close. You knew because his thrusts were getting sloppier and rougher. With one final bite of the base of your neck, he sits up— free hand rubbing circles on your clit as the new angle had him hitting right you needed him.

Your back arches off of your bed in a dramatic display as your orgasm takes over you— you swear you blacked out for a moment. Nick pulls out of you in a hurry, white ropes of cum paint your torso and face and he groans gutturally.

the once cold air in your bedroom was now hot. the only sound was the combined sounds of you and Nicholas trying to catch your breath. sleep takes over you as you feel Nick wiping the cum off you with whatever was nearby.

"So," Nicholas whispered, running his fingers through your hair, "does this mean I get stay here tonight?" he brought a clean blanket over your naked bodies.

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "If that's not what that means I have no idea what does."

Tag list (If you want to be added just comment!)

@Nallasstuff @chmpgneprblem @qoopeeya

@lilybellalana @sleepysongbirdsings

[whereisyourstar]

Wait

Part One of the Stand By, Hold Back, Be Patient series

Part 2

Rating: SFW in the sense that there's no sex

Word Count: 3.9k

Summary: Your quiet, isolated forest home is the perfect escape from the city you've grown to fear. Crystal Lake has its quirks (read: a history of mass murders and maybe-undead serial killer legends), but with your dog Heracles by your side, you've begun to feel safe despite the gruesome history of this place. But when a monster comes to visit, your safety, and your life, balance on a knife's edge.

Warnings: Fear? Mentions of murder, blood, etc., mentions of animal cruelty, reader makes unsound financial decisions, this is a slow burn so Jason is scary, brief mentions of sexual assault

Directly inspired by Even Old Wounds Can Heal, and Dead Hearts Can Heal. I did my own thing here, but the concepts are similar enough that I want to give props and credit where I can!

None of the five year plans you've been variably optimistic about over the years ever accounted for this. It takes a significant snap in the status quo to buy a cabin online, sight unseen, and upheave your entire life in the city to become a forest dweller.

That's the best way you've landed on of describing yourself so far, considering you're not a particularly avid hiker, or swimmer, or hunter, or botanist, or whatever the hell it is people come this far into the undeveloped reaches of New Jersey for. Hence, forest dweller, someone who just coincidentally happens to live out in the forest. Although, if it weren't for your too-sweet guard dog Heracles and his demands for daily walks, you think you'd much more accurately be called a sleep-and-grocery-store dweller, since that's all you do outside of work. And since your work can be done anywhere—your supervisor doesn't care where you write your soulless clickbait scam site articles, only that they get written—the move to this particular area is, generously put, gratuitous. A gratuitous and expensive decision, but it's yours, and that makes a difference.

Crystal Lake as a town and as a concept has character. You found the cabin and fell in love with it and the surrounding land immediately, but you did do some research before staking half your meager savings on the down payment. (You still can't believe you got this place so cheap, even after being given the requisite rundown of its "unfortunate history"). The town itself, located several miles out from the lake it's named for, is mostly unremarkable. It has that rundown, small community, development-peaked-in-the-60s look that reminds you of the town you grew up in, which had actually been a point against it. The lake itself, though, that's where your interest had been piqued. Just typing the words "crystal lake" into your browser had brought up fascinating autocomplete searches such as "crystal lake murders" "crystal lake serial killer" "crystal lake 1982 higgins hideaway victims images uncensored" and "crystal lake jason voorhees". Thorough investigation into the mass slayings that had plagued the area since the late 70s put the semi-mythical idea of Jason Voorhees into two camps: first, that his drowning as a boy had driven his mother Pamela into a murderous rage, and that every subsequent rampage in the area had been performed by someone else picking up where she left off, happy to feed into the Voorhees legend that the more fanciful side prefers. That second camp thinks of Jason as a deathless, vengeful creature, tethered to the land by some kind of curse, who takes out his anger on unwary trespassers. The images you'd scrounged up were graphic, and you'd clung to Heracles extra tightly the night you fell down the Crystal Lake rabbit hole, but more coolheaded observation of the facts in the morning had made your decision for you. There hadn't been a significant killing in the area since 2013 when your cabin became vacant. No one had trouble on the various walking paths around the very edges of the woods that had been put in a year later. Perhaps Jason, the concept or the ghost itself, was tired of murdering.

It was enough for you to put your money down the next day. The "unfortunate history" chat had been so thorough that you were sure halfway through that you were being talked out of buying the place, but you're stubborn when you want to be, and especially when the opportunity to leave your rented bedroom in an 800sqft apartment for an entire house presents itself. (The rundown of history, because despite loving the place, you can't forget the way realtor had laid it all out on the phone: New Beginnings Development Co. snapped up nearly a hundred acres of land in Crystal Lake, including directly on the lakefront, to develop into an exclusive community/shopping destination. Your cabin was the first to be built, meant for a maintenance head to live full-time, hence it's undesirable location two miles from the lake. Its twin was nearly completed when it was burned to the ground, taking six executives in various states of memberment along with it. And, just in the case the message wasn't clear, the entire day shift of construction workers were found beheaded in your cabin. The heads have yet to be located to this day. New Beginnings, unequipped for such immediate losses and bad press, ceded their claim on the land back to the town and declared bankruptcy soon after, claiming interference from ecoterrorists. Popular legend, of course, attributes the murders to Jason Voorhees).

You've lived in this cabin for over two weeks now and, despite some frantic eyes-closed fears that maybe ghosts are real and they're watching me right now those first few nights, you've found a previously unknown peace here. That's what you wanted from this place to begin with, what made you fall in love with a cabin situated just north of nowhere—it's peaceful. You have room to breathe for the first time in your life. Trees crowd your home on every side, old and smelling of green, but it never feels oppressive. Open sky above, ground below, and miles of forest all around with no one else to bother you…it's intoxicating, and you haven't come down from the high of it since first stepping foot here.

The murders haven't bothered you, for the most part. The cabin was clean when you moved in, set dressed by the realtor in a rustic, buffalo plaid and "indigenous"-ish patterned hunting lodge way, but the furniture came with the place so you didn't complain. There's plumbing and power, kindly switched back on to the cabin ahead of time by the C.L. Utilities department, two bedrooms, an open living room right off the front door, decent kitchen, an entire enclosed porch on the back of the house, and more space than you know what to do with. You'd inspected every inch of the place, searched for a telltale speck of red or dehydrated worm of grey matter, and even spent a foolish couple of minutes walking around and trying to feel where the bodies might have been with some heretofore unnoticed sixth sense, shortly after moving in. Nothing. It was just a house. If it weren't for those first few nighttime fears, you could almost pretend you were completely unaffected.

Regardless of how much you love it, it's still new, and new can be scary, so you develop a routine. This is your first time living completely alone, no roommates save for Heracles, and despite how beautiful and peaceful and right this place feels, you still need a routine so you don't go crazy with all the uninhibited silence and space. A typical morning is waking with the sun, lazing in bed for however many minutes Heracles will tolerate before slamming into your torso with his massive boxy head, then doing a thorough inspection of every lock and latch in the house before a shower. That done, you feed Heracles his morning kibble (softened with warm water and topped with pumpkin puree, or sometimes a sardine, because he's a baby and you love him) and scrounge around for yourself. The town's grocery store an hour away by truck (the ownership of which cost the second half of your savings, black paint grey and faded, and still too expensive at $1,500 for all the miles on the odometer) doesn't have much variety in your between-paychecks budget, so you've been forcing yourself to appreciate various bowls of mush for your meals. If there's one thing you miss about the city, it's the access to cheap, delicious food on every block, but you figure textureless meals are still a pretty good trade for everything else out here. That done, it's time to get to work. Your daily quota of words and weekly quota of clicks is easy enough to reach, if minorly soul crushing. Between research for new stories, which is mostly just scrolling social media and looking at new trends or drama to report on, and actually writing a few thousand words per article, you're basically done after three hours. Which is just around when Heracles is getting too antsy to tolerate being inside anymore, so you harness your little blockhead up and venture into the forest. Sometimes the two of you find a barely-there trail to follow, and sometimes you don't—you're more than content to let Heracles pick the route, his nose snuff-snuffing all over the forest floor. Then, an hour or two later, it's back to the cabin, relying on Heracles all the way to get you back there safely. You gave up on a map the third day here, and maybe letting a dog guide you back home through the forest isn't the smart thing to do, but he hasn't steered you wrong yet. Once back, you lock the door behind you, and check the rest of the house for any changes. Finally remove the hunting knife you splurged on and put it somewhere safe. Then it's time for an afternoon nap, wake up for the dinner mush, another bowl for Heracles, and a few hours of movies, or social media, or reading until you're tired enough to think about bed. Final check of the locks and latches, draw the curtains closed—though it's a rare day you actually open them to begin with—and pass out to do it all again tomorrow.

It's a good life. Simple in a way you didn't know you would like, but you're finding it suits you. Purposefully lonely and in a truer, less depressing way than the city was lonely. It's just you and the forest out here, and that's how you want it.

On the dawn of your third week, the routine changes. Heracles wakes you before the sun has even thought to make an appearance and it's not his usual yips and rib-crushing jumps with your torso playing the part of trampoline. Rather he makes sounds you've heard only once, nearly three months ago at the shelter you adopted him from—a whining, broken growl with his ears pressed flat to his head. He's pawing at you with an insistence like he's pleading, not playing, and you're on red alert instantly.

Heracles is right on your heels as you once again touch every window and door in the entire cabin, driving you forward even as you fight against trembles in your arms and legs. It could be nothing. You hope it's nothing. You hope, in the absolute worst case, that it's a bear Heracles is smelling out there, and that it'll be on its way once it finds your doors too solid to break down. If it's a person—no. You don't even think it. You just grab the hunting knife from its hiding place and don't bother with the sheath, preferring to have all 4.5 inches of steel already out. Just in case.

Nothing is amiss when you've run all your checks, but that doesn't make you feel much better, and it certainly doesn't calm Heracles. You try to pet him, get him to rest his big head in your arms and be comforted, but he wriggles away from you more aggressively than you knew he was capable of and slams his considerable mass against the back door. His growls fill the entire living room and, despite it being well into spring, you feel cold. Something is out there—should you let Heracles out? Let him scare whatever it is away from the porch while you huddle inside? That's technically what you got him for in the first place, after the incident made you terrified to be alone in your tiny bedroom back in the city. You're reaching for the lock on the back door, preparing to open it only enough to let Heracles through before shutting it again, when—

"This one's had it rough. We picked him up halfway in the gutter and it was clear he'd been abused before being dumped. He had one of the worst skin infections I've ever seen, he's missing some teeth, and you can see his tail is still healing, but…well, he's just been such a trooper. And a complete lovebug, he's got all the girls around here wrapped around his little paw! A bit snappy with strangers, especially men, but you said you were looking for a guard dog, right?"

You blink and look down at Heracles, still snarling and staring at the solid wood like he can see through it. Your brave boy, fearsome even with his tail tucked between his quivering back legs. Just as scared as you are.

"Stay here," you tell him, voice too low to shake. A stroke of your thumb between his eyes with the hand not occupied with the knife, then you're wrenching open the door and pulling it closed behind you, leaving your guard dog behind in the house.

It's completely silent out in the woods. Not a breath of wind comes through the screen walls on the porch, no rustling of animals in the branches of the trees outside. This porch hasn't seen any use since you moved in despite your excitement over it, and certainly not at night—you prefer to be safely locked inside as soon as the sun starts setting—which makes discerning anything out there difficult. The moon is weak in the sky, preparing to go completely dark in a few nights, and provides very little light to see by. You have to force yourself to walk forward a step, then two, edging closer to the screen directly in front of you. Your legs hate this, they tremble so hard you're in real danger of falling to a pile on the floor. Your lungs aren't too fond either as your breaths go shallow, hissing up and down your throat uselessly.

Partway through your next step you see it. There, nestled among the trunks of trees that nearly touch your home, is a figure. It'd be impossible to spot in the darkness if it weren't for something white, almost reflective at the top of the figure, and you do actually stop breathing. Not a bear. Not a wolf. That's a person. A tall person, basically eye level with you despite the porch's slight elevation off the ground, and wide in the shoulders. It's all shadow and suggestion, nothing is actually moving yet and the figure is still terrifying. A fucking person, here in the middle of your slice of nowhere.

With just the thin screen between you and whoever is out there, you're entirely too exposed. If it has a gun, or a knife, or—literally any weapon, a pair of dedicated scissors even, it could get through the screen without a problem.

You take your eyes off the figure for just a moment to glance at the frame door that leads off the porch, your frenzied brain cooking up a million and one solutions that all suddenly hinge on that door having some kind of lock, and when you look back it's started to move. Slow, purposeful steps that crunch in discarded twigs in the underbrush. The white thing remains of a height with you and gives the impression of floating, and you think, somewhere in the tangle of sensations and panic that is your thought process right now, Oh, fuck, that's Jason.

You yelp without the breath to sustain it and throw yourself backward, reaching for the door handle blindly as you're unwilling to look away from that thing again, which means you watch as it begins to haul ass up the three stairs to your porch door. Thunk, thunk, thunk, the shadow of it filling the screen before the door is thrown open violently, and you see the glint of a massive knife before the old fashioned hockey mask registers and Shit that really is Jason fucking Voorhees—

Fingers on the handle. You can hear the figure—Jason—breathing. Wrench the handle down, push back. He knocks aside the sturdy table and one of its chairs like it's nothing. Door opens, he's right there, you just need—

Heracles, brave Heracles, selfless Heracles, pushes his way through the crack in the door and between your legs. He barely comes up to your knees but he plants himself between you and the man that might be a ghost, who is certainly wearing the face of a mass murderer, and snarls like he craves this thing's blood. He's shaking almost as badly as you are.

The man hesitates, mask tilted down to assess this new obstacle, but when Heracles doesn't attack he lifts the wicked heft of his machete and suddenly you're dropping your knife. You hear it clatter pointlessly to the floor as you hold your palms up and shriek, "WAIT!"

And he does. The mask is pointed at you again, but the machete arm is still up, poised to come down on the thing you love most in this world.

The words come to you from some never-before-accessed well of pure selflessness. They terrify you even as you say them, but you don't stop. "Please," you say, voice stretched to its absolute limit of stress. "Don't hurt him. Please. Let—let him stay out here, where he has a chance, and you can—you can come in, and you can k-kill me, I won't even fight back, but please, just. Don't hurt him, don't hurt my baby, he's just trying to p-protect me."

It works. You don't know why it works, but by centimeters Jason straightens, drops the machete arm to his side, and nods. Just once, slow and exact, but it sends a flood of relief-fear through your system to see it. Relief: Heracles gets to live, even if it's just for a little while longer than yourself. Fear: You are about to die.

You're able to edge away from the door, back flat against the outer wall, until your calf bumps against the upturned table leg. You shakily pat your thighs and get Heracles' attention. Jason watches you the entire time, dark and massive and unsettling, and you spend a fair amount of time splitting your focus between him and your dog. Once Heracles is close enough, beckoned in hesitant backward steps by your sweetest come here, baby's, you drop to your knees and draw him to you. He smells of home, as much as this place has become home to you, and that pure dog scent that you've grown to love. It puts a knot in your throat when you press a kiss to the space between his eyes and he finally stops growling, stops shaking, just licks the air and pants a little. "It's okay," you whisper to him, stroking his back. "It's going to be okay. Try—try to find town, run straight for it when we go inside, and someone will take care of you. Okay?" And it's entirely for your own comfort, you know he doesn't understand a word you're saying, but you need to imagine it in order to let him go. Another stroke down his back. "Okay. I love you, buddy. You were such a good boy. I have to go now. Stay."

That last command is a gamble. You haven't worked on that one nearly as much as sit or roll over, and he's stressed out of his mind besides, but as you stand up and carefully step past him, Heracles remains sitting. He watches you go with white all around his eyes, blocky head thrown over equally blocky shoulder, and you swear he knows what's about to happen. "It's okay," you remind him, and yourself. Then you turn and force yourself to look up at that mask and nod.

Jason follows you inside. You hear him kick your dropped knife aside before he passes through the threshold, like you had any chance of grabbing it and using it on him in the first place, but it makes you flinch hard. This is happening. You've invited a known murderer into your home for the express purpose of killing you.

You stop in the middle of your living room and, oddly, think of how difficult it will be to get your blood out of the rug spread out near the fireplace. The realtor will have to replace it.

Heavy footfalls stop just short of you, practically right at your back. The breathing is the worst part. It's like he's panting, like he ran a marathon to get here, like this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to him. You search your brain for any mention of sexual assault to the bodies that have turned up in the area over the years, pre- or posthumously, and find yourself drawing a blank either way. God. Okay. Despite how dark your home already is, you squeeze your eyes shut. Whatever is about to happen will happen regardless of whether you can see it or not. You turn slowly and pray that your face is braver than you feel.

"Whenever you're ready."

A moment. Two. You feel air displacement, maybe that machete being lifted, maybe a huge fist, and you bite your cheeks hard enough to bleed to keep from screaming, you will not scream, but—

Jason retreats with so much urgency that his steps shake the very floors. He flees from you, fast despite his size, and you don't even have the wherewithal to open your eyes before you hear the screen door outside slam shut.

If it's a trick, it's a nasty one, but you're already running onto the porch, scooping up your knife on the way to Heracles. Unhurt, both of you, and you're so fucking relieved that you just lift all fifty pounds of him into your arms and flee back into the safety of the cabin. You slam the lock into place with your elbow, set Heracles down, and drag your favorite reading armchair to bar the door for good measure. Then you do the same with your entire breakfast table across the front door as well. You don't know if that's enough to stop something like Jason—a Jason or the Jason, either option is bad—but it's better than nothing.

You and Heracles hunker down in the living room, curled up on the rug that escaped its fate as narrowly as you did. He sleeps pressed into your side and you keep one hand on his back, continually petting, and the other gripped tight around your knife. It's entirely too late when you remember your phone, sitting dead in one of the kitchen drawers where you threw it your second day here. You're sure you could get ahold of 911 even with the shoddy reception in this neck of the woods, but what would you even say? Hello, police, I saw Jason Voorhees. No, he didn't kill me, but it seemed like he really wanted to. Yes, I realize I live in Jason Country, but I kind of thought you were all feeding into the myth to scare away tourists. Send all your cars out here right away to look at my upturned porch furniture. Thanks.

Scenario aside, the idea of telling someone what happened is tempting enough to get you up on exhausted, trembling legs so you can plug the thing in. Even if you don't make that call, you should probably get used to carrying it again. Just in case.

Sleep claims you what feels like hours later, the last of your adrenaline filtering away as dawn peeks through your windows. Heracles snores at your side, leg kicking in a dream, and you hold him a little tighter as you let your head fall back against the sofa. In the darkness behind your lids, a white mask like a giant eye stares back at you, and the glint of its blade stalks you into tense unconsciousness.

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[re-readingcomics]

Comics Read 7/18- 31/2022 

I recently read two trade paperbacks I have had for over a year. I got them for familiarity with the authors and brand loyalty reasons. It’s harder to draw a direct notes of autobiography to these than what I read in the past couple of entries. So I am going to go straight into a discussion.

First up is Tomorrow written by Peter Milligan with art by Jesus Hervás and colors by James Devlin. I know Milligan is pretty controversial writer, but I often find myself surprised by how much I like his work, so I keep seeking it out. The plot involves a virus that leaps from the internet and kills almost all the adults in the world. But the book seems uninterested in the virus and most of its online origin. At first I was disappointedly comparing it to Milligan’s earlier, (sadly truncated) comic New Romancer, about a modern day computer programmer for a dating site accidentally bringing Lord Byron, Ada Lovelace and Cassanova into the modern world. There is a video game called Tomorrow within the comic, and the game’s creator is one of the main characters. This seems like something that would tie into the larger “how did we get here?” plot, but it doesn’t.  But then I thought maybe Milligan wanted the readers to just bring our own online experiences of dehumanization and outbreaks of violence. The larger question of how are we rearing children by rearing them online? From my time on Twitter, there I often see an oscillation between “the children will save us!” and “the children really don’t know how to screen for misinformation and it’s getting worse!” By the end of Tomorrow, thinking about this was really resonating to me. 

Even with this interpretation, I don’t think the comic really works. The scenes of violence often feel gratuitous. There are too many characters with too little interaction to really get invested. And there are just too much dialogue about race and sex that is cringe inducing. Its depiction of neurodiversity, which is tied to the plot, is also bad. It feels like it was created for some kind plot points, but little sense of lived experience. Two the the characters are a set of fraternal twins. The boy is portrayed as being on the spectrum. The girl isn’t. They are physically cross country from each other  when the plague hits, but they have a real twin psychic connection. This gets severed by the social events that happen in the plot. It feels like there is an idea there worth exploring. But it isn’t really done in this comic. The plot here sort of stops. There isn’t even rushed wrap up like there was in New Romancer. I don’t know if there were or are plans for a follow up arc, but I don’t really want more. There was a plot involving a corporate retreat that I just couldn’t care enough about to remember from issue to issue. I also really disliked the art. It’s over detailed in a way that keeps things from coming together. I read in the the bio that Hervás trained as an engineer. It reminded me of some architects vs. engineer debates, with engineers likely to dismiss architects as just there to pretty up their scientific work. I am familiar with the work of a couple of trained artists turned comic book artist, Gabriel Rodríguez and Mikel Janín. Based on these comparisons alone, architecture is better training for switching into comic book art.

My next read was The Low, Low Woods, written by Carmen Maria Machado, with art by Dani, and colors by Tamra Bonvillain. This, like The Dollhouse Family, is another example of comics under the Joe Hill curated Hill House Comics published under DC’s Black Label imprint. Now that I have read three of the titles, I have to say how impressed by how different these horror comics all are in their styles, settings type of stories they tell. I also have to start by saying I really like Dani’s art. This isn’t just in comparison to having read a comics where I hated the art, directly before it. That comparison really made me appreciate how Dani knows when to leave things more suggested than filled in. The art is evocative and moody. In some ways it reminds me of Eduardo Risso, though with a fair helping of early Sandman artists like Mike Dringenberg. This befits the mid nineteen nineties setting.

The  comic takes place in the fictional coal mining town of Shudder-to-Think, Pennsylvania and concerns two teenage girls trying to figure out about some lost time at the movies as well as the other strange parts of their town such as the skinless men in the woods. Things that everyone knows about but no one talks about. Starting with the town’s name there are a lot of places with names that would be too on the nose if it wasn’t about familiarity creating blind spots.

Last year I read Machado’s memoir, In the Dream House, about recognizing that she was in an emotionally abusive lesbian relationship and the need for representation of the bad aspects in life. There are similar themes here, with less academic citing and more supernatural occurrences. In part of the In the Dream House she discusses how the stress of that relationship affected her writing style, making her out put mostly fragmentary. The initiating incident of known memory loss does create a stress in the characters life that complements the one she described in her memoir. I definitely intend to read more of her writing. 

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